z
GODEY'S ».«»
LADY'S BOOK
MAG AZIN'E.
EDITED BT
MRS. SARAH J. HALE,
AND LOUIS A. GODEY.
VOLUME XCI.-FROM JULY TO DECEMBER,
1875.
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY LOUIS A. GODEY,
N. B. COR. SIXTH AND CHESTNUT STS.
'
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%-
COLLINS, PRINTER,
705 JAYNE ST.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. XCI.
r
A Beautiful Sentiment, 2.T6
A Bit of Summer 1 ife at the Mountains, by M.
P. B., 2..1
A Carolina Frolic, by Virginia 8. Imlia, 337
A Fatal Habit, 272
Affectations, 54
Afraid, by H. L. A., 266
A Girl's Victory, by H. Vickery Dnmont, 68
Alice's Summer in tier Valley Home, bv Alice, 140.
237,333, 423, 548
American Villa (Illustrated), 290
Anion* the Mountains, by Susan Meserve Hayes, 176
An Episode of a Foreign School, bv Marie Ely, 150
A Night's Adventure, oy Mrs, E C Dunscomb, 267
A Noble Sacrifice, by Judith K. de Ruyter. 241
An "'Old Maid"—a Real Heroine, by Kenneth.
dare, 427
A Plea for Learning, by T. J. J?., 532
Appearances, by Agnes Strange, 75
Ashes of Roses, by Esneh, 170
Auntie, 138
Aunt Wlnneferd's Romance, by Jennie M. Guth-
rie, 541
Autumn, by M, K. D, 452
Autumn in the Mountains, by Agnes Strange, 555
Autumn—Three Sonnets, by Marion Oouthoneu
Smith, 519
A Woman's Friendship, 67
Beneath the Ocean, by H. W. K., 37
Caesar's Head, by Margaret Wltherow, 37
Cemetery Entrance {Illustrated), 98
Change, 240
Child ren at the Well ' (Illustrated), 217
Children's Home (Illustrated), 194
Cinderella, by Snouxlen Hay, 145
Convolvuli, by E. S. Hopkins, 548
Death and Slumber, 81
December (Illustrated), 505
Deprecation, by M I'. Andrews, 347
Editors' Table, containing—
A Lady Battle Painter, 475
American National Thanksgiving Hymn, 476
An Artist's Pharos, 377
An Era of Peace, 565
"An Imposing Sight," 568
A Remarkable Discovery, 282
Ascetic Charity, 476
A Training School for Governesses, 283
A Woman's Temperance Home, 475
Barnes' Notes on the Gospels and Epistles, 187
Be Constant in Duty, 283
Christ's Command, a Missionary Poem, 185
Corn-flour Is not Food, 91
English Orthosraphy, 80
Flowers and Health, 47(3
Fruitful Age, 566
Girls' School in the East, 475
Goodness, 185
Hospital Directresses in Spain, 376
Independence Day: 1875, 91
Insectivorous Plants, 476
Klnelake's History of the Crimean War, __J9
Ladies as Saviugs-Bank Clerks, Cl8p
Liberality in Inula, TS6
Literary Affectations, 90
Local Histories, 186
Marriage of Dr. Livingstone's Daughter, 476
Memorials of a Great Treaty, 474
Mind and Body, 378
Mori'Id Sensitiveness, 28-
Mr. Smith, •'82
"Our Father," a Song for Children, 568
Our Native Land, 378
Our National Thanksgiving for 1876, 4T4
Pictures of Primitive Life, 281
Songs for Children, 91,187, 283, 378
The Antlquitv or Iron, 87
The Bearing Rein Cruelty, 567
The Child's Song of Prayer, 476
The Close of the Year, 568
The Infl uence of Surroundings, 185
The " Lancet" on Ladv Physicians, 568
The Life and Times of Lord Brougham, 283
The Little Cloud, 285
The Motive Power of Light, 379
The New University System, 90
The Porcelain Mania, 567
The Queen of Perfumes, 378
The Rainbow, 187
The Science of Languages, 566
The Shepherds, 561
The Study of German, 377
The Uses of Dead Leaves, 377
The Virtues of Oatmeal, '■ 379
The Zoological Gardens at Philadelphia, 28t
Woman's Work in Burano, 281
Women Workers, (Tw>
Enjoying the Holidays (Illustrated), T2T
Every Cloud hath its Silver Lining, by E L. W., 430
Expectation, by Anna (Xeaves, 351
Extension Sheet, etc.. containing—
Aprons (Illustrated), 101, 292,484
Basque Bodice (Illustrated), 202
Baby's Hoods (Illustrated), 388, 576
Baby's Underskirt (Illustrated), 576
Basques (Illustrated), 101,196, 292
Bathing Toilets (Illustrated), 100
Black Beaded Belt and Buckle (Illustrated), 292
Black Grenadine Dress (Illustrated), 292
Black Velvet Necklet jIllustrated), 484
Blouse Dress for a Girl of Five Years (Ill'd), 576
Bodices (Illustrated), l"l, 292, 388
Bonnets (Ill'd), 100, 101,196,313,388,412,484,500, 576
Bows (Illustrated), 101, 676
Boy's Kilt Skirt and Coat (Illustrated), 101
Bracelets (Illustrated), 292,383
Caps (/Hustrafed), 106,388,484
Carriage Dresses (Illustrated), 100,1
8
Fancy Cravat Bow {Illustrated),
Fancv Party Costumes for Chlldrenf/iTd), 508,
Fashionable Gloves for Evening Wear (Ill'd),
576
57'.!
576
196, 388, 484, 576
106
57l!
100, 386, 389,
100, 292. 484,
Fichus (Illustrated),
Girl's Cloak (Illustrated),
Hats, etc. (Illustrated),
House Dresses (Illustrated),
Infant's Cloak (Illustrated),
Infant's Lawn Shirt (Illustrated),
Infant's Slip (Illustrated),
Jacket and Pants for a Bov (Illustrated),
Kilt Suit for Boy of Six Years (Illustrated),
Ladles' Boot (Illustrated),
Ladles' Night-dress (Illustrated),
Linen Collar and Fancv Necktie (Ulust'd),
Locket of Black Enamel (Illustrated),
Locket of Blue Enamel (Illustrated),
Morning Fan (Illustrated),
Morning Headdress for Young Lady (lUust'd),
Morning Wrapper (Illustrated),
Muslin Skirt (Illustrated),
Necklet (Illustrated),
Neckties (Illustrated),
Overbasque (Illustrated),
Paletot (Illustrated),
Piqu« Cloak for a Little Girl (Illustrated),
Saeque (Illustrated),
Sailor Suit for a Boy (Illustrated),
Sashes (Illustrated),
Sleeveless Basque (Illustrated), 101, 220,
484
484
106
:ws
202
576
57'!
481
484
196
576
48-1
202
.188
57(1
2'.'2
202
101
3*8
484
105
202
Jil
IV
TABLE OF CONTEXTS.
Sleeves (Illustrated), 388,
Suit for Boy of Fourteen (Illustrated),
Suit for Boy of Ten Years (Illustrated),
Suit for Girl of Twelve Years (Illustrated),
Walking Dresses (lUusfd), 100.196,292,388, 484,
Walking Jacket for a Lady (Illustrated),
Waterproof or Travelling Costume (IllusVd),
Visiting Dresses (Illustrated), 196, 388,
Fashions, 1U0, 196, 292, 387, 483,
Fireside Musings, by Ada Ayr,
Fidelitas et Infidelitas, by Eva M. Tappan,
Force of Habit,
Forgive and Forget, by Rune Bluff,
Glimpses,
Godey's Arm-Chair. 94,193, 285, 381, 479,
Health Department, containing—
Clothing for the Young,
Croup,
Domestic Surgery,
How to Acquire High Health,
Nightmare,
Rldingiand Walking,
King-worm.
Scald Head,
Treatment of Burns and Scalds,
Treatment of Persons Suffering from the Fumes
of Charcoal,
Treatment of Poisons, 188,
Hester's Fortune, by 8. Annie Frost,
Homes, by G. 8.,
If I had Known, by Is Dean,
Katie's Requirements, by Eloise,
Leaves,
Leaves from Harry Osborne's Journal, by Mont-
gomery G. Preston, 317,
Legend of St. Gregory, by Mrs. Julia P. Ballard,
Leonie, by H. Viekery Dumont,
Life Loaves, by Dard Bert,
Literary Notices, 92,189, 284, 380, 477,
Literature as an Outgrowth of Human Life, by
T. T.,
Little Belle, by Addle F. Van K..
Lora and 1, by E. Ellison Warner,
Lost River, by Mrs. Mary E. Nealy,
Love vs. Pride, by Alpha,
Making the Best of It,
Miss Le Boy, by Z. J.,
Model Cottage (Illustrated),
Music, containing—
Blight as Summer's Fairest Roses, by M. Kelly,
Daua Waltz, by Clarence P. Weld,
Merry Christmas Schotlische, bv Carl Nettson,
Muncy Hill Galup, by WIU Bucklxx;
0 Maiden, Dearest! by Dr. W. J. Wctmore,
We 're all Alone, Song, by A. J. Goodrich,
Nearer Home, by 8. B. M.,
Never Again, by Kay Ess,
Odds and Ends, by Mrs. Hopkinson,
Of Certain Good Things the Best,
One Day. by One Third,
One Summer, by M. F. Andrews,
Only a Baby's Grave, by E. G. P. Bruce,
Only Friends, by Daisy Wiley Kttteridge,
Our Spelling Match, by One Third,
Out of the Cloud, by Orissa Scrugham Hopkins,
Passing Footsteps, by Carrie D. Bee'ie,
Perhaps, by Octo,
Private Theatricals, by Minnie Dwight,
Progress of Literature and Science, by J. C
Ilooth.
Purity of Character,
Sueen Juno, by Ino Churchill,
eceipts. 86,182, 278, 373,471,
Scapegoats,
Self-Exiled, by J. B. 8.,
Self-Uiches and their Use, by L. P.,
September, by Jame.i Ristine,
Sixty Years Ago, by Mrs. Mary E. Nealy,
Some Starry Days, by ^4/-,(>
181
557
18(1
82
466
83
84
559
372
83
S3
379
27.'.
275
85
g
270
273
275
170
-77
178
124
370
.557
466
409
181
5>'H>
371
5.58
470
84
S3
570
179
409
273
82
181
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Edited by
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L. A., GODEY.
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>r
mystery tangled up in the wilds about that
place?" I added, lightly. "Did not the elves,
some witching night, turn architects? or some
fantastic dream take shape?"
"It beats me what a love you have for su-
perstition. I tell yon mysteries are better let
alone, though that don't say 1 know there 'a
34
GODEVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
any here. Boards and glass will make a house
if put together, and set on solid ground ; and I
don't see, because the boards are peaked and
painted odd, and glass is diamond-wise and
tinted, and the whole put where the wizards
wouldn't dare to sleep, you should want to
conjure up some ghostly fancy. Real carpen-
ters and masons made the house, and not
witches or demons, what or whoever of either
kind has been around it"
I really had not thought of much but its ex-
ceeding prettiness, but now my curiosity was
on the qui vite to know what there was out of
the usual way in its centre or surroundings.
I felt sure there was something, by the good
dame's manner, and I was bent on knowing
what it was, and she slumld tell. I was going
away the next day, and she was fond of me,
and I would tease her till she did. So, dinner
over, and knitting out, with miles on miles of
un-stockinged yarn in her huge ball, and sturdy
needles bound to neither bend nor break, I in-
veigled from her what she knew.
"You are a coaxing puss," she said, her old
eyes warming toward me as though I were her
pet daughter, instead of one coming to her last
week a stranger, and going the next utterly
away. "I don't justly remember how many
years it was ago—not more than you could
count on the fingers of your two hands, I
venture—that them Foresters came to 'Glen
Wilde;' that's what they called it, though
'faint no different from any valley where
there ^s trees, and bushes, and rocks, except
it's lonesome and scarey enough for a robber's
cave of a darkish night. But they was queer
folks, and used to follies, and fancies, and flit-
tings. He come first with piles of timbers and
planks ready planed and matched, and join-
ers to set them up, for all the world like a set
of big blocks they have nowadays for children
to play with. Then the family dropped down
like a flock of strange birds that had picked
up odd things from all over the world and
tumbled them into one nest; such queer-look-
ing chairs and bureaus, and velvet cushions
for beds, more for heathen Turks than for
Christians to have and to sleep on. But they
was queer themselves, and hadn't the least
sign of anything to do with anybody in these
parts, and what was found out was pried out
by our saucy young folks, who took it haughty
enough that these grandees should belittle and
slight them. They wasn't foreign in nature,
neither; only in notions. Their lass was a
pretty creature, not over sixteen when they
came, 'as fleet of foot as a deer,'the wood-
rangers said, 'and as shy;' and her long
shining hair was like the tasseled silk of the
maize.
"Well, the girl had a lover, as has every
woman, from Eve down to the silliest chit
that trips around in dainty slippers to-day; as
boDiiy-faced and pleasant-spoken a gentleman
as ever trod over country road, or graced a
court, it was said. But the girl led him a race
with her coyness, and sent him daft with mis-
trust and doubt, though he had known her
since babyhood, and loved her as long. But
he only came a few times, and then they all
flitted away. The next summer brought them
back, and the young man seemed more assured,
for he stayed In happiness all the harvest
weeks, and the house was crowded with gay-
people—relations, or them they'd picked up
by their wandering ways, and the rollicksome
sports they went through hadn't number or
name. Our young folks was just witched and
dizzied about them, and went every night the
three miles to look on, for ttiis frivolous set lit
up the old hills ('twas a sin and a shame on
their grandeur), and hung lamps in the trees
to shine in the pond and mimic the stars; then
In fantastic dress they would revel the sober
hours away. When the moon shone bright,
and sacred, and sweet, they had goblin feasts
in the groves, mermaid sails in the skiff, and
silvery songs and ghostly dances that would
turn the poor brain of us simpler folks. 'Twas
all wrong, all heathenish and wrong; not the
motioihs and lights, but the addlement, as you
may say, of it all put together. We can't
stand high wines, neither in body nor soul.
"Twasn't no worse than a picture, all alive
with flicker and phantom,' the young people
said; but I 've minded pictures that was too
bright to be true, or to be safe if they was, and
mischief's the fruit of them.
"There's a centre-pTece, I suppose, in all
pictures and plays. There was one in this—a
beautiful woman, whose art, I don't donbt,
set all this chicanery a-going. She was hand-
somer than anybody that ever stood on this
earth before, if you take the words of our girls
and lads for it; but a handsome face don't al-
ways cover a handsome heart, and hers was as
black as her hair, which they said had a pur-
ple haze about it; and her cheeks were as red
as her victim's blood, though damask roses
was'n't ever sweeter nor brighter. There was
nothing she couldn't do that was startling, and
strange, and bewildering, and they called her
after some heathen god-woman, and thought
her most worshipful. At last she came with
her artful ways between the fair girl and her
lover, winding herself around and around him,
as it were, like a great anaconda, singing
songs to him the while, and glittering out
changing colors from her beautiful eyes, till
he, no more than the lookers-on, could tell
where the one love had ended or the other be-
gun. He was raptured and dazed, and gave
himself up to her wiles, not seeing how pale
cheeks grew paler and sweet eyes faded out
by the falling of sacred tears.
"At last the visitors all went away but this
one, who shouldn't have come, and he who had
been Miss Forester's lover; and the next day
QUEEN JUNO.
35
at nightfall the slighted girl led him alone up
the great hill you saw at the right of the house,
where, like enough, they had made their be-
trothment; and before his faithless eyes and
his false, fickle heart she threw herself .off,
dowti, dowu the frightful depth below. The
artful creature who caused it all saw the whole
thing—'twas a real kind of tragedy to end up
her,fol-de-rol plays—and she ran and lifted the
poor, fragile girl with her broken heart and
her crushed-out life, as tender as could be, now
it was all over, and carried her into the house;
and the doors was all locked, and nobody who
wanted could offer them aid, and the servants
couldn't get out; and when the unhappy young
roan hastened down the slope of the hill, he
too knocked, and called, and entreated, in
vain% He hung about with his pitiful, unheed-
ed cry till past midnight, and they found him
next morning in sorrowful sleep on the spot
wh«re the poor girl had struck. But the Fores-
ters themselves had all gone; him and his wife,
the sweet dead girl, and the other, servants,
and horses, and all. But they was queer folks,
and used to do all sorts of follies and flittings,
and the young man's trunk was left, with not
a bare word to console him, outside of the gar-
den gate. Well, he took to remorse, and went
crazy-like, and he wandered about, or stood
stark for hours looking off of the hill, and then
he'd come down and feel of the sod, to see if
it was soft as a bed to die on. But he went
afterward, and never a one here has looked on
him since; but there's shadows come and went
over the mount each morning and night all
these years. Well, two weeks ago the father
and mother came back, the same looking as
ever, though maybe just a bit gray, and every-
thing goes on as before; but they do say a sad-
eyed thing, with long shining hair, flits in and
out of the doors like a floating mist, or a va-
pory, sunshiny cloud. But that's more than I
know, only by hearsay, and there 's sorrows
and shadows that stays this side of the unseen
world." ,
Dame Porter rolled up her knitting and went
straight out of the room, while I bowed my
head and gave way to a flood of regretful tears.
When Stephen came home I poured the whole
sad story into his indulgent ear, but he only
patted my cheek, and called me an inveterate
romance huntar, and asked if I could endure to
remain another day longer, as his business
was not quite adjusted. This was just what,
above all things, I would have desired, and
with my answer I jumped to a quick decision,
which I carried out early the next day, spite
the good dame's remonstrance. My intensest
interest had been awakened, and I must wit-
ness again, and intelligently, the scene of this
tragic, ghostly romance.
It was all the same, yet not the same as yes-
terday. Shades quivered and dwelt on the
mountain, and mystery lurked in the air and
under the whispering leaves, and the beautiful
vision with snowy robes and sliiminering hair
glided out from the house and over the lawn,
and melted away in the grove. I waited and
watched, but she did not return. Past the
bouudary of that other realm, perchance she
had gone.
I was glad to get back to my own old home.
I had been away but ten days, yet had swept,'
as with a glass, the radii of as many years. 1
hugged Juniata with all my might, and kissed
her ripe cheek in my gladness. I shook all the
plump and the sturdy hands of my neighbors,
gave plums to the children, and did grace to
my rector, then plunged into household cares
with a will. 1 wanted to live the real, round
world, to step ou the solid ground and hit the
sky with my broom, and have Stephen keep a
good, dear bothersome man, and not go float-
ing away into angels. I cleared my brain free
of all cobwebs, and sent whirlwinds of reason
there-through, to stir up my plain common
sense, before I would glance at the aspect of
things here at home.
History, whether it be public, involving a
nation's destiny, or private, and pertaining to
individual and heart concerns, sometimes de-
velops rapidly. What has lain dormant, or
slumbered half uneasily for years, or been
smothered down laboriously, may, by the ral-
lying tap of the drum, or the touch of electric
fingers, be wakened to sudden life and vigorous
action.
Our rector had received the quickening thrill,
which trembled along the sensitive cords to his
innermost being, ne was not what he had
been. Less of a saint, perhaps, after the tran-
scendent pattern, but more one's ideal of a full-
rounded, well-balanced human man. Chast-
ened, maybe, but not so visibly and painfully
overborne. There was heart-eloquence now,
in the words which flowed over his lips in a
swelling tide, and new adaptability in all pas-
toral intercourse with us.
At "Meadow Cottage" ho was a frequent
and welcome visitor. Miss Sallie and Miss Mol-
lie donned their spotless aprons, and beamed
a mild radiance upon him whenever he came;
and in the busy intervals carefully concocted
rose emollient for other eyes, while their own
were holden.
Sweet, simple souls—primroses of the hedge-
way that stands atwixt the thoughtless and
the suffering world. Juniata came to me often
—a rare enigma still unsolved—a bright kalei-
doscope, whose every turn displayed new color-,
ing and form. And yet, and yet, what was
that something I could never understand?
My piano stood open daily, but she never
touched its keys. In all the summer I had
known her I had not heard her laugh; and she
had no song, save that strange one I wot of
when midnight waned to morning, and the old
mountain stood solemn guard. But her very
36
G O DE Y'S LA. D Y'S B O OK. A. NTD M A G A ZINE.
breath should have been music, her speech and
motion pure, high harmony. I expressed to
her so much one day, and she replied:—
“It has all been in my life.”
She went away for a few days, and after she
returned Jessie Lee came dancing in.
“OMrs. Curtis,” she said, “there's the sweet-
est lady at Miss Juniata's, and come to stay.
You never could guess how lovely she is, if
you guessed all night.”
“A lady, Jessie! A stranger!” I said, a
little hurt that I had not been apprised of her
coming. “What is she like?”
“I don’t know; so white and sweet and
floated away. And oh, I almost forgot; Miss
Juniata says you are to come in soon and meet
her.”
I drew a breath of relief that she had not
meant to exclude me, and brushed my hair in
a twinkling. Juniata was alone in her pretty
sitting-room. I greeted her and inquired for
her friend.
“She will come in in a moment,”.she replied:
“Is she an invalid?” I inquired. “Jessie
says she looks all floated away.”
“No, not now, I think; though for a long
time her life and reason fluttered in the balance.
She sustained great injury from a terrible fall.
For years she has been under the best surgical
treatment the world can afford. But for that—
I shudder to think what had been. The last
sure test to mental strength and healthfulness
must soon come,” she mused.
“My Cousin Viva, Mrs. Curtis,” said Juni-
ata, simply, as the fair stranger entered.
I stammered out some words of greeting;
what, I could not tell; for this graceful crea-
ture, in her cloudlike robes, was the sweet
vision I had seen gliding through the lights
and shadows of fantastical “Glen Wilde.”
There was no mistaking her peculiar airy mo-
tions, or the long, shimmering ringlets of her
hair. I could not speak; my gaze was riveted;
my thought at work with wild conjecture.
“I urged my cousin to bring her harp,” said
Juniata, relieving my embarrassment. “Will
you favor my friend, Viva dear?”
She assented kindly, and took her seat, with
her exquisite profile turned toward us, her
loose sleeve falling back from her rounded
arm, as her dainty fingers touched the strings.
It needed only that to number her one of the
angel-choir. -
A movement in the hall attracted me. In
the doorway stood our rector. Such a look I
never saw upon a human face before; so wildly
wistful in its agony of hope; so awe-struck in
its own dread and doubt. He did not notice
us; he only looked at her.
“Hath the grave given up its dead?” he
gasped. And then his countenance grew al-
most glorified, for she recognized his voice, and
looked through tearful human eyes at him.
“Fairy: my own Fairy :" he said, extending
his hands.
She flew to his breast, and wound her white
arms about him.
Juniata led me through the long, low window.
We paced the balcony, and walked for hours
the terraces. I had no words, and she was
silent. My thoughts took “ſlittings” towards
“Glen Wilde.” “Harry Trow” was, then, the
bonny, handsome gentleman, the fair girl's
lover, and she the “Fairy” he had hoped would
bless his life; and this glorious woman by my
side, the base, designing creature, whose se-
ductive arts had wrought their woel Oh, when
would wonders cease, and simple, guileless
ways the eager world content? -
But she, or rather Providence through her,
had brought sweet restitution. The fearful
wound in Mr. Trowbridge's heart, which had
been calloused over, though still rankling deep,
had been most skilfully reopened and made to
bleed, till the healing should properly begin.
His stunned affections were vivified and roused
to the very verge of passionate outgoing toward
herself; and then the object of his first, fresh
love, his early manhood's choice, was brought
to him. I kissed her lips in mute appreciation
of it all, and left her. I waited long and late
that night to note if stream and mount echoed
her shout of victory.
Mr. and Mrs. Forester were summoned to
confirm their daughter's happiness, and frankly
accepted my proffered hospitality when it was
found our one hotel was full. I found them
not disagreeably unlike most other people, de-
spite Dame Porter's asseverations; except that
being rich and travelled, they rather circum-
scribed themselves within congenial limits, and
had cherished a bitterness of anger toward him
who had so nearly been their sweet child's
murderer. They meant that he should never
know that by a miracle her life was saved, but
let his life-long misery be his sure punishment.
They forgave him now, and thanked Juniata
for the stratagy which brought about such fond
reunion.
There was a wedding in our church, tender
and eloquent in its simplicity. No bridegroom
ever before was so devoutly joyful; no bride
so ravishingly beautiful or so divinely fair.
Juniata touched the organ at the tremula, and
music soft and low hovered, dove-like, over the
kneeling pair; and, as the ceremony ended,
grandly, with a few quick, masterly notes, it
rose to a triumverate. The audience paused
and wondered, then passed out. I, unseen,
had lingered to hear the glorious afterpiece, as
for an hour she held the key-board at her won-
drous will. All melody hath expression, but
this had more than human utterance.
She ceased at last, approached and kissed
the altar-rail. It might, in any other, have
been the mere observance of some supposed
CAESAR'S HEAD. 37
religious rite; in her, I knew it was an act of
utter and entire renunciation. -
I joined her at the door and linked my arm
in hers. “You loved him, then?” I whispered.
“I loved him,” she replied.
And she might have won him. Yet, she had
unselfishly, nay, royally, resigned him, with a
thorough, heartfelt knowledge of it all; re.
maining in the casket of his heart a beauteous,
brilliant, but unworn gem, rather than seating
herself upon its exalted throne, his pride and
queen. Is there no conquest but a so-called
victory? Naught regal save an imperial crown?
------
THE BROOK's MESSAGE.
(From the German of Rellstab.)
TRANslated by carriott A. S. L.
GLANCE, little stream, with thy silver ray,
Haste to my darling so far away:
Go, dearest brook, and my message take,
All my heart's longing for her sweet sake.
Sprinkle the flowers her garden bears,
Which in her beautiful bosom she wears;
Cool, with a gentle and tender flow,
The fire of her roses' crimson glow.
When into dream-land by thee she sinks,
Drooping her head as she sadly thinks,
Whisper that sweet one the glad refrain–
“Love will soon come to his own again.”
When the sun sleeps in the arms of night,
Soothe my love also to slumber light;
Murmuring, lull her to sweetest rest,
Whisper in dreams of a love so blest.
------
BENEATH THE OCEAN.
By H. W. R.
THERE be spots of emerald green,
Coral reefs of grandeur:
Precious pearls that lie unseen
Close beside my lover.
Tiny sprays of violet hue,
Lost in briny ocean:
All the will of men to do,
Could not give their fashion.
Many forms we loved to see,
Old men and fair maiden;
A ship with one dear to me
Rests there, still unladen.
Over all the cold, bright wave
Sings a requiem grandly;
Mocking when men try to save
Things they love too dearly.
Raging wave, and waves that flow
To soft, ecstatić measure :
Sing your peans high or low,
You sing above my lover.
Coral reef, and pearls that glow
In shell of gaudy color:
All that wealth, which tempts men so,
Istribute to my lover.
Every song old ocean sings,
And all the treasures in her,
Though lovely as angel wings,
Are sacred to my lover.
CAESAR'S HEAD.
BY MARG Arth.T. Withertow.
PART I.
“WELL, I, for one, am morally confident
that, long before we reach the “Head,” I shall
be as doubtful of my identity as that poor old
dame of ancient fame—
‘‘If I be I, as I do think I be,
You girls must just believe, without looking at me,’
for I'm positive” (Nellie was constitutionally
positive), “if this weather continues three
hours longer, I shall be reduced to my normal
condition, a medium-sized lump of clay.”
“Aye, and alack 1 clay soft and mushy,
without even the redeeming characteristic of
firmness,”
This is Norah's rejoinder, and, inasmuch as
'tis her first for some time, we all pay her the
unusual deference of listening; moreover, 'tis
strongly savored with truth, for even as she
speaks the water from the drip, drip, trickle,
trickle, through the roof of the hack, and on
to our heads, washes briskly Lina's nose, runs
in dirty little streams from Nellie's sad-fated
frisettes, and even poor, patient, uncomplain-
ing Norah, as she seeks a moment's respite
from the incessant shower-bath, by passing
her not-exactly-snowy handkerchief across her
dabbled face, draws a long smudge between
her eyes, and so down to meet her left ear.
The others have not yet observed it, and I am
just deliberating whether or not to lead the
laugh against her, when Lina's shrill tones
entirely alter the course of my meditations.
“Mercy on me, Dolly Heathecote : I'll be
blest if you’re not poisoned, and all from your
insufferable vanity, too !”
As I glance up in hasty terror, I discover
the probable cause of her alarm, and a keen
pain swiftly divides my heart. A bluish-green
liquid is rapidly forming impromptu lakes on
my shoulders and chest, dripping from cheeks
and chin in reckless prodigality, and even
meandering in far-stretching and inquisitive
rivulets down my back and beneath my lacings.
Alas for the fleeting glory ! the transient
loveliness of my bran-new Riverside, with its
smart green bows! Only yesterday morning
Peter Camartin had assured me green was his
favorite color, and he looked at neither the
trees nor grass as he spoke; and his eyes told
me something more, at least I hope—I mean I
think—they did; but this is not at all to the
point now, and Lina again pleasantly inter-
rupts:—
“Yes, 'tis all your insufferable vanity
Who ever heard of travelling in bright pea-
green? I would advise you to get rid of it now,
however, for a liquid green veil is not becom-
ing; it makes you look right sallow in spots.”
“And l’d rather look sallow in spots than
38
OODEVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
so all over, and all tlio time," 1 retort with
more heat than cleverness, for if Lina i.s slightly
sallow—and, indeed, she is—her chin is as
smooth and soft as a fresh camelia; and if l»er
mouth is rather large, and her chin a little
peaked, her nose is good, and her teeth like
pearls.
She reddens now with anger, which Is be-
coming, and draws herself up with all the
overpowering dignity of offended pride; then
silently but maliciously smooths out and reties
her fresh black hat ribbons, and shakes and
brushes her comparatively clean dress; then,
still silent, but with delightful triumph in her
eyes, looks down at me—at my horrid, soak-
ing, dripping hat; my soiled and rumpled
linen suit, my smudgy, wet, and streaky face;
and once more her gaze wanders back with
complacency to her own attractive entcmble,
and far more clearly than loud spoken words
institutes the "odious" comparison.
1 turn my head quickly aside to hide the sharp
anger and mortification of my face, for there
is a hot, burning feeling in my eyes, and some-
thing not rain ready to fall if I but wink.
Presently I can turn around again, and then
slowly and sadly I remove from my head its
altered shield and adornment; and 'tis nothing,
nothing but pride which keeps back the tears,
as I survey the wreck. Nellie, with her ever
ready friendship, comes to my aid.
"Ah, Dolly, my sweet, never mind I 'tis too
bad, though, it was such a very pretty hat,
and so becoming; and I 'm not the only one
who thought so, for I heard Peter Camartin
say"—
"My! that's poor comfort now; her hat is
ruined, if it was twenty times as becoming,"
interrupts Lina, hastily, determined to deprive
me of Peter's remark. How disagreeable of
her to prevent Nellie, if she can say nothing
more pleasant herself.
"Aye, but I have more solid consolation to
offer, 'happy thought' Dolly. I just remem-
ber a green tissue veil which I stuffed in the
trunk at the last moment, and which I sha'n't
need at all; 'twill be the very thing with which
to trim another hat. There is a store at the
'Head,' and I'm positive we can find some
sort of a chapeau, and fix it up first thing in
the morning."
"But now—now," pipes Lina; "there are
yet many hours before dark, and we 'II not
reach the place until long after, and then,
when we change vehicles this evening, what
then?"
"Much promise there is that we shall make
any change!" answers Nellie, sharply. "Look
at the clouds, the sky, the earth, the air, all
open space, and what do you see but rain,
rain, and threatenings of more? and,
"' Dearly as I love to ride
With my sweetheart Just by my side,'
I am not particularly partial to death by
drowning, and such will be the certain fate of
all those who forsake this friendly shelter."
She ends with a comical grimace as she glance.-;
around the leaky old hack, in which we pursue
the jolty tenor of our way. There is quite a
party of us—Nellie, Lina, Norah, and I, Dolly
Seathecote, with Mrs. Jacob Camartin, to play
chaperone, and that perfect number, seven,
brothers, cousins, and particular friends, of
the opposite sex, to play at any little game
they may prefer; our nominal destination be-
ing the famous "Caesar's Head," but our route
embracing much beside of varied interest and
beauty. This is our second day out, and hith-
erto all has been prosperity aud sunshine, but
now literally and figuratively the latter has
fled, and our condition is scarcely enviable.
Since eleven A. M. the rain has been fall-
ing; not in shimmering summer showers, but
in mighty torrents, until even the greedy
earth seems satiated and overfull, and still no
signs of abatement; the sky one mass of low-
ering gray clouds, the distant mountains almost
hid 'neath their sad-colored shrouds, while the
nearer heights look gloomily down from under
their sombre veils of shifting mist.
"Every sweet has its bitter," 'tis said, and
perhaps 'tis equally true that every bitter has
its sweet, for our situation, uncomfortable
though it seems, is not entirely destitute of
charms. The leaky stuffy old hack in which
we move along is usually appropriated to the
baggage; but when the skyey rivers began to
descend, the gentlemen persisted in packing
herein the feminine portion of the caravan ; so
here we all are, and here we all are likely to
remain for some time to come.
What if the hack is rough and leaky (and
what vehicle could be waterproof against such
falling oceans?), we are all young, and not
much given to colds; and then we started off
with the intention of braving any and every-
thing; for what contingencies do not arise on
a grand mountain tour like ours? If Lina is
in the hack, so is Nellie, and I have borne up
bravely, until fond hopos perished, in the de-
struction of my hat, and even that overwhelm-
ing catastrophe would have been less crushing
if Lina had not kept in such spotless order;
but, with her usual precision and forethought,
she secured a seat removed from the leak, and
with the aid of her large parasol has kept
comparatively clean and dry. I stay compara-
tively, for we are a sorry-looking crowd, with
our grim faces, soiled dresses, and dripping
locks; but desperate cases call for extra exer-
tion, and so we have all drained to the utter-
most our veins of wit and humor, robbed com-
pletely our schoolgirl storehouse of anecdote
and story; we have sung all the songs that we
know, and many more beside, for some, I am
sure, never attained to the dignity of utterance
until this darksome August day; and have re-
peated all the marvels we could possibly fabri-
CESAR'S HEAD.
39
cate, until even out elastic consciences refuse
further elongation.
"My grandma built a house
Just sixteen stories high.
And every story In that house
Was filled with pigeon pie,"
pipes Una's thin little voice, and perhaps the
recital of her grandmother's generous larder
is suggestive, for we all declare at once we nre
hungry.
We have been eating every half hour, but
still we are hungry, and, of course, nature
must be appeased.
"Pass the lunch-basket, Norah," cries Nel-
lie, vivaciously, her countenance brightening
at the prospect of change.
Lina has been singing, and singing is not
her forte.
"Pshaw!" exclaims Norah, contemptuously.
."What is the use of the lunch-basket? Wo '11
all have to pass, like the folks at the 'Turkish
lunch.' We have eaten all but that horrid fat
ham and some wet biscuit."
Our countenances fall at this; but Nellie,
not to be outgeneral led, says, quickly :—
"'Happy Thought,' I'm positive yonder low
tenement we are approaching is a country
store. See the circus pictures and advertise-
ments—an unfailing sign—posted up outside.
We '11 stop and get some pickle, and with
plenty of pickle even wet biscuit and ham will
go down."
Accordingly we stop, nnd, wonder of won-
d rs! obtain our condiment. We are not dis-
posed to be critical, and all agree it is splendid.
I am in an agony of terror, lest the buggies
Join us while we wait, and crowd far back in
the corner beside Mrs. Jacob, who is deep in
happy slumber. How I start as the well-
known sound of wheels comes near, and a gay,
familiar voice cries out :—
"Heighol are you all drowned in there?"
How I envy Lina her hat and clean face,
which she at once proceeds to stick out
"Not a bit of it I" she screams. (I wonder
if Peter thinks her voice as shrill as I do!)
"At least, none of us but Dolly, and she only
because she sat under a leak, trying' to keep
an eye on Frank's buggy."
Frank Toles is Lina's cousin, and, much as
I like the honest soul, I certainly do not care
to ever, ever keep an eye on him, as she vul-
garly phrases it. Why, why does she persist
in teasing me about him, and always before
Peter? I am peeping through a crack, and
see Peter turn red and green, and bite his un-
der lip hard. How I long to contradict that
glib little goose of a girl, but it is quite impos-
sible; my face Is covered with wretched green
spots, and my hair quite tumbled down, so I
can only groan mentally, and watch while
Lina chats briskly, and Peter answers absently,
and John (John is my brother, and Nellie is
to be my sister some fine day) and his fiancee
talk in low tender tones through another aper-
ture. Presently Peter says :—
"Where in the world, or the hack, is Miss
Fleathecote? Is she asleep, or angry, that she
has neither spoken nor moved since we drove
up?"
"Neither," Lina assures him, adding sweetly,
"She remarked as you all drove up that she
wished to see no one but her brother; thinks
herself scarcely presentable, I believe, from
the loss of her hat, or something. You know
in these highly civilized days it Is hardly safe
to lose one's head-covering," and she laughs
as though her remarks had been fine, but
Peter only smiles, and says, eagerly:—
"MissNorah, please present mycompliments
to Miss Dolly, and beg that she will accept my
broad-brim as a covering for those numerous
hair-pins, braids, and curls."
How horrid of him to believe her artful and
untrue insinuation, for I have nothing on but
my own, own hair, save one very small plait.
I nearly choke with rage at them both, and am
not conscious of what reply I make. It must
have been very rude and severe, though (ray
capabilities for that sort of thing are marvel-
lous), for Peter grows scarlet, looks furious,
and turns on his heel, while all the others
titter, all save John and Nellie. Then we
start off once more, but not before Lina cries
out:—
"Please, good people, whenever there is the
slightest cessation, let me have a seat In one
of the open vehicles. I 'm tired to death riding
in this cramped old concern," and Mr. Camar-
tin, turning back with his courtliest bow and
smile, assures her he will watch most eagerly
the uncertain sky, and the earliest possible
moment will find his buggy awaiting her dis-
posal.
We are more quiet than before stopping, all
save Lina, who sings, sings, and watches her
clothes. Norah is asleep beside Mrs. Jacob;
and Nellie and I, we have rolled up our cur-
tain and can see out nicely, sit silent, hand in
hand, and look out at the country through
which we are passing.
Carolina farming lands, fresh green corn-
fields, long stretches of stubble, from which the
smaller grains have sometime been harvested,
rolling brown uplands, dotted here and there
with conical hayricks, great patches of scanty
tobacco plants, hills, hills, and over all the
drifting, misty sheets of rain, for 'tis much
more moderate now; indeed, a faint line of
blue gleams in the southwest, and there is
strong probability that Lina will get her ride.
"Dolly," says Nellie, presently, waking up
from her dreamy quiet, and rolling down the
hack curtain as she speaks, "I am certain it
Is clearing off, and of course they will want us
to get into the wagonette and buggys; that
was the plan, you know, that if it cleared we
were to endeavor to see the sunset from the
40
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
'Head,' and you must not think of staying
.cooped up in this old place."
"But what can I do?" cry I, feeling my
misery redoubled return. "It is impossible to
wear that hat, it stains me so; and my face—
my face—and my hair"—
"Hush, hush! just hear me; we have been
a stupid couple! This green will come off with
soap and water, I 'II be bound," and so rejoin-
ing she produces from her satchel a comb and
brush, a cake of soap, and a rather soiled towel.
It is no difficult task to wet a corner of the lat-
ter and froth it with soap. After five minutes'
hard scrubbing of my face I ask, faintly:—
"Is it coming off at aUf"
"Oh, yes, yes; not entirely, yon know, but
much better than at first. There, now, that
will do, and you have a splendid color from
rubbing."
"In my nose, yes," I retort, bitterly; but
Nellie, not hearing or heeding my small insinu-
ation regarding her skill as Abigail, proceeds
quickly to do up my hair.
I am not a beauty, but my hair is one of my
strong points, and I can more readily credit
her next assertion; that it looks really lovely,
all crisp and shining from its long bath.
"There, now!" cries my ingenuous friend,
"just tie on my blue veil and hold up my pa-
rasol (yours is broken, you know), and you
are fixed."
My costume is anything but elegant; but I
am charmed to feel presentable once more, and
nearly smother Nell with kisses.
We are none too swift, either, for even now
the hack stops suddenly in obedience to a sig-
nal, and in a few moments the gentlemen join
us. Slowly, one by one, we clamber from the
hack—Norah and Mrs. Camartin first to cheer
Mr. Jacob in the wagonette, while John hands
Nellie into his buggy near by. As I emerge
from behind Lina's slight figure, there is a uni-
versal outcry.
"Is it possible that is yourself? we heard
you had vowed never to forsake the dear old
hack."
"Why, Miss Dolly, can it be you're alive,
after all, when we have spent the afternoon in
bewailing your untoward fate I"
"So Richard is himself again;" this from
John, etc. etc.
Their light foolishness embarrasses me
strangely, and I feel stiff and awkward; but
endeavor faithfully to conceal ft. Only Peter
is silent, as, after carefully assisting Lina Into
his elegant buggy, he stands beside it, tall and
dark, and apparently devoted to its occupant.
If he thinks to affect me by all this, he is mis-
taken. Mr. Peter Camartin is nothing to me,
and so, though I feel dull and queer and have
a strong inclination to cry (why I cannot ima-
gine, unless 'tis the quantity of pickle I have
eaten), I manage to wink and blush as Mr.
Toles and Walter French at the same mo:nent
proffer me a seat in their respective vehicles.
Peter looks towards us as they speak, and I
am conscious he is watching me keenly; with
much empressrnent, I trow, to Mr. Toles.
"'The race to the swift.' Mr. Frank, I be-
lieve you were three seconds ahead. Mr.
French, we will have our chat to-morrow."
"What a coquette Dolly is," 1 hear Lina
simper as I climb into my buggy, but I fail to
catch Peter's reply; it must have been amus-
ing and to the point, for Una laughs immode-
rately. However, one cannot judge much by
that, for she giggles if one but observes that
the day is warm, or the earth round, that is, if
one is a gentleman; girls somehow fail to en-
tertain her so readily.
"Let us fall in the rear, Miss Dolly," says
Frank; "that is, if you don't mind." But
something in his manner makes me think I do
mind, and I answer hastily :—
"Ah, no, no; we must never be the last in
this imposing array;" but 'tis too late, for as I
speak Mr. Camartin's buggy dashes around
and ahead of us, and we are indeed the last.
"Ah, well, never mind, we shall do very nicely
here, I'm sure," say I, philosophically, and
then I begin to talk as hard and fast as ever 1
can, for I really don't like the way Mr. Frank
looks, red and white every ten minutes, and as
if he might have something to say which 1
don't care to hear.
How delicious the air is after the rain; so
crisp, fresh, and cool, with a swishy breeze,
which promises to stiffen as we ascend the
mountain. The day is fast waning, and 'tis
scarcely probable we shall see the sunset from
the heights, but we drive rapidly on, hoping to
reach our destination ere night closes in. The
sky is covered with troops of swinging, fleecy
cloudlets, with here and there a faint airy
stretch of soft, pale blue and glimmer of sun-
shine toward the west. It seems later than it
really is, here on the mountain side, for we
are ascending all the time now In gradual,
easy slopes, with an occasional precipitous
climb, short and steep. The road is narrow,
winding, and rough, crossed most frequently,
almost every half mile it seems, by a boister-
ous, dancing, glad little creek, slipping with
swift, musical, foam-white feet, across its shal-
low bed, or striding with hasty, heavy, angry
steps adown some narrow rock-lined channel.
The bridges are frail, insecure rustic little
structures, which I should delight in if it were
not that Mr. Frank's arm has an uncomfort-
able habit of slipping to my side of the seat
whenever we approach the same. Our way is
almost shut in by stout, leafy oaks, and stately,
slender pines, through whose tops the wind
. rocks softly, while a thick undergrowth of rho-
dodendron, ivy, wild, clinging vines, and sap-
lings too numerous to mention, still further
dims and obscures the light. An occasional
turn in the road reveals Mr. Camartin and
OJESAB'S HEAD.
41
Lina; how absorbed in each other they seem,
and it is not only I who thinks so; Mr. Yoles
obserTes the same.
"We shall be there now in fifteen minutes,"
said the hitter, and then suddenly, and with-
out warning, he said something else, much more
disagreeable, which makes my face feel on fire
and my head dizzy. A quick bend in the road
at this moment reveals Mr. Camartin riding
slowly and bending close toward Lina. My
face burns still hotter, and then I grew white
as ths dead, and my heart almost ceases its
mad throbs. I must determine, settle all this;
shall I decide my fate, and end forever this
weary doubt, indecision, and pain? At any
rate I must give some answer to Frank, who,
good fellow, looks thoroughly in earnest, and,
I must add, thoroughly sheepish.
"Will you wait a little—give me a little time
to think—to decide; say till to-morrow?" I
murmur.
"A week—two of them ; nmonth, if you will,
if so be there is any hope for me at the last,"
he cries, and then he adds something very fool-
ish, too foolish indeed to repeat; and which
I a^once stop, after which he looks snubbed
and uncomfortable, and I feel thoroughly the
last, and am charmed when a final steep pull
brings us unexpectedly up to a wide, open
stretch of modulating land, rising and falling
in soft green curves, and where we seem almost
on a level with the awful peaks surrounding
us on every side.
In silence we drive rapidly westward, and,
after another very slight ascent, in equal si-
lence alight. The others have all gone on to
the cliff, and I am compelled to receive con-
siderable assistance from Frank as I clamber
over the great rough stones, ere I join them.
And oh! never, never, can I hope to portray,
with anything like justice or fidelity, the scene
which awaits me I It is only at such times that
we realize the awful hollowness and emptiness
of words. Words! the frail, narrow, insuffi-
cient bridges, which must convey our swift-
footed thoughts from the wondrous soul-land
to the outer world.
The huge rugged boulders over which we
climb, smooth suddenly down into a gray, even
mass of slippery rock, elevated nearly five
thousand feet above the level of the sea; on
whose narrow, projecting, extremest edge we
stand gazing down, down an awful sheer pre-
cipitous descent of twenty-three or twenty-five
hundred feet! All around and about us, to
the south and west, rise lofty, towering heights
of the same blue chain; separated from us at
nnequal distances by a capricious and uneven
valley, which just below us looks shadowy and
dark, as if the form of the great impenetrable
rock ever lingered upon it. Pigmy-like and
stunted seem its trees in their, green array,
while the faint upward curling smoke from a
distant cabin far below and beyond us, causes
us to surmise that some peaceful old satyr of
the vale is just now indulging in his evening
pipe.
We are too late to witness the ancient bride-
groom of the earth, with all his royal pomp and
pageant, pass beyond the closing gates of day;
but we scarcely heed this, for if the west is no
fitful, blushing, shining bride, it is a fair, frail
widow, all robed in wonderful fathomless garb
of trailing clouds, while her numerous hand-
maids, the distant peaks, stand ready with the
measureless mourning veil of milk-white shim-
mering mist. Nearer the bold, scarred side of
"Table Rock," with the damp vapors cooling
about its base, faces us in the gathering twi-
light, while above us a cloud slips from its
place, a single star gleams brightly, showing
that in those distant realms the Night is light-
ing his counties lamps.
Scarcely a word is spoken as we so stand;
indeed, we all mentally decide that this is no
time for idle chatter. I, for one, feel com-
pelled to dumbness, and almost forget my
faculties of speech, forget everything; all the
trouble and care of the day, forget Peter, Mr.
Frank, and Lina, all save the wonderful, grand,
shifting panorama, till Lina begins applying to
them her stale, ready-made, insipid epithets,
and then the charm is broken.
Peter is not beside her now; he started ab-
ruptly when she began, and wandered away to
the further side of the cliff, and with folded
arms is peering over the frightful edge. I
grow faint watching him and long to call out,
then recollect myself and turn away, and when
next I look he is among us. We are all loathe
to quit the place, and it is deep twilight ere we
reach the hotel, a fourth of a mile away.
PART II.
Tired and depressed though 1 am, a vigor-
ous bath and fresh toilet improve me much;
and hot coffee and a famous supper add to the
cure. Indeed, I feel unnaturally exhilarated,
and laugh and talk incessantly.
Frank is tiresomely devoted, is constantly
beside me, or watching, with his too-plainly-un-
derstood gaze, my every movement; and it is
somewhat to cover this I so rattle away, for
Nellie looks at me with wondering, half-re-
proachful eyes, John seems amused, Lina is
smiling and indifferent, and Peter—one can't
well determine how Peter looks—one moment
stern, dark, almost wrathful, the next serene
and tender—at least toward Lina—and through
it all distracting!}' handsome.
I recount all our foolish, pitiful jokes of the
day, as we sit on the long, open veranda,
through which the night wind sweeps with no
gentle hand; but it is delightful, for my face
is so hot, and not even Frank's assurance that
my color is loveiy and my eyes like st;irs com-
42
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
pensates me for the quick throbbing of iny
temples and my burning cheeks. We all laugh
immoderately in thus reviewing our folly;
when Lina, always anxious for a "finger in
the pie" (as the old proverb has it), interposes.
"Speaking of funny stories and original say-
ings, reminds me of a remark of an acquaintance
of mine; he was more than an acquaintance,
he was a very particular friend. As we were
starting out together one night, he inquired,
suddenly,'Miss Lina, are you fond of chicken?'
Of course I wondered what could be coming
next, but answered, 'Yes; oh, yesl' 'Well,
then, allow me to offer you a wing,' and lie
presented his arm. I was so amused, so very
original in him, wasn't it?"
Lina is surely gratified, for as she conies out
with this, we all literally roar, in the midst
of which, Walter French leans forward, say-
ing dryly:—
"Miss Lina, are you fond of conundrums?"
"Yes; oh, yes, indeed! specially so."
"Then let ine propound the very latest.
'Where was Jeff when the candle went out?'"
It is too bad of Walter, for even Lina per-
ceives his drift and keeps a hard sileuce, while
an awkward pause falls on the company.
It is more to break this than for anything
else, I cry, "Good people, since you are so
devoted to conundrums, answer me one. 'Why
is it said that the author of "Innocents Abroad"
has a specially devoted and attentive wife?'
Just three minutes grace for your wit."
"Bah I" answers John, quickly, "thatis easy
enough. Because they ' Twain are one.'"
"Not my answer," say I, gravely; "but
better perhaps. Will none of the others make
a guess? Then—because she is always calling
'Sain-you-well' (Samuel)."
All laugh to an absurd extent except Lina,
who, regarding the point, is where Jeff was.
"Whatever is the sense of that, when his
name is Mark Twain?"
"Strange," answers Walter, in an odd, sup-
pressed voice, "passing strauge; but there is
some small enlightenment in the fact that he
has a second cognomen, 'Samuel ClemensI'"
"Has he? Oh, yes, I see now; but it is
rather far-fetched, I think. The other answer
is better because more simple."
"And simplicity," rejoins Walter, "isathing
for admiration, but would be more so if it were
rarer." His tone is gravely polite, but a cour-
teous tone is a flimsy veil for pointed words.
Then we all retire, the ladies declaring their
intention of seeing the sun rise from the cliff;
the gentlemen laying wagers to the opposite
effect, and announcing their laudable purpose
of seeing it after it lias risen.
The chill, gray dawn is abroad in the room
when I wake, and I spring up at once, for we
must be expeditious, as the rock is some dis-
tance off, and the summer morn swift in its
coming.
"Mercy on me I" growls Lina, "it ain't morn-
ing yet, is it? I am so sleepy I don/t believe
it is morning;" while Norah answers her by
another shake, and Nellie and I button our
boots.
"Girls, girls, we must be off!" cried Nellie
five minutes later, "the east is beginning to
lighten, and we must hasten."
"But my hair is not done up," said Lina,
and I, in the same breath, regarding with envi-
ous eyes the others already hatted and shawled.
"Ah, well, never mind doing up your hair;
the gentlemen won't be there, you know, and
we will see nobody else so early; just tie on
your veils and come along."
I proceed to take her advice, slipping on my
convenient waterproof, and tying back with
a ribbon my long loose hair; but Lina demurs,
and insists that we wait while she pins on her
braids, for which I cannot censure her, as sin-
certainly looks much better with than without
them, having but a scanty supply of nature's
veiling.
All is quiet as we pass out, but we run nearly
all the way, and of course reach the rock a full
half hour before the sun appears. I do not
at all mind this, though; who could, in this
balmy, dewy, freshest air, so utterly delicious
that every draught seems an elixir of life, and
makes the blood tingle briskly in every vein?
Norah and Lina are still sleepy, and the latter
yet grumbling at being so needlessly hurried;
so, to escape this, Nellie and I determine to ex-
plore the little path to our left, which our
small guide, Pip, assures us leads to a shelf in
the rock far below, commonly christened grim
old "Cresar's Mouth." The others protest at
our daring and folly, but nothing daunted we
follow Pip. I enjoy it immensely, it is so deep
and precipitate that we step down two or three
feet at one effort, slide awhile, or swing down
by bushes and shrubs, till the place is reached.
It is a large excavation in front of the cliff,
which above juts far over in projecting eaves,
ailil below furnishes a dry, smooth-floored little
apartment, sufficiently commodious to accom-
modate half-a-dozen or. more persons. Old
(,'aisar must have been considered an awful
personage by the natives, to have hod his
charms and proportions thus magnified in this
grim, rugged effigy of stone.
How indescribably lovely and fair the valley
appears, just escaped from the thraldom of
night, while the far, faint glimmer of silver
fog in the green shows the winding line of a
distant river.
Presently the mountains before us begin to
brighten with a far-stretching, slowly-coming
radiance; the topmost peaks, with tremulous
eagerness, first catching the light, which slowly
shifts to the next lower heights. The valley
begins to dimple in stray, short beams; the
distant silver line in the green glows for a mo-
ment with a delicate blush at the sun's first
CAESAR'S HEAD.
43
kiss, then graceful and fleet as the mountain
roe the vapors disappear, showing the swift-
flowing water; when with one careless hound,
above the mountains far behind us in the east
the mighty sun appears, bathing the world in
his matchless glory.
When we climb back to join the others, only
Norah and Mrs. Jacob await us; Lina, fearing
the advent of the gentlemen, has returned
alone to the hotel. As we reach the rear
piazza of the same, a servant passes with a
small untrimmed hat 'n her hand. I seize her
at once.
"Oh, will you please tell me whose hat this
is, and where you got it? I lost mine yester-
day, and am crazy for one. Are there any
more like it to be had at the same place?"
The maid smiles provokingly as she re-
plies: "This one belongs to Miss Toles, ma'am,
one of your party, and it is the very last of any
sort Mr. Grau had; he sold the mate to this
yesterday."
"Miss Toles!" cried I. "Lina! why Lina
does not need one; oh, what shall I do? Lina
did you say, girl?"
Lina walks towards us as we speak, and
calls out sharply: "Come along; girl, come
along with my hat. Of course I need it, or I
.shouldn't have bought it." She speaks briskly
and loud, but she looks sullen and slightly
ashamed.
"Are you sure there are no more at the shop,
that this is the very Inst one?" I question once
more; but the maid has disappeared, probably
fearing a scene.
"Lina, Lina, how could you do so?" ex-
claims Nellie, while in silent despair I sink
into a chair near by. "When you knew how
much more Dolly needed the hat, and heard
this very plan for getting it discussed."
Liua's blushes disappear, and she grows
white and muleish. "1 believe, Miss Barton,
there is no legal demand that I should ask your
permission ere making a purchase. Allow me
to judge of my own need of this one, and if
the paying for aud receiving a thing makes it
yours, this hat is certainly mine."
She stoops as she speaks and picks up the
bone of contention; certainly it is nothing over
which so to struggle, and yet if it had been
cold studded with brilliants, I could not have
eyed it witli more longing eyes.
How very plain, almost ugly Lina looks, her
braids all rough and awry, and showing so
plainly that they arc braids, her mouth hard and
set, and her face sallow and purple in the chill
morning air. I shake my head reprovingly as
Nellie begins again, but it is useless; woman
like, she is going to say what she thinks.
"Tours at the bar of mere reason, perhaps,
but never yours at the bar of generosity, justice,
or truth. Why have yon been so ungenerous, so
spiteful toward Dolly on this trip? Tour hard
speeches of yesterday, your petty insinuations
about her hair and frightful appearance with-
out her hat, before the gentlemen ; your"—
But Nellie's charge suddenly ceases, and her
face alters. Liua grows scarlet, literally scar-
let, as she drops, as though it burnt, the un-
fortunate hat. I look around to discover the
cause of the change.
Peter Camartin, shut up in a small side yard,
from which there is no egress save across this
very porch, is walking toward us, and must
have heard all that has passed.
Unlike the rest, Peter is wonderfully com-
posed and unembarrassed, and cool as the
morning, lifts his hat with a courtly bow.
"Bon jour, mesdemoiselles. Pray, do not let
me interrupt your charming conference. I was
deep in conversation with Pip when the sound
of your voices reached me, and have come to
hear your overwhelming description of your
morning's view, to be drowned in an ocean of
adjectives, those words so dear to the feminine
heart."
AVith what inimitable ease Peter can control
his face and manner. I know he could not fail
to hear every word that has passed, and so do
the others, hut all feign ignorance and reply;
at least so does Nellie; Liim has disappeared
like a scared rabbit, and 1 am too hopelessly
confused by my loose, tumbled hair, which
sweeps the chair-back and readies the floor,
and which my nervous fingers in vain attempt
to pin up, by—everything! to frame any speech.
At this moment Pip (dear little Pip! I have
cause to love her) appears on the scene ot
action. "Are you the lady as what's dead off
tobuyahat? 'cause here's one as belongs to my
cousin's step-daughter, and 1 guessed, as how
she 'd never had it on a hair of her head, you 'd
be willin' to git it of her. It's all the earth too
leetle for her, jist sits right up a-top of her
skull." Pip has forgotten her previous asser-
tion about "its never having touched a hair of
her head."
In an incredible time the bargain is conclud-
ed, I paying the delighted Pip double the re-
quired sum and feeling ready to embrace her
beside, but, there being lookers-on, I wisely
refrain.
Nellie rushes off to get the veil to trim our
purchase, and Peter stands by with a comical
air of interest and amusement. As Nellie with
nimble fingers pins on the floating green dra-
pery, Peter addresses me directly for the first
time since yesterday's unlucky contretemps.
"So, not disheartened by the fate of its pre-
decessor, you are going to try your luck in
green once more. What a lovely shade that is!"
His tone is peculiar, and I know he is think-
ing of that other conversation, three days be-
fore, when ho complimented my green bows,
and said much beside. What an age it seems
since then! The very spirit of perversity
prompts my reply.
"I believe I can't agree with you. I am more
44
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
partial to blue, perhaps because it has proved
a friend in need. Mr. Toles assured me last
afternoon, when I wore Nellie's blue veil, that
blue was my color."
What a vain, silly, pointless speech I It
touches the mark, however, for Peter looks
mortified and turns away his head. I long to
say something pleasant, but cannot determine
what it shall be.
Presently Peter turns around and speaks
again. "Why did you not accept my offer of
a substitute for your loss?"
"There are a great many ways of doing
everything," I remark, with striking original-
ity, "and I did not admire your style of mak-
ing the offer; beside it was all in jest."
"Then why, why in the name of all peace
did you not accept it as such? My foolish
speech about the curls and braids was deucedly
impertinent, I am ready to admit, and. 1 have
sincerely regretted it every hour since; but
you knew I was joking, knew I meant no in-
sinuation—nothing, nothing; by Jove, how
could I?" and he glances significantly at my
dishevelled hair. "I have not had a peaceful
minute since; but you have seemed so cold,
looked so"—
He pauses, waiting for mo to look up, but I
keep my eyes persistently on the floor. Peter
is not going to draw me into any expression of
regret or penitence; have not all been remark-
ing his devotion to Lina? I raise my head to
make some light reply, but something in his
face checks me, he looks so deeply earnest. I
am provoked with him, provoked with myself;
with myself for my stupidity, with him for con-
fusing me so and increasing it thereby. I am
determined to say something, so speak quickly.
"I am glad that some of my friends are more
considerate, believe more in me; do not con-
sider me a make-up, a sham!"
A hot flush dyes his cheeks, and keen disap-
pointment burns in his eyes; either Peter is a
consummate actor, or he likes me very, very
much; most probably the first supposition is
correct, just so he looks at Lina; so I pretend
not to notice his altered face, and cry out gayly
to Mr. Toles, who is approaching.
"See how the damages are repaired I" and I
hold up my recent purchase, all trimmed and
fine.
He comes forward delightedly, and compli-
ments profusely both hat and wearer; insist-
ing that I shall try it on. With my most de-
ibonnaire grace I comply, and his glance is
decidedly comforting as to the result. When
J look around to ascertain what Peter thinks,
only his coat-tails are visible; he is disappear-
ing through the doorway.
Two and a half hours later we have left
"Ca;sar's Head" and have reached the "Cedar
Mountain nouse," eight miles distant; from
which place we propose to visit the noted
"Cedar Mountain Falls," several miles re-
moved.
Having obtained fresh water for1 man and
beast, and a portly guide, we are once more on
the wing, though not so
"Light of heart and gay of wing
As Eden's garden bird,"
for though we seem an enviable, happy, laugh-
ing crowd, appearances are here, as elsewhere,
deceitful. Nellie, indeed, wears her soft, na-
tive look of happy content; but Lina is snap-
pish and sullen; Frank uneasy and of doubtful
mind; Peter silent, at least when I see him,
and evidently distrait; while I am positively
wretched, and only hope I am concealing it
better and more successfully than the others.
Nellie, John, Lina, and I occupy the wagon-
ette, which arrangement seems highly displeas-
ing to most of the company. Lina is crosser
and more snappisli than usual because Peter is
wholly indifferent, and shares his buggy with
one of the men. Frank looks reproachful and
out of sorts because I refused to honor with
my presence his conveyance. Peter is moody
over something, perhaps I don't know what,
and I, ah, I can tell but too well the cause of
my own heavy heart.
Two miles from the hotel we again dismount,
and prepare to visit the first of the three falls
our route embraces. After a long, arduous,
and rather difficult clamber and slide down a
winding hill, we feel fully repaid when the
gorge is reached and the fall appears, for the
view here is really lovely, even grand. The
silver clear mountain stream, with one swift
bound, leaps over a shelving .wall of stone,
ninety or a hundred feet below, to a stretching
platform of the same gray rock, from whence,
even at a distance of twenty yards, our faces
are dashed by the delicious spray, which rises
In laughing snow showers to catch the light,
then, once more falling, joins the restless
stream adown its rugged channel.
Even I, unappreciative as is my mood, am
charmed by the musical roar of the fall, and
swish of the restless stream, into a pleasant
quiescence, a state of mind unknown for
twenty-four hours, save that brief time spent
on the grand old rock at the Head; and it is
not until we are again in motion that I remem-
ber my troubled heart, my persecuting ad-
mirer, my stinging conscience; for these all
belong to one and the same category, and are
closely connected. Why, oh, why was I so fool-
ish yesterday? Why did I not say no, at once
and forever, to poor Frank Toles, who to-day
literally haunts me? I verily believe he is
cognizant of every step I take, every glance I
give, every word I utter, and I am now fully
convinced that never can I accept this surveil-
lance as life-long.
The "Three Sisters," a graceful, lovely,
triple fall, comes next in route, but I have no
CESAR'S HEAD.
4.->
eyes for nature's fair and wondrous picture,
for here I determine to screw up my courage,
and have done with Frank. Heavy hearted,
self-reproacliful, and even tearful, I accomplish
tliis feat; and, though my generous victim is
as courteous and considerate as a noble man
can be, I shall never retain sweet memories of
the "Sisters Trio." As we sit apart, I on a
stump, Frank on the sward near by, Peter
stumbles upon us, and looks as absurdly guilty
as the dramatis persona. 1 do hope he under-
stood I was saying "nay" instead of "yea;"
he moved away so quickly, though, there's no
guessing.
One mile further, the guide assures us, is
the crowning beauty—the famous fall of the
"Bridal Veil," and it is planned we shall there
take our mid-day lunch. Another short ride,
dismounting, and hard scramble down a steep
descent, and we reach tlio desired spot, the
happy retreat, the delicious place—for is it not
here we shall once more lovingly dissect the
intricacies of the lunch-basket? tenderly bring
to light boiled beef and chicken, pickle and
hard-boiled eggs? But, hungry as we all un-
doubtedly are, I believe no one, even mo-
mentarily, thinks of these near-to-hand blisses
as we descend into the gorge and reach the
place. It is not until our eyes have been
wholly delighted, altogether satisfied, by a
long, full gaze at the strange beauty, the rare
loveliness of the softly-stepping stream, as it
listlessly glides from ledge to ledge; then, as
if fearing delay, strides brightly, briskly on,
till a wide, elevated, overhanging cliff is
reached, where all its forces culminated, and
on the alert it sweeps grandly, proudly over
in an undivided mass of glinting, silver-white
water, and foamy, wreathing spray; not until
all this, in far richer detail, has been taken in
and rejoiced over, do we remember our far less
artistic, but urgent need of lunch.
"Blessed hour of dinner, the best of all hours,
When thorns are all roses, and weeds are all
flowers,"
says John, with pleasing emphasis, as we gather
around our hastily-spread board, the smooth,
clean rock serving at once for cloth and table.
"Au vrai chaque 6tat a ses charmes," com-
ments Peter, with a yielding countenance and
softening tone; but, alas I both expression of
speech and face are induced by the cheer
spread before and below him, and not to be
appropriated by anything more elevated.
"I '11 vow this steak is the best I ever tasted
anywhere," puts in Frank, who, to my relief,
looks a shade less lugubrious and comfortless
than :in hour since.
"And I '11 stake all I have that I have not
ray share of the same," replies Walter French,
dryly.
"yul n'est content de sa fortune; ni meeon-
tent de son esprit," cry I, gayly, airing a
favorite maxim, while all join in a laugh at
Walter's expense.
Dinner sharpens wit, and wit creates laugh-
ter, and laughter cheers and warms the heart.
We all rise a brighter party. Lina even begins
to sing, and Peter looks a shadow of his former
self, which is a great improvement on the last
two days; and I—I feel wonderfully improved.
Peter says some quite civil things to me, and I
feel ready for any and everything; so, when
the gentlemen propose going under the cliff to
explore the long passage between the rock and
falling sheet of water, I insist on the ladies
doing the same. Norah is of a similar mind,
and Nellie allows herself to be persuaded; so
we go, leaving Lina expostulating, and de-
claring "nothing could induce her to commit
such folly."
It is splendid under here, so shady and cool,
with the far overhanging rock for a roof and
side, the rushing mighty water for a nether
wall, while our way underneath is composed
of broad stepping stones and shining little
lakes. The trickle and splash of the water
through the crevices of the roof, the roar and
swell of the fall outside, all, all are delightful,
even though we are pretty well drenched by
the same. I believe, on thinking it over, that
this was the cause of Lina's refusal to join us.
She feared getting wet and out of order, for
she never looks well when not fixed "just so;"
her braids get tumbled and awry, and when
the pearl-powder washes off her face she does
look sallow.
I have fallen behind the others, stopping to
get some long, clinging sprays of rare, tendril
j moss; the moss cleaves obstinately to its be-
loved home, and I am detained some time; so
feel relieved, on looking up, to see one of the
gentlemen a few paces ahead. A second look
shows me it is Peter; but his back is turned,
and perhaps he does not know of my prox-
imity. He walks leisurely along, and I follow,
the deep silence only broken by the musical
trickle of the diamond-bright drops through
the rock. We have nearly reached the oppo-
site end, and can see the opening clearly, when
Peter stops and turns shortly around. He
must have known all along I was here, for his
manner expresses no surprise.
"Here is an ugly step," pointing to a large
pool directly in our path, with beyond a sloping
stone, sleek and slippery with slimy moss.
"Shall I lift you over? It is a risk for you to
attempt it alone."
His tone is slightly constrained, as if he
feared another rebuff. I smile and shake my
head.
"Take my note-book, please, and my moss,
and I'll jump; I like nothing better."
He looks as though he would remonstrate;
then, suddenly changing his mind, receives my
possessions with an air of indifferent reserve,
40
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
and leaps across. I see his firnily-booted foot
slide several inches as he lands, and, facing
quickly about, lie cries out:—
"Wait I wait 1 you must not try it alone I"
But it is too late. With my skirts gathered
about me, and my eyes shut, 1 make a flying
spring, feel my feet slip, slip, a horrible thump,
and utter unconsciousness. When 1 wake, a
few minutes later, 1 am utterly bewildered.
The clear sapphire heaven hangs far above us;
a cool, green light filters through the trees;
and I am in a soft, grassy-couch, with my head
pillowed on Peter's arm. Returning conscious-
ness brings swift-winged memory, and with
the hot blood literally dyeing my face, I lift
my head and attempt to rise, grow giddy, and
am compelled to fall back.
"Are you much hurt, Dolly?" inquires Pe-
ter, tenderly ; and I don't feel much inclined
to scold him for his careless use of my name,
he looks so pale and thoroughly concerned.
My head is going around and around, but I
manage to answer:—
"Yes—no—that is, I am hurt—some," and
then I utter "Peter" indistinctly, and for no
possible reason, and lose consciousness once
more.
The cool splashing of water over my face
rouses me effectually, aud I open my eyes and
beg that he will desist; but he does not hear
or heed, and keeps up a plentiful shower for
some minutes, by which time I feel several
shades more natural, and insist on a with-
drawal of the bath.
"Ah, you are much better now!" he says,
cheerfully, rubbing my hands vigorously with
a fresh cambric handkerchief he has substi-
tuted for a towel. "Ready for this?" and he
draws a silver flask from his pocket.
I shake my head, but he shows no deference,
and for answer holds it to my reluctant but
somehow obedient lips.
"Are you ready for another leap?" he asks,
presently, with a provoking smile.
I feel vexed, and get better at once.
"It was all that horrid stone 1" I say. "I
have jumped twice as far, and done it well."
He smiles again. It is quite impertinent of
Peter, as if he doubted my assertion.
"Ah, how teasing you are I" I cry.
"And oh, my love, how teasing you are!"
he replies, with a quick, sharp change in voice
and manner. "Dolly, has it been teasing
these last two wretched days, or—or earnest?"
I try to look saucily up as he bonds above
me; but my eyes are treacherous, and betray
me, and the next minute, oh, passing strange I
Peter's quick kisses are covering my face. ^
"Your color is coming back, my darling,"
he says, presently, and laughs slyly.
"And, pray, who wouldn't have a color af-
ter—after"— I break off in desperate confu-
sion, and turn away my face.
"Oh, love!" he cries, growing quickly grave,
"don't grudge me those few stolen sweets.
Don't turn from me now, Dolly, when a smile
from you, darling, is the one thing I pray for,
the one tiling I desire."
1 have raised my head now, and can sit
alone.
"But Lina," I say, faintly, and the cheek
next him burns till it is painful.
"Lina!" echoes he. "What of her? She is
doing very well, I dare say, along with the
others. It is not Lina I wish to discuss."
"But I do!" I answer, stoutly, and turn
around. I can talk, now that Peter is slightly
confused. "What right has the lover of Miss
Toles to talk the same language to me?"
"Dolly," he pleads, "for mercy's sake do
not drive me desperate with such nonsense!
You know you are laughing in your sleeve.
You know you saw through it all the time. It
was pitiful in a man; I confess, mean and
pitiful; but I hoped to render you jealous.
You drove me so nearly crazy with that fellow,
her cousin; but I soon saw how useless it was,
and gave up the tiresome game."
How blind men are! Useless! numph! it
is all he knows, and I shall not enlighten him.
"Darling, if that was useless and disre-
garded, my prayer shall not be, shall it?"
I do hope Peter is satisfied now; he has
shaken down my hair, and rumpled my ruff
beyond repair. I believe he is, and I know, I
know I am.
"Dolly," says Peter, presently, "which is
your color? Three days ago I was fully per-
suaded that that soft green tint was designed
for your especial wear. Yesterday afternoon,
when 1 despairingly watched you seated beside
that forlorn wretch, Frank Toles, I at once
decided that blue, immortal blue, was the fa-
vored shade. Half an hour since, when you
lay in that long swoon, so calmly marble white,
1 believed nothing could be more heavenly.
But now, dear love, now, with that rich rose-
tint, 'love's gorgeous banner,' burning in your
cheek, I have discovered the one—the color
which to me is at. once the dearest, fairest,
sweetest on earth fr
The Noblest Victory.—A more glorious
victory cannot be gained over another man
than this, That when the Injury began on his
part, the kindness should begin on ours. If
both the ways were equally in our power, yet
it is a much more desirable conquest to over-
come evil with good, than with evil. By this,
we can only conquer our enemy, and may per-
haps fail in that; but by the other we certainly
conquer ourselves, and perhaps our enemy too;
overcoming him in the noblest manner, and
leading him gently till he be cool, and with-
out force effectually subduing him to be our
friend.—TlLLOTBON.
SOME STARRY BAYS.
47
SOME STARRY DAYS.
BT ALICE WATNK.
A sky of intense blue, over which sailed
clouds of snowy whiteness, a smooth sea, ami
an August afternoon in latitude 43°. A little
steam-yacht, bearing us from quaint old Ports-
mouth, with its wide, well-shaded streets and
deserted wharves, toward the Isle of Shoals;
and the white clouds slowly tinged with gold
and rose-color, till the sun set in glory, ami
the soft mid-summer twilight fell around us;
seen but dimly the misty outlines of a group
of islands, one growing gradually more dis-
tinct ; a succession of deafening steam-whistles,
and a boat unloading its passengers on a long
and crowded pier. A greeting from friends
glad to welcome familiar faces to the lonely
isle, a walk of more than a city square to the
piazza of a large hotel, a comfortable supper,
and after a soft bed on which to rest a travel-
worn body, and for the night that was all.
Not one disturbing dream to break the perfec-
tion of the first night in a new world, nor too
great anticipation of delightful days to come
to forbid that weary eyelids should close over
tired eyes, and sweet oblivion steal over all
earthly care.
A morning awakening to the murmurs of
the sea; the fresh, salty perfume in the air;
and overhead a clear blue sky; and besides, a
vision of barren desolation. Everywhere, be-
yond the hotel buildings, barren rocks and
crumbling stone-walls. A further study re-
vealed a deserted, broken-paned school-house;
an old time-stained church, on the highest
point of the island, beyond reach of the mighty
waves>of the winter storms; and one granite
column standing in bold relief against the sky.
Later we took in the fact of grass growing in
the centre of the island, in the hollows amongst
the rocks, one tiny enclosed burial-place, and
graves everywhere. Going still further, we
reached a point where tho grass ceased to
grow, save now and then in some sheltered
cleft, and where the rocks were seamed and
water-worn, with here and there great chasms
that seemed as though rent asunder in some
wild throe of nature; great gorges, through
which the sea dashed wildly and resistlessly in
storms or at full tide, and where some unseen
power had at some time lodged great boulders
that often served as a means of crossing. A
granite foundation, in which the quartz and
mica slate show in seams, and overlying and
intermingling the dark drop-rock almost as
black as coal, and showing in fine relief against
the sea-washed granite. %
Descending the cliffs toward the south-east
our eyes first saw that which we grew daily to
love more and more—the heavy waves dashed
against and breaking into great heaps of snowy
foam on the rocks. It is dangerous to go low
down on the rocks when tide is coming in, but
as the days went on we learned where we
might with safety venture down to "low-water
mark;" so at low tide—near the full of the
moon, when low tide is so low and high tide
so high—we used greatly to enjoy the study of
the dark, coarse-looking weed with the myriads
of barnacles and mussels that find their sub-
sistence about it, I mind me of many balmy
afternoons, when the sun's heat was tempered
by a gentle sea breeze, that were so passed,
and when the hours flew by far too rapidly.
Or we could travel around toward the direct
eastern front, where the great chasms were
opened, and we could climb down or across
them if possible, and see the beautiful pools of
water where the star-fish most did congregate.
Such beauties in red and orange, with their
delicate white veinery, or here and there a
bleached one lying on the inaccessible rock
upon which the sea had tossed it; and the sea-
weed that grew in these pools was of wondrous
coloring, especially when low tide fell at late
afternoon. It was all wonderful to us, used as
we were to summers by the sea; nothing had
ever been like these days among the Shoals.
We learned to climb over the rocks with the
agility of mountain goats, and studied the sea
from every point of view. There were cosey
nooks in the cliffs large enough to seat three
or four, where we were perfectly hidden from
all eyes, save those turned landward from the
sea, and from each the outlook was different.
Sometimes below us was a low heap of rocks,
on which the sea broke with a subdued mur-
mur; sometimes a mass of rock worn to a
plane by the combined action of the water, and
it would dash up and slide down with the sound
of pebbles tossed together on a beach; again
it was a steep cliff or large rugged rock against
which it dashed furiously and full away in
heaps of white shiny foam indescribably beau-
tiful. Or we watched it driving into some
deep gorge, where it made a thunderous roar
between the high walls of rock.
But if we tired of this mighty restlessness,
and longed for the repose of ordinary summer
outdoor life, we would climb the cliffs, and,
going a short distance inland, would seek in
the grassy hollows the fragile wild-flowers
that found a home there. The lovely Hous-
tonia—Philadelphians call it "Quaker Lady"
—bloomed there late in August, and had a
depth of coloring not seen elsewhere; and we
found ferns so delicate that they wilted almost
as soon as gathered; and Immortelles in their
pure whiteness, with many other familiar
friends, were among the floral treasures of
this starry sphere.
Or, taking boat, we would sail among the
other islands of the group ; or landing, studied
their charms, and wherein they differed from
"Star." I remember we enjoyed the more
civilized, so to speak, aspect of Appledore in
QODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Its possession of a greater variety of flowers
and wild berries, and found some cliffs that
were grand at high tide; and at White Island
we appreciated the utter bareness, even sur-
passing Star in its dearth of verdure; and we
wandered o'er Smutty Nose as in the midst of
a tragedy, as we imagined the drear loneliness
of that November night when Louis Wagner
rowed across from Portsmouth to steal Chris-
tiance's money, and, after killing his wife,
tried, too, to murder Marie Harbect. We
seemed to realize her feelings as she stole
away in the darkness to find Wagner's boat,
or, failing that, some hiding-place from his;
fiendish search.
Then we had such days for fishing, days
when the sea in the harbor was like an inland
lake, and all the world around seemed awak-
ening to a new life; and taking a sail-boat we
moored in some cove, and, throwing out our
lines, drew in dozens of fishes. It was delight-
ful sport, but we got frightfully burned.
There is a pretence of bathing ground at
Star, and every day a very few ambitious la-
dies and a greater number of small boys make
use of the bath-houses. But it is a very tame
sea into which they plunge. No surf. For-
merly, in the days when Star Island contained
the village of Gosport, there was a pretty beach
on the harbor side of the island; now there are
two piers, and a lawn on which some bright
flowers are growing. Every available spot is
fertilized, so that little of the beach is visible
except at low tide, and what you see calls forth
no longings for a greater expanse.
Arriving in the dusk of evening you see this
stretch of lawn in front of the hotel, and have
no idea of the wild desolation that will meet
your eyes from every other point of view.
Anything more confused than the general ap-
pearance of these isles it would be hard to find.
It is no well-ordered layer of rock, or abrupt,
detached masses of granite, but the stratified
rocks stand on end and run into those of vol-
canic origin, and sudden terminations meet you
everywhere. Everything is upset, and no part
of Star is more chaotic than the interior, for
there the loose rocks are best accounted for by
the supposition that they "rained down."
They lay sometimes on their flatted side, but
just as often the very smallest, the most point-
ed end is stuck into the ground; and while
some are perfectly firm, others as substantial-
looking will tremble beneath a child's foot.
(Others, again—squared slabs as though cut
from a quarry—standing on end, seem as im-
movable as the mountains. There are rocks
upon rocks; the ages have covered the foun-
dation with a very shallow soil, and so we
were often surprised by what seemed swampy
ground; afterwards we understood that the
island, being depressed in the centre, the rain
lias no escape save as it percolates through;
and in such a rocky place, if much falls, it must
needs rest long above ground. But no one
need wet their feet, as stepping-stones are as
plentiful as in a Baltimore thoroughfare.
Where these pools were found in the bare
rock we used often stop to notice the exquisite
coloring the stone assumed when the water bur-
nished it. Such vivid golden red and orange
color, and such emerald greens; days later,
when the water had evaporated, we would be
puzzled to comprehend how and why they had
been so beautiful.
Everywhere was the island brightened by
the deep orange-colored lichen that grew plen-
tifully on the inland rocks. Being neither
botanists nor geologists, we marvelled that
what we called the "new lichens" were all of
this hue, while none of the older ones ap-
proached It In color; in many cases even
overgrew the gray and green, as we disrespect-
fully classified the many-shaded older growth.
We pondered over the change in wind or wave
that had wrought the more brilliant hue in
vegetation. One of the party suggested civili-
zation as an agent. The island, she said, from
being a poor fishing village, had become for at
least four months in the year, a resort for the
scientific, the literary, the artistic, and the
fashionable. Nature sympathized with the
newer needs, and was unwilling to be rivalled
by the attempt at show made by the least noble
of all parties; so she was slowly laying aside
her former subdued, elegant tints, and produc-
ing the more gorgeous, brightly-contrasting
hues that the times demanded.
Though we accepted the symbolic meaning,
the scientific yearning of our day was unap-
peased. Great are the changes that this island
has seen within a few years past. All of it,
excepting a small hotel and one or two cot-
tages has been purchased for a summer resort.
The whole village, save a few small houses
that could be of use as a part of the hotel, has
been destroyed. But the falling stone walls
that remain as pasturing inclosures, the old
school-house and the church on the hill, tell a
tale of other days. And everywhere are the
graves of centuries I The birds sing as sweet-
ly, the flowers show as brilliant colors, and the
sea sings its lullaby as of old, but only the dead
still keep their claim.
Many a day did I sit and consider whither
all the living had gone —those to whom this
barren isle was all the world, and who loved it
at least as well as we do our homes. They
have not sought the other islands of the shoals,
and surely the mainland could never seem like
home after life in the midst of the sea. And
the sea-breeze fanned my cheeks, and the
waves broke at-my feet, and no answer came;
but the old restlessness of ocean quieted my
own aching heart with the vivid realization of
a Power that can now, as centuries ago, say to
troubled heart and stormy sea, "Peace, be
still."
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
41)
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
BT MINNIE SWIGHT.
Mkb. Marcy's pleasant library was full of
young people; the bright, pretty faces, and
light summer dresses of the girls, making the
scene a vi»ry attractive one. There were Flo,
Lottie, and Nellie Marcy; Jessie White, Flo's
friend; George Wolcott, a cousin ; and Frank
Hunt, who, having been by turns playmate,
adopted brother, and familiar friend, now
seemed almost one of the family. Mrs. Marcy
completed the group, and so thoroughly was
she one of themselves in looks, manner, and
feeling, that her presence added to, rather
than detracted from, the pleasure of the young
people. They were planning some projected
amusements for the following week, when
more friends were, expected from the city.
"Well," said Flo, counting on her finger as
she spoke; "Monday, a row on the lake;
Tuesday, a drive to Rockland; Wednesday, a
picnic; Thursday, a party at Mrs. Eliot's. I
begin to feel tired at the mere anticipation;
but I should not wonder if you inveterate
pleasure-seekers were grumbling in your se-
cret hearts because there will be no dissipations
for Friday and Saturday."
"I suspect you are not far wrong, Flo,"
said Frank, laughing. "Miss Jessie, at least,
seems insatiable, and, I have no doubt, would
like to have private theatricals on Friday, and
a masquerade the day after."
"PriTate theatricals I Just the thing I" cried
Lottie Marcy, Joyfully. "I wonder we did
not think of them before 1 You have no ob-
jection, have you, mother?"
"None whatever; I think it a very good
Idea," answered Mrs. Marcy, promptly. "You
have all acted before, except Jessie, and one
or two rehearsals will put her at her ease."
"Indeed, Mrs. Marcy, I doubt if I can act
at all. I never attempted it in my life," an-
swered Jessie, in a deprecating tone.
"You have no idea how easy it is, after the
first nervousness passes off. I am sure you
would act well, Miss Jessie. Do you not think
so, Flo?" asked Frank.
"Really I do not know," Flo answered, ab-
sently, and then continued, more earnestly,
"I wish you would not have theatricals. We
are getting along so nicely now, and there is
always trouble the minute we begin to act. It
certainly brings out the worst side of human
nature, and I am sure we see enough of that
necessarily without seeking ft."
"Flo, you are a perfect croaker! Do you
think because you quarrel, every one must?"
exclaimed Lottie, in a tone of exasperation.
"What is the good of spoiling people's pleas-
ure by such disagreeable prophesies, Flo?"
said Nellie, somewhat more gently.
"I suppose we need not quarrel unless we
vol. xci.—4
choose," said George, gayly. "And I, for one,
have made up my mind not to dispute, even
with Flo."
"We won't have them if Flo is so much op-
posed to them," said Frank, kindly. "There
are a thousand other ways of haviajg a good
time."
"No; if you are all in favor of private the-
atricals except Florence, do not give them up
on her account," said Mrs. Marcy, decidedly;
and then, turning to her daughter, she said,
somewhat sternly, "If you do not wish to act,
you need not; but do not spoil the pleasure of
the rest."
"But we could not do without her!" ex-
claimed Frank. "You will act, will you not,
Flo?"
"Yes, if you find you need me, I will act;
but I ain none the less sorry that the the-
atricals were proposed," answered Florence,
quietly.
"Next Friday night, then, the grand per-
formance will come off," said Mrs. Marcy,
laughing. "And I should advise you to cut
short your discussions and proceed to work,
as you have little enough time in which to
make your arrangements."
"I suppose the first thing to be done is to
decide upon the plays," said George.
A list of plays was accordingly produced,
but at the end of an hour they had arrived at
no decision. At last, at Flo's suggestion, they
settled upon "A Morning Call" and "Icion
parle franfals."
"We shall need two more gentlemen," said
George. "Frank and I are obliging fellows,
and tip-top actors, but we really cannot take
two parts apiece."
"Do you not think Mr. Norton would act
well, Flo?" asked Nellie, with a roguish
twinkle in her eye.
"Yes, I think he would; and I heard him
say the other day that he had acted on several
occasions, and liked it very much," answered
Florence, quietly.
"Then we might ask him for one," said
Frank, "and tell him that if he quarrels with
Flo we will dismiss him."
"I do not think there will be any danger,"
answered Flo, "for I like him very much. I
only hope the faults of his character are not
very glaring, for they are sure to rise to the
surface."
"I propose Fred Morris for the other man,"
said George: adding, with a mischievous glance
at his cousin," entirely on Lottie's account,
of course."
"Don't be absurd, George. If you want
him, why, ask him; but I don't believe he can
act one bit."
"Never mind, Lottie: you can teach him,"
said Nellie, mischievously. "Some parts I
think he could take admirably; that of Victor,
50
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
for instance, with Lottie as the adorable An-
gelina."
Lottie joined in the general laugh which fol-
lowed; but when it had subsided, she said, in
an offended tone :—
"I dofr*t believe I '11 act at all. Certainly I
won't take the part of Angelina. You can
have it yourself, Nellie."
"The beginning of the end," Flo said, laugh-
ing merrily. "But," she added, "Lottie really
is not at all suited for the part of Angelina,
and would do much better as Anna Maria."
After this, with the assistance of Mrs. Marcy,
the different parts were awarded, and, at the
earnest request of all, she consented to be
Mrs. Spriggens. The first rehearsal was ap-
pointed for Monday evening, and George un-
dertook to inform Mr. Norton and Mr. Morris
of the parts assigned them.
Monday evening arrived, and with it the two
gentlemen, who completed the theatrical corps.
With perhaps one or two exceptions, the parts
were not learned, but that was quite en regie.
At eight o'clock all but the actors were ban-
ished from the parlor, but, owing to number-
less delays, more than half an hour slipped by
before they were ready to begin.
"Now that it is so late, perhaps you had
better rehearse 'Ici on parle frangais' first, as
it will not so much matter if Mr. Norton and
1 have not time to go through with our play,"
suggested Flo.
"O Flo, do have your play first I I don't
know my part," said Lottie, imploringly.
"And I know but cannot say mine I" Jessie
exclaimed, disconsolately. "I expected to
gain courage by seeing others act."
"I think, however, that Flo is right," said
Mrs. Marcy; "so, If you young people are
ready, we will begin."
"I am as ready as I ever shall be," said
George, with a smothered groan. "Remem-
ber, Aunt Mary, I am your husband now, and
a distinguished French scholar, so you must
be very respectful to me."
Nellie, to whom her school-girl habits still
clung, took her fingers from her ears, and
walked slowly to her place, reciting her part
in an undertone, and rocking her body back
and forth. Jessie, thoroughly frightened, put
her ice-cold hand in Flo's, and said, dismally :—
"It is well that I do not have to begin, or I
should certainly faint. If you had not given
me so easy a part, I should resign It now, I
feel so frightened."
"The first rehearsal Is the worst, Jessie.
After that, your nervousness will pass off,"
Flo said, encouragingly.
"Will the audience please be quiet?" said
Anna Maria, waving her duster menacingly.
"The curtain Is up, and the performance about
to begin. "^
Lottie knew her part, and acted It well, now
and then interrupting herself to address per-
sonal remarks to the audience or the other
actors. George knew his part only passably,
and Fred Morris was blissfully ignorant of
everything which he ought to have known.
"See here, Mr. Spriggens! you act abomina-
bly," said Lottie, as George hesitated longer
than usual over some complicated sentence.
"I shall shut you In your room to-morrow,
until you can say your part word for word.
When I allowed you to go fishing to-day, I
felt sure you would abuse my indulgence."
"Anna Maria," answered Mr. Spriggens,
sternly, "do you suppose I will stand such
impertinence from my maid of all work? I
discharge you!"
"I declare, you do know one sentence, after
all; only you have brought It in rather too
soon. Still, I begin to feel a little encouraged
about you," answered Lottie, saucily.
"Stop your nonsense, Lottie," said Mrs.
Marcy, laughing, "or we will never finish the
play."
For some time everything went on smoothly,
until Lottie, who was behind a sofa, supposed
to represent a side scene, again interrupted
them by exclaiming:—
"Mrs. Spriggens, if I were yon, I would not
let my daughter help Mr. Spriggens with the
curtains; they enjoy it decidedly too much."
"Anna Maria, you had better be careful I"
exclaimed Mr. Spriggens, wrathfully, "or I
will tell Mrs. Rattan that I saw her husband
talking to my maid-of-all work, and then the
jealousy will be on the other side of the
house."
"I think Major Rattan has good cause for it
at least, for Victor seems decidedly smitten
with Mrs. R.; and Frenchmen, you know, are
proverbially unfaithful," retorted the irrepres-
sible Lottie.
"Lottie, we will put you out of the room,
unless you promise to be quiet," said Mrs.
Marcy, as Jessie and Frank, looking very con-
scious, retreated to opposite sides of the stage.
"Miss Marcy," said Mr. Norton, as he and
Flo sat together on a sofa watching the per-
formance, "do you not think the Frenchman
rather overdoes his part?"
"Perhaps so," answered Flo. "But you
must remember this is the first rehearsal.
Frank is a good actor, and will soon discover
his mistake if be has made one. I am more
afraid of Mr. Morris, who evidently has no
conception either of the letter or spirit of his
part."
"He, they tell me, Is a novice. Why do you
not undertake his dramatic education?"
"Firstly, because I dp not consider myself
competent; and, secondly, because correction
is always a thankless and disagreeable task."
"And yet I was thinking of undertaking it,"
answered Mr. Norton. "And I hoped for
your support. Must I hope in vain?"
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
51
"That depeuds upon whom and what you
correct," answered Flo. "But let me warn
you that amateur actors seldom take advice
kindly."
"You would, I am sure," was the gallant
reply.
"I do not think I would. At least, only
from one whose superiority I acknowledged,
and whose right I admitted," answered Flo,
frankly.
Just then the play was concluded, and,
owing to the lateness of the hour, it was
thought best to defer the rehearsal of "The
Morning Call" until the following evening.
"I am sorry it is so late," said Mr. Norton,
turning to Flo, "for our piece is very difficult,
and we will need to rehearse it often."
"I dislike rehearsals exceedingly. I grow
disgusted with the play long before the time
comes to act it. If you and I know our parts,
Mr. Norton, I do not think wo need rehearse
more than three times," said Flo, decidedly.
"Really, Miss Marcy, I do not know how
well you act, but / should be afraid to under-
take so difficult a part with so little prepara-
tion. I think we should rehearse it together
at least six times."
"Well, you can rehearse the three times
with me, and the other three before your look-
ing-glass, which will be equally satisfactory, I
have no doubt," said Flo, turning haughtily
away.
"Don't be the first to break the peace, Flo,"
whispered Nellie, in a tone of warning.
"Thank you, Nellie, for reminding me; but
that man is dreadfully provoking."
Mr. Norton, when Flo turned from him, con-
soled himself by suggesting to each of the
actors some improvement in tone, manner, or
position.
"I wish Norton would mind his business!"
said Frank, angrily. "He has nothing to do
with our piece; and perhaps, after all, he don't
act any better than we do."
"1 wish he would, 1 am sure," responded
George, heartily. "He told me I hesitated too
much, and talked as if I had a hot potato in
my mouth. But, Frank, speaking of acting,
did you notice how miserably Fred Morris did?
If he does not improve, he will ruin the play."
"I think you are right, George. Perhaps
we had better speak to hiui," answered Frank,
and the two friends walked off to perform
their self-imposed task, utterly unconscious of
the farce they were acting, and acting well.
On Tuesday afternoon every room in Mrs.
Marcy's house was occupied by eager students,
who paced the floors, frantically striving to
commit their parts to memory In the shortest
possible time.
One by one they emerged from their solitary
retreats exclaiming, with exultation, "I know
it! I know it at last!"
After dinner the parlor was again resigned
to them, and they began their rehearsal witli
"The Morning Call." Both Mr. Norton and
Florence knew their parts perfectly. The cha-
racter which had been given to the latter was
a spirited one, and she rendered it well; all
except the love passages at the end, which she
delivered with a deprecating tone and manner,
which said very plainly, "If I had been per-
mitted to finish this myself, 1 should have done
it differently."
Mr. Norton made an excellent Sir Edward.
In fact, in many instances the resemblance be-
tween the copy and the original was startling.
So Florence evidently thought; for occasion-
ally she would throw into her tone such a
weight of condensed sarcasm that Mr. Norton
could not fail to notice it. At last, greatly an-
noyed, he said :—
"It seems to me, Miss Marcy, that you take
a particular relish in the repartee of this piece."
"So I do, Mr. Norton. It has always been
ray ambition to act the part of Mrs. Chilling-
tone. I am glad you think I act it well," an-
swered Florence, gayly.
"Yon mistake, Miss Marcy. I did not in-
tend to praise your acting, for it did not seem
to me that you acted the sarcasm, but rather
that you felt it," answered Mr. Norton, now
fairly roused.
"Indeed, Mr. Norton, you have unwittingly
paid me a very high compliment. She is a
very good actress who can identify herself tho-
roughly with her assumed character," said
Florence, gravely.
"Miss Marcy, why will you persist In mis-
understanding me? I really cannot act if you
are so emphatic in your sarcasm. I presume,
now, that you do not fail to understand my
meaning?"
"No, Mr. Norton, I do not. Tour mean that
you would prefer me to recite my part in a sing-
song manner, and leave the acting to you. It
is easily managed. Where were we? Oh! I
have it. 'That's the most natural thing you
have said yet,' " began Florence, resuming her
part where she had been interrupted, and re-
citing the words In an expressionless tone of
voice. *
Mr. Norton, stung to the quick, and forget-
ful of everything save his annoyance and
wounded vanity, seated himself on the sofa,
and answered, in a sullen tone of voice :—
"Why so?"
"Bemiite it is m rude." The temptation was
too great, and Florence conld not resist it.
Each word, as it fell slowly and emphatically
from her lips, struck and quivered in the man's
vain, sensitive heart like a poisoned arrow.
Springing to his feet, he exclaimed, passion-
ately:—
"Why do you say that so earnestly? Is it
because you mean it?"
52
G O DE Y'S LA. D. Y'S BOOK A ND MAGAZINE.
“Am I not supposed to mean it?” asked
Florence, simply.
“No! That is, you, personally, are not sup-
posed to mean it.”
“Then, as I understand it, the question re-
solves itself into whether I am speaking as
Mrs. Chillingtone or Miss Marcy, and whether
you are Sir Edward Ardent or Mr. Norton.
Now, as we are acting assumed parts, and re-
citing the words of those parts, it seems to me
that all personal feeling is absurd and out of
place. Please consider that every thing I say
is meant for Sir Edward Ardent—unless, as in
the last instance, it particularly applies to—Mr.
Norton.”
Having delivered this parting shot, Florence
turned from her antagonist, whom she might
fairly be said to have silenced, and went on
quietly with her part. "w
“Flo, I declare 1 think you were a little hard
on Norton,” Frank whispered to her, as, after
the conclusion of the piece, Mr. Norton, angry
and mortified, retired sulkily to a corner, and
Florence joined a group of young people.
“Well ! I am sure he deserved it. I never
saw a vainer, more conceited man in my life!”
“Yes; but Flo, you cut him up awfully by
that last remark,” said George, laughing. “At
first I was rather glad to see you pitch into
him, for he is such a confirmed meddler; but
before you had finished I actually pitied
him.”
“I wonder if I shall ever learn to control my
tongue?” said Flo, remorsefully. “I feel
heartily ashamed of myself now, and yet I
really believe I should say the same thing to-
morrow under similar circumstances.”
The rehearsal of “Ici on parle français”
passed off far better than it had on the previ-
ous evening. Mr. Morris had evidently studied
his part; but this time, instead of reciting it
tamely, he ranted. -
At last, in a fit of desperation, Frank sug-
gested “that if Major Rattan were to be a little
less violent, he thought it would be better.”
“I should say so,” remarked Lottie, roguish-
ly. “For if he smashes two glasses at every
rehearsal, tears three holes in the curtains, and
breaks a chair or two, there will be very little
furniture left for the final smash.”
“Really, Miss Lottie—I—I didn't mean to
be so destructive,” stammered the confused
youth.
“It is of no consequence whatever, Mr.
Morris,” Mrs. Marcy said, pleasantly. “The
chair has only come apart, and the glasses were
common ones.”
Now that the ice was broken, comment and
advice were freely offered to each actor in turn.
Mrs. Marcy thought Angelina acted her part
with too little spirit.
“Well, mother, it is a stupid part!” Nellie
said, somewhat indignantly. “I cannot act it
with spirit, for there is no spirit in it.”
“Frank, your accent is not as good as it
might be,” suggested Lottie.
“Isn't it? Perhaps you will undertake to
improve it,” Frank answered, sharply.
“George, you turn your back too much to the
audience,” Flo remarked.
“Well, Flo, in your piece you sit down a
great deal too much,” retorted George.
“Miss Lottie, if you would permit me to sug-
gest, I should advise you to use your duster
more,” remarked Mr. Norton, and then turn-
ing to Nellie, “You, Miss Nellie, do not sew
enough on those curtains.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Norton.
In the future I shall endeavor to emulate your
industry and energy,” answered Nellie, sar-
castically.
“There, Jessie! now you see to what disa-
greeable results private theatricals lead,” said
Flo, despondingly. “At this moment there is
not a person in the room who does not feel un-
comfortable or angry.”
The two other rehearsals went off more
quietly. The parts were well learned, and the
positions tolerably well understood.
Early Friday morning a carpenter came to
put up the stage, and after his departure the
young people undertook to arrange the cur-
tains and other stage appurtenances.
“I shall be so glad when it is all over," Flo-
rence exclaimed, as she threw herself into a
chair to rest for a few moments previous to
dressing for the last rehearsal.
“Flo, do you know that is the fifth time you
have said that to-day?” Jessie asked, laugh-
ingly.
“Flo always spoils the fun by her croaking,”
Lottie said, crossly.
“I fail to see where the fun comes in,” Flo
answered, wearily. “For my part, I am dis-
gusted with the whole thing.”
“That's only because you're tired, Flo,”
Nellie said, kindly. “Come up stairs and lie
down for a few moments and you will feel ever
so much better. There is nearly an hour be-
fore the rehearsal.”
The dress rehearsal proved to be very satis-
factory, and after eating a hurried dinner, they
again separated to make their final arrange-
ments for the performance, which was to begin
punctually at eight.
* “The Morning Call” stood first on the pro-
gramme, and at the appointed hour the curtain
rose.
Both Mr. Norton and Florence acted well,
and the closest observer would have looked in
vain for the overbearing vanity and conceit, or
the sarcastic earnestness which had formed
such marked features at the rehearsals. They
had evidently buried the bone of contention,
and sheathed the sword of conflict.
At the conclusion of the piece, as the curtain
was falling, Mr. Norton whispered, eagerly,
“Why may we not be as much in earnest in
PRIVATE THEATRICAL S.
53
*
the reconciliation as we were in the contest? “Aye; there's the rubſ” quoted Lottie, tra-
Will you forgive me for my past rudeness?”
“Yes, Mr. Norton, on condition that the for-
giveness be mutual. I feel that I owe you an
apology fully as much as you do me.”
“Then you forgive me, and we are friends?”
he said.
“Friends? Yes—until the next private the-
atricals,” she added, laughing.
“Until then and after, I hope, Miss Marcy.”
“What are you two lingering on the stage
for? You have had your fun, and now it is
our turn,” Lottie said, poking her frowsled
head behind the curtains.
“I assure you, Miss Lottie, our fun has been
dead earnest,” Mr. Norton answered, as he
and Flo stepped down from the stage.
“Has it, indeed? All of it, from beginning
to end, Mr. Norton?” asked Lottie, mischiev-
ously.
“Yes, I hope and trust so. More particularly
the end,” he answered, looking significantly at
Florence.
The other play was equally successful. Fred
Morris really acted quite well, and only stepped
on Miss Spriggens' dress twice, upset three
chairs, pulled down the curtains at the wrong
time, and narrowly escaped setting the house
on fire. But after all, that was being quite
moderate for a jealous Englishman and an
amateur performer.
A close observer might have noticed some
slight peculiarities in the performance. Wic-
tor, for instance, was decidedly too attentive to
Mrs. Rattan, and neglected Angelina shame-
fully. Mr. Spriggens blushed and seemed con-
fused whenever he was addressed as father by
his charming daughter. Anna Maria did her
best to confuse and distress Major Rattan, and
Mrs. Spriggens evidently foupd it hard work
to keep them all in order. These, however,
were little by-plays which the audience was
not expected to see. So, of course, it did not.
“Come, Flo, own up,” Frank said, as toward
the end of the evening quite a number of the
performers were grouped together in one cor-
ner of the room, “didn't you enjoy the per-
formance as much as any of us?”
“Yes, Frank, I certainly did enjoy it,” Flo
answered, candidly. “But the rehearsals I
found very tiresome. And I know that many
evil passions have been aroused, and much ill-
temper displayed which would otherwise have
slumbered peacefully. You all know it is
true,” she added, earnestly. “There have
been more angry, unkind words spoken, and
more cross, sullen faces seen in this house dur-
ing the past week than for months before. I
for one am willing to confess to having been
completely demoralized.”
“I think you are about right, Flo,” Frank
said, thoughtfully. “But why should we per-
mit ourselves to be upset by such trifles?”
gically. -
“May we not be gainers rather than losers,
after all, Miss Florence, if we take to heart the
lesson which you have so justly applied?” asked
Mr. Norton. “I, for one, am willing to admit
that the most glaring faults of my character
have been revealed, faults whose existence I
but dimly suspected. I have to thank you,
Miss Florence, for the discovery of them; but
I shall not rest content unless you assist me also
in their conquest.”
“Your generous self-depreciation shames us
all, Mr. Norton,” answered Florence, warmly.
“My confession is made, but I have not yet
received absolution. Will you generously for-
give my behavior toward you, Mr. Norton?”
“Indeed, Miss Florence, I have nothing to
forgive; but, on the contrary, much for which
to thank you.”
“Come, Flo; now you cannot deny that pri-
vate theatricals are beneficial in their influence.
For, as nearly as I ean understand the fore-
going very remarkable conversation, two dread-
ful sinners have been awakened to a sense of
their guilt, and have made resolutions of amend-
ment,” said Lottie, in a tone of unock gravity.
“Yes, Lottie, if the germs of good are in a
character, they will be developed even under
the most unfavorable circumstances. And
good there is in every one, although it may re-
main hidden until the magnet is applied which
draws it to the surface.”
“Good gracious, Flo! is that a sermon or an
essay?” asked Lottie, mockingly. “Mr. Nor-
ton seems to be overcome by your eloquence;
but as the rest of us don't relish week-day ser-
mons, we will withdraw,” and she linked her
arm in Jessie's and walked off, followed by the
rest, until Florence and Mr. Norton were left
alone. Then, turning toward his companion,
Mr. Norton said:—
“Miss Florence, in my case you were the
magnet. Do not, I beg, cease to exercise your
beneficial power, or I shall lose all hope of a
successful reformation. Florence, like the peo-
ple in the play, I have played until I have be-
come in earnest. Will you take me, faults
and all, in consideration of the great love which
I bear you? Will you help me to correct the
one, and give me hope that in the future you
may return the other?”
“Yes;” answered Florence, solemnly. “We
are neither of us perfect. But mutual love will
help us to overlook many a fault and bear
many a sorrow. We will help one another,
Arthur, and God will help us both.”
----o-
WITHouT company all dainties lose their
true relish.
WHERE words are scarce they are seldom
spent in vain.
54
OODBY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
AFFECTATIONS.
It would be instructive, if humiliating, if we
had some unerring test by which we could dis-
tinguish affectation from sincerity, aud sepa-
rate that which is assumed from that which is
genuine. If we had, we fear that much which
passes current now as reality would have to
confess itself then mere sham; that affectation
would be fouud to have eaten deep into the
very structure of society and the inner heart
of man; and that the genuine ring would be
as rare as the proverbial black swan—a thing
existing truly, not impossible by nature, but
difficult to meet with, and to be cherished as a
priceless treasure when found. Affectation
goes into everything—our method of life arid
our manners, our feelings and our principles.
Unable to be entirely sincere If society is to
hold together at all, we add to whnt needs no
addition and are unnecessarily affected and
untrue. In fact, one of the characteristics of
modern times is this same affectation, no one
daring to be thorough or to carry out his prin-
ciples to their ultimate. The doctrine of ex-
pediency has been one of the lean kine which
has devoured the fat ones; and inexpediency
has como to mean anything whatsoever by
which existing arrangements would be dis-
turbed, or new light thrown upon old abuses.
The most patent form of affectation fs, of
course, that of manner, and here the manifes-
tations are illimitable. There is the mincing
manner, artificial, society-born; the gushing
manner, brimful of enthusiasm for the cut of
a cap or the color of city mud artistically treat-
ed; the manner which speaks from the points
of the lips, and handles with the tips of the fin-
gers; the manner which from very affectation
has bird-like, jerky, angular little movemeuts
in perpetual zigzag, or that which has swim-
ming, elliptical, flexuous ways, suggestive of
the fluttering of a ribbon or the gliding action
of a snake; and there is the manner of untu-
tored nature, which has nothing real about it
save its artificiality, and which shows its ve-
neer without giving any one the trouble of
search. On the other side is the aggressively
rough and discourteous manner; the manly
manner among women—that which squares its
elbows, speaks huskily from the throat, uses
strange words and the latest slang, slaps its
knees on occasion, calls bearded men "dear
boys," and the youngster fresh from school
"old man ;" the hard and dry manner, going
from Dan to Beersheba and not spending an
ounce of admiration by the way; and the re-
served manner, making the very daylight a
mystery, and the stars each one a secret. All
these are so many letters spelling out affecta-
tion, the one quite as patent as the other, and
all unpleasant.
Then there is the affectation which pretends
not to know. You talk out of the fulness of
your heart on the ethics of a subject of which
you are not technically master. Your com-
panion, who knows all about it from \ to Z,
listens to you with a bland smile, saying, when
you have finished: "Indeed! is it so? 1 know
nothing about it." You feel the rebuke in-
tended, but you would rather it had been given
sincerely In the form of correction and infor-
mation. The ignorance affected by perfect
knowledge to abase your peccant rashness,
carries a sting with it that the roughest hon-
esty would not have done; but It is on account
of this very sting that this manner of affected
ignorance has been put on, and the thing in it
which is most real is its concealed cruelty. To
balance this is the affectation of knowledge.
Densely ignorant, these people assume to pos-
sess the key of all wisdom, and, if you will be-
lieve them, know everything there is to be
known. They are never at a loss. They have
read every new book as soon as It appears;
they have studied every subject from the rudi-
ments upwards; they have gone through every
question perplexing your mind so painfully,
and come out at the exact spot where truth is
to be found. They would as soon confess to a
murder as to any kind of ignorance, and are as
insufferable with their affected universalism as
the others are with their pretended know-no-
thingness. It is rank waste of time to talk to
them, for they only muddle the brains of the un-
learned and irritate the temper of the knowing.
The affectation of excessive timidity which
screams at slight causes, and flings Itself help-
lessly on the manly protection nearest at hand
if only a spider or an earwig comes into view;
and the affectation of unnatural courage which
boasts itself not to be daunted by anything in
the world or out of it, and that says it never
knew the sensation of fear:—the affectation of
extreme sensitiveness, which takes the ^Eolian
harp for its favorite emblem, and Is as a chord
responsive to every wind that blows; and the
affectation of nether-millstone denseness which
ridicules nerves, impressionability, everything
that the over-sensitive flourish before your eyes
| as their diploma of superiority:—the affecta-
I tion of delicacy which cannot bear to hear of
- disease, suffering, vice, sorrow, and the affec-
i tation of that cold, hard, matter-of-fact nature
! which will talk of death at a ball, of diseases
• at the dinner table, of vice to young girls, and
j of horrors everywhere, then if rebuked, and its
charnel-house conversation objected to, says it
i is human life, and all people ought to know
the facts of humanity; these are instances of
this vice of affectation known to most of us,
and disliked by all.
The affectation of art is another phase. No-
\ thing goes down but art, and moral qualities
; are ascribed to shapes and colors beating even
j those which the Greeks ascribed to music.
! People given over to this affectation dress like
i pictures badly done, and talk of books, men,
POETRY.
55
and actions alike as if they were pictures. The
women care more about the cut of their chil-
dren's hair than about their health or their
education; and everything which has not the
right kind of line or the right kind of color U
immoral, and he is to be discarded who has
not correct views thereon. The affectation of
dogs is also a grievous one. Dogs are the
possessors of all the human virtues, and men
are only dogs with vices superadded ; dogs ful-
fil the purpose of their existence and are so far
a success; man, with Iris confused theories, his
mistaken religions, his crimes, and his difficul-
ties, is a failure. Hence dogs are superior to
men, and men might kneel to a canine deity
with more reason than the Hindoos worship a
monkey god. Contrast this with the affecta-
tion which professes an impossible love for all
humanity; which finds the sourest invalid in-
teresting; the densest blockhead instructive,
the silliest featherhead charming; which pro-
fesses to honor the ideal man in his very vices,
and to talk tall talk on the race of plumeless
bipeds which makes them almost gods. The
one is as insincere as the other, and both are
utter foolishness.
The affectatidn of ill-health, with a faultless
digestion and rose-red cheeks, is by no means
a rare form among men and women craving
for undue sympathy. It takes a more com-
mendable line when a man declares he was
never better in his life, with cavernous eyes
and cadaverous cheeks and one foot already in
the grave. In this at least we may see the
travesty of courage, and we cannot refuse to
praise the pluck that dies game to the last. If
the truth in its confession of illness would be
even a manlier and more courageous thing
than this affectation of wholeness, being so
sick, it is better than the converse spoken of
before; and in a list of things all.undesirable
we are grateful for the least bad. The affec-
tation of humility, which disparages all it has
and all it is in favor of others far below it, is
detestable and irritating. And the affectation
of superiority, assuming to be better than every
one else, and to have the best and most beauti-
ful things that can be procured—the affectation
of rearing broods of swans out of two or three
goose-eggs—is also detestable and irritating,
giving wild desires for iconoclasin, and an iron
determination to appraise things at their real
value. Then there is the affectation which
talks about the ideal, and how we ought to try
and live up to this ideal, and how all life should
be a search after it, and all laws founded on it.
The preacher-professor probably lives the most
commonplace and unideal life in the world;
but that does not stop his flow of affectation,
his false and glaring platitudes. He has his
favorite theme on which he dilates, airing his
pet affectations, as his brother airs his when
he scorns ail mention of the ideal at all, and
pots his trust only in the homeliest, lowest,
and most prosaic reality. Both are affecta-
tions; the one knowing that human nature
| cannot live forever at high pressure, and that
laws have to be framed for tilings as they are,
i as well as they ought to be; the other knowing
on his side that society without any ideal at all
, would be society after the manner of hogs and
i wolves, impossible to continue.
The wives who pretend to be in love with
their husbands in public, and quarrel with
them without ceasing in private; the husbands
who pay court to their wives before folk, and
snap and snarl like terrier dogs when safely
ensconced within the fastnesses of home; the
young mothers who brandish their babies in
your face, and tell young men they will love
them if only they will praise baby; and the
children who, catching the trick, affect to idol-
ize papa and mamma, while in reality they
defy and despise them; the gentlemen friends
who pose for Orestes and Pylades, but who
cannot take a journey of a week together with-
out a fracas; the lady friends who kiss like
seraphs and backbite like demons—all these
carry their affectations into real .life disastrous-
ly, and make the looker-on long for the reign
of sincerity and simplicity. Even religion is
not held free from this vice of affectation, this
sin of pretence; and people go to church from
false motives, just as they do other things and
go to other places from false motives. We
wish for no impossible throat-cutting Palace of
Truth. To be manfully sincere and free from
affectation does not include any absurd excess
or impracticable dream; but we do wish that
people could find out the way to be delightful
and truthful, sincere and charming, honest
and reticent at the same moment. We think
it might be done, given the will to try; but in
the present kingdom of affectations we look in
vain for the province presided over by genuine
simplicity, and there is no power to "gie us
the giftie" ltobcrt Burns desired.
FORGIVE AND FORGET.
BY KUNE BLUFF.
Forgive and forget, no matter who wronged you.
Or inliired with malice, or envy, or threat:
Don't stop to think over t lie trials that thronged you;
Look forward, and seek all past Ills to forget
Forgive and forget; your hopes may lie blighted.
And friendship you trusted all else would outlive
May sadly have failed you: but, though you are
slighted
By those you held truest and dearest, forgive.
Forgive and forget, your heart may be weary
"With burdens, your eyelids with tears may be wet;
Though others' unklndness makes all your life
dreary,
Oh! freely forgive them and try to forget.
Forgive and forget, while sadly yon wander,
Disheartened, discouraged, nor stop to regret
All your troubles, but look to that fair country
yonder.
Where Christ all your sins will forgive and forget.
56
GODEVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
THE FUTURITY BOOK.
BT "SQUID SCOTCH."
All the girls iu Glenn Seminary had the
mania, and nearly all supplied themselves iu
one form or another. Some with elegant
costly bindings, monogramic covers manufac-
tured on purpose; some used a common blank-
book ; others, not able to buy, whose pin-money
had to go for books and necessaries, made very
neat Futurity Books of faded writing paper,
tied with dainty ribbons. You know what
they are—a kind of album you invite your
friends to write in, which, when they do, the
leaves are tied together, to be opened at some
future time marked by the writer on the outer
leaf—a birthday or holiday in advance. It is
better to confine the time within a year or two,
there are so many changes in life; then it is so
hard to wait.
Ida Ray was called the most beautiful girl
in school—large, speaking, loving black eyes;
sweet, merry mouth, around which a smile
seemed always to play; bewitching dimples
in her rosy cheeks; her shining black braids
were the envy of all; tiny curls would escape
around her forehead and neck. She moved
with such an easy grace, it seemed there must
be hidden wings. A heart warm and meant
to be true, loved the right, yet easily influ-
enced. She was a favorite with teachers and
scholars, but particularly attached to two of
the girls, Nettie Green and Kosa Hoshour, two
as utterly unlike as could be imagined. Rosa
was a blonde, an opposite in every feature;
tender blue eyes, fair, transparent complexion,
auburn hair; some would think her the more
beautiful of the two. She was gentleness
itself; possessed of a finely-balanced mind,
she had an intuitive perception of good and
evil; while she shunned one, she courted the
other; she loved only such hooks ami friends
as helped her to improve herself. Consequently
she had no friendship for Ida's other intimate
friend, Nettie, who was impulsive, egotistical,
and, if the truth must be told, very deceptive,
amounting many times to outright untruthful-
ness; but, to balance these, she was very bril-
liant and fascinating beyond her years. It
was her wit that so attracted and amused Ida.
She could not see that many times Nettie was
only trifling with her as a merciless cat does a
half-killed mouse. She made her believe any-
thing she chose, which, to Rosa's pure, sensi-
tive, quick nature, was very revolting. So
they were withal a strange trio.
One day Nettie met Rosa alone in one of the
halls, and, passing her hand familiarly through
her arm, said :—
"Tell me now, my angel, what you wrote in
Ida's Futurity Book. I see by the date, it Is
not to be opened for six months yet; then we
shall be separated, you know. Just think
what a dreadful word to such friends as you
and I have been 1"
Rosa's heart gave a bound of disgust, for
she well knew Nettie's words were as shallow
as her soul. She had asked this same thing
several times before, until Rosa thought her
very unreasonably curious, so she replied,
rather shortly:—
"I shall do no such thing, and I do not un-
derstand why you should desire to see what I
wrote more than any of the other girls."
"Well," said Nettie, hesitatingly, "I imagine
it was something about me, and I 'in anxious
to know what there is In me that could stir
your soul, my girl." A forced smile flitted
over her face.
Rosa was a little startled out of her usually
quiet self, and replied, haughtily, "I might
have chosen a better subject," and attempted
to turn away; but Nettie, angered by the
refusal, held her arm tightly, saying:—
"You «AaM tell mel"
"Shall!" repeated Rosa; then, recovering
herself, she looked Nettie full in the face.
"Will you let go of my arm, please?"
"Please," mocked Nettie, in an ugly man-
ner. "No, I won't."
"Nettie, you are acting very foolishly. We
had better part now," Rosa said, quietly.
"Ugly thing I" ejaculated Nettie, giving her
companion a push, and turning hastily away.
It did not make Rosa feel any more comforta-
ble to see Nettie, not five minutes lator, walking
lovingly arm in arm with Ida. She knew that,
although she pretended so much nffection for
Ida, it was utterly hollow and selfish; that she
would not hesitate to injure her if she could
favor herself. In truth, she was of that type
too often met—a sunshine friend—a snaky
friend. They creep Into your bosom to warm,
then they bite; their fangs strike deep, too.
Now Nettie was possessed with the one
thought, "I must and will see what Rosa
wrote." It was in her mind day and night;
In her dreams she was trying to read the cov-
eted lines. One day the young ladies were
going out walking with their teachers ; a lovely
June day, with its bright sun and gay flowers;
a day when nature's lessons are the happiest.
But, alas! the sweet bird-notes are unheard,
fair flowers unseen, blue heavens unnoticed,
balmy air unfelt, all lost to the selfish, wicked
hearts. So Nettie feigned a headache, and
begged to be excused. Ida offered to stay
with the poor darling; but no, she wished to
be alone. Ah! what for? See her now with
flying feet seeking Ida's room. For a minute
she stood at the window; not watching the
waving boughs, or the flight of the oriole and
robin ; but to be sure the last of the party had
disappeared around the corner. There upon
the table lay the coveted Futurity Book. She
caught it up with nervous "haste and burning
eyes; her breath came quick, exultingly. While
THE FUTURITY BOOK.
57
untying the tiny ribbons that held the leaves,
a swinging window-blind caused her to start
so suddenly that she tore the ribbon quite out.
She was frightened when she saw what she
had done; but she persisted in her unworthy
curiosity, she could not give that up. The
closely-written page was before her—expres-
sions of the warmest friendship, that made her
jealous; words of Christian encouragement
that she could not understand; allusions to
the happy school days so soon to close. Then
she spoke of the world they were so soon to
try, how little they knew of it. Then came
lines over which Nettie's eyes ran again and
again -.—
"You are so unsuspicious, Ida, so trusting,
I feel, although perhaps out of place, to warn
you against such friends as Nettie. You do
not see how false-hearted she is, how quick to
deceive and injure, if it would give her pleas-
ure for a moment. I pity her. I know not
what good we can do her, unless by example.
I hope no evil will come of your friendship,
but beware. I write this, dear Ida, from no
feeling of jealousy, for 1 know you love me
truly; but it is one of the impulses I cannot
resist I hope 1 shall always be your true
friend, Rosa."
"You shall not I" hissed Nettie, stamping
her feet with rage as she tried to re-tie the
disordered ribbons. "This very day shall end
your saintly friendship. Set me an example,
indeed! I only wish I had you under my heel;
I'd grind you!" She tore the carpet in her
frenzy.
Why did Rosa write those lines? It was
only the committance of a hungry, true heart,
a sincere desire to save Ida, as well as to help
the frivolous, heartless Nettie. That very
evening Ida went to Nettie's room to comfort
her, supposing she was really sick. After
kissing her, and inquiring about the poor, dear
bead, she said:—
"I'm so provoked! Some one has been
trifling with my Futurity Book." She drew it
from her pocket. "1 do think it such con-
temptible curiosity! See how it is torn I It
has been opened where Rosa wrote, and tied
so carelessly one of the leaves is left out.
I 'm going to ask Rosa to fix it, for I do not
want to read a word of these dear messages
until the time designated; it would spoil them
forme."
Nettie winced not a little when Ida expressed
her opinion of the perpetrator, and had her
eyes been upon Nettie instead of the book, she
might have seen the guilty look that passed
over her face. When she did look, she saw
Nettie's lips tightly compressed, her face
turned towards the window.
"I believe you know something about it,"
continued Ida. "Pray tell me, if yon do."
"If we were not such true friends," said
Nettie,,controlling herself—"and I know I can
trust you—I would not dare to tell you I do
know something about it. It was Rosa her-
self/"
"Rosa!" repeated Ida, in unfeigned aston-
ishment. "It cannot be. Why should she
wish to open her own?"
"I cannot say, but I think she meant to open
mine; it is next to hers, and she is so jealous
of me. Perhaps she thought I had written
something about her; perhaps she wanted to
change her own for some cause. I know she
did it"
"It is not like her to do so," Ida said, de-
cidedly.
"I did not suppose you would believe me.
You are not obliged to," said Nettie, petu-
lantly.
"O Nettie, darling, I do believe you, of
course !" kissing her, and soothing the aching
head; "but I am so surprised. IIow do you
know she did it."
"I saw her do it."
"Saw her? When?"
"It was yesterday, while you were out walk-
ing. I went to your room alter your camphor
bottle. I thought I heard you coming, and for
fun I jumped in the closet, partly closing the
door, and"—
"But Rosa was with us," interrupted Ida.
"Yes, but she came home before you did."
"That is true; she forgot her portmonnaie,
and Miss Sill said she might go back after it
as she wished to make some purchases."
"Exactly, that is why she hurried so. She
caught up the book nervously; her back was
towards me, I could not see her face, but she
seemed very much excited, and left the room
in a few minutes. The way 1 knew It was her
own writing she opened, I saw her lay one of
the ribbons on the table; it was black, you
know. She said she used it just to be odd; I
should think it was going into mourning for
her evil deeds. My leaves are tied with dark
blue; that is why I think she made a mistake
and meant to open mine. But you can think
what you please." Nettie pressed her hand
upon her forehead; her lie upon lie half fright-
ened her.
Ida sighed heavily. Here was a straightfor-
ward story, yet in her heart she could not
believe it.
"Poor darling!" she said, sympathizingly,
"the pain is so hard! Well, I 'm going to see
Rosa. It is all very strange; very strange,
Indeed."
"Oh, she will deny it, of course! You do
not know her as well as I do. I 've often won-
dered how yon could think so much of her, she
is such a hypocrite. I tell you she has even
preached to me upon the sinfulness of my con-
duct. A pretty Christian she is I And a sweet
example she sets, I 'm sure I"
"Rosa always seems very sincere," Ida re-
53
GOBEY'S LABY'S BOOK ANB MAGAZINE.
plied, still defending her friend. She had
thought her almost perfection, and she was
pained to the heart to think her false.
When she entered her room, Rosa threw her
arms around her, school-girl fashion, kissed
her, and called her all the pet names she could
think of, for she was very fond of her. Ida
bad her book in her hand, and as soon as she
could get breath from Kosa's caresses, opened
it, saying:—
"See! I came for you to fix it. Some one
has opened at your place, and only half fixed
it. Who do you suppose it could have been1"
Ida was looking her friend full in the face,
and she was surprised to see her face and neck
flush crimson as she took the book.
"What a shame!" she ejaculated. "Yes, I
think I know who did it."
"Who?" asked Ida, breathlessly, and thought,
"Will she say Nettie?"
"I will not say, because I am not certain,"
Rosa answered, drawing out the ribbons.
"One of the girls said it was you, Rosa! why
should you wish to open it?" Ida looked much
distressed.
"One of the girls! Ah, well, let it pass. The
truth must live;" then, after a moment's pause,
she looked in Ida's face and said, slowly, "Do
you think I did it, Ida? You need not answer,
I see it on your face; you doubt me. Do you
see this book which we have so often read to-
gether?" her hand rested on a small red cov-
ered Bible, "I did not open your Futurity
Book, I have not touched it before since I
wrote these lines, which, when you read six
months from now, you may blame me still
more; but I will leave them here and we shall
see, for I repeat 'Truth must live.""
Ida took the book and softly left the room;
while her hand was on the door-knob, she
thought, "Rosa cannot be guilty, I will go
back to her and tell her, but glancing up, she
saw Nettie standing in her room door beckon-
ing to her. Nettie, in her determined way,
made the case more strong when she came to
hear what Rosa said, and Ida doubted her more
and more.
The next morning there was a visible cold-
ness between Rosa arid the two girts. Her face
wore the same gentleness, hut her lips- a little
more compressed, the lines about them a little
deeper, as though to shut up and still her heart;
she felt hurt that Ida could disbelieve her.
The intimacy strengthened between Ida and
Nettie. The report that Rosa had told a de-
liberate falsehood was known among the girls;
a few treated her with scorn, but she had many
warm friends.
One day Ida attempted to apologize for the
change in herself. "I love you for all, Rosa,"
she said, "and cannot help thinking there is
some dreadful mistake about it."
"Yes, I hope some day you will find It ont;
may it not be too late for you or for me."
Rosa spoke earnestly and turned away, but
not before Ida saw the Wars in her eyes.
When school closed Ida asked Rosa to write
her.
"No," she replied, "it is better not," and
kissed her good-by.
Five months later Washington was at its gay-
est. The city was filled with its usual business
and overrun with visitors. Brilliant parties
and lively receptions were frequent, and fair
ladies vied with each other for the honors of
the season. It was more the outward adorn-
ing than of the soul, and friends were made
and forgotten in an hour; life was too busy for
long or deep friendship. Washington was Ida
Ray's home; the wealth of her parents gave
her a position in the highest circles, a position
she did not abuse, for she had learned that
"Life is better than meat," and did not delight
in vain show, though she enjoyed all the better
part of social life and entered into it with all
the vigor of youth.
Late in November there was a large party at
the K 's. Nettie Green had been Ida's
guest for some weeks, and it is at this party
our trio are destined again to meet. Rosa had
arrived only the night before; she was accom-
panied with a maiden aunt, who was an old
friend of the K 's, who insisted upon their
attendance that evening. Rosa had hoped she
might meet Ida, but did not expect to see Net-
tie. When Rosa stepped into the brilliant par-
lors of the K —'s, she had barely time to
exchange pleasant greetings with the hostess,
when Ida's sweet, surprised face was near her
own. The meeting was cordial, Nettie espe-
cially, in her impulsive manner, expressing de-
light, that only came from her lips, as Rosa
well knew. Ida was engaged to be married to
a young man of distinction in society. Nettie
took it upon herself early in the evening to in-
troduce Harry Winthropand whisper this piece
of news.
The young people exchanged calls, and two
weeks passed quite merrily. Rosa tolerated
Nettie's society for Ida's sake; she could not
love her, and the old spite was often plainly
apparent in Nettie's manner; she had not for-
gotten It. Ida was a worker; she was particu-
larly Interested in an Industrial School, to
which, and looking after the poor, she gave
much of her time.
One afternoon she returned from one of the
meetings in great agitation; bursting into the
room where Nettie seemed absorbed in a new
book, she exclaimed :—
"I 'm foolish to think anything of it, but I 'm
sure I saw Harry drive past D Place this
afternoon three times with a gay-looking young
lady by his side, so closely veiled, though, I
couldn't make out who it was. Ho might at
least speak of such things; I shouldn't care so
much then."
THE FUTURITY BOOK.
59
"Oh, I 'in so sorry you saw them," said Net-
tie, dropping her'book.
"Why, did you?—do you know who was with
him?" asked Ida, excitedly.
Nettie hesitated, as though the bearer of
painful news; there was a wicked light in her
eyes that the darkening room helped conceal.
"Tell me quick, if you know," Iila gasped,
becoming more and more distressed by Nettie's
manner.
"It was—Rosa."
"Rosa!" Ida dropped into a chair. "Are
you sure?"
"Quite sure," said Nettie, with emphasis;
"wasn't I in F 's store when Harry ran
in and bought a costly scarf for her neck. lie
did not see me, though."
"False again," said Ida. "How could she,
when she knows of our engagement? And
Harry, 1 'ra surprised at him."
That evening Ida excused herself from going
to a musical toiree she had been looking for-
ward to for some time.
Nettie reported Harry as shamefully atten-
tive to Rosa; said that many remarked it, and
appealed to her for an explanation. "I could
not, of course, give any, and excused it on the
score of friendship. The truth is, Ida, Harry
seemed so fascinated and absorbed with Rosa,
he never even inquired about you. They need
watching. I would help you, but It-tters just
received from home compel my departure in
the morning."
"Oh, don't go. What is it ?" asked Ida, still
clinging to her false friend.
"Mother is sick, I am needed at home."
"I'm so sorry, for 1 need you more than
ever," Ida said, piteously.
Nettie seemed in haste to retire, and was up
early in the morning. Ida tried to assist in her
packing, but she felt quite out of sorts.
"Dear me," she said, turning over the things
on her disordered table, "here is my Futurity
Book, and this the very day to open Rosa's
'lesame.'" Her heart warmed a little the first
few lines she read, but turned to bitterness
when she read the unkind, she thought, allu-
sions to Nettie. "Faithless girl, 1 cannot un-
derstand how she can appear one thing, and
really so different at heart."
She handed the book to Nettie, who read in
a careless manner, remarking: "She's very
complimentary to me, isn't she? but I must
hurry." Nettle seemed in no mood to talk
about it; but Ida was so distressed that she
soon found herself crying in a heart-breaking
manner. "I do wish you wouldn't cry so.
What's the use? I want you to help me,"
Nettie said, unpleasantly, so much so as to
sober Ida.
Harry was at the depot to say good-by. He
seemed unusually merry, and laughed at Ida
for her soberness. "Cheer up, cheer up," he
laughed. "Nett will be back again shortly."
Ida did not like his trifling manner, and re-
solved to have a plain talk with him the first
opportunity.
She passed an uncomfortable, restless morn-
ing. In the afternoon she dressed herself for a
walk to try and forget the misery at her heart.
Sliu stood a minute with her face pressed against
a conservatory window; fuchsias and scarlet
geraniums and pale pink tea-roses seemed to
answer her with their fragrant beauty. A
hand upon her arm caused her to turn sud-
denly. Rosa stood before her.
"Faithless I know too well, now," Ida said,
in a chilly way. .
"Rather pity," exclaimed Rosa, thinking she
meant Nettie, and attempted to kiss her.
"How can you?" cried Ida, pushing her
away, " when you have made me so miserable.
You are another Judas, and even now 1 sup-
pose some new trial is awaiting me."
"Why, Ida, what can you mean?" Rosa
was so stung by her words that she sunk down
upon the steps.
"I mean that yon are trying to ruin my hap-
piness, riding and flirting with Harry Went-
worth. You may call it jealousy, if you will;
then I am jealous, and I've a right to be.
Hav'n't you any conscience, Rosa Hoshour?"
Ida's hands were clasped tightly together,
for in her excitement her little mutf had slipped
from her Mauds and rolled down the marble
steps. She looked the picture of distress. It all
came to Rosa that moment. She said, quietly :—
"Ida, you are entirely mistaken, and I see
you do not know all. I never rode with Harry
except when you were with us. I'm sure I
never flirted with him."
"Didn't you receive a great deal of attention
from him at the soiree the other night, making
yourself so conspicuous as to be remarked by
many present?"
"I was not there, my girl. Auntie had a
headache; we sent our regrets early In the
day. I preferred to stay homo with her."
Ida looked earnestly at Rosa a minute, as
though trying to comprehend. Then ehe took
Rosa's hand, savin;;, "C'oine!" clung to it con-
vulsively, led her into the back parlor, shut the
door, sank upon a sofa with Rosa by her side,
and whispered, "I'm bewildered; I can't un-
derstand."
"Poor darling!" and Rosa drew Ida's head
to her heart, "you may as well know the truth;
I see you do not. Hurry and Nettie have gone
away together; I felt so for you was what
brought me here at this time, though I sup-
posed you knew all. It is better as it. is; Harry
was not worthy of you, or he could not have
done this."
"Dear, good friend ; my precious, true Rosa.
Oh, how blinded I have been! how I have
made you suffer! can you ever forgive? Net-
tie stands before me uncloaked now, and to
think, only to-day 1 read your warning in my
60
GODBY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Futurity Book; it did come too late, but then
I would not have believed it before, I was so
blinded, so blinded," Ida repeated ; and, now
her eyes were opened, she could see how false
and treacherous Nettie had been, and how tho-
roughly duped and deceived she had been.
The two friends had a long talk; the old
friendship was renewed, only deeper, stronger.
They went over the past and peeped into the
future and learned another lesson in life.
Harry and Nettie were married and lived in
a neighboring city. He became intemperate,
and died in less than two years. During that
time Ida and Rosa were both happily married
and well settled. As soon as they discovered
Nettie's situation—she was left miserably poor
—they helped her as long as she lived. They
saw her a repenting, heart-broken woman.
Before she died she said :—
"My life is wasted, my talents misspent. I
have only made those around me wretched;
may God forgive and take my poor unworthy
soul."
VIOLETS.
BY PHIL BERT.
Beyond the western sunset gleaming,
Golden gates stood open wide;
And a flood of glory, streaming
In a broad and radiant tide,
Lit the bright hair of the maiden
With a beauty strange and rare;
Never rose, with dew-drops laden,
Bloomed more fresh and fair I
Long she stood there. In her dreaming
Heeding not the passing hours,
Cheeks aglow and sweet eyes beaming—
Meet companion for the flowers.
One small, dainty foot advanced.
One white hand upon her breast.
Like some woodland nymph entranced.
While the whispering breeze caressed.
Till at length the purple shadows
Shut out all the crimson light,
And a slender silver crescent
Sparkled on the brow of Night
Hark 1 a step along the woodland.
See the listening maiden start;
Eyes more bright gleam In the twilight-
Bated breath and lips apart—
Two eyes, dark with midnight splendor.
Seek the downcast eyes of gray;
And a voice, low, rich, and tender,
Pleads a pardon for delay.
Dusky ringlets, all unheeded,
Mingle with the floating gold;
Two strong arms, ah, me! unchlded
Clasp the form of graceful mould.
Bearded lips with fearless kisses
Press the quivering, scarlet mouth;
And the zephyr, mourning, sighing.
Sadly returned to his home in the south.
The watching stars abashed, In sorrow.
With a fleecy cloudlet hid their eyes,
And tin young moon was fain to borrow
A fragment to veil her surprise.
Alas I she heeded not the warning,
Saw not, heard not anything
Save the magic love-light dawning
In the face of him—her king.
• #••## *
Beside her bed kind friends are sitting—
Never again will her wau cheek bloom—
And they watch her spirit flitting
Gladly away from the grief and gloom.
Hush! the sweet lips move, so slowly:
"Mother, tell him my deathless love
Blesses aud forgives him wholly,
And will plead with God above
Till lie, the fouut of all devotion.
Washes pure and while eacli stain
In that deep and boundless oceau.
Tell him we shall meet again.
And lay me—mother, nearer—listen—
At the whispering cedars' feet,
Where the sunlight used to glisten
Long ago, when we would meet—
'Neath the scarlet woodbine bower,
Where the purple violets grow.
And on the shrinking white wind flower
The crab-tree drops its tinted snow."
On her breast, so meek and lowly,
She folds her hands as if In prayer;
The sweet pale face grows bright and holy.
The Father's smile is resting there.
The white lids, drpopiug, softly cover
Evermore the eyes of gray;
The waiting angels bend and hover,
Bear her soul from earth away.
Gentlv, sadly, those that love her
Laid her where the violets grew;
And on a marble cross above her
Carved her name—"twas Violet too.
TREAD SOFTLY.
BY THOMAS O. GENTRY.
Tread softly, ye mourners, a dear one Is passing
To his dark resting-place 'neath the folds of the
tomb;
His guardian spirit no longer shall guide thee.
Ne'er still thy heart-throbbings, ne'er lighten tby
gloom.
That eye that once beamed with a mild look of pity.
When poverty's wan figure loomed up to its gaze,
Nevermore shall illume her dark habitation.
For the death-angel's hand has extinguished its
blaze.
That tongue that ne'er spoke but to counsel the
careless.
Or the weary to soothe, or the dying to calm,
lias uttered forever Its last solemn sentence.
E'en administered on earth its last holy balnri.
That hand that was ever outstretched and wide open
To succor the needy, their comforts to supply.
Now rests as in life, as was ever Its custom,
But It heeds not as then the heart-rending cry.
Thus silent and still shall rest that bright casket.
Till time shall have circled Its last weary round:
When, roused by the blast of the.archangel's trum-
pet.
Bright, happy, and free, it shall break from the
ground.
Spend the day well, and you will rejoice at
night.
HESTEZ'S FORTUNE.
61
HESTER'S FORTUNE.
BT S. ANNIE FIIOST.
"HESTER.!"
The voice, sharp and fretful, sounded along
the narrow, crowded little store, and reached
the ears of a girl, crouched beside a low win-
dow, catching the fast dying light of a Decem-
ber day, upon the pages of an open book. She
rose slowly, pushed back a mass of dark tan-
gled curls from her face, and came to the front
"of the store, her finger still in the book she had
been reading. She hastened her steps as the
wiry, petulant voice rang out again.
"Can't you move a little faster. Don't you
see the gentleman is waiting?"
She lifted her face then, snowing the stranger
standing there a pair of soft, dreamy, brown
eyes, and a thin, pale face that had seen some
eighteen summers.
"What can I show you, sir?" she said, and
her voice, low and mellow, was a musical con-
trast to the old man's tones.
"I was told I could find some old, rare vol-
umes here," was the reply. "May 1 look over
your stock?"
"The old editions are here," the girl replied,
leading the way to the middle of the store, and
standing patiently by, while the customer scru-
tinized the books. She was accustomed to stand
quietly waiting, for most of her grandfather's
customers were men who never purchased a
book without long, careful deliberation. So
her eyes wandered soon from the stranger
back to her book again, and she did not notice
how often he looked from the shelves to her
own face. A face to study, so pure, pale, and
almost saintly in Its rapt expression, though
the dress she wore was but a well-worn wool-
len, with no Kttle feminine adornments, not
even that of dainty fit and finish. The hands
that were holding the heavy book were slender,
white, and exquisitely moulded, and every fea-
ture of the pale face was regular as if cut In
marble. The mouth, slightly parted, showed
rows of even, pearly teeth, and the hair, dark
and curling, fell in heavy masses around a
slender throat.
"Goethe!" thought Spenser Woverman, com-
ing near enough to see the book upon which
Hester's eyes were fastened, "so she reads
German. How lovely she is I Burled alive!"
And hi* eyes swept contemptuously over the
narrow, ill-lighted store, full of books. Not
a dazzling modern array of blue and gold, scar-
let morocco and marbled paper, but a musty
collection of second-hand novels, well thumbed
and worn, rare old volumes, worth their weight
in gold, and musty old works never sought,
that had been the life labor of tlip man who
owned them to collect. Customers were not
rery plenty in the store, and Hester had half
forgotten this one when he placed two volumes
before her, as the result of his selections.
She took them to the counter, behind which
the old man was seated, and leaving the two
to conclude a bargain, glided back to her seat
near the window. It was too dark there to
read, so she nestled her chin in the hollow
of her hand and dreamed. Much of her life
was a dream! Every morning she came to the
store, after the frugal breakfast she shared
with her grandfather, and waited upon such
customers as came into the narrow street to
seek the old bookseller. Her grandfather, old
and feeble, sat in his arm-chair at the counter
near the door, and took all money, concluded
all sales, but Hester did all the lifting and
moving, finding the books required, or leading
customers to the shelves.
A stout old woman attended to all the house-
hold matters, and an errand boy came each
day for orders ; but in the store, these two, the
old man and the young girl spent the days,
winter and summer, seeking no change, know-
ing little of any outside life. Books were Hes-
ter's companions and friends. When she was
four years old she could read, and as the long,
lonely years crept by, her grandfather taught
her French, German, Spanish, Italian, a smat*
tering of each. But upon the slight foundation
she mastered enough to dip into the books
around her. She could not speak any language
but her own, but she could penetrate the mean-
ing of the printed pages, poring over them day
after day. For customers came rarely, mostly
old men, who would spend hours pottering
about amongst the books, and then sit by the
counter and higgle with the proprietor for half
a cent on a volume.
There was a corner under the low window at
the back of the store, where a pile of broad,
heavy books made a comfortable seat, and
there Hester pored over her volumes, growing
tall but slender, and pale as a lily, but little
sunshine entering to cheer her shadowed life.
Of father and mother, dead in her infancy, she
remembered nothing, and her sole idea of duty
was to obey her grandfather's call promptly,
wait respectfully upon customers, and hold
her tongue unless spoken to. Twice a year,
Rachel, the old servant brought her cousin, a
seamstress, to the house, and Hester had two
new dresses made, such underclothing as she
required, and a bonnet and shawl for Sunday,
were procured. Three times on Sunday Rachel
led her young mistress to church and back.
The old man wKs too lame to go abroad. It
was with difficulty he hobbled from his room
to the arm-chair In the store and back, and on
Sunday he invariably spent the day in bed.
So from child to maiden Hester Ashebonrne
lived in a world of dreams. Dreams of history,
full of the herops of war, the pomps of court,
the stirring life of long ago. Dreams of poetry,
62
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
full of the beauty of nature, all ideal to her, of
love, the shadowy mystery that floated through
every line, of beauty and soft, sweet strains
that lingered like music. Dreams of fiction
where the creations of an author's fancy be-
come glowing realities, moving, breathing, lov-
ing, dying.
It was so truly dreaming, that the maiden no
more thought of comparing her own life with
it, than we rise from the vagaries of sleep to
realize their promises. She would fashion in
her mind a heroine clad in silk and jewels, and
put on her print or woollen dress without one
thought of its stiff cut and awkward fit. She
pictured the halls of wealth, rooms full of
beautiful adornment, and never murmured at
the threadbare carpet and old furniture of the\
poor sitting-room, or the carpetless floor and
cot-bed of her own apartment.
Womanly in her gentleness, her quiet obedi-
ence, her unmurmuring content, she had no
vanity, no housewifely art, no dainty touch of
needle or soft fabric. Kachel attended to all
such matters, her grandfather needing Hester
in the store.
She was nearly nineteen on the evening when
Spenser Woverman came to look over the rare
editions of her grandfather's collection, and
when she went back to her corner by the win-
dow to dream, the face of the stranger floated
mistily through her musings. His fur-bound
coat, his fine suit were unlike the careless at-
tire of the book-worms who frequented the
store, and in the few words he had spoken,
there was a courteous chivalry none of the men
visiting the store had ever considered it neces-
sary to show to "that girl of Ashebourne's."
And Spenser Woverman, plodding home with
the books under his arm, thought that fairer
face had never crossed his vision thau that of
the bookseller's granddaughter.
"I must see her again! See if she can lift
those shy, brown eyes to my face. How ex-
quisitely fair she is I I have heard women
compared to lilies before, but I never saw one
that filled the ideal till to-night."
And Carroll Ashebourne, holding the price
of the two volumes in his hand, wondered that
a man so young and fashionably attired should
appreciate at their true money value, these
gems of literature.
More than once, after this, the tall stranger
with his clear-cut, aristocratic face, his large,
dark eyes, and delicate courtesy of manner,
came to examine the books upon the shelves of
the old bookseller. Young as he was, not yet
thirty, Spensej Woverman had travelled afar,
had been a close student, and had a love of
literature for its own sake, that made him a
welcome customer to Carroll Ashebourne, who
keenly enjoyed a chat over his treasures with
one who valued them.
As Spenser enrolled himself in their minds
as one of their regular customers, the old man
and the girl would put aside for him little
choice bits of literary gems that they selected,
and would discuss them eagerly. For Hester,
too utterly innocent and unconscious to be shy,
would stand beside her grandfather's arm-chair
listening to the animated discussions, often, in
her quiet, even tones, speaking a few words
that showed her familiar with volumes grave
men hesitated to open, and that Spenser Wo-
verman had yawned over.
Little by little these chats became the events
of Hester's monotonous life, and almost un-
consciously she watched for the entrance of the
toll, lithe figure, while the days seemed long
when he did not come.
In a superbly furnished room in a fashion-
able boarding-house, some six months after his
first Interview with Hester, Spenser Woverman
sat chatting with an old man, whose shabby
attire seemed oddly out of keeping with his de-
licate, haughty face, and slender white hands.
"More money!" Spenser said, carelessly.
"You seem to think it plenty, Uncle Dick,
when really it requires considerable nicety of
calculation to pay my expenses out of my in-
come."
"I put you up to a good thing," said the old
man. "It is not my fault if you shilly shally
about it."
"I 'm not sure about its being a good thing.
I cannot see any signs of wealth about old
Ashebourne's place. The girl is downright
shabby I"
"He is a miser. I tell you, Spence, he has
some hundred thousand dollars hoarded away
somewhere.! I know it! We were fast friends
years ago, until a silly quarrel over some of
his rare editions grew into a settled animosity,
and he fairly ordered me out of the store. He
must be nearly ninety, and that girl is the only
relative he has on earth. He has told me so
hundreds of times."
"Well, he might give her a decent dress and
a collar."
^"Tinie enough for that! ner husband can
make fine feathers for his bird!"
"You are sure?"
"Sure as death 1"
"I '11 push matters, then! The girl likes
me!"
"That's right. And Spence, when you do
get the money, don't forget who told you where
it lay."
"I'll not forget. "I'll give you a check
now for fifty dollars, and then you must not
expect any more till after the wedding."
Spurred by this conversation, Spenser Wover-
man an hour or two later sauntered into the
little store, fully resolved to see how the old
man would regard his disinterested proposals
for Hester's hand, lie had conned over the
generous speech he intended to make, the offer
of care and a home, for the old age of Mr. Ashe-
bourne himself, and his tender devotion to Hes-
HESTER'S FORTUNE.
63
ter. With his light, quick step he entered the
store, but paused at the threshold in amaze-
ment
The deep arm-chair was empty, and Hester
stood listlessly beside it, her face sad, her eyes
heavy with weeping.
"Grandfather is very ill," shesaid, in answer
to his surprised inquiries, "and he insists upon
my staying here when I want to be with him.
He had a stroke of paralysis yesterday, and
cannot move."
"Is his mind affected?"
"Not at all. Mr. Morrison and Mr. Walker
were with him all the morning, and he sent for
Doctor Hodges and Mr. Kendall too. I have
not seen him to-day. Rachel is there."
"Mr. Kendall is his lawyer, is he not?"
"Yes, and the others are old friends. He
was talking about Mr. Hartman this morning,
and Rachel wanted to send for him, but he
would not allow her."
Mr. Hartman being the Uncle Dick of the
morning conversation, a sharp pang of disquiet
shot through Spenser Woverman's mind. If
he had assisted at this council of friends, doubt-
less making the old man's will, all would be
known of his intentions. Now, if Hester was
not tbe heiress, he could still withdraw. She
was pretty, but not the man to win Spenser
Woverman's love; too timid, too ignorant of
tbe world's manner and the pretty devices of
the women of society. But Uncle Dick was
sore of the miser's wealth. If Spenser delayed
his wooing Hester might be removed from his
influence. It was a risk either way I
He lingered long in the store, making no- pre-
tense of purchasing any of the books around
him, but expressing sympathy, and in softest
speech comforting the bewildered, sore heart.
The next day, and the next he came, push-
ing his wooing, till one evening, when the dusk
was gathering, he asked Hester to be his wife.
With a misty idea of being like some of her
favorite heroines, soothed by her lover's gen-
tleness, onl)' half comprehending, Hester con-
sented.
"Ton will keep the store then, and let me
stay with grandfather?" she asked.
"We will not need to keep the store," was
he reply; "you and I will nurse your grand-
father back to health."
So, led like a child, Hester slipped out of the
store, and accompanied Spenser to' the house
of a clergyman, who spoke the solemn words
that made them man and wife. The bride-
groom was deadly pale, and evidently nervous,
but the bride, clinging close to his arm, was
only bewildered. Dazed yet, half frightened,
she was led to the store again. To her sur-
prise Rachel was there sobbing violently.
"Where have you been?" the old woman
cried, "and your poor grandfather lying dead."
"Dead!" the girl whispered, growing faint.
"Just gone off, like a lamb. Doctor Hodges
and Mr. Kendall are with him. Oh, the poor
master! Forty years I've served him faith-
ful!"
"Dead! Spenser Woverman cursed his own
haste. Just a few hours more and he would
have known whether his Uncle Dick's words
were true. He spoke hurriedly to Hester:—
"You will want to be alone, my heart's dar-
ling," he whispered, "and I will come to-mor-
row."
nester would still have clung to him, but
Rachel had caught her arm, and whispering
'sharply something about "goings on," that fell
on deaf ears, the old woman led her charge
• away. In the watches of the night, as the two
sat beside the dead, Hester told her simple
love story to the only friend left her. She had
no thought of wrong doing in the secret wed-
ding, and was surprised at Rachel's wrath
against her husband. It was useless to put
forth her poor little pleas of Spenser's kind in-
tentions; the shrewd, worldly old woman read
human nature too keenly to believe in the
young man's good faith. She tried to get the
name and address of the clergyman, but Hes-
ter had never seen him, and had not heeded
which way she had taken witli Spenser.
For three days the store was closed, and the
tall figure of Spenser Woverman did not enter
the little street. But after the quiet funeral,
he came to seek his wife. Hester was lying
down, worn out with the emotion of the day,
but Rachel opened the door, and led Spenser
to the bare little sitting-room.
"You'll be wanting to see your wife," the
old woman said, abruptly, "but she's sleep-
ing, and I'd like a word with you myself.
She's told me all you have said to her, and
glad I am the poor young thing has a good
friend now, homeless and penniless."
"What!" cried Spenser, sharply.
"I heard the doctor offering the loan of the
funeral expenses until the stock is sold, and
such a rubbishy lot won't more than pay him,
If it will do that."
"But Mr. Ashebourne's property," gasped
Spenser, growing deadly pale.
"Lord love you, he hadn't none. He 's just
kept body and soul together for years. Mr.
Kendall is offering Hester a place in his home
to teach his children, and he'll take me. But
I told Hester she 'd no need to go, seein' she
had a husband to care for her."
"You 're mistaken, then. The girl is not my
wife."
"But you were married by a minister."
"Pooh! pooh! You are old enough to know
there is such a thing as cheating a girl about a
marriage."
"You villain! You black-hearted son of
Satan!"
"There, good woman! there's no need to
call any names. You can tell Miss Ashebourne
what I have told you."
Gt
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
He strode lrom the room and from the house
before she could answer him. The old woman's
white wrath was something terrible to see as
she stood mute and motionless looking after
him. The utter cold-hearted villainy of the
man struck her dumb, but if her eyes could
have killed him there was concentrated fury
there sufficient to strike him dead.
"Nobody knows but me I nobody must know
but me!" she murmured, after the first passion
of her wrath and sorrow had passed over.
She loved Hester with the unselfish devotion
of a nurse who has raised one child from in-
fancy to womanhood Never knowing any
life but that of the utmost frugality, she had
given the young girl the best of all at her com-
mand; had wondered with some awe how she
could so love the musty old books; had heard
all her childish griefs shared her few pleasures.
But for the long illness of her master, requiring
her constant attendance, Rachel would have
surely heard Hester's dreams before, and pre-
vented the hasty marriage; but when too late,
she knew the foul wrong threatened. She had
but one impulse—to win Hester from her love,
to keep secret all that had passed.
It was an easier task than she had dared to
hope. Mr. Kendall took the orphan to his
own borne, nominally as governess for his little
girls, but Rachel soon found as a companion
for his young wife and sister. She was received
cordially, affectionately, and the long starved
heart opened to such affection with quick glad-
ness. The shy, pale child, in her deep mourn-
ing, was a petted darling of the household in
a few weeks, and Rachel found her own duty
was simply to wait upon her young mistress.
In her own room, alone, Hester grieved over
the tale Rachel told her, with indignant bitter-
ness, much as a child would have grieved over
the loss of a playmate. The deeper, holier
womanhood of the girl had never been touched
by Spenser Woverman's wooing, and in her
new life his image faded slowly but completely
from her imagination. Her heart he had not
touched.
It was like a poem in one of her favorite
books, to think of those weeks of gentle woo-
ing; and when the end came, the tears that
fell were not the torturing drops of agony
wrung from insulted womanhood, but the tears
a girl sheds over a transient pleasure lost.
There was so much in her new life to waken
Hester from her long dream of nineteen years,
that even this last act of the old drama faded
with the rest.
Her vanity was wakened first wh.-n, the
year of mourning over, she found dainty gar-
ments fashioned for her use; but long before
she wore them she had given affection warm
and true to pretty Irene Kendall, her host's
sister. The bright little blonde took Hester
at once into her loving patronage, and it was
wonderful to see the shy nature unfold and
brighten in such intercourse. Music became a
delight; walks, drives, and calls a never-end-
ing source of pleasure; and when the mourn-
ing was laid aside, Mrs. Kendall was quite
ready to introduce Hester to her friends when
Irene went into society. In all the new maze,
Spenser Wovermau was but dimly remem-
bered.
But while Mr. and Mrs. Kendall made their
home a never-ceasing pleasure for Hester,
while Irene was devoted in sisterly attention,
Doctor Hodges spoke more than once to
Rachel of a necessity for caution.
"You must guard Miss Hester from too
much excitement," he said. "Remember, her
life has been an exceptionally quiet one, and she
has a sensitive nature." Later, when Hester
would move about languidly, after an evening
of pleasure at concert or party, he spoke more
strongly: "Rachel, you must tell Mrs. Kendall
to be more sparing of these Jate hours." Once
he told her, "Hester has a serious disease of
the heart. These hours of excitement are dan-
gerous."
So they guarded her lovingly, tenderly, and
Hester, docile and obedient yet, submitted to
the rules laid down by the doctor.
The second year was nearly half ended when
a new glory burst upon the girl's happy life.
In that world of society that to her pure eyes
was as truly happy as it was bright and
smiling, she met Preston Comer. He was a
poet. Not one of the verse-makers who, find-
ing their genius unheeded, turn it to other
channels, and so sully its brightness; but one
of the true lovers of nature, to whom a flower
is a poem, a star, an inspiration. He wrote
from a full heart, a noble intellect, a brain
quick to coin its fancies into the true poet
j words and lines. And the world recognized
him, and held him up on gold-laden hands,
turning into wealth his words of song or po-
etry. He was not a handsome man, but he
had large, soft eyes, and a voice as tender as a
woman's. Eyes and voice wooed Hester. Be-
lieving her a dependent upon Mr. Kendall's
bounty,, he saw how pure and sweet she was,
a violet amidst the roses and lilies of the gay
beauty around her. When he had won his
way past the portal of her shy reserve, to
the confidence she had rarely gave, he found
her mind a quaint treasure house, hoarding
up beauties of literature few girls had ever
scanned.
- It was a short step from congeniality of taste
to the sympathy that ripens into love. Hester,
in the new life of companionship, society, and
young lady ism of the past year and a half, had
let her book love lie with other past pleasures
and regrets, half forgotten, vague, and misty.
But when memory brought the reading days
fresh and clear, it was a keen delight to dis-
cuss her favorites with Preston Comer; to
bring her treasure-laden thoughts to meet the
HESTER'S FORTUNE.
65
quick flashes of his genius. Many a new poem,
quaint and original, winning new laurels for
the young poet, was suggested by Hester's re-
membrance of some wee gems in the musty
towers that were to her playmates and school-
mates in her lonely, cheerless childhood.
Mr. Kendall smiled upon the wooing. Pres-
ton was not wealthy, but he had a sufficient
income for all wants, and cared nothing for
any dowry in his wife. So the wedding was
appointed for a day in September, two months
after Hester should have completed her twenty-
first birthday.
But through the fulness of her glad content,
one dark memory troubled Hester. The heart
that had found its own power of loving, found
also a bitter regret in the memory of that past;
that was a secret, from all but Rachel. She
louged to tell Preston of that childish dream
and her own wakening. By the light of Pres-
ton's generous devotion, she read the darkness
of Spenser's foul betrayal of her heart. He
had deserted her in her hour of grief; he had
deceived her when her very Innocence should
have won his truth. But Rachel would never
let her speak of this episode of her past life,
and Hester had never disobeyed Rachel. It
was a habit of her life too firmly implanted for
even her new experience to disturb it, that
Rachel was to be obeyed and consulted on all
points.
Still the tender conscience chafed under the
deceit of secrecy, and between the old love
and the new Hester suffered a mental agitation
that seriously affected her health. The stronger
her love for Preston became, the more abhor-
rent became the thought of that childish epi-
sode. She would dream that Spenser came to
claim her by that marriage tie he had repudi-
ated, and waken cold and trembling, with her
heart paining her intensely, and a suffocation
that seemed to grasp at her very life. Then
Rachel, wakened by her movement, would
come from the next room to comfort and pet
her; to hear of the dream, and scornfully
denounce its foundation in reality.
On the twenty-first of July there wasacoun-
cil of four gentlemen in Mr. Kendall's study,
and Hester was summoned there. Doctor
Hodges was spokesman, and very cautiously
and tenderly he told Hester, for the first time,
of her grandfather's dying wishes regarding
her future.
"Tour grandfather," he said, having some-
what prepared her for a startling communica-
tion, "left his will in our hands, binding us by
a promise to keep its contents secret from
every one. He had brought you np in such
seclusion that he feared you would be sought
by some fortune-hunting villain, if it was
known you inherited wealth. For two years
lie desired yon to remain with Mr. Kendall,
and know nothing of his will until to-day,
your twenty-first birthday. We, who were
VOL. XCI.—0
guardians of your property, feel sure to-day
that your grandfather's wishes are fulfilled in
your present prospects. You have won the
love of an honorable, noble man, who believes
you poor, and you have every prospect of hap-
piness as his wife. Your grandfather's prop-
erty, Miss Ashebourne, securely invested,
amounts to halt' a million of dollars. It is
absolutely yours or your heirs'. Should you
die without a will, it will go to found a public
library. There is a legacy of twenty thousand
dollars for Rachel Byrnes."
Half a million of dollars 1 Even Hester,
ignorant of money matters as she was, was
stunned at the magnitude of her grandfather's
legacy. She faltered a few words of thanks,
and again around her heart crept that suffo-
cating sensation that followed any excitement.
Doctor Hodges looked very grave as she held
a glass of water to her lips, and then sent her
to Rachel with a word of advice to keep very
tranquil.
"Kendall," he said, "as soon as the wedding
is over, you had better impress upon our ward
the importance of making her will. Let her
leave her property amongst her friends in case
of—well, she is young, but she is very delicate.
It will be only natural if she leaves Preston
her property."
And Mr. Kendall, in the two months of ex-
cited preparation for the wedding festivities,
thought often of the old doctor's words; for
Hester, happy as she ever seemed in the pres-
ence of her lover, grew perceptibly weaker and
paler as the days passed by. True, it was hot
weather, but Irene never wilted in the heat as
Hester seemed to do. Rachel could have told
of distressing spells of suffocation, of disturbed
sleep, of hours of exhaustion ; but she spoke
only to Doctor Hodges, who but repeated his
cautions to avoid excitement. No one knew
or guessed of a missive that sped over the sub-
marine telegraph on the day when the con-
tents of Mr. Ashebourne's will became public.
It was sent to Spenser Woverman, Paris, and
the words were :—
"H. A. is of age. Will opened. Property,
half a million 1 Richard Hartmak.
By the next homeward-bound steamer, Spen-
ser Woverman was speeding to America.
The guardians of Hester Ashebourne had
determined to have a grand wedding, between
the poet whose name was a household word to
honor, and the heiress whose beauty and
wealth had made her a social star. The law-
yer's wide parlors were entrusted to the most
fashionable florist, to bo made a bower of flow-
ers. The trousseau, the dresses of bridesmaids
and many of the guests, were ordered from
Paris, and invitations were issued to a large
number of guests. The ceremony was to take
place in the drawing-room, and an arch and
wedding bell of flowers were erected, under
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
which gathered the group that were the centre
of attention.
Bridegrooms are proverbially proud and
happy, but Preston's eyes, fixed upon his
bride, bore also an expression of tender anxi-
ety; for the sweet, fair face was so deadly
pale, the large eyes so full of a strange fear,
that the bridegroom was half terrified. Rachel
had whispered to him that any excitement pro-
duced this appearance, and Rachel knew that
it required all Hester's self-control to bear the
suffocating pain at her heart, as the words of
the sacred service were read.
But at the words, "If any of you know cause
or just impediment why these two persons
should not be joined together in holy matri-
mony, let him speak now, or else hereafter for-
ever hold his peace," there was a stir in the
crowd, and Hester, looking up, a deadly fear
clutching at her heart, saw coming through
the wedding guests the tall figure and hand-
some face of Spenser Woverman. Nearer and
nearer he drew, until he stood beside her, and
his voice, clear and stern, rang out the dreaded
words, "I claim this woman as my wedded
wife!"
Preston Comer looked into Hester's face;
and in the dilated eyes, the ashy lips half
parted, read a truth which made him reel back
from her with a groan of anguish.
"You!" he said, in a shivering whisper;
"you, whom I believed pure and true, above
all other women!"
Not a word of confirmation or denial from
the rigid white lips. Mr. Kendall stepped to
the side of his unbidden guest.
"Hester!" he said, sternly, "is this man's
statement true?"
Tho quivering breath panted up from the
parted lips, the staring eyes were set in blank
terror, and Hester swayed from side to side,
as Doctor Hodges joined the group closing
around her.
"Stay," he said. "Another bridegroom
more powerful than you will soon claim her."
"Dying!" whispered Preston, dropping upon
his knees beside the prostrate bride, whose
snowy garments and veil enfolded her like a
shroud.
"Dying!" Spenser Woverman cried, in a
hoarse, unearthly tone.
"Dying!" cried Rachel, forcing her way
to her darling's side; "and you, Spenser Wo-
verman, have murdered her;" and in brief,
powerful words, thrown forth with stinging
emphasis, the old woman told the story of
Hester's life.
It was a moment when even wrath could
find no voice. Silently Mr. Kendall pointed
to the door, and the guests drew back to make
an opening for Spenser Woverman to pass out.
But Preston, kneeling beside Hester, watched
the breath flutter more and more faintly over
the pale lips, till the staring eyes gradually
softened to infinite tenderness, and a whisper,
scarcely audible, met his ear: "Preston! Good-
by, Preston!"
That was all. Like snowflakes the white
lids fell over the dark, mournful eyes; the
failing breath ceased to flutter over the pale
lips; the slow throbs of the tortured heart
were resting at last. Hester was the bride of
Death.
THE REALM OF SILENCE.
BY AGMis VEBKON.
There 's a wonderful realm, within whose
shadowy confines no golden bar of sunlight
e'er brings the light and glow of heaven ; no
voice of singing bird or happy child brings joy
and gladness; no trembling star-beam lingers
in its cloudless sky; and no sparkling dew-
drops diamond its whitened fields. Pure white
roses and saintly lilies droop beneath its mar-
ble walls, and send the burden of their rare,
sweet odors upon the winds which murmur
around each gleaming column. Within this
realm of shades, the silence is unbroken, save
by the rustle of falling leaves and the wail of
sighing winds. The disquiet, and care, and
turmoil of the busy, hurrying world disturb
not its quiet dwellers. The spires of its white
cities crumble not at the touch of its inhabit-
ants, and its monuments gleam through cling-
ing moss and trailing ivy, which mutely tell the
curious as well as the careless observer that
"Time's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers."
This wonderful realm differs widely from all
earthly kingdoms, inasmuch as the reign of its
monarch is everlasting. There are no heart-
burnings, or jealousies, or petty quarrels
among the ministers of his court. Each per-
forms the part assigned him; bearing disease
and sorrow over land and sea, to palace and
cottage. Wealth nor happiness nor love nor
beauty nor virtue nor fame nor wisdom can
tempt the grim monarch to swerve from his
purpose. The rich and the poor, the humble
and the proud, the young and the old, the
homely and the beautiful—all enter the dark-
ened realm at the king's command, and close
their eyelids in that dreamless sleep that
"knows not breaking." The poet and the
painter, the sculptor and the statesman,- the
gallant soldier and the storm-tossed mariner
alike, lie down among the dark shadows of the
silent city. The mother, pale with anxiety
and watching, sorrowfully yields her treasures
to the ghastly shapes that hold "watch and
ward" over the king's jewels. The fair young
bride, resplendent with the shimmer of satins
and laces, the sparkle of jewels and flush of
flowers, goes forth from the shadow of the
altar, and enters the silent city, to rest forever
POETRY, ETO.
67
beneath the shadow of its moss-wreathed pil-
lars. And thus, when the death-angel waves
his sable plumes over the earth, each in his turn
"wraps the drapery of his couch about him,
and lies down to pleasant dreams."
As we walk through some time-worn ceme-
tery, or carelessly stroll through some unfre-
quented woodland, the sight of a lonely, un-
known grave will remind us of the many dead
that are forgotten. Beneath yon rude and
ancient cross may lie some village Solon, whose
wisdom and existence find no place among
the treasures of memory; or, perchance, some
humble Shakspeare, whose sweet, poetic strains
have sunk into oblivion with him.
There's a silent city in each human heart,
where the hopes of years lie buried. Anxiety
and care and sorrow are the faithful sentinels
which guard their gates, and bar out white-
winged Joy and Peace. But in the dim future
will come the glorious being, at whose touch
the dead hopes shall spring to life in the radi-
ance of the inner resurrection.
Let us turn from the contemplation of these
"vast and voiceless" cities, to one " which hath
foundations, and whose builder and maker is
God." As we walk through the "valley of
the shadow," drooping beneath the noontide
heat, wounded by the storms and jagged rocks,
trembling beneath our heavy burdens, weary
and worn and foot-sore, the glory of its shin-
ing streets dispels the clouds and gloom which
darken our way, and strengthens us for fur-
ther toil. Nearer to the bound of life, nearer
to the starry crown we press each day, hoping
to find a balm for our broken, tired hearts, a
rest in the glory of God's presence. And in
that beautiful city beyond the stars, not cold
and silent in its dead grandeur, but joyous with
the music of angels, and sparkling with the
light of the starry crown, we shall meet and
rest—rest
"Where the sunblaze never scorches,
Where the starbeams cease to chill.
Where the tempest stirs the echoes
Of the wood, or wave, or hill.
"Where the bond Is never severed—
Partings, clasplngs, sob, and moan:
Midnight waking, twilight weeping,
Heavy noontide—all are done.
"Where we find the Joy of loving
As we never loved before:
Loving on, unchilled, unhindered,
Loving once—forevermore."
A WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP.
It is a wondrous advantage to a man, in
every pursuit or vocation, to secure an adviser
in a sensible woman. In woman there Is at
once a subtle delicacy of tact, and a plain
soundness of judgment, which are rarely com-
bined to an equal degree in man. A woman,
if she be really your friend, will have a sensi-
tive regard for your character, honor, repute.
She will seldom counsel you to do a shabby
thing, for a woman-friend always desires to be
proud of you. At the same time her constitu-
tional timidity makes her more cautious than
your male friend. She, therefore, seldom coim-1
sels you to do an imprudent thing. A man's
best female friend is a wife of good sense and
heart, whom he loves, and who loves him.
But, supposing the man to be without such a
helpmate, female friendship he must still have,
or his intellect will be without a garden, and
there will be many an unheeded gap, even in
its strongest fence. Better and safer, of course,
are,such friendships where disparity of years
or circumstances puts the idea of love out of
the question. Middle life has rarely this ad-
vantage; youth and old age have. We may
have female friendships with those much older,
and those much younger than ourselves. Fe-
male friendship is to a man the bulwark, sweet-
ness, ornament of his existence.
ONLY FRIENDS.
BT DAIST WILEY KITTUEDGE.
We were only friends in those distant days,
With never a thought of loving,
Yet I wonder I cannot forget your face
In all these years of my roving.
We talked of our future. Its hopes and fears,
Its wonderful Joys untasted,
That filled to o'erbrlmmlng your affluent years.
When the wine of my life was wasted.
We were pleasant friends, who well understood
Each other's unconscious foibles;
None could tame like me your most reckless mood,
None could soothe like you my troubles.
When I look back, it seems, in my girlish dreams,
I held you as dear as my brother,
When we planned our years through no mist of tears,
And never a thought of each other.
I was fair, you said, when you thought to gaze
On my features' oval contour,
And you never dreamed how your olive face
Would follow your friend and haunt her.
In solemn twilights and in starry nights
You are with me always and ever;
In fancy's flights, In the senses' delights,
You leave me a moment never.
In the whirl of kaleidoscopic streets
When the world Is promenading;
In the garden's sweets under noon-day heats.
In the evening's opal shading;
On the shifting page of the painted stage,
Where the mimic world assembles;
In the heat and glare of the theatre,
When the wild music thrills and trembles;
In my broken sleep on the Western deep,
When the winds are mad with raving;
Among aisles of palm, on shores of balm,
Where waves of the South are laving;
Wherever I roam in this Western land,
You are with me always and ever.
And I long once more for the touch of your hand,
Whose clasp should hold mine forever.
68
OODEYS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
A GIRL'S VICTORY.
ItT.H. VICKEBV DUMOHT.
, He read the letter through once or twice,
thru threw it down, with something of a sneer
distorting his face. A dainty letter it was;
'written on thick, creamy paper, with mauve
monogram and ink, and a delicate odor of
wood-violets stealing up from its finely-traced
pages. A bright, clever little letter, too, con-
sidering that it was written by a school-girl to
a gentleman whom she had never seen; of
whom, in fact, she knew nothing, excepting
that lie was the much-talked-of brother of her
room-mate and dearest friend.
Most men would have read it through with
gratified vanity; would have enjoyed intensely
the youthful sentimentality of answering it;
but Leslie Laurence flattered himself with a
pride that was almost Pharisaic—that "he was
not as other men are." So, as I have said be-
fore, he threw the letter down contemptuously,
and, seating himself at his desk, wrote a sting-
ing reproof to his sister for subjecting him to
such an annoyance.
"Tell Miss Lemoine," he said, "that I have
received her letter, and be kind enough to
apologize as best you can for my non-reply. I
suppose such a proceeding is rather rude on
my part, but I must confess I am not equal to
the task of answering a letter from a young
lady with whom I have not the shadow of an
acquaintance. In fact, Nora, knowing as you
did how intensely I abhorred anything forward
or unwomanly, you might have prevented your
friend from making me the subject of her
•flirtatious' attack. I hardly consider myself
more strait-laced in my idea of what a girl
should be than most men, but I certainly do
think that the girl who, without any overtures
or encouragement, would write to a man she
had never even sepn, must be either the sil-
liest of sentimentalists, or the boldest of co-
quettes."
He felt like writing still more, but his syllo-
gism looked so forcible when he had placed it
in black and white before him, that he con-
cluded quite satisfied])-, and when the letter
reached its destination Nora considered that
he had written quite enough.
"But how shall I tell Opal?" she said, drop-
ping her face in both hands with nervous hor-
ror of the dilemma. "I might have known
better than to allow her to write to him, and
now what shall I say?"
A sound of girlish footsteps in the hall, a
girlish voice exercising itself on the latest song,
"Across the happy hills, Marie,
With Joyous steps I come to thee;
The fears of parting all are o'er.
We twain shall meet to part no more.
Come forth, come forth to welcome me
Across the happy hills, Marie,"
a slim hand opening the door, a girlish face
brightening up the twilight shadows of the
room, a crimson flush on Nora's freckled
cheeks, as the subject of her perplexity put in
an appearance.
"Letters, Norine? From Leslie, the im-
maculate, I suppose?" Then, throwing her-
self girl fashion upon the bed, Miss Lemoine
turned the mischievous inquiry of her wide
blue eyes upon her perturbed room-mate,
"What does Sir Galahad say about me?
Something bad, I know."
Nora leaned her head further in the shadow,
clutched the letter nervously, and tried to say
something, but the dancing blue eyes laughed
down her efforts.
"Oh, you foolish little girl! pull up the blind
higher and let me read it myself. I know it's
uncomplimentary, but the signor has been
showering compliments upon me so extensively
this evening that I 'm fortified against the most
scathing attack."
But when the scathing attack had been fin-
ished; when Nora, in a childish fashion all
her own, knelt on the floor beside her, sobbing
out, "O Opal, it was all my fault! I ought to
have known what a prim, hateful fellow he
was!" the signor's fortification of compliments
did not prevent a hot flush of shame and mor-
tification from suffusing his pupil's face and
brow.
"It was unwomanly, Nora," she said. "Your
brother is quite right; it was both bold and
silly; but I really never thought when I did
it. I am so sorry! and now I can't do any-
thing, except just feel ashamed. Any gentle-
man would have felt disgusted at my forward-
ness, and I suppose I ought to be immensely
obliged for his prompt putting down of my
folly."
"Any gentleman wouldn't have done any-
thing of the kind," Nora interrupted, with
entire disregard of Lindley Murray, and con-
temptuous indignation at her brother. "And
it's just like you, Opal, to take all the blame
upon yourself. But just wait till he sees you,
for, Opal, dear, you mustn't allow this to
make you go back on your word. You will
come to Fernsleigh with me this summer.
You mustn't make any other engagement, and
you must stay a long, long while. Won't you
now, dear old darling?"
Miss Lemoine's lovely eyes grew a trifle
misty, but she laid her hand tenderly on the
bowed head of Mr. Laurence's gushing little
sister, and answered :—
"No, Horine, I won't make any other en-
gagement. I couldn't very well, could I? con-
sidering that my guardian don't want me, and
that otherwise I am sans friends, sanx parents,
sans relations altogether, excepting an aunt
and a half-sister, and they are pursuing fash-
ion on the continent, while I am left to my
own devices and Mine. Roselyn's tender mer-
cies. I wonder, if your brother knew what an
Arab 1 have been, what a friendless forlornity
A GIRL'S VICTORY.
69
I am, would he have descended so severely
upon my dereliction of Mrs. Grundyism 1"
Her thought was more a soliloquy than a
• question; but Nora, with Intense sympathy
and strong shame, put her hand down upon
her lips.
"Opnl, dear, don't think about It at all. He
is so ugly! and just wait till he sees you, and
you can pay him up for his rudeness"—
The comforting ended hysterically, but Miss
Lemoine kissed the comforter gratefully, then
got up from the bed, shook out the crushed
folds of her dress, lit the gas, glanced up at
Nora's stock of family portraits which the girls
had arranged in the most artistic manner-pos-
sible on the dingy walls, took in afresh the
intellectual beauty, the austere firmness of
Leslie Laurence's photographed face, then
went over to the glass, scrutinized her own
reflection for a moment, and ended her pro-
ceedings by saying to herself, "What Nora
says is true. If I have been forward and fool-
ish, he has been rude, and I am going to ren-
der unto Oresar what is due to C»sar."
After that she wondered and planned, and
six weeks later she .stood upon the battle-field,
Mr. Leslie Laurence bowing in answer to his
sister's introduction, without the faintest idea
that Miss Lemoine's quiet glance of inquiry
meant war to the knife.
"A terribly unequal contest, though," Rhe
added, in her own mind, a half an hour later.
"He is talented and handsome, a preoccupied
utilitarian, a successful barrister, and no eijd
of a tavant, while I am"—
She turned to the mirror, and the mirror
gave a wordless answer—a marvellously pretty
girl; but Opal Lemoine's life had "not been
calculated to inoculate vanity. She turned
away from the reflection with scarcely the
shadow of self-gratulation, and, going down
stairs, laughed aloud at Nora's rapture.
"O Opaline, you look like a queen!"
"You were a poet and did n't know it, Nora,"
she said. "Opaline and queen make a very
passable rhyme. But where am I to go now?"
For reply, Nora opened the drawing-room
door triumphantly.
"In here, please. Mr. Randolph and Leslie
will, I hope, entertain you while I go up to
see mamma. Mrs. and Miss Danby have ar-
rived, you know, so I shall have to make my
'how-do-you-do's.' Mr. Randolph, Miss Le-
moine knows all that music by heart, so you
must try your powers of persuasion. Now be
a good girl and sing, Opal."
Mr. Randolph, a tall, fair fellow, the owner
of a magnificent pair of shoulders, and a slightly
effeminate face, dropped the portfolio he had
been examining, and came forward with ad-
miration depicted on every feature. Mr. Lau-
rence fawned behind his hand, and wondered
Internally If Nora meant to make him forcibly
attentive to Miss Lemoine. Then he, too,
came forward from his arm-chair and book,
and said, with an attempt at the conventional
politeness demanded of a host:—
"Miss Lemoine, I hope you will not be very
hard to persuade."
Upon which Opal turned the serene beauty
of her face carelessly upon him, and replied :—
"Not at all, Mr. Laurence; but I beg to in-
form you beforehand that I am a very indiffer-
ent performer, though my motherly little
room-mate would try to persuade you I was a
Niisson."
Then she seated herself at the piano, Mr.
Randolph adjusting his own eyeglass and her
music, while Mr. Laurence made mental criti-
cisms upon the foreground of a landscape on
the wall, and pronounced in his own mind a
verdict upon his sister's friend, upon his own
uninvited correspondent
"Exactly what I expected I Handsome, and
knows it. Any amount of mtuj froid, and
enough brains to make her self-sufficient."
After which wise and weighty conclusion,
Opal finished a gay little scrap of Tyrolese
song, and the cynical Mr. Laurence felt called
upon to thank her.
"Your song is an agreeable disappointment,
Miss Lemoine," he said, "especially after the.
unflattering warning you gave us. You have
been very fortunate to catch the expression of
that song so perfectly. Most Anglican tongues
would find it very difficult."
Then he subsided into silence and the li-
brary, and Mr. Randolph enjoyed alone Miss
Lemoine's delightful proximity.
They had a dinner party that evening, com-
prised of all the guests In the house, witli an
addition from two or three of the neighboring
villas. Most of them were Mrs. Laurence's
old and intimate friends, so Nora was kept in
one perpetual state of greeting, and Nora's
room-mate was admired and commented upon
by all.
"Her style Is perfect," Mrs. Balfour Brisay
informed their hostess. "But that air of en-
tire self-possession seems strange in so young
a girl. One would imagine she had been in
society for years," she added; and Opal, lean-
ing against the mantle, answered what she had
accidentally overheard.
"I am not so young as you think, Mrs. Bri-
say," she said, with a half-amused smile. "I
am nearly nineteen, and I have travelled a
great deal. I lost both my parents when I
was a mere child, and since then I have hardly
lived a whole year in one place. I seem to be
one of the unfortunates that have no abiding
city."
It was directly after dinner, and only the
ladies were present, but among them Miss Le-
moine won the most marked sympathy by her
frank personality. Quite explicable in her
case, you see, for she was not only a beauty,
but an heiress; and, no matter what poets or
70
OODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
sentimentalists may say to the contrary, there
is no earthly element so potent as money, no
earthly monarch so powerful as mammon, no
halo around a fair face so tempting as that of
gold. Even while our finer feelings cavil at
it, we acknowledge the principle, and regard
it almost an essential in that vague and terribly
sublunary substance known as good society.
But Opal was young and slightly romantic,
and the knowledge annoyed her. Indeed, I
am bound to confess that when the good-nights
were over, and even Nora's delighted face had
disappeared, the belle of the evening had a
very lonely soliloquy by the open window.
"They were all very kind, and the gentle-
men were very attentive. I suppose I ought
to be delighted, but, as queer ns it seems, I ac-
tually like that satirical Leslie best of all.
Woman's Inconsistency, I suppose; a sexual
failing In general, and mine in particular.
But I wonder, I do wonder, if I will ever
make him sorry for his rude receipt of my
foolish little note? He doesn't seem to]re-
member it; but, of course, he does, and de-
spises me accordingly. I really must reward
him before I go. 1 '11 shock him still more if I
can't do anything else."
She attempted it the next day, with Nora's
full and ample co-operation; but Mr. Leslie
Laurence, having delivered his bulletin of re-
proof in that one never-to-be-forgotton letter
to his sister, seemed to be burdened with no
further thought of Miss Lemoine. Beyond
the most conventional commonplaces, he never
addressed her; but Opal noticed, with true,
girlish satisfaction, that his avoidance of her
was not singular. Alicia Danby, with her
stately, lady-like composure; Ida Maurice,
who herself informed the company that to be
a belle was a chronic state of her nature, met
with quite as little notice.
Of course, the complement of male attraction
being quite well filled at Fernslelgh, the other
young ladies were not inconsolable when, hour
after hour, and day after day, Mr. Laurence
made the politest of excuses to the company,
and revelled in his own room over the mys-
teries of the orthodox blue bag, or daubed his
amateur fingers with a little landscaping in
the deserted studio; but Opal detested opposi-
tion or failure, and his persistent self-compan-
ionship annoyed her intensely. Mr. Randolph
and his immediate compeers vied with each
other in rendering innumerable attentions that
would of themselves have been a complete
panacea to a more reasonable girl, but Miss
Lemoine was not so easily satisfied, and even
in this last year of her teens she had not over-
come a childish tendency of wanting what
seemed unattainable.
"But it isn't unattainable, "she told herself.
"I only want to vindicate myself, and reward
him for his severe method of censure, and I
feel certain that my time is coming. It must
come," she persisted; and, as if the gift of
prophecy had fallen upon her, the first instal-
ment of what she called her timo came that
morning, in a distorted and unsatisfactory,
manner perhaps, but fraught with something
like promise for the future.
It was dark and rainy that day, and, by way
of entertainment, Nora took two or three of
the guests up to the studio, to show them an
effort of her earlier years, which still hung for
exhibition. Bayard Randolph, Ida Maurice,
and Mark Lindsay were the favored ones; but
Opal, hearing them overhead, ran up stairs
and constituted herself the fifth.
"Nora, you're an angel!" she said. "You
don't know how I've longed to explore this
Blue Beard region; how often 1 've stood out-
side of it, disconsolate, like 'the Peri at the
gate.' I'm awfully glad you've given us open
lesame."
Then, while the others were still examining
Nora's infantile crayon sketch, she advanced
with the most surprising temerity and com-
menced an investigation of Leslie's sketch-
book; turned over its pages of meaningless
fragments, then stopped suddenly and unbe-
lieving, for there, right before her eyes, in the
midst of fanciful designs only intelligible to
the artist himself, of scraps in landscape and
pencilled jottings, was a pen-and-ink etching
of her facu; not carefully finished, of course;
and equally, of course, possessing but little
artistic merit, yet it was easily recognizable,
and a sudden triumph lit up Opal's eyes.
'"He thinks of me enough to put me in his
scrap-book," she thought, exultantly, not add-
ing the after specification that it was Opal Le-
moine's face that had attracted his wandering
and momentary fancy, not Opal Lemoine her-
self. "AhI I think my time is coming."
Then, with nameless elation, she closed the
book, and turned his easel from the wall.
"Mr. Leslie Laurence's latest effort," she an-
nounced, aloud. "And, with all due deference,
it is a very faulty one. The coloring is weak,
the perspective poor, and that figure in the
foreground is out of all proportion."
"Mr. Leslie Laurence is wonderfully obliged
for the criticism," a lazy voice in the doorway
supplemented, and, turning, Opal's astonished
eyes encountered the slightly smiling ones of
tin' artist himself.
"Opal paints beautifully herself, Leslie,".
Nora began, taking precedence of every one
in courageous defence, but Miss Lemoine in-
terrupted her with the sweetest composure.
"Another of Nora's exaggerations; but,
really, it does not require any very great
knowledge of painting to detect those defects."
"Certainlynot,"said Mr. Randolph,coming
boldly to the rescue. "I never did anything
in that line myself, but in one glance 1 could
discern all that Miss Lemoine says."
"Thus robbing Miss Lemoine of her percep-
A GIRL'S VICTORY.
a
tive singularity," Leslie Interrupted, with a
very near approach to a sneer. "My poor
little picture withers under such a weight of
sarcasm. Miss Lemoine, may I ever hope to
see any of your works of art?"
"Oh, certainly!" Nora responded. "Opal
and 1 are often coming up here to paint, aren't
we, Opal?"
Opal laughed with entire self-possession,
turned the easel wall-wards, and replied :—
"Hardly up here, Norine. Great artists,
you know, require to be alone with their in-
spirations. When I recommence what Mr.
Laurence has dignified as my ' works of art,' I
am going to do so in perfect solitude."
"Set up on your own hook," put in Mark
Lindsay, who, being Mrs. Laurence's nephew,
felt intense enjoyment of his cousin's sublime
displeasure.
"Yes," answered Opal, wickedly aiding his
enjoyment, "set up on my own hook; and,
like the butcher's boy, find it a very uncom-
lortable seat. Please don't be shocked, Mr.
Laurence, but that struck me as being so funny
that I really had to quote it."
"And vulgarity is contagious," added Mark,
almost in ecstasies at the increase of gloomy
disgust depicted by the studio's proprietor.
"I wish painting was as contagious; but 1 'in
going to try it if it isn't. So, Miss Lemoine,
when you go out sketching, you must let me
carry the implements. Perhaps—oh, blessed
perhaps /—I may come in for a little second-hand
inspiration."
"Negative 'perhaps,' as far as I'm con-
cerned," laughed Miss Lemoine. "I hav'n't
enough of the divine afflatus myself to permit
any of it to depart in contagion. But if I ever
should reach that stage of artistic fervor, your
offer will be quite acceptable."
"You promise to accept It?" Mark ques-
tioned, eagerly, his boyish face dimpling into
smiles. "You promise, honest Injun?"
"What does 'honest Injun' mean, first?"
"Oh, the same as honor bright, you know,"
Mark explained, his eyes still wandering amus-
edly to Leslie's uplifted eyebrows. "Indians
are so uncertain, that when we mean certainty,
we say 'honest Injun.'"
"Well, I am uncertain, too: so I '11 say dis-
honest Injun."
"No," corrected her teacher. "In that case
you simply say Injun. It is quite sufficient as
a synonyme for unreliability."
Opal was leaning against the door by this
time, but she uplifted her face at that, and
looked with dancing eyes at her evidently uu-
admiring host.
"I am not acquainted with any Indians,"
she said, "so I '11 close the bargain by saying
'lawyer.' That will be quite a9 unreliable,
won't it?"
Then she opened the door and headed the
procession down stairs, feeling, with a ques-
tionable mixture of fear and pleasure, that she
had, to say the least of it, annoyed Leslie Lau-
rence, Esq.
"And I was awfully glad of it," Nora said,
when at length the two girls found themselves
alone. "Leslie has had his own way so much
and been made so much of by every one, that
he has become as arrogant as possible. Even
mamma and I have an unwholesome fear of
him, and he just seems to delight In it. It
would be a real pleasure to me to see him put
down, especially by a girl, for he always had
and has such a way of ignoring the girls."
"Perhaps he has been disappointed in love,
and that made him cynical. For I can't think
that he is such a prig as to merely affect wo-
man hating for ;the sake of its singularity,"
hazarded Opal: but Nora laughed, incredu-
lously.
"Leslie in love? Not the least danger of
that. In his high and mighty taste, he has
never seen a woman worthy the emotion, and
if he did, there is no fear that he would meet
with a disappointment. He is one of those
fortunate people that always seem to get
what he wants. Mamma says that even when
he was a baby, he had a way of making the
whole household, to say nothing of the uur-
sery, subservient to his will. And that faculty
seems to have followed him all his life. It is
simply that that has spoiled him, for honestly,
Opal, he is kind and loyal at the core."
"Yes, hut the core is so thickly crusted with
vanity and unthought-of weaknesses, that 1
doubt if anything ever will reach it. It would
be a victory, though, to remove some of the
outer coatings," Opal answered, thoughtfully;
adding, with the infallible honesty that was
one of her brightest traits, "He really is worth
the trouble for any one that would be clever
enough to accomplish it."
"Try it, Opal," Nora answered, looking up
with sudden Inspiration. "You can do almost
anything you like, and if you succeed in that
you will have my everlasting benediction. Of
course you know yourself that deference to
his opinions and coquettish amiability won't
answer the purpose, so just contradict him
whenever you feel like it, and don't be a bit
afraid of him."
Opal raised her eyebrows amusedly then, and
showed that she had no fear of him by contra-
dicting.him on three separate occasions that
evening. And Mr. Laurence forgot to be an-
noyed, in his surprise that any girl of nineteen
should be even partially versed in politics at
home and abroad, could be thoroughly ac-
quainted with Goethe, Schiller, and even Tasso
in the original, could be able to give reminis-
cences of the Franco-Prussian difficulties with
a lucidity that displayed a thorough knowledge
of political and national Intricacies, with a
graphic clearness that showed almost an inti-
macy with both countries; in the still greater
GODEY-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
surprise that, knowing these things, she should
seem to regard them almost as a matter of
course.
"You must have travelled extensively, Miss
Lemoine, or studied unusually hard to master
those points, usually so knotty in a lady's edu-
cation," he said, with grave curiosity, but Miss
Lemoine replied, with perfect nonchalance :—
"I have travelled a great deal, but 1 can
hardly be said to have studied hard. Being a
child, you see, and, therefore, an encumbrance,
I have been dropped by my aunt and sister at
all sorts of places. I was six months at school
in Halle, two in Vouvray, and nearly a year in
Paris. Then I stopped at Verona all one sum-
mer, and, by way of extreme, wintered in Lon-
don. So I couldn't help becoming intimate
with the German and French, and slightly
acquainted with the parlance of Italy. My
knowledge of geography has been forced upon
me by what was sometimes very weary travel,
and my knowledge of politics by being often
bored witli politicians' talk when we were visit-
ing Mr. Varndyke, who is himself a prominent
member in the House of Commons. 'A roll-
ing stone gathers no moss,' they say, but I've
been rolling all my life, and a little inoss has
adhered to me from every scene of my wander-
ings." ^
After that she got up from her seat and left
him, and had she been the wiliest of feminine
diplomatists, no course of action could have
stimulated his interest so well, no was accus-
tomed to attention from young ladies, to defer-
ential delight when he did condescend to talk
to them, but calm indifference, apparent disre-
gard when he began to display even a slight
amount of interest, was of itself an anomaly,
and as such he pursued it to the extent of be-
stowing more notice upon her, of talking to
her more frequently, and feeling, in a superior,
cool manner, half sorry for the unfaltering and
severe verdict he had passed so prematurely
upon her.
"There really Is more In her than I sup-
posed," he said to himself; and Opal, with un-
erring, womanly intuition, reading the thought,
pursued the even tenor of the way she had
chosen. Nora laughed maliciously at her
brother's newly-awakened interest, and Mrs.
Laurence acted motherly to an extent that
made Miss Lemoine's delicate cheeks flush with
nameless embarrassment. But all this time the
hero of this incomplete romance was flattering
himself that he was very condescending to be-
stow so much of his time and attention upon a
wayward school-girl, a precocious coquette.
Of course he had no personal interest in her,
other than the calm inquiry of a student of hu-
man nature, an anatomist of moral curiosities.
He felt— But alas! How can 1 attempt to
follow out the intricate fallacies of a masculine
course, of reasoning, the endless sophistry by
which the nobler mind persuades away a girl-
ish influence. We succumb to our fate at once,
waiting for happiness or firmly expecting dis-
appointment, but our lords and masters build
a fortification of pros and cons, environ them-
selves with logical or illogical reasoning, and
only yield up the ghost of their resistance when
the girlish face and presence become too strong
for the barricade.
As yet, however, Mr. Laurence's interest
had not reached this exciting point, and Mr.
Laurence himself was too thoroughly self-de-
ceived to suspect that he was even tending to-
wards it. But as snowflakes disappear before
the sunbeams of May, so self-deception was
sure to vanish in the unerring candor of Opal
Lemoine's voice and eyes, and at last, in spite
of his innumerable methods of self-preserva-
tion, Leslie Laurence learned the truth, and
his vanity received a terrible shock.
Nora proposed a drive that afternoon, with
an afterthought of equestrianism for Opal.
"For I know you like it," she said, "and it's
a shame not to give you more ample opportu-
nities for displaying all those riding lessons
you got in the Rue de Nicole, or some other
place. I'm not up in the French localities.
Cousin Mark, what are you going to do, come
with us in the carriage or ride with Opal?"
"Ride with Miss Lemoine, most emphati-
cally," Mr. Lindsay responded, with a boyish
blush suffusing his check and a shadow suffus-
ing the blush, as, to Nora's extreme surprise,
Mr. Laurence made interruption.
"Pardon me for upsetting the arrangement,
but by previous engagement I ride with Miss
Lemoine to-day. You 've come in at the elev-
enth hour, Mark."
"And have no need to regret It," Opal adds,
kindly. "I'm Inclined to think the shade of
the carriage preferable, to-day at least, to the
unprotected glare that is the portion of any
one on horseback."
But this latter, I fear, was not from the heart,
for when they were all fairly started she cast
no longing looks towards the carriage.
It was early September by this time, and the
air had all the delicious calm, the happy me-
dium of that best of months. On one side of
them rose the faintly-tinted foliage with occa-
sional glimpses of gray rocks half covered with
moss and scarlet lichen. Higher up a streak
of neutral-tinted hills pencilled against the
azure sky. To the left a gleaming sandy shore
and a wide bay lying blue and dimpled under
the summer sun.
Opal drew her breath quickly, gazed around
with girlish rapture, then turned on her escort
eyes that were a reflection of the sky. "Isn't
it glorious to live? If total annihilation were
to follow existence, wouldn't life still be an
Inexpressibly precious boon?"
ne smiled In his most superior manner, broke
off a spray of maple, and replied: "Hardly
precious without the hereafter. Life to me id
A GIRL'S VICTORY.
only glorious in proportion to the aim we live
for. A mere sensuist, that finds pleasure in
steeping liimself with the external beauties of
this world, can hardly understand life as a
glory. It is a pleasure, doubtless, but the
pleasure more nearly resembles dream-land
than real, earnest life. Idealism is beautiful,
but, it seems to my mind, never noble."
He stopped, as if for answer, and Opal,
switching her whip among the shrubs and
bushes on the rocks, looked up half wistfully.
"To what pitifully small dimensions you utili-
tarians red uce our substance,'' she said. "And
yet, after all, I 'm inclined to side with the sen-
snists. They love happiness for its own sake,
and will, therefore, do their best to disseminate
it. They love earth for the beauty they see,
and they love heaven for the beauty they dream
of; while you look upon happiness almost as
an ideal quality, and torture yourselves and
others by seeking for right in its ugliest and
most stringent forms. I acknowledge that the
strait and narrow path is rough and thorny,
but there must be roses strewn upon it as well,
and I see no sin in stooping to gather them."
"Nor do I, Miss Lemoine," he answered,
clutching the reins and speaking with that ac-
centuation of haughty irritation which some
men will always bestow upon a woman's at-
tempt to argue. "But in gathering the roses,
eternity's precious hours are fleeting surely and
quickly away, and by neglecting the thorns of
our present duty we are diminishing our hopes
of a future crown. Life is too stern a reality,
I think, to be clothed witli vernal and verbal
beauty, and gazed upon complacently. To find
a rightful duty is the mission of every human
being; but gathering roses, I fear, is not ranked
among the missions. I for one should greatly-
dread the effect were I to send in my final
bill with nothing more substantial under the
'amount of account rendered.'"
Miss Lemoine drew her bridle rein more
tightly, and when she spoke again the calm de-
cision of her voice was almost cutting. "Mr.
Laurence, have you ever heard of the man that
'strained at a gate and swallowed a saw-miU'f
Or have you ever read the literal application,
'strain at a gnat and swallow a camel'? I
don't wish to even merge upon impertinence,
but someway I 've been thinking of that lately
in connection with you. Honestly, it seems to
me that you have almost If not quite fallen
into the old Biblical error."
His haughty irritation was augmented to an
inexpressible degree, but he managed to say,
"And how, pray, Miss Lemoine?"
"By your blindness to self for one thing, Mr.
Laurence, by your persistent avoidance of
nameless mountains of social and domestic
charity, and your constant attacks upon mole-
kUlt that do not essentially require your assist-
ance. I know your thoughts are a volume of
contradiction, I know that you can tell me of
great public charities and benefits that you
have helped to institute, I know that in litera-
ture you have made a niche all your own, that
in your profession you have attained an honor-
able and an enviable place. And still it seems
to me that you are blind to the best interests
of a man's life. You are a stranger equally
to the pleasant conventionalities of home and
the sweet little courtesies of society. Tou in-
vest yourself with dignified reserve even to
your mother and sister. You make yourself
almost dreaded by their friends. You look
with calm contempt upon men who have been
less gifted than yourself, and you sneer satiri-
cally at girls who in all probability are doing
the best they can, according to the lights grant-
ed them. You have had few if any hard strug-
gles in your life, no temptations, and but little
trouble. You have made unto yourself an
Idol in the shape of a distorted ambition, ex-
plicable only to its originator, and instead of
being grateful for the blessings granted you,
Instead of showing your gratitude by kindly
Christian charity to your fellows, you spend
your precious time in contemplation of this
vague ambition, only taking the trouble occa-
sionally to bestow censure where you think it
necessary. Once, for Instance, the necessity
being a friendless school-girl who, never hav-
ing had a brother, envied her happier room-
mate to such a degree that she wrote you a
letter, and you rewarded her by allowing her
no medium between folly and forwardness."
The well-trained horses were finding the road
for themselves by this time; the bay lay be-
hind them, and the village, flecked brown and
white, opened before them, when Mr. Laurence
coldly, constrainedly began :—
"For that I really beg your pardon"—
But Opal interrupted him, very gently.
"Don't, please. In telling your short-com-
ings I forgot my own. It was bold and unwo-
manly for me to have written to you, and your
course of action was probably the kindest. I
did not intend to speak of it when I began,
but"—
She hesitated painfully, and he finished the
sentence.
"But you wished, like the counsel for the
State In a criminal court, to make out your case
In Its worst light. I thank you for your kind
intentions, Miss Lemoine, but I fail to appre-
ciate your philanthropy."
The words were spoken with hitter emphasis,
and Opal, glancing towards him, saw a white
shadow of wrath settle itself upon his face, a
throb of wounded pride convulse his mouth.
After that neither of them spoke until the
winding village street had been passed, until
the marble steps of Fernsleigh had been
reached, and then, as he lifted her from her
horse, Opal held out her hand and said :—
"My unfortunate candor has offended you,
Mr. Laurence, and I am so sorry."
74 G O DE Y'S LA. D. Y'S BOOK A ND MAGAZINE.
But the immutable self-complacency of
nearly thirty years could not be immediately
displaced by a girl's honest disapproval, and
without noticing the proffered hand, Mr. Lau-
rence replied, almost rudely:-
“There is hardly a necessity for sorrow, Miss
Lemoine. Truth is a jewel, and I ought to be
thankful to you for displaying it to me, consid-
ering that I myself am afflicted with mental
blindness.”
Then he raised his hat coolly, and Opal went
up the stairs with the uncomfortable conscious-
ness that her victory was questionable.
“I have gone through the crust, Nora,” she
said, that evening; “but I have wounded the
core so dreadfully that I shall never attempt
my rough surgery again. You used to tell me
1 had the knack of telling the truth pleasantly,
but I'm inclined to doubt it myself, and other
people seem to have the same incredulity.
Candor is an unfortunate characteristic, I am
beginning to think, for I really believe it is my
plain speaking that makes me so friendless.
Aunt Helen detested it, and Ada, my sister,
was always trying to snub me into conven-
tional discretion. You were the only one that
ever tolerated it, and do you know, Nora, I
often wonder at you.”
She glanced down in her friend's honest little
face, and Nora kissed away the mournfulness
of her mute inquiry.
“Opal, darling, you're a monomaniac on the
subject of your own faults. Don't think so in-
differently about yourself, for mercy's sake, or
you’ll drive me into a perfect torrent of com-
pliments. Anyway, you needn't be so down-
cast about Leslie's wounded vanity.”
But Miss Lemoine was downcast and slightly
disgusted, and the next day she became more
so, for Mr. Laurence avoided her persistently,
and spent the day partly in his own room,
partly in a solitary sail upon the bay.
“He was hardly worth so many words,” she
thought to herself, and then making a mighty
effort she laughed down Nora's unsisterly con-
tempt by saying, “Don’t mind his hatefulness,
Nora, child; we did our best for him, and he
didn't want our best. I gave Caesar his dues
and Caesar didn't thank me, so for the future
I’m going to keep my discernment to myself.
You're going to play croquet, aren't you? and
I am going to imitate Mr. Laurence's example,
by locking myself up here. I have a terrible
headache, so I'll mummy myself up with Co-
logne and peppermint oil until dinner time.
It's a judgment upon me, I think, for the in-
numerable times I have shammed at school, but
I'll be all right after I get a sleep.”
Just then Mrs. Laurence's inevitable “Nora!
Nora !” sounded in the hall, so, after drawing
the curtains and smoothing out the pillows,
after a liberal application of headache prevent-
ives, and endless warnings to be quiet and
tranquil, Nora answered the summons and
Opal was left alone. Alone to stare up at the
frescoed ceiling and seein every leaf and mould-
ing the distorted features of Leslie Laurence's
wrathful face, to toss her head restlessly on
the pillow and battle down a great disappoint-
ment that her hero should be so nearly clay, to
wonder mournfully why she had allowed her-
self to like him, to doze at last with his face
still indistinctly before her, while a vague
clangor of bells rang through her uneasy slum-
ber. They were funeral bells and she was dead.
Mr. Grenville, the grim old guardian, had come
from New York to attend her to the grave.
Ada and her aunt, in their robes de deuil were
sobbing beside her, and he was sitting white
and rigid, fighting with terribly vain regret for
the girl that had loved him. They were wed-
ding bells, and she was going to the altar the
happiest of brides, he had forgiven her, and
her faith was restored, she was—a hand was
laid suddenly upon her forehead, a sob, real
and audible this time, awoke her. She sat up
suddenly, and found Nora standing beside
her.
“O Opal, Leslie has been dreadfully hurt.”
A terrible pain shot through her heart, the
funeral bells tolled more loudly in her bewil-
dered brain as she almost screamed, “What
are you saying, Nora? Tell me!” Then list-
ened breathlessly to the hysterical reply.
“It was a fire you know, Opal. The hotel
was burnt, and after all the people had es-
caped, a woman found out that her little girl
was asleep in a bed-room on the third story.
The place was in flames then, and none of the
men dared to go up, until Leslie came along;
but when he heard her crying, he ascended the
ladder all by himself and saved the baby. He
gave it to one of the firemen, but as he was
coming down, the ladder broke, and he fell, cut-
ting his head badly and dislocating his shoul-
der. And now, oh, Opal, if he should die!”
She finished, as usual, with a burst of tears,
but before her story was completed Miss Le-
moine was out of the room and down the hall,
standing with clenched hands and white face
before Mrs. Laurence. “Oh, Mrs. Laurence,
I must see him l’’
And Mrs. Laurence, reading her story in her
eyes, answered gently. “Opal, dear, Nora has
been exciting you too much. Leslie isn't in
any real danger. He only requires attention
and perfect quiet.”
“But can't I see him, please?”
The kindly face took a shade of perplexity,
the gentle voice began an expostulatory “I’m
afraid”—when through the half-opened door
came an entreaty, “Say yes, mother, please.”
And in another moment Miss Lemoine was
standing in a darkened room, looking at an ex-
tended hand, and sobbing, “O Leslie, I can
never tell you how sorry-I am I"
In her heart of hearts she expected even then
an answer politely cool, but physical pain and
A PPE.A.R.A.W.O. E.S. 75
solitary meditations must have had a beneficial
effect, for he disappointed her expectations by
replying:—
“And I can never tell you how thankfull
am, for you have done me the best service of
my whole life. I needed you to show me what
a vain, egregious fellow I have been—what a
mistaken idea of greatness I held. Truly, in
this case “pride went before destruction, and a
haughty spirit before a fall;' but thank God
this isn't a death-bed repentance, and I mean
to turn over a new leaf. After that”— He
held the hand she had offered fast within her
own, uplifted the ineffable tenderness of his
eyes to her face, and continued. “After that,
Opal, I am going to give you the Finis of my
confessions; I am going to tell you what a
startling discovery I have made.”
Her breath was almost suppressed, the color
was mounting madly in her face, and madly in
her heart a nameless hope was beating.
“I hav'n't patience,” he said; “I can't wait.
Opal, when I am struggling along the rough
road of improvement, may I hope for the best
and dearest reward of merit? A reward that
you alone can bestow?”
And then he saw a sudden glory flash from her
eyes, a nameless radiance illumine her face, as
stooping down, she sealed her victory by an
almost inaudible whisper.
“O Leslie, the reward has been yours long
ago. Of course I know it was forward, but I
liked you always, even when I knew you held
me only in contempt.” -
Thus you see, my friends, my fate is still
upon me. With the reconciliation I am forced
into outer darkness. Gladness and sunshine
gleaming on the lives that have been thus far
followed, while to the hapless biographer with-
out, remains the cheerless task of closing down
the curtains and putting out the lights.
---
THOUGHTS OF SUMMER.
By M. E. C. al.
FAIN would I tell of sylvan charms,
Of music, soft and sweet:
But what more full of soft alarms
Than the birds in their green retreat,
Chirping their melodies low at my feet?
The greenwood boughs their roof-tree make,
To shelter them from the storms:
While resting on mossy banks they take
Their notes from the rosy morn,
Carolling soft to the peeping dawn.
And the sunrise tinting with purest gold
Each leaf and rocky glade,
With winning smiles their charms unfold,
Brightening the hues that round them made,
And hid the bluebells in its shade.
Then who would not love the summer days,
The flowers and babbling brooks:
The cool retreats and whispering lays
of the birds in their ferny nooks,
Coming nearer the heart than sermons or books?
APPEARANCES.
BY AGNES STRANGE.
“WHo can she be, pray?” said beautiful
Lelia Oakley, the acknowledged belle of Sara-
toga, as a modest-looking person in Quaker
gray took a seat on the opposite side of the
table at dinner in the spacious dining-room of
Hotel.
“A new arrival, I suppose; also the elder
lady at her side,” replied a young man at her
right. “I heard Mr. Bolling give orders in the
office to have two seats reserved at table No. 10
for two ladies.”
“By the way, what a sweet face she has,”
said Mr. Loyall, another of Lelia's admirers;
“such glorious eyes.”
“Glorious indeed l’’
“If all the glory you aspire to resembles those
eyes, I must say I am sorry for you,” returned
Lelia.
Now, Mr. Loyall had been whispered around
as being the greatest “catch” of the season,
and Lelia had a secret hope in her bosom that
she had very nearly caught him, so it was, of
course, not pleasant to hear such remarks from
his lips about any one, and especially one so
entirely opposite to herself in every respect;
and of course that plain-looking girl was, she
sneeringly thought.
Ah, there was as much difference as could be
between a spoiled, giddy, silly woman of the
world, whose every effort was to entangle some
new victim of the masculine sex in her snare,
only to laugh at their misery; and, on the
other hand, one of God’s noblest handiwork
seeking to improve her talents rather than
bury them; to adorn the soul and mind rather
than deck the body with baubles and jewels,
leaving the inside platter full of foul corrup-
tion.
For Florence Percy was a prodigy in spite of
her plain clothes, and all that had the courage
to make her acquaintance in them found her
sweet lovely Florence in a short time. Lelia
was not the only one that sneered at her ex-
pense. Florence even noticed herself some of
these, and overheard spiteful remarks also.
Not seeming to notice them, assuming a quiet
indifference, though harsh words from even
our inferiors often wound deeply, strive as we
may against them.
There is a great deal of sameness at even
the largest watering-places; the same round
of driving, walking, eating, drinking, dancing,
and wasting time, and Saratoga was no excep-
tion. Though to a stranger would be unac-
countable the extreme noise and excitement
previous to one of the grand balls that always
comes off during the season. A “Springs-
goer” would know at a glance that such was
anticipated.
The night was clear and balmy, and the
76
GODEY-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
sky had never looked so grand in its starry
illuminations, the Chinese lanterns outside,
and brilliant gas-jets in the ball-room main-
tained a rival hue to those of the firmament—
the ball-room a grand picture to behold.
* It would be difficult to decide who shall be
described or discussed first. Mrs. Lane, with
her fixed daughter, Miss Lula, who was quite
confident of making many conquests, and pro-
bably, if men were moths to be caught by glare,
she would have done so. Oh, the pleasure and
disappointment of such an evening I envy and
jealousy, what opportunity for such I There
was Miss Preston, very lovely in cameo silk
and pearls; little Maggie Davis, whose dress
was the least attraction, as was proved, as the
beaux finally cornered her; but they were for-
gotten when Lelia Oakley swept in covered
with Nile green silk and crepe, diamond coro-
net, hair powdered, etc., leaning on the arm
of an officer of quite distingue appearance.
"How grand!" "How regal!" whispered
many mammas without daughters, and others
would say why did not I fix Katie or Annie so.
But the greatest surprise was that Mr. Loyall
did not accompany her; some spiteful body
even remarked that if she was not engaged to
Mr. Loyall, her mamma should not allow her
to be seen so frequently with him. These
were the many remarks going on, when the
gentleman himself entered witli a sweet look-
ing sprite leaning on his arm, dressed in simple
white Swiss and daisies. Then the Olis! and
the Ahs! that were expressed, and Who can
she be? etc., with Mrs. Lane (who was amia-
ble, with a "not" preceding), who exclaimed,
"Well, I declare I if he is not introducing that
girl with those plain clothes on to my Luey.
What impudence 1"
The dancing commenced, and all went merry
as a marriage-bell; so-called plain Florence
would soon have been forgotten had not one
thing happened. The celebrated author, Mr.
C , was announced, and no sooner done
than he walked straight to Florence and gave
her a hearty home-shake of the hands, quite to
the horror of the whole crowd, as of course all
eyes were upon him. To use a very common-
place expression, no sooner was the ice broken
than Florence found herself surrounded not
only by the devotees of fashion, but the most
distinguished men of the literary world. Things
had thus far progressed when the "climax was
capped" by her being led to the parlor adjoin-
ing, where stood one of Stein way's grand pianos,
and was induced to sing. Oh, the sweet notes
that flooded the atmosphere, full of depth and
feeling and childish simplicity! Such notes
could not be easily forgotten by any one.
Those delightful cadences, which can only be
produced by the human voice, and which tarry
not in the air, but go straight down through
even "silks and laces" to the bottom of the
heart. But why linger thus o'er what can never
be fully expressed, for who has not felt "con-
cord of sweet sounds?" Many were the sur-
prises that such a plainly dressed girl possessed
a talent at all, and especially this one. But as
her voice rose higher and clearer in the soul-
lifting theme of Gounod's "Ave Marie," even
Lelia Oakley forgot her spiteful feelings to-
wards tlie girl in the gray dress, which had not
improved on seeing her in close conversation
with Mr. Loyall, and one and all joined in an
enthusiastic encore before the last strains died
away.
Oh, music, sweet music! under thy benign
influence the heart-strings which once vibrated
to evil passions are attuned to loftier, sweeter
strains, the key-note of which is love!
The next day found all stupid and drowsy
from the night's dissipation; but Florence,
with her aunt, that always accompanied her,
was many miles away. Lelia was not at break-
] fast, so did not miss her; but having dressed
I in a most becoming blue gros grain, with a
bunch of luscious tea-roses fastened gracefully
in her brown tresses, she had slipped down
from her room an hour before six, and made
herself comfortable, not forgetting the becom-
ing in a shady nook to enjoy a treat reading
"ClaribePs" last novel, which was Just from
the press. It was here that Mr. Loyall found
her, and in tears. He paused, hardly able to
withstand the beautiful picture on which he
gazed. What has more Impression on a man,
for the time, than the sight of a beautiful wo-
man weeping? This was truly wonderful for
Lelia, he thought, and he almost hesitated as
he advanced and s"aid :—
"Now, something dreadful must have hap-
pened, and you must not only excuse my in-
trusion, but make me 'father confessor,' will
you?" And bright blushes enveloped her face
as she looked up at him, at the same time
showing her book. "What are you reading?"
and he colored as lie glanced at the title. "I
suppose an account of some love-sick swain
jumping over a precipice, or perhaps blowing
his brains out, with his lady-love exulting that
he had made some use of them."
"Probably you will become so infatuated
with our' wonder' of last evening, Miss Percy,
and in a fit of desperation do some of these
ridiculous things, as I hear she is to be married
next month," looking at him reproachfully.
"But indeed it is nothing like that," she cried,
"but something so beautiful. How wonder-
ful," she continued, with a little pique in her
voice, "it is that cross-eyed, crabbed old maids
can write sucli glorious things; they surely
have never felt or experienced such. Were
people to see her books only, they would find
themselves in love in five minutes. Now,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Loyall, "I would, and, I
am almost afraid, with the person too; for
beautiful thoughts and noble ideas cannot fall
POETRY.
"i
t.> shine in a ligbt divine through the portals
of the soul ami -mind, the eyes—though not
read and interpreted by the many."
Lelia arose on the plea of preparing for tea,
and went to her room, disappointed and hor-
rified.
Deep were the impressions left by the fair
Florence on Ernest Loyall; indeed, so restless
was he after her departure that nothing inte-
rested him; he sighed to be refreshed with her
girlish manners, so free from the restraint of
society, and the large, lovely eyes, so full of
truth, and beauty, and intellect. Piqued in-
deed would Lelia have been had she known
how very seldom she ever entered his thoughts
now, for he had been very much struck with
her at first, until, with his keen perceptions,
her weaker traits were discerned. Truly had
a brighter star eclipsed her, a real star and not
a tinsel substitute. She was determined not to
relinquish him, however, and redoubled her
efforts, if that were possible.
How bitter was her vexation, on missing him
a few days after the ball, to learn that he had
left, not to return, at least this season; she bore
it bravely "for her," threw her angle for an-
other fish, and thus the season wore on; while
Ernest had followed up Florence, finding her
quiet retreat with a widowed aunt a few miles
in the country, and had taken rooms in the
little village of B near by, under the plea
of needing rest, which, from his frequent visits,
he must have found at the cottage; indeed, he
was no longer a stranger, but almost looked on
as one of the family.
Many months fled and found Ernest still in
his " haven of rest"—reading beneath the shade,
riding, or rambling over fields and meadows
with Florence as his companion—how much
more beautiful everything seemed to hiin than
ever before, and delightful the morning walks
that were once so boring, and now, collecting
for Florence to admire, the iris-hued wild-flow-
ers spangled with the morning dew, all spark-
ling like diamonds; ah, neither would he ex-
change for other climes and all Golconda's
gems this dream-land.
It was a cold wintry evening late in the win-
ter, that he was awakened by a business letter
calling him away at once. Sudden indeed was
the shock; he had been dreaming so long, fain
would he continue. Florence was very calm
and quiet when he came to say "good-by;"
little did he reck the tumult and heart-beats
that were keeping pace in the little bosom.
She had been wooed and won, but neither
knew it, for she acknowledged neither to him
nor herself. But when her eyes were raised,
those truthful eyes, they spoke all, and Ernest
r.-ail in them too eagerly that his love, though
yet unpoken, was returned. With her clasped
in bis parting embrace, words would seem hol-
low. Long they sat thus dreaming, happier in
that mute caress, that voiceless utterance, than
in the most passionate demonstration of at-
tachment. Before the parting word was said
she promised to be his bride in the early spring.
When Ernest next met Lelia exactly one
year had elapsed, and the scene was again at
Saratoga; she still unmarried and as radiant as
ever. She spied him at the ball-room door and
rushed to bring him in. "How delighted she
was to see him again,"she said, "and did hope
that he would not leave them so unceremoni-
ously as he did last season." He made some
little polite remark, saying that he would be
in by and by.
While in the middle of the lancers, Lelia saw
him make his appearance with a fairy-like
creature on his arm, whom she did not recog-
nize, though it was whispered throughout the
room " There 's 'Claribel,' the authoress," and
all eyes were on her. Lelia amongst the rest
rushed to see what such a person resembled,
still having cross-eyes and wigs in her mind.
How great was her surprise to recognize the
same plain-looking little girl she was so jealous
of the summer previous—not plainrlooking now,
for, though she cared nothing for it herself, she
dressed to suit and please her husband, whose
taste was unexceptionable. Lelia felt she
should surely die when Ernest introduced her
to herself and others as his wife. Great would
have been the confusion had not an old gen-
tleman present, that had heard the "whole
affair," shaken Ernest by the hand heartily,
saying, "You were a wise and fortunate fel-
low, my dear boy, in discovering, ere it was
too late, that often the brightest diamond is
encased in the plainest shell, and once in a
life-time in a 'gray dress.' May God bless
you I"
THE ARTIST'S DREAM.
BY E. L. JOI1NSOS.
Oncb I sat while the shades of the midsummer night
Threw a mystical tint o'er each shadowy dream,
That came like a phantom, an instant In sight,
And, llkeihopes that, grown in the morning's glad
light,
Sank away in the lethean stream.
All was moveless around me, and silent the seen
Save the cry of a whippoonvill far o'er the lea.
AH around and above me the blue sky serene.
And the starlight through tree-tops where leaves
were yet green,
In the calmness of fair Galilee.
And I said: "Be this calmness forevermore mine,
While the conflict of life wages on as It will.
Is the unbroken silence nepenthe divine.
There's no curse In its cup as there is in life's wine
Which we quaff at the foot of the hill!
"Ever here am I ruler, unquestioned my sway,
And I draw not my sword the green crown to
retain.
There Is harmony ever, through all the long day.
And forget and forswear me the busy world may.
But it finds not my refuge again!"
78
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
As I spoke there came, borne on the soft, summer air,
A low sound as of inusle that fell from on high.
While in silver-hued radiance, filmy and rare,
A heaven-sent being than angels more fair
Stood between me and yonder fair sky.
Oh, fairer far was she than words can e'er tell,
And her eyes, kindled bright from the pure, sinless
soul,
Looked in mine, bidding thoughts I had never known
swell,
Evermore in the halls of fond memory to dwell
Until reached is Oblivion's goal I
The smile, like the sunbeams of morning, that chase
The clouds and the shadows that darken the sky,
Lighted up like a halo the beautiful face,
That, combining the freshness of childhood with
grace,
Bade the moods of the dark dreamer fly.
While above the sweet forehead, the gem of the scene,
The wavy brown hair flowing freely behind,
Was the fairest of chaplets that mortal has seen—
Oh, treasured in memory its soft, silky sheen,
Till in heaven that being I flndj
Long enthralled by her beauty In silence I gazed,
No wild wave of passion In lightning heat stirred.
To a far higher piano all emotion was raised.
While no scene'from the past In my memory blazed,
And no wall of its discord was heard.
Thus I sat 'neath the mesmeric spell till I thought-
Shall I welcome again the lone solitude's shade.
When this being some angel of pity has wrought,
And leaving me only the false hopes it taught.
From my vision forever shall fade 1
Swift the pulse-beat upleaped as I drew to my side
The easel whose canvas awaited my hand.
No skill shall desert me, no hue be untried
Till each tint of thy beauty my brush has descried,
Till perfect thy image shall stand I
But e'en as my brush caught the outlines, I knew
'Ere the work was perfected the dream would be
gone:
Yet I hoped that from Instinct each touch would
prove true,
When, driving the stars from the kindling blue,
Should light my dim canvas the dawn.
Through the night watch I tolled with an unwbis-
pered prayer
That the picture I wrought might embody my
dream,
Until lo! as I gave the last touch to her hair.
The bright vision of purity faded In air
And was gone at the morning's first beam.
In sadness I gazed at the silent, blank space.
All forgotten, save her, till the broad daylight
came;
Then turned to my eas"l the features to trace;
It was there: the same smile lit the pure angel face,
It was and It was not the same!
J,ong years have rolled by since that midsummer
night
When I painted a dream that could ne'er be forgot,
Yet often in slumber is borne to my sight
The same angel form in its silvery light,
But waking I summon it not
Through the long nights In darkness and silence I
wait
Till the radiant stars in the blue heavens wave,
But no more will the dream the lone watcher elate.
It obeys, like all else, the curse of his fate.
And shall nevermore bless him again!
LOVE vs. PRIDE.
"Love me or no, love me or so,
I don't care a straw if he love me or no!"
The great brown eyes flashed haughtily at
their own reflection in the mirror, and the
sweet voice never faltered in its song. For
the moment Laurie Lee fancied she didn't care,
but the little hand was rather unsteady as she
pinned the wreath in her "bonny brown hair."
The room was full of merry girls putting the
finishing touches to their toilets, and there was
a soft murmur of girlish voices.
"Ready, Laurie?" and the beautiful young
hostess touched caressingly the dimpled shoul-
der of the girl addressed.
"All ready, mabclte," with a sweeping cour-
tesy.
The next words were in a whisper. "Harry
wants to see you a moment in the library, dar-
ling, before you go into the parlor."
The flush deepened on the rounded cheek as
she hastened through the laughing crowd and
down the broad stairway that led to the room
designated. But there was a slight pause be-
fore she opened the door, and when she did,
not a trace of anything but archness and mis-
chief was to be seen in her face.
A quick step near hers, and a pair of pleading
blue eyes looked down into the brown ones.
"Did Mamie give you my message, Laurie?"
"Mamie said you wished to see rae, Mr.
Thurston, and so I came." There was some-
thing coquettish even in the coldness of her
manner, but Harry only saw that the eyes
sought the floor and the dainty hand was not
placed in his as usual.
"Laurie, I must know what has caused this
change in your demeanor toward me in the last
few days. How have I offended you?"
"Offended me?" lightly. "I am not con-
scious of being offended with any one. How
do you like my dress, Mr. Thurston?"
"Come, Laurie—dear Laurie, you can't put
me off so," and he drew her arm within his
own. "You know I love you, and for that
reason you shun me"—
A merry laugh rang out through the silent
room—a laugh more rippling and joyous than
those grim old pictures and books had ever
heard before, and the dazzling eyes, all alight
with mischief, gave him one bewildering glance,
and then the little elf waltzed off gayly through
a side door in time to the music just then
commencing in the ball-room. But when she
reached her own room those eyes were brim-
ming with tears. "He shall not see it I" she
said. "Laurie Lee, have you no womanly
pride?"
An hour later there was no gayer dancer in
all the ball-room than our Laurie. In her airy
white tarletane over pink silk, looped with
LOVE V8. PRIDE.
79
roses, she was bewitching, and she knew it.
Her face was nut strictly a beautiful one, for
the features were irregular; but one didn't
think of that when in her presence. The
sparkling wit and brilliant conversational pow-
ers, together with her warm, generous disposi-
tion and bright joyousness of manner, made
her a general favorite. To-night she had a
smile for every one; and if it iea» rather bitter
when she saw Harry with the reigning belle of
the evening upon his arm, his handsome face
bent down to hers, did not her pride soon con-
quer it, and her next repartee call a smile from
all present?
"This set is ours, Miss Laurie," said hand-
some Captain Charlie Young, and Laurie took
his arm to promenade, glad to let the night air
bathe her flushed cheek. Just before them
were Harry and Miss Everett still absorbed in
conversation. "That's a settled thing, 1 sup-
pose,'' said Charlie, glancing at them, then
curiously at his companion.
"Is it?" she said, carelessly, but drawing her
opera cloak carelessly around her with a little
shiver. "A handsome couple, well-matched.
But what do you think of 'Vashti,' Captain
Young?" And then the gallant captain gave
his careful critique upon Miss Evans' last, of
which Laurie heard not one word.
Not until daylight did the crowd of young
folks gathered beneath Colonel Thurston's hos-
pitable roof disperse, and it was eleven A. M.
when the five girls at Magnolia gathered around
the breakfast-table. It was quite amusing to
observe the difference between the animated
beauties of the night before—New-Year's Eve
—and the sleepy-looking girls of the morning.
"Laurie, how do you manage to look so
blooming?" said Mamie, slyly pinching the
glowing cheek. Indeed, she did present a con-
trast to the others, and her bright morning robe
heightened the effect. The "bronze-brown"
hair fell in sunny waves over her shoulders
and down to her slender waist, and a crimson
geranium, with its green leaf, nestled at the
side of the well-shaped head.
"Ah, little one," said Colonel Thurston,
with whom Laurie was an especial pet, "Some-
body told me to give you this," and he slipped
a note beneath her plate. Only Mamie saw
the trembling fingers close over it and the look
of intense disappointment that clouded the
sweet face when the note was read.
"Harry was compelled to go to the city this
morning, young ladies, on business which
could not be postponed, and begged me to ex-
cuse his absence to you," said Mrs. Thurston,
her clear blue eyes studying Laurie as she
spoke. There was quite a chorus of regrets
from the other girls, but Laurie spoke not a
word. On the next morning she was to leave
Magnolia for her own home, and Harry had
gone without a word of farewell. She knew
he was gone, for from her window that morn-
ing she had seen him spring into his buggy,
with a wafted kiss for his mother, and the
words, "Don't look for me till Wednesday."
When she received the note she had thought
it was his farewell, but it was only a note from
Captain Young, asking her to ride with him
that evening. Hastily leaving the dining-room,
she caught up a warm shawl, and wrapping it
hastily around her shoulders, sped down the
avenue among the dark evergreens until she
reached an arbor at the bottom of the lawn.
Sinking upon a seat she buried her face in her
hands, and a storm of grief shook the slender
form. Little Laurie, love conquered then!
Harry Thurston had been Laurie's first love;
she had loved him from a mere child, and until
this visit she had thought he loved her—words
and actions both had told of his love. Three
years before, when she was just fifteen, they
had parted, and all through her boarding-
school life her heart had been true to him.
On the second night of her visit to Magnolia,
it was Mamie's birthnight ball, and tired with
very happiness, Laurie had slipped away from
the crowd, and In the low window of the draw-
ing-room dreamed, as girls will do, over words
and looks that made her heart bound again,
when suddenly a couple paused in front of her
retreat. Through the draping curtains she
heard the voice she loved best on earth in
pleading tones: "Annie, don't dash my hopes
to the ground again. Just say"—and the rest
of the sentence was lost in the dying strains of
the Strauss waltz; but clear and distinct Annie
Everett'sanswercameto Laurie. "Yes, Harry,
now and forever." Then they moved away.
'Twas but a little thing, but
"Trifles light as air ''
Are to the Jealous confirmation strong as proofs of
Holy Writ."
How she suffered during the next half hour
only her own heart knew; but soon she made
her appearance among the dancers, more bril-
liant than she had ever been. Like a very
fairy she flitted through the room, laughing
merrily at everything, talking politics with the
old men and flirting with the young men, as
she had never deigned to do before. When
Harry claimed her hand for the last set, she
bewildered the poor fellow with her saucy, co-
quettish ways, turning the tender words he
whispered into ridicule, and even allowing her
wit to degenerate into stinging sarcasm.
Everything since then had seemed to prove
to her that the man she had loved was but a
heartless flirt, trifling with her heart while his
own was plighted to another. And she bad
struggled with her love, treating Harry almost
disdainfully, shunning his presence whenever
it was possible. And now, when she had
thought her love dead, and pride had stood in
triumph over its trampled grave, it was in her
heart again struggling to be heard. When
Mamie came to search for her she found her
80
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
walking "for her health," she said, and sing-
ing—
"I care for nobody, nobody, oh!
And nobody cares for me.""
But the color had left her cheek and did not
return. And next morning she started home.
Mrs. Thurston took her in her arms when
they parted and whispered, with a good-by
kiss, "We had hoped to have you with us al-
ways, darling, but of course you know best."
And Laurie wondered all that dreary day, on
the cars, what she could mean.
"There was quite a jubilee over her arrival
among the little folks, for Laurie was elder sis-
ter to four, and her pale-faced mother smiled,
and said the sunshine had come back to the
house. So Laurie determined to fight out her
trouble alone and not let it mar their happiness.
And the months went by, and Laurie heard
nothing from Harry, save as he was mentioned
in Mamie's letters. In the early spring-time
came Laurie's Cousin Jack from Europe, with
his handsome face and fortune, and ere long
laid the last with his heart at Laurie's dainty
feet. She took no time for thought; she could
never love any one as she had loved, and she
was fond of Cousin Jack, and so Laurie said
"yes."
When King Frost was again touching the
leaves in the forest with his magic wand they
were to be married. Laurie never gave a
thought to her former love dreams—putting
away the remembrance of Harry as she would
a viper. But one evening, just a week before
her marriage, she was looking over her girlish
keepsakes and came across a little blue velvet
case. When opened, a little faded spray of
arbor-vit» fell out in her lap and a dainty scrap
of note-paper with it, disclosing the face of
Harry Thurston as she had first known him.
The deep blue eyes looked up into hers, and
the boyish mouth, unshaded by moustache,
seemed ready to syllable her name as of old.
Through blinding tears she gazed upon it, then
closed it firmly and placed it with other things
to be destroyed. On the paper was only writ-
ten "Tou jours fidele"—" Always faithful"—
whispered pride, "false in his slightest act."
Just then a servant tapped at the door. "A
gentleman in the parlor, Miss Laurie."
Thinking only of Cousin Jack, she bathed
her eyes, and, readjusting the pink ribbon that
bound her hair, she ran down the stairway.
Opening the door mechanically, she walked in
and stood face to face with Harry Thurston!
Laurie always prided herself on her nervous
system, but now she was only saved from fall-
ing by Harry's strong arm. Ere she could free
herself his lips met hers in a passionate kiss.
Springing away from him then, with "How
dare you, Mr. Thurston!" she turned to leave
the room.
"Laurie, you must hear me—I will not let
you go until you do," and he took her hand in
a gentle but firm grasp. Looking into his eyes,
hearing the winning voice again, she yielded
as of old. "Laurie, we must have done with
mistakes. I love you better than life itself,
and I believe that when you came to us last
winter you loved me. For some reason you
altered toward me. I would have found the
reason if urgent business had not called me
away just as you were leaving, and I should
have been here before this if the same busi-
ness—a lawsuit of importance—had not taken
me to New York, where I have been detained
until last week. I have written you twice, and
receiving not even the answer politeness would
have dictated, I determined never to write or
see you again. But when I came home and
Mamie told me of your approaching marriage,
love conquered pride, and I am here to demand
an answer. This is no time for backwardness,
Laurie. What did you hear or see that changed
your heart toward me?"
Impelled by the earnestness of his tone,
Laurie raised her eyes to his and said, in tones
trembling with emotion but full as earnest as
his own, "Harry, could you convince me that
you loved me and at the same time be pledged
to Miss Everett?"
"Laurie Lee! /pledged to Miss Everett! I
do not understand you."
Then, with eyes downcast again, she told
him of all she had heard that night in the bow-
window.
The clond passed from his face as she pro-
ceeded, and when she had finished, "Laurie,
darling, Annie Everett was engaged to my
best friend, but a misunderstanding had arisen
between them. It was hie cause I was plead-
ing tlvat night, not my own. They were mar-
ried last week. Now, little darling, come close
into my arms; look up into my eyes and tell
me that you believe me—believe that I have
never loved any one but my Laurie, and that I
love ber still," and as the brown head sank on
his shoulder, he whispered, "And that Laurie
loves me."
Do you wonder that in that first blissful mo-
ment Laurie forgot pride and Cousin Jack?
But she soon remembered him with a keen
pang of remorse, and started up with his name
on her lips.
"Cousin Jack knows it all, Laurie, said that
phlegmatic personage, stepping from the con-
', servatory into the parlor, "and considering
that Harry has a prior claim, yields his and re-
tires," and with a kiss on her cheek and a fer-
vent grasp of Harry's hand, the noble fellow
was gone.
What more can I say than that when Laurie
wore white satin and orange-flowers a week
later, Harry was bridegroom and Cousin Jack
groomsman, with golden - haired Mamie as
bridemaid? They were welcomed to Magnolia
with open arms.
Two months later Laurie received a letter
POETRY, ETC.
81
from that exceedingly absent-minded man, her
father, containing Harry's letters from New
York. "They had gotten among his business
papers somehow." And after Laurie had read
them she put them tenderly away with a cer-
tain little blue velvet case. There are no bet-
ter-friends than Annie and Laurie, but the
latter still shuns that bow-window. Rumor
says that Mamie likes Cousin Jack and pities
him very much, and that Cousin Jack is quite
willing to be consoled; but then Rumor says
so many things one cim't tell. Love €*. Pride,
dear reader, which gained the case.
DEATH AND SLUMBER.
(FKOM THE GERMAN OP KKUMMACUEB.)
In brotherly embrace walked the Angel of
bleep and the Angel of Death upon the earth.
It was evening. They laid themselves down
upon a hill not far from the dwelling of men.
A melancholy silence prevailed around, and
the chimes of the evening-bell in (he distant
hamlet ceased.
Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these
two beneficent Genii of the human race, their
arms entwined with cordial familiarity, and
soon the shades of night gathered around them.
Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his moss-
grown couch, and strewed with a gentle hand
the invisible grains of slumber. The evening
breeze wafted them to the quiet dwelling of
the tired husbandman, enfolding in sweet sleep
the inmates of the rural cottage—from the old
man upon the staff, down to the infant in the
cradle. The sick forgot their pain; the mourn-
ers their grief; the poor their care. All eyes
closed.
His task accomplished, the benevolent Angel
of Sleep laid himself again by the side of his
grave brother. "When Aurora awakes," ex-
claimed he, with innocent joy, "men praise me
as their friend and benefactor. Oh 1 what hap-
piness, unseen and secretly to confer such
benefits! How blessed are we to be the in-
visible messengers of the Good Spirit! How
beautiful is our silent calling!"
So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber.
The Angel of Death sat with still deeper
melancholy on his brow, and a tear, such as
mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes.
"Alas!" said he, "I may not, like thee, rejoice
in the cheerful thanks of mankind; they call
me npon the earth their enemy, and joy-killer!"
"Oh! my brother," replied the gentle Angel
of Slumber, "and will not the good man, at his
awaking, recognize in thee his friend and bene-
factor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy?
Are we not brothers, and ministers of one
Father?"
As he spake the eyes of the Death-Angel
beamed with pleasure, and again did the two
friendly Genii cordially embrace each other.
VOL. XCI.—6
THE SHELL ON TnE SHORE.
I had turned over the wet pebbles and the
damp weeds, and sought with naked feet
amongst the waves for some bright shell or
colored stone to carry home, but 1 could find
none. Tired out, I sat down on a pile of stones
to rest, and to watch the waves unroll them-
selves on the waiting sands. I heeded not the
tide, but let it go and come without notice.
After a longer interval than I dare tell, con-
sidering I was without boots or stockings, and
my coat damp with the spray of the last tide,
I woke up from my dreaming and renewed my
search for a prize, and sure enough there was
a shell glistening and gleaming, colored like
sunlit crystal, just dropped from the white
fingers of some daring wave. I did not hurry
to possess myself of it, but sat still admiring.
It was mine; I was sure I could reach it at any
moment with my stick; and who was near on
this lonely beach to pick it up ere I could get
it? Splash—splash, and up rolled a huge wave,
hissing and hurrying, rattling the stones, wet-
ting my feet—and the shell, where is it? I
looked around, I followed the receding water;
dripping sea-grass and creamy clots of froth
on ly remained to meet me; the shel 1—the beau-
tiful shell was gone. Old Neptune had altered
his mind and got back his pearl. A little loss
this, but uttering a lofty lesson, never to lose
an opportunity of taking every gift of mercy
or usefulness the tide of time may bring us; if
unused—neglected—the wave that brought it
will soon take it away.
THE SUMMONS.
BY ETHEL GBAT.
All in the summer gloaming
The Bridegroom came to me j
No fear was In my heart.
And I never thought to flee.
For In that radiant presence
How could I be afraid,
When on mv head so gently
His holy hand He laid?
"Thy faith hath saved thee, maiden,'
The words were low and sweet;
I knelt before the Master,
And I stooped to kiss His feet.
When a radiance shone around me,
And my dazzled eyes grew blind,
For a pathway lay before me.
And the Way I now could find.
Though now I know for certain
That my eyes shall never see
'Another summer gloaming.
Yet my heart Is light and free.
For in that sweet June twilight
The Master came for me;
He tarried at my doorway,
And tbe Path I now can see.
A good maxim is never out of season.
82
GODET-8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
WORK DEPARTMENT.
WHATNOT OR WALL POCKET.
The foundation of this pocket is made of
mill board. A plain piece is required for the
back, half an oval for the bottom, measuring
1 lie same length as the plain piece, and another
plain straight piece the same length as this
F1«.L
natural colors of the flowers. The edge of the
colored satin is embroidered in sprays of gold-
feather stitch, and the same are carried on to
the sides of the satin. Tassels of green che-
nille and bows of green ribbon finish the
whatnot.
oval and the width of the back; these must all
be covered with silk, and joined together in
the shape. The inside of the pocket should be
quilted. The valance in the front of the box
is of green satin or cloth; in the centre of this
a medallion of white satin is appiique, on which
is worked a design given the full size in the
CROCHET SHAWL IX SHETLAND
WOOL.
Eight ounces of fine Shetland wool, and
ivory crochet needle No. 6 are required. Make
a chain of 8 stitches, and unite it. 1st round.
Make 3 chain, work 1 long stitch into the cir-
cle, * make 1 chain, work 2 long stitches into
WORK DEPARTMENT.
83
the same place; repeat from * 6 times. 2d.
Hake 2 chain, work into the hole below the 1
chain in last round 2 long stitches, make 1 chain,
•work 2 more long stitches into the same place;
repeat this into each hole of 1 chain, and into
the 3 chain at the beginning of this round. 3d.
Work into the first 1 chain, in the same way as
last round; work into the next 2 long stitches,
make 1 chain, work two more long stitches into
the same place; repeat from the beginning of
the round. 5th. Work into the first and second
1 chain, as in last round, then work into the
hole after the next 2 long stitches, to form the
corner; work 2 long stitches, make 1 chain, 2
more long stitches; make 1 chain, work 2 more
long stitches; » repeat as before into each of
the next 3 holes of 4 chain; repeat the corner,
and then repeat from * twice; repeat the plain
round and the one with the increasings for the
corners alternately, always making the corner
come over those last worked, but of course
having more plain stitches between, till the
shawl is the size required, except the border.
EMBROIDERED TRAVELLING-BAG.
Oru fair readers will find the embroidered
bag here represented easily and quickly done,
and extremely effective. The stitches required
are satin stitch (slanting), overcast stitch, and
point russe. The material used is split black
filoselle on a ground of gray canvas. The
effect aimed at is that of a delicate feather
painting.
EMBROIDERED UMBRELLA-CASE.
(See Plate Printed in Blue in Front of Book.)
Umbrella-case of gray canvas, embroid-
ered with split black filoselle. Straps of pale
fawn-colored leather and steel buckles are ar-
ranged as shown in the illustration.
EMBROIDERED DESIGNS FOR DESSERT
D'OYLEYS.
(See Plate Printed in Blue in Front of Book.)
We give some charming designs for the cor-
ners of napkins for dessert-plates. The groups
of fruit and leaves are embroidered on a ground
of gray damask with scarlet marking cotton,
in overcast stitch.
ORNAMENTAL NEEDLE-BOOK.
Kg. L
The needle-book consists of a square cushion
framed in black polished cane and lined with
FIk. 2.
card-board. Fig. 2 gives in its original size,
the design for the embroidery on the cushion.
84
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
The ground is of white cloth, Vandyked around
the edges, and embroidered with different col-
ored purse silks in satin and overcast stitch.
Bows and loops of bright blue satin ribbon.
TO MAKE A BEAD CHAIN.
The materials required are some fine black
purse silk, a quantity of small, smooth black
beads, a thick knitting needle or netting mesh,
provided it is round; a round of stiff card-
board, five inches in diameter, with a hole cut
in the middle, and the outer edge cut into from
nine to twelve scallops, according to the thick-
ness of chain required; nine to twelve penny
pieces, an empty cotton reel, a jam pot, and a
great deal of patience. Cut the purse silk into
nine to twelve lengths, each rather longer than
you wish the chain to be—say two yards—and
thread a great many beads on each; wrap each
around each of the penny pieces, leaving a
another knitting pin. When you have gono
around every strand push another bead up
along each, and twist the silk on the reel as
before. After about five or six rounds put the
thick knitting pin into the hollow core and
work around it, so as to make the chain all of
one uniform thickness, sliding the needle up as
the work progresses, so as never to allow it to
toucli the bottom of the jam pot. When enough
has been done for the length of the chain it
may either have a snap fastened to it or a
swivel, or a ring slipped on, the knot undone,
and each strand run separately and neatly
through the part of the chain last made, and
the other ends through the part first made to
make it completely round and hide the join.
EMBROIDERED NEEDLE-BOOK.
TRiASOULAR-SHArED needle-book of black
velvet embroidered with different-colored purse
quarter of a yard out, with the beads at the
outer end, and tie them up in bits of muslin.
Wind one whole skein of the silk on the reel,
and make a good notch in it. Tie all the ends
of silk together, including that on the reel, into
a firm knot, and put the knot through the hole
in the centre of the card-board. The hole
should be three-eighths or half an inch in dia-
meter. Run a long needle underneath between
the knot and the card-board, and place the
whole over the mouth of the jam pot. Unwind
as much silk off each of the pennies as will
allow them to hang over the side of the card-
board, each in the nick of its own scallop,
and push one bead on each up towards the
large centre knot. Then take the reel, and
give the silk on it a twist around each of the
silk strands, and push the twists up close to the
beads in the centre with the eye of a needle or
silks in satin and overcast stitch. The book is
then bound with narrow black ribbon, and fit-
ted inside with leaves of flannel, vandyked at
the edges, and with straps to hold a needle-
case at the back. The book is fastened with
narrow black ribbon strings.
LETTERS FOR MARKING,
WORE DEPARTMENT.
86
JEWEL CASE.
This small box ia for the dressing-table.
The framework is bamboo, gilt and tipped
Fig. a-DetaiL
with mother-of-pearl. The top, sides, and
front must be cut out in black satiin of a strong
Fig. 2.-Detall.
silks of the colors of the flowers. The various
pieces are mounted on card-board, and placed
Fig. 4.—DeUfL
quality, and the lilies are embroidered in satin
stitch, the leaves and stalks in chain stitch with
in their respective positions,
lined.
The inside is
TO VARNISIT DRAWINGS AND CARD
WORK.
Boil some clenr parchment cuttings in water,
in a glazed pipkin, till they produce a very clear
size. Strain it and keep it for use. Give the
work two coats of the size, passing the brush
quickly over the work, not to disturb the colors.
8C
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
[ercipis, Kit.
MISCELLANEOUS COOKING.
Lobster Soup.—Pick out all the meat from a lob-
ster, pound it In a mortar with an equal quantity of
butter until a One orange-colored pulp is obtained;
to this add pepper, salt, and grated nutmeg to taste.
Take as much bread-crums as there is lobster pulp,
soak them In stock, then melt a piece of butter in a
saucepan, amalgamate with it a heaped tablespoon-
ful of flour; mix tiie lobster pulp with the bread-
crums, and put both iuto the saucepan, stir well, and
add more stock until a puree is obtained, rather thin-
ner in consistency than the soup should be. Put the
saucepan on the Are, stirring the contents until they
thicken and boll; draw it then on one side, and care-
fully skim off superfluous fat, then strain the soup
through a hair sieve, make It boiling hot, and serve
with small dice of bread fried in butter.
Carrot Soup.—Boll some carrots in salted water;
when thoroughly done, drain them and pass them
through a hair sieve; mix the pulp thus obtained
. with as much stock as will make it of the desired
consistency; add pepper and salt, and a pinch of
sugar. Having melted about an ounce of butter,
mix with it a tablespoouful of flour, then gradually
add the carrot puree; let it come to the boll, skim
off superfluous fat, and serve with dice of bread fried
in butter.
Stewed Beef.—Tut a piece of beef (five pounds) into
a stewpan with three pints of cold water, two carrots,
and two large onions quartered: stew all together
gently for five or six hours. The next day take off
all the fat, cut up and fry two middling-sized onions
in fresh butter, and add them to the stew, thicken
with a spoonful of flour, add salt and pepper to taste.
Heat all together and serve. This is a well-tried
receipt.
Vegetable Marrow.—Pare off the outer skin, cut the
marrow into dice, and take out the seeds. Scrape
some fat bacon, put it into a stewpan with a few
small onions, and a little parsley chopped. Cover
the stewpan and fry gently from five to ten minutes.
Thicken with a spoonful of flour, add some broth to
make it about the consistency of cream. Season
with pepper and salt, replace the cover, and stir
gently till tender. A few mushrooms chopped may
be added.
Forcemeat—Pound to a paste In a mortar slightly
rubbed with garlic, equal parts of veal and fat ham
or bacon, then pass them through a wire sieve, and
return them to the mortar. Work into the paste
thus obtained a fourth of its bulk of butter, and
about the same quantity of bread-crums, soaked in
milk or In stock, with the yelks of one or more eggs
according to quantity. Add some minced parsley,
and, according to taste, pepper, salt, spices, and
powdered sweet herbs.
Veal Pie.—Cut the veal into square pieces, and put
a layer of them at the bottom of a pie-dish. Sprinkle
over them a portion of minced savory herbs, a little
spice, lemon-peel finely chopped, and some yelk of
egg hard boiled, then a layer of ham cut thin. Pro-
ceed in this manner until the pie-dish is full. Lay a
puff-paste on the edge of the dish, and pour in half a
pint of water; then cover with crust, ornament with
leaves, brush over with the yelk of an egg, and bake
In a well-heated oven for one hour to one hour and
a half—longer If the pie be very large. When you
take It from the oven, pour In at the top, by means
of a funnel, holt a pint of strong gravy. This should
be made sufficiently good that when cold it may be
cut in a Arm Jelly. This pie may be very much en-
riched by tho addition of mushrooms, oysters, or
sweetbreads.
Peat Stewed in Butter.—Put a quart of peas, two
onions sliced, a lettuce washed and sliced, a little
mint chopped fine, salt, pepper, and a quarter pound
of butter, Into a stewpan; stew gently for two hours;
Just before serving stir In the yelk of an egg beaten
up with a little milk.
Salad Dressing-—Mash the yelksof two hard-boiled
eggs with a silver fork, add one teaspoonful of salt,
two of mustard, quarter of white pepper, and a little
Cayenne; add by degrees three tablespoonfuls of
cream or sweet oil, one tablespoouful of tarragon,
and one of plain vinegar; stir till quite smooth.
Stewed Sweetbread.—Soak some sweetbreads In
warm water till quite white, blanch In boiling water,
and then put them In cold water again for a short
time. Stew for half an hour in half pint of well-fla-
vored white stock, and a small piece of butter. Beat
up the yelks of two or three eggs with some cream,
a little finely-minced parsley and grated nutmeg, add
this to the gravy, warm It, stirring all the time. Dish
the sweetbreads with some nicely boiled asparagus
heads, French beans, or peas. Pour the sauce over
and serve.
Lobster Salad.—Boil four eggs hard; when quite
cold carefully remove the yelks, beat them with a
fork, with two teaspoonfuls of mustard,fene of salt,
one of pepper, and a little Cayenne; mix well to-
gether, add four dessertspoonfuls of vinegar and one
of lemon pickle. When quite smooth add the spawn
of the fish and half a pint of cream. Cut up the
boiled fish in small pieces, and with an onion nicely
minced stir them into the sauce. Place the lettuce,
cress, etc., upon the lobster, garnish with beet-root
and slices of whites of egg.
Sardine Salad.—Take some sardines from a tin,
wipe them slightly, bone and divide them into small
pieces. Cut up some nicely washed lettuce, cress,
etc., lay them In a salad bowl with the sardines and
some chopped capers. Boil two eggs hard, mash the
yelks, with salt, pepper, mustard, and Cayenne; add
gradually three tablespoonfuls of fresh oil and two
of lemon-Juice, stir well; pour It over tho salad, gar-
nish with slices of lemon and pickled capsicums.
HOME-MADE WINES.
When sugar Is cheap and fruit plentiful, household
wines may be added to the store of home comforts
as easily as preserves. These wines are useful in
many kinds of cookery, and may be made by fami-
lies who have gardens, at a comparatively small cost.
They should be thoroughly fermented, and never be
used till they are more than a year old. The sub-
stances essential to vinous fermentation are—sitgar,
vegetable extract, the tartaric or malic acids, and
water. Sugar Is the most essential of these, as from
its decomposition alcohol Is derived. The most sac-
charine Juices, therefore, produce the strongest wine;
hence the necessity of adding sugar to all fruit in
which the tartaric acid predominates. The use of
brandy is quite unnecessary, If the wine is properly
fermented, and It keeps sound much better without
It. Yeast also should never bo used In wine made of
fresh fruit, as. If the proportions are properly ad-
Justed, the fruit will ferment of itself.
Ripe Grape Wine.—Grape wine is the finest of
all home-made wines. In a plentiful year, fifteen
pounds of grapes, or even twenty pounds should be
used to each gallon of water. They should be picked
from the stalks, and slightly broken with the hand;
RECEIPTS.
87
let them stand for three days, when press them;
draw off the liquor and wash any remaining flavor
from the husks. Add two pounds of good sugar to
each gallon of the Juice and water, and draw it off
into a cask to ferment: examine it carefully once a
week, and when the fermentation has nearly sub-
sided, rack it off; if It lias been reduced, put into the
cask one pouud of sugar candy, bung it down, and
let It stand fifteen months before it is bottled. Very
superior wine is made from the pure Juice of ripe
grapes, with from one to two pounds of sugar, and
one of crude tartar to each gallon.
lb Make Seven Gallons 0/ Good Grape Wine.—
Take four and a half gallons of water, and five gal-
lons of ripe grapes; crush the fruit, and soak it iu
the water for a week; then add eighteen pounds of
good loaf-sugar, ferment, aud put into a seven gal-
lon cask. Wine made as above may be kept good
for ten years.
Currant Wine.—Gather the currants when dry,
extract the Juice, either by mashing and pressing
the fruit, or putting it in a Jar, placed in boiling
water; strain the Juice, and for every gallon allow
one gallon of water and three pounds of sugar. Dis-
solve the sugar in the water, and take off the scum;
let it cool, add it to the currant-Juice, and put the
mixture in a keg, but do not close it tightly till it lias
ceased fermenting, which will not be under a week.
In three or four weeks it may be bottled. The white
of an egg beaten, mixed with a teaspoonful of cream
of tartar, and stirred iuto the liquid, make3 the wine
look clear and bright.
Or: To every three pints of fruit, carefully cleared
from any that Is mouldy or bad, put one quart of
water; bruise the former. In twenty-four hours
strain the liquor, and put to every quart one pound
of sugar. If for white currants use lump-sugar. It
is best to put the fruit, etc., in a large pan; and
when in three>or four days the scum rises, take that
off before the liquor is put into the barrel. Those
who make from their own gardens may not have
sufficient to fill the barrel at once; the wine will not
be hurt if made in the pan in the above proportions,
and added as the fruit ripens, and can be gathered
lu dry weather. Keep an account of what is put in
eai'li time.
French Currant Wine.—Dissolve eight pounds of
honey In fifteen gallons of boiling water; to which,
when clarified, add the Juice of eight pounds of red
or white currants. Then ferment for twenty-four
hours, to every two gallons add two pounds of sugar,
and clarify with whites of eggs.
French Blackberry Wine.—Boil together five gal-
lons of ripe blackberries, seven pounds of honey, and
six gallons of water; strain, and leave the liquor to
ferment: then boll It again, and put it into a cask to
ferment.
Elder Wine.—To every gallon of picked ripe ber-
ries, allow one gallon of water, and let them stand
twenty-four hours, often stirring them; then put
them Into a copper, and boil well for half an hour,
when draw the whole off, and strain it through a
sieve; put the juice into a copper a second time, and
to each gallon add three and a half pounds of moist
sugar; boil It for half an hour, and, within the last
five minutes, add, tied in muslin, bruised ginger and
allspice, of each four ounces to every ten gallons;
then take out the sploe, and, when cool, set the must
to work, with some good yeast upon toast. When
It ceases to ferment put It into a cask, bung down
closely, let It stand three or four months, and bottle
It, though it may remain In the wood if more conve-
nient. The addition of a few damsons, sloes, or any
rough plum, to the elder-berries, will give this wine
the roughness of port. It will likewise be improved
by the addition of crude tartar, before the wine is
set to ferment A superior elder wine may be made
by using. Instead of moist sugar, four pounds of loat-
sugar to ever gallon of mixed Juice and water.
Rich Raspberry Wine.—Bruise the finest ripe rasp-
berries with the back of a spoon; strain them through
a flannel bag into a stone jar; allow one pound of
fine powdered loaf-sugar to one quart of juice; stir
these well together and cover the Jar closely; let It
stand three days, stirring the mixture up every day.
Then pour off the clear liquid aud put two quarts of
sherry to each quart of juice or liquid. Bottle it off
and it will be fit for use in a fortnight By adding
Cognac brandy instead of sherry, the mixture will
be raspberry brandy.
CAUTIONS WHEN IN DANGER OF BEING
DROWNED.
As soon as you find yourself at the surface of the
water, whither you are raised by your buoyancy, let
your body quickly take its level, when the water will
reach a little above your chin. Place one leg a little
forward, and the other a little backward, and stretch
out your arms on either side under the water; by a
slight paddling motion you may regulate the posi-
tion of the head, and keep the mouth and nose above
the surface of the surrounding fluid. Make no efforts,
but wait tranquilly until succor arrives. Yon cannot
sink. Do not lay hold of your companion or assist-
ant, or you will Infallibly sink him without benefiting
yourself. The best swimmer has no more natural
bufcyancy than you, and would be sunk by the exer-
tiou of very little force. Remain perfectly passive
until your helper seize you by the hair; upon this,
endeavor to second his efforts by throwing yourself
on your back. Hold your neck stiff, and let your
hind head sink into the water. Try to propel your-
self at this stage by regularly and slowly kicking
against the water. Be careful to keep every part of
your body except your face under water. If two or
more persons are immersed togethor, let them keep
near to each other. By this means, one boat may
save the whole party at once; but If they are dis-
persed, one at a time only can be picked up.
CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC.
Breakfast Cake.—Tat Into a quart of floor four
ounces of butter, and if you use new milk put In
three large spoonfuls of yeast; make it into biscuits,
and priek them with a fork. If you have sour milk,
omit the yeast, and put a teaspoonful of pearlash In
the sour milk; pour It while effervescing into the
flour. These biscuits are less likely to injure the
health than If raised with yeast
Belvldere Cakes.—Take a quart of flour, four eggs,
a piece of butter the size of an egg, a piece of lard
the same size; mix the butter and lard well in the
flour; beat the eggs light in a pint bowl, and fill It
up with cold milk; then pour It gradually into the
flour, add a teaspoonful of salt, work it for eight or
ten minutes only, cut the dough with a knife the size
you wish it; roll them Into cakes about the size of a
breakfast-plate, and bake in a quick oven.
Laplands.—Beat separately the whites and yelks
of live eggs, add one pint of rich cream and one
pint of flour, or perhaps a little more—enough to
make It the consistency of pound-cake. Bake It in
small round tins in a quick oven.
A Galeae.—The galette Is a favorite cake In
France, and may bo made rich, and comparatively
delicate, or quite common, by using more or less
butter for it, aud by augmenting oc diminishing the.
88
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
size. Work lightly three-quarters of a pound o(
good butter into one pound of flour, add a large
saltspoonful of salt, and make these into a paste
with the yelks of a couple of eggs mixed with a small
cup of good cream, should it be at hand; if not, with
water; roll this into a complete round, three-quar-
ters of an Inch thick; score it in small diamonds,
brush yelk of egg over the top, and bake the galette
for about half an hour in a tolerably brisk oven; it
is usually eaten hot, but is served cold also. One
ounce of sifted sugar is sometimes added to it.
Muffins.—Take one pint of new milk, one pint of
hot water, four lumps of sugar, one egg, half a pint
of good brisk yeast, and flour enough to make the
mixture quite as thick as pound-cake. Let it rise
well; bake in hoops on a griddle.
Indian Meal Cake for Breakfast—Pour enough
boiling water on a pint of corn meal to make a still
dough; dissolve in a little hot water half a teaspoon-
fui of saleratus, and stir it in the meal, with one
teaspoonful of salt, two eggs well beaten, and a
tablespoonful of butter. Stir the materials well to-
gether, and bake it in buttered tin pans for half an
hour in a quick oven. Serve it hot.
Diet Bread.—To half a pound of sifted sugar put
four eggs, beat them together for an honr, then add
quarter of a pound of flour dried and sifted, with the
juice of half a lemon and the grated rind of a whole
one. Bake in a slow oven.
Spanish Buns.—Take one pound of fine flour, rub
Into it half a pound of butter, add half a pound of
sugar, the same of currants, a little nutmeg, mace,
and cinnamon; mix it with five eggs well bearen;
make this up into small buns, and bake them on tl ns
twenty minutes; when half done, brush them over
with a little hot milk.
Light Pudding.—Tut two tablespoonfuls of sago,
tapioca, or rice in a pie dish, pour over a pint or a
pint and a half, of milk; add one and a half table-
spoonfuls of sugar, a little grated nutmeg if liked;
bake two hours in a slow oven; if rice is used, bake
three hours.
A Cold Pudding.—Stew some red currants and
raspberries or black currants with sugar till tho-
roughly done, pour off all the juice, and put the fruit
while hot into a pudding basin, which has been pre-
viously lined with slices of bread made to fit exactly.
Fill the basin up with the fruit, and cover it over
with a slice of bread; let it stand till quite cold, with
a plate on it. Boil up the juice which was poured
off, with a little more sugar, and let that get cold.
When served, the pudding must be turned out on a
dish, and the juice poured all over it so as to color
the bread thoroughly. Some cream is a great im-
provement to this pudding.
iSponge- Cake.—One pound of loaf-sugar, three-quar-
ters of a pound of flour, quarter pint of water, seven
eggs, leaving out two whites, and the rind of a lemon.
Put the sugar, water, and lemon-rind Into a sauce-
pan, boll them together gently until the sugar is dis-
solved, take out the lemon-peel, let the mixture stand
about two minutes before pouring it upon the eggs,
stirring them quickly at the time. Whisk briskly
for twenty minutes, and then stir in the flour; it Is
better to rub it through a sieve. Put into a quick
oven without delay. This quantity is sufficient for
two large cakes.
DRINKS FOR INVALIDS.
Black Currant Jam Water.—Fat two tablespoon-
fuls of the jam, with a pint of water, into a perfectly
bright tin saucepan, and allow them to simmer for
half an hour; strain it, and It for a cold take it as
hot as possible. When required to allay thirst, the
drink will be given cold. In eases of sore throat a
ublespoonful more Jam will be used. This method
of making jam water is better and more economical
than merely pouring boiling water on the jam.
toast Water.—This simple and useful beverage,
like many other simple things, is too frequently very
badly made, and has acquired an evil reputation
from the crams of charcoal-like character, or little
sodden morsels of bread, which too often are found
floating on the surface. To remedy these defects,
take care that the crusts from which toast water is
to bo made shall be only a nice deep brown, never
allowed to catch Are or blacken in the toasting, and
allow them to grow quite cold before Immersing
them In nice, fresh-filtered water. Whenever from
any cause there are morsels of bread floating on the
water, strain it through muslin. The drink should
be made an hour before it is wanted, and never be
used after standing twelve hours. Servo it in a
water bottle of clear glass.
Bice Water.—Wash two ounces of best rice and
boll It fast for half an hour in a quart of water.
Any flavoring may be added, or a small piece of
stick cinnamon or shred lemon peel may be boiled
with the rice, and sugar used according to circum-
stances. Lemonade made with rice water when
cold is very nice and refreshing.
Gum Arabic Water.—Put into an earthenware jar
an ounce of the finest picked gum with two ounces
of sugar candy and a pint of water, set it in a sauce-
pan of water, and stir occasionally until dissolved.
This is very useful as a night drink for hectic cough,
and will allay the tickling of the throat. It should
be kept as hot as possible. The little French porce-
lain veilleuse is best adapted for this purpose.
Linseed no,—Boil gently for two hours two ounces
of linseed in a pint and a half of water with a little
lemon peel shred finely and an ounce of barley
sugar. Strain, and add enough lemon Juice to make
it agreeable. This is useful for a cough, and should
be taken warm. Spanish liquorice may, if liked, be
boiled with the linseed.
Egg Drinks.—-These are most useful, and may be
made in almost endless variety. Beaten up with
milk or cream, with wine or brandy, in'tea and cof-
fee, as a substitute for milk, eggs are equally useful.
It is difficult to use the white of an egg for hot
drinks, as it Is apt to curdle. This difficulty Is,
however, diminished by beating white and yelk
separately, the former to a strong froth. For tea or
coffee, beat up the yelk of an egg with a little sifted
sugar, and a spoonful or two of milk or cream.
Pour the tea from the pot on to it, stirring with one
hand, and pouring in the liquid with the other. If
the white of the egg is used, stir it briskly into the
tea. Proceed in the same manner for hot wine or
spirit drink. For any cold beverage the white of an
egg can be beaten up with the yelk, a little sugar
added, and the liquid gradually mixed with the egg.
Thick Milk,—Beat up a new-laid egg, pour on it
half a pint of boiling milk sweetened to taste, and
flavored with lemon peel, nutmeg, or vanilla. Serve
cold in a glass.
Receipt for Parsnip Wine.—Clean the parsnips
well; to every gallon of water put three pounds of
parsnips; boll them till very tender, then strain
them, and to every gallon of liquor add three pounds
of moist sugar; boil it a quarter of an hour. When
cold, work it in a tub with yeast, spread over it toast-
ed bread and let It stand all night; when it has done
working put it in the barrel, but do not bung it till it
has done hissing.
EDITORS' TABLE.
89
■ fcritnrs' labl*.
ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHY.
The system, or rather the utter lack of system, of
English spelling la the great misfortune of our lan-
guage. It has other defects, but these are counter-
balanced by great excellences. In favor of the
mode In which its sounds are represented, there is
nothing whatever to be said. In every respect—in
the waste of time at school, in the mortification and
annoyance suffered in after life from mistakes in
spelling and pronunciation, in the difficulty which
foreigners experience in learning the language, this
defect Is an unmixed evil. The more widely educa-
tion is diffused, the more the evil is felt.
Many attempts have been made at various times
to reform the orthography of the language, but they
have been isolated efforts, and in most cases guided
rather by enthusiasm than by judgment. They
have served, however, to draw attention to the sub-
ject, and to deepen the sense of the mischiefs which
are suffered from this cause. There seems reason
now to hope that the subject will be taken up by an
authority which will be able to deal with it to good
effect. The American Philological Association com-
prises in its list of two hundred members many of
the most distinguished linguists in our country, in-
cluding professors of nearly all our leading colleges,
and other eminent instructors, qualified to treat a
question of this sort with practical efficiency. The
President of the Association, Professor Francis A.
March, well known as the author of an excellent
Anglo-Saxon grammar, and other philological works
of great value, has expressed, In his annual address,
the opinions generally entertained on this subject,
with a force and point which cannot easily be ex-
celled. He remarks:—
"Spelling Is often thought of as child's work, and
of little serious moment; but it is by no means
so. The time lost by it is a large part of the whole
school-time of the mass of men, and with a large
majority of those who are said to read, and who can
read if you give them time, it is a fatal bar through
life to that easy and Intelligent reading which every
voter, every human being, ought to have at com-
mand. Count the hours which each man wastes In
learning to read at school; the hours which he
wastes through life from the hindrance to easy
reading; the hours wasted at school in learning to
spell: the hours spent through life In keeping up
and perfecting this knowledge of spelling; in con-
sulting dictionaries, a work that never ends; the
hours that are spent in writing silent letters; and
multiply this time by the number of persons who
speak English, and we shall have a total of millions
of years wasted by each generation. The cost of
printing the silent letters of the English language is
to be counted by millions of dollars for each genera-
tion. Who has not heard the groans of Germans or
Frenchmen trying to learn how our words sound, or
read the petitions of the Japanese?"
Professo- March brushes aside, with the authority
of a scholar, the objection to this reform which is
sometimes urged by "literary amateurs," who sug-
gest that the irregularities of spelling are of advan-
tage to the study of etymology. So far is this from
being the truth that, as he remarks, "a changeless
orthography destroys the material for etymological
study," and, in fact, "written records are valuable
to the philologist just in proportion as they are accu-
rate records of speech as spoken from year to year."
In view of the advantage of combined action, he ex-
presses the hope that the association which he ad-
dressed might, as a great, popular organization of
liuguistic scholarship, "attain an influence which
may give it powers of reform as yet unsuspected."
The English language is now spoken by a greater
number of people than speak any other tongue, ex-
cept the Chinese; and it seems likely to become the
dominant language of the globe. If, through the
influence which Professor March suggests, the un-
fortunate orthography of the language, which chiefly
prevents its diffusion and general usefulness, can be
amended, it may be that its great merits of simplicity
of grammar, richness of vocabulary, and power of
expression, will bring It Into general use as the me-
dium of communication among all civilized nations.
In this way the association may be the means of
conferring a benefit of no common order upon tha
world of humanity.
KINGLAKES HISTORY OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.
Ws have received from the Messrs. Harper the
third volume of Mr. Klnglake's memorable History;
and as it does not appear how much further the work
will be continued, the present seems a fitting time to
notice It In our pages. We should not feel so lively
an Interest In these three thick volumes, did they ex-
clusively relate to the operations of the Crimean war.
Attractive as a history of those operations must be to
English people asarecord of national heroism, and to
military men as an experiment in warfare, the detail
of Mr. Kinglake is so great, he is so anxious that we
shall realize every incident of the campaign, that a
whole volume is devoted to the single battle of Inker-
man. It needs all the charm of the historian's manner
to induce the reader to follow him through such a wil-
derness of detail. But in the first volume of his work,
Mr. Kinglake introduces his special subject by a gen-
eral sketch of the condition of Europe and the events
which led to the war with Russia. In this part of his
volume there is hardly a page which might not bo
quoted as an instance of sustained and vigorous Eng-
lish. Those of our readers who remember when
Eothen appeared, and when the public became aware
that what purported to be a journal of travel was in
reality a marvel of descriptive art—those, we say,
who remember that literary event will feel a certain
intimacy with our author's strong yet delicate style.
From the Introduction we select passages from
two celebrated descriptions. The two events which
most contributed to the breaking out of hostilities,
according to Mr. Kinglake, were the peculiar situa-
tion of the French Emperor and tho influence of the
Times newspaper. Mr. Kinglake, therefore, gives a
most careful and graphic account of the coup d'Uat
•of 1851. Burning indignation against the conspira-
tors who on that day put their feet on the neck of
France pervades every sentence; but it does not
evaporate in abuse, but animates the grave and
weighty sentences with the spirit of an advocate in-
dicting a great criminal. A paragraph will suffice
as a specimen of his style. He is describing Prince
Louis Bonaparte's ride through the streets of Paris
on the morning of the 2d of December.
"Cpon the whole the reception he met with seems
to have been neither friendly nor violently hostile,
but chilling, and, in a quiet way, scornful. It seems
90
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
that after meeting this check his spirit suffered col-
lapse. Ouee again, though uot as hopelessly as at
Strasbourg ana Boulogne, lie had encountered the
shock of the real world. And again, as before, the
shock felled him. Nor was it strange that he should
be abashed and desponding; obeying his old propen-
sity, he had purposed and appointed for the Auster-
litz day a great scenic greeting between himself on
the one hand, and on the other a mighty nation.
When, leaving the room where all this had been con-
trived and rehearsed, he came out into the free air,
and rode through street after street. It became every
minute more certain that Paris was too busy, too
grave, too scornfulto think of hailing him Emperor;
nay, strange to say, the people, being fastidious or
careless, or imperfectly aware of what had been
done, refused to give him even that wondering at-
tention which seemed to be insured to him by the
transactions of the foregoing night; and yet there
they were, the proffered Caesar and his long-pre-
pared group of captains sitting polished on the backs
of real horses with appropriate swords and dresses.
Perhaps what a man in this plight might the most
hate would be the sun—the cold December sun.
Prince Louis rode home, and went in out of sight."
The account ot the massacre of t lie 4th of December
will not soon be forgotten by Mr. Kinglake's read-
ers. How it served the cause of the Emperor Is thus
related:—
"The course of those who Intended to rely upon
this scheme of moral resistance was In no way mixed
up with the attempts of the men of the barricades,
but still it was a cause which depended upon the
high spirit of the people, and it had happened that
this spirit—perplexed and baffled on the 2d of De-
cember by a stratagem and anight attack—was now
crushed out of sheer horror.
"For her beauty, for her grandeur, for her historic
fame, for her warlike deeds, for her power to lead t ho
will of a mighty nation, and to crown or discrown its
monarchs, no city on earth Is worthy to be the rival
of Paris. Vet, because of the palsy that came upon
her after the slaughter on the Boulevard, this Paris-
tills beauteous, heroic Paris—this queen of great re-
nown, was delivered bound into the hands of Prince
Louis Bonaparte, and Moray, and Maupas or de
Maupas, and St. Arnaud, formerly Le Koy. And the
benefit which Prince Louis derived from the massa-
cre was not transitory. It is a maxim of French
politics that, happen what may. a man seeking to be
a ruler of France must not be ridiculous.
"From 1336 to 1848 Prince Louis has never ceased
to be obscure except by bringing upon himself the
laughter of the world; and his election into the chair
of the Presidency had only served to bring upon him
a more constant outpourlngof the scorn and sarcasm
which Paris knows how to bestow. Evcu the sud-
denness and perfect success of the blow struck In
the night between the 1st and 2d of December had
failed to make Paris think of him with gravity. But
It was otherwise after three o'clock on the 4th of De-
cember; and It happened that the most strenuous
adversaries of this oddly-fated Prince were those
who, in one respect, best served his cause, for the
more they strove to show that he, and he alone, of
his own design and malice had planned and ordered
the massacre, the more completely they relieved liim
from the disqualification which had hitherto made it
Impossible for lilin to become the supreme ruler of
France. Before the night closed in on the 4tli of De-
cember, he was sheltered safe from ridicule by the
ghastly heaps on the Boulevard."
But we must end here, and the brilliancy or Mr.
Kinglake's style will be sufficiently manifest Ex-
ceptions have been taken to portions of Mr. King-
lake's narrative: but after all deductions have been
made, it must remain the most complete, standard'
history of the great struggle around Sebastopol.
THE NEW UNIVERSITY SYSTEM.
A great success is attending the system which
Cambridge in England first instituted, and which our
own Harvard has lately adopted, of holding classes
and lectures in various towns, when students of both
sexes can receive the benefits of superior Instruction
at very moderate expense. An English paper In-
forms us that at the close of the first season of the
classes and lectures for North Staffordshire, in con-
nection with Cambridge University, a meeting of the
students was held In the town hall of Stoke-upon-
Trent, at which the Bishop of Lichfield presided.
The bishop expressed his satisfaction, as a Cam-
bridge graduate, at being able to state that nearly
four thousand persons were receiving the benefit of
the classes now established by the University In dif-
ferent parts of the country. He added that he was
glad the scheme included both sexes, for, although
he was no advocate of woman's-rights as popularly
understood, he thought it was very important that
mothers, who had such a much larger share in the
education of their children than the fathers could
have, should be educated up to the very highest point
that the circumstances of our time and the position
of our country demanded.
The expenses had been remarkably low. Taking
the whole country, the fee of the studem s bad ave-
raged only eight shillings (two dollars) each. The
bishop might well say that there never had before
been offered so good an education at so low a price.
"The object," he remarked, "was to bring higher
education within the reach of all classes, and this
could only be doue by bringing It to their own doors.
The University was honestly striving to solve the
problem how best to provide higher education as a
supplement to elementary education."
Another Journal mentions the significant fact that
one effect of these classes, and of the examinations
which are held In connection with them for awarding
certificates of proficiency, has been to Increase con-
siderably the demand for scientific works from the
public libraries, and to diminish the readlngof works
of fiction. Ou the whole, It would seem that this new
system is likely to prove one of the most valuable
movements of our time. If It becomes general. It will
give to our colleges a field of usefulness far wider
than they possess at present, and will make them
really popular institutions; and it will, as the Bishop
of Lichfield suggests, settle two Important and much-
vexed questions In a manner satisfactory to all—that
of the co-education of the sexes, and that of bringing
the highest education within the reach of all classes
of learners.
LITERARY AFFECTATIONS.
The writer of an article In an English journal on
the subject of "slang," remarks that "where Eng-
lish folks surpass all others is In literary slang,
which has grown to such a pitch that It Is scarcely
possible to take up a modern novel without finding
its pages disfigured by this detestable fault. If our
language was poor," he adds, "tills might be ex-
cusable; but when we have one of the most de-
scriptive in the world to draw upon, It Is unpardona-
ble. Some use the heavy, pompous style, with such
expressions as 'outcome,' 'fearsome,' and the like;
it the heroine cries, she 'gives vent to bursts of pas-
sionate, glorious emotion;' a tall, dark man Is 'stal-
wart and swarthy;' the hero never walks, but
'strides.' Then there Is the ballad style of slang.
'Upand spake' Sir Somebody; some one is always
doing something 'right nobly.' Worse even than
these are the mild, goody, pinching style of writers,
who wish to appear so very Innocent and child-like;
they have not even a good repertoire, as their stock
in trade Is limited to about a dozen expressions, like
'deftly,' 'alrsome,' 'daiutle.' They generally put
their adjectives after the substantives, and are cer-
tain to call a pretty girl a 'ladye fair,' and a fast
horse a ' courser fleet'"
These examples all come rather under the head of
EDIT0R8' TABLE.
91
affectations than that of slaug. The critic himself,
it may be remarked, has committed a fault akin to
that which he condemns—in using a French word,
repertoire, where a good English expression could
have been readily found. In some American works
of Action It is to be feared that examples of real
slang might be discovered, much more offensive
than the prettinesses which are here so vigorously
denounced. Vulgarity and affectation are faults of
opposite character, but they are alike repugnant to
good taste, and well-trained persons avoid them
both with care, In books as well as in manners.
Milkweed "Rubber."—There Is perhaps hardly
any discovery or Invention of modern times which
has contributed more to health and comfort than
the employment of "India rubber" In making water-
proof garments. There has been some fear that the
demand for this most valuable substance would out-
grow the supply. But It it shall turn out that the
Juice of the common milkweed can be converted
into an article possessing all the qualities of the
veritable caoutchouc, this fear may be dismissed.
It is stated that a manufactory of this substance is
about to be commenced in London, Ontario, in con-
nection with works In Brooklyn, N. Y., and that the
usefulness of the product has been already tested by
experiment. This conversion of one of the common-
est of weeds into a source of "health and wealth"
may be fairly ranked among the best achievements
of practical science.
SONGS FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
The lyric we give this month was written forty
years ago, when Professor Mason was teaching vo-
cal music in the primary schools of Boston. The
near neighborhood of Bunker Hill to Boston made
Independence Day appear the natural theme of
"Freedom," and the glory of my own dear land
seemed a truth that, the wide world should realize.
In this mood of mind I wrote. And now, as I read
the stanzas for republication, they seem to repre-
sent the present state of our Great Bepubllc more
truly than was done forty years ago. Therefore I
give the original verses, only changing two words.
In the history of God's chosen people, forty years
seem the standard of time for the most important
changes in the status of the Great Republic of the
Hebrews. Is this period of time the natural limit
of stability in the right way for a free government
of the people?
The period from 1835 to 187) has realized my as-
pirations for the historical fame of America, and
also for her wonderful advancement in arts and sci-
ence that give material prosperity. But when we
reach the third stanza, the Influences of Peace on
the moral virtues of the people seem sadly deficient.
■Will the next period settle this question of real Im-
provement? Will the righteousness which exalteth
a nation bear rule, and the year of our Lord nine-
teen hundred and fifteen become the golden age of
goodness and greatness for our Western World?
INDEPENDENCE DAY: 1875.
We come with hearts of gladness
To breathe our sonsrs of praise j
Let not a note of sadness
Be blended In the lays;
For 'tis a hallowed story.
The theme of Freedom's birth;
Our fathers' deeds of glory
Are echoed 'round the Earth.
The sound is waxing stronger,
And thrones and nations hear;
"Man may not triumph longer,
For God the Lord Is near"—
And He will crush oppression,
And raise the humble mind,
And give the Earth's possession
Among the good ana kind.
And then shall sink the mountains
Where pride and power were crowned;
And Peace, like flowing fountains,
Shall shed its pureness 'round.
And then the world will hear us,
And Join our glorious lay.
And songs of millions cheer us
On this our Nation's Day.
When Freedom's loud hosannas
Shall burst from every voice.
Till mountains and savannas
Roll back the sound—" Rejoice!"
To God, the King of Heaven,
Then consecrate the strain;
Earth's fetters will be riven,
And God the Loud will reign.
NOTES AND NOTICES.
Cobn-Floub is not Food.—A startling event has
lately taken place In England, which, though In
itself very shocking, may have a good result In
saving the lives of many children. A married wo-
man was tried'for murder, the charge being that
she had caused the death of her twin children by
feeding them with "corn-flour," after being warned
by the physician that It would not sustain life. The
Jury took a merciful view of the caso, and acquitted
the unfortunate woman. The occurrence has called
forth much comment. A physician, writing to the
Timet, remaAcs:— ,
"It cannot be too widely known that 'corn-flour'
per se Is not food, but pure starch, prepared by
washing out. of maize flour the nutritive portion with
alkalies. Numerous instances of children reduced
to skin and bone from being fed on one or other of
the 'corn flours' now before the public have come
under my notice. It may be of some use to your
readers to have a 'rough and ready' test to distin-
guish those farinaceous foods which are inntit ritious.
Whenever the powder is beautifully whito and of
extreme fineness, the article should be rejected, as
being almost certainly composed of starch alone.
When, however, the nutrition has not been sacri-
ficed to appearance, and they present their natural
brownish color, some of these foods may contain
even more nourishment than meat."
Of course, when the corn-flour is cooked with milk,
this will supply some of the nutriment which Is
wanting; but the warning which is given in the
foregoing statement cannot be too carefully heeded
by those who have charge of children.
Women Workers.—We take this statement from
a reliable source, and give as useful information for
both sexes:—
"The United States census for 1870 shows that
there is liberty In this country for men and women
to do pretty much what they please, If they really
want to work. There are 338 occupations specified
In the census. Men are encaged in 337 out of the
338, and women are engaged in 262 of them. Besides
being employed In housewifery and needlework,
and their other usual vocations, women preach In
churches, plead in courts, practice medicine and
surgery, pack pork and beef, edit newspapers, catch
fish, pull teeth, paint pictures, pare corns, and man-
age hotels and manufacturing companies. There
are no women bill posters, nor butchers, nor boot
blacks (professional), nor chimner sweepers, nor
veterinary surgeons, nor lamp lighters, nor wreck-
ers: but for the rest of the 76 occupations in which
women are not employed, they are those of house-
building mechanics, soldiers, sailors, porters, etc..
Into which women would not be likely to enter if
there were no such things In the world as prejudice
and public opinion. If the census returns are true,
neither men nor women (taking the whole country
over) have anything to complain about as to the
excluslveness of any occupation."
92
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
\xlt\ gcpartuunt.
DOMESTIC SURGERY.
Wounds, when they are Out with a Sharp Instru-
ment, should be neatly brought together, and the
edges retained In apposition, either by means ot
isinglass-plaster or diachylon, or in the lingers by a
simple piece of linen, which answers all the better
it dipped in the blood. When the bleeding Is severe,
and continues for more than a quarter of an hour,
an artery will generally require to be tied, and for
this a surgeon must be called in. In the mean time,
pressure on the wound itself by means of a folded
pad of linen or a tightly-rolled pocket-handkerchief
will generally restrain the bleeding; or in the limbs,
a tape or cord may be tied around nearer the body
than the wound, and made very tight by inserting a
ruler or fork, or a piece of stick, and twisting this
several times. The plaster should never be removed
under three or four days.
Lacerated Wounds, if badly torn, will not heal by
what surgeons call the first intention, though it is
in most cases better to give thera the opportunity by
binding them up with plaster as above described.
By means of the isinglass-plaster, which is not
readily soluble in cool water, the wound may be
brought together, and a light bandage put over it,
after which a stream of water at ninety degrees may
be kept slowly running over it, so asiu reduce the
temperature slightly below that of The blood. A
vessel of water heated to more than one hundred
degrees may be placed above the level of the wound,
and by fixing a cock In this, and then turning it
very slightly, a very small stream may be conducted
to the wound, and this being laid in a waterproof
cloth, the water is conducted from it to any conve-
nient receptacle. Very frightful lacerations of the
hand and other parts have been healed In this way,
continuing the stream for three or four days, day
and night, and moderating the temperature accord-
ing to the sensations of the patient, which are always
the best guide. After the expiration of tho period
named above, if the parts are discharging matter to
any extent, with sloughs or dead parts, a poultice of
Unseed meal is the best remedy, until the wound be-
comes clean; when the red precipitate ointment, or
the ointment of resin, will generally complete the
cure, using a caustic it there is proud flesh.
Bruises are sometimes very painful and serious
injuries, and require the application of local reme-
dies. Where the extravasation of blood Is excess! ve,
slight punctures may be made with a lancet, or
leeches applied at once. After this, nothing answers
so well as the stream of water described in the last
paragraph, or an evaporating lotion, used warm,
mixing it when made of double strength with an
equal quantity of water. In bruises of the face,
with extravasation, such as "a black eye," early
puncture Is the best remedy, followed by warm fo-
mentations with the evaporating lotion; and when
the inflammation is subdued, apply the chlorinated
soda lotion.
Boils are very troublesome abscesses, accom pan I ed
with destruction of a small piece of skin, causing
what is called a "core," or "slough." Poultices re-
lieve them the most; bnt they are apt to produce a
second crop, and are therefore objectionable on that
score. The best remedy Is a piece of leather spread
with soap cerate, or honey and flour.
Abscesses are collections of matter beneath the
skin, and. In some cases, occupying part of one or
other of the large cavities of the body. When in the
head, neck, or limbs, they appear as inflamed swell-
ings, which, after a time, varying with the activity
of the inflammation, come to a point and break.
Sometimes, however, It is desirable to avoid a large
collection of matter, or a destruction of skin, or to
relieve pain, and then a lancet is passed into the ab-
scess, and its contents arc evacuated. In this case
a piece of lint is left in tho opening to prevent its
healing, and thus necessitating a fresh operation.
Abscesses, however, generally come under the in-
spection of the surgeon. In most cases a poultice of
linseed meal or bread will be desirable, relieving the
pain by relaxing the skin, and soothing the irritated
nerves. A whitlow is an abscess at the end of the
finger, occurring either from Inflammation at the
root or edge of the nail, or at the end of the bone.
In the former case it is comparatively trifling, and
may readily be relieved by letting out the matter, or
by poulticing, which generally allows its escape.
When collected at the edge of the nail, by separating
this from the skin without cutting, a minute point
of matter will generally escape, and the pain and
inflammation at once cease. In cases of disease of
the bone, the mischief Is much greater, and nothing
but an incision down to it will prevent the loss of
the last joint, together with the nail. A surgeon
should therefore at once be consulted.
littxntQ tioxitts.
From J. B. Lippixcott & Co., Philadelphia:—
THE MILLS OF THE GODS. A Novel. By Mrs.
J. H. Twells. An American novel, whose scene is
located In a foreign land, and whose characters are
foreigners, titled and untitled, is no anomaly. Still
it is not a thing greatly to be admired. It seems as
though our own country furnished material sufficient
for the purposes of romance; and it is a pity that,
until they are exhausted, our writers should look
elsewhere. Still this story Is interesting and well
written, and will repay the reading quite as fully as
most of the novels, be they American or English,
which are laid upon our table.
PHILADELPHIA AND ITS ENVIRONS. If this
book had nothing to recommend it but its engrav-
ings, they would be sufficient to secure It the highest
praise. They are exceedingly numerous, and repre-
sent views in the streets of the city, upon the Dela-
ware River, and in Falrmount Park. The latter are
especially numerous and beautiful. There are also
pictures of the proposed Centennial Buildings. The
letter-press is descriptive of these pictures. The
book Is in fact a, complete guide-book for the
stranger visiting the city, and wishing to become
acquainted with all the points of interest.
From T. B. Petersox Si Brothers, Philada. :—
THE BETROTHED. By Sir Walter Scott,
ANNE OV GEIERSTEIN. By Sir Walter Scott.
These are the sixth and seventh volumes of Peter-
son's cheap edition of the Waverlev Novels.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF THE
STUARTS. By William Harrison Ainsworth.
From Harper & Brothers, New York, through
Claxton, Remsen, & Hafff.lpinger, Philada. :—
MACREADY'S REMINISCENCES, and Selections
from his Diaries and Letters. Edited by Sir Frede-
rick Pollock, Bart, one of his executors. There Is
no lire so full of variety and romance as that of an
actor. The life of Macready was especially full of
interest, since ids eminence in his profession brought
LITERARY NOTICES.
93
him Into contact with all the noted actors and act-
resses of his age, aud with many persons besides who
were celebrated in other ranks in Hie. These remin-
iscences are exceedingly entertaining, and will In-
terest all classes of people who wish to learn some-
thing of life outside of their own special path. Those
upon the stage will find the book not only agreeable
but profitable reading, since It will show them the
arduous labors necessary to acquire eminence in
their profession.
ALICE LORRAINE. A Tale of the South Downs.
By It D. Itlackmorc. Those who have read "Lorua
Doone,"and "The Maid of Sklr," will need no more
than the simple announcement of a new novel by the
same author, to obtain the book at once. To those
who still remain In Ignorance of the special merits
of this author, we will say that be stands at the very
head of his profession as a writer of a certain class
of novels, and that class of a kind to please the most
fastidious taste. His special excellence consists in
description of localities, and delineation of the cha-
racters belonging to these localities, and In giving
strong local coloring to his stories, In bringing out
customs, superstitions, aud dialects. Mr. Blackmore
is one ol our favorites among English writers.
OUR DETACHMENT. A Novel. By Katharine
King, author of "The Queen of the Regiment," etc.
The author of this novel Is now for the first time
introduced to American readers, although she is a
writer of a certain repute In England. She will no
doubt meet a cordial welcome here, since her story
is well told, and worth reading.
From G. W. Carleton & Co., New York, through
Poster & Coates, Philadelphia,:—
ECCE FEM1NA; or. The Woman Zoe. By Cuyler
Pine. Very few will have forgotten the fierce lite-
rary war between William Allen Butler and a cer-
tain Miss Peck, as to the authorship of the poem
"Nothing to Wear." Each claimed to have written
it, and both had their champions. Mr. Butler seemed
to make good his claim by publishing afterwards
both poems and prose articles iu a similar strain,
and possessing a like literary excellence. Miss Peck
died lately, but left behind her a novel bearing the
above title, which, her friends are convinced, will
demonstrate to the world the ability of the young
lady to produce the disputed poem. That It will go
far toward doing this, those who read it can have
little doubt The book is a clever satire on the
fashionable religion of the day. There is the same
brilliancy of expression, and the same cutting sar-
casm, which made "Nothing to Wear" so popular.
At all events, the story Is worth reading, and, as an
American novel, possesses superior excellence.
A MAD MARRIAGE. A Novel By May Agnes
Fleming, author of "Guy Earnscourt's Wife," etc.
This la a brilliant and entertaining novel, with a cer-
tain originality In Its plot, which will repay perusal.
It Is full of action. Is slightly sensational, and deals
somewhat with the tragic Its author Is one of the
liveliest and most popular of English women novel-
ists.
From ScKrBNEB, Armstrong. & Co., New York,
through Porter & Coatbs, Philadelphia :—
PERSONAL REMINISCENCE8 OF CORNELIA
KNIGHT AND THOMAS RAIRES. Edited by Rich-
art Henry Stoddard. The seventh or the "Bric-a
Brae Series" comes to us with the above title. The
reminiscences of Miss Cornelia Knight take us back
to the times of the Princess Charlotte of Wales—a
period specially Interesting In English history. Miss
Knight was one of the attaches of Queen Charlotte,
aud remained at Windsor during a period of seven
years. Afterwards she resided at Warwick House
in attendance upon the princess. In both of these
positions she bad exceptional opportunities to be-
come familiar with the noted men and women of the
times. Mr. Ralkes was a man of extensive travel
and acquaintance, and the extracts from his diary
are full of Interest
« —
From Dodd & Mead, New York, through Clax-
ton, Remskn, & HAVFELffiKGEU, Philadelphia:—
THE ADVENTURES OF THE CHEVALIER DE
LA SALLE AND HIS COMPANIONS. By John S.
C. Abbott De la Salle was an explorer of the prai-
ries, forests, lakes, and livers of America, two hun-
dred years ago. These explorations, and the inter-
views which he and his companions had with the
savage tribes which they frequently met, are full of
lively interest The volume belongs to the series of
"American Patriots aud Pioneers," and should be
In the bands of every boy In the land.
From Henrt Holt & Co, New York, through
Porter & Coates, Philadelphia :—
MR. SMITH; A Part of his Life. By L. R Wal-
ford. This very unsuggestlve title heralds a very
lively story. We will not spoil the pleasure of read-
lng by describing the plot or plan of the book; but
will say that if one wants a very readable volume
with which to pass away a few hours, we know of
no one which will better fill the programme than
this.
From TnE Leonard Scott Publishing Compant,
New York:—
THE LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. April,
1875.
THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW. April, 1875.
THE NORTH BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW.
April, 1875.
THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. April. 1875.
Our old friends come to us every three months
with an interest always new. We have read with
especial pleasure the review of Mr. Greville's me-
moirs in the Westminster, written in a spirit more
kindly, as well as more just to the author, than most
of the reviews of his work. In the London, the best
paper is one on the life of Bjorustjerne BJornson, the
celebrated Norwegian novelist. There are the usual
excellent book reviews. The quarterlies fill an Im-
portant place in English literature, and have been
the chosen vehicle for many fine and permanent
essays.
From Lee & Shepard, Boston, through J. B. Lip-
pracoTT & Co., Philadelphia:—
SPAIN AND THE SPANIARDS. By N. L.
Thieblin. Mr. Thlcblin went to Spain as the special
correspondent of the New York Herald. He had,
as the representative of a noted newspaper, excep-
tional opportunities afforded him, during the late
civil war in that country, of becoming familiar with
the position of both, or rather all sides of the con-
test He studied the politics of the country, and the
people as well j and he has produced a very readable
book, giving much valuable information concerning
the Spanish people. The reading of this book may
give a clue to the present position of Spanish politics,
and assist the reader In deciding what will be the
probable outcome of the newly-arisen difllcultles in
that much-disturbed country.
WARRINGTON'S MANUAL. By William S.
Robinson, "Warrington." This manual is Intended
to supply the necessary Information to officers and
members of legislatures, conventions, societies, etc.,
in the practical governing and membership ql all
91
GODET'S LADT'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
sucli bodies, according to the parliamentary law and
practice in the United States. No man or woman
who contemplates entering public life should fail to
supply themselves with this book, or one ol a similar
character.
From James Campbell, Boston, through Claxton,
Remsen, & Haffelmnger, Philadelphia:—
THE HISTORY AND PHILOSOPHY OF MAR-
RIAGE; or. Polygamy and Monogamy Compared.
By a Christian Philanthropist. It seems scarcely
necessary to say more, in noticing this book, than
that its author has undertaken a labored defence
and advocacy of polygamy on natural and religious
grounds. The student of social economy will find
the work an amusing study; but for the general
reader it has no value whatever.
From Roberts Brothers, Boston, through J. B.
LrppiHCOTT & Co., Philadelphia:—
MUSICAL COMPOSERS AND THEIR WORKS.
By Sarah Tytler. This handsome book Is a compan-
ion to the two works on painters by the same au-
thoress, and is designed to bring together, in a form
acceslble to students, biographies of the most cele-
brated musicians, and a general connected sketch of
the history of music We think Miss Tytler has sup-
plied a widely-felt want Her book is easily and
simply written, precise as to dates and events, yet
full of interest and amply Illustrating the Influence
of a musician's life upon his compositions. The
biographies of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn
will be found especially attractive.
HARRY BLOUNT. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton.
Mr. Hamerton is the most versatile of writers. He
has written "The Intellectual Life,'" "A Painter's
Camp," and a book about animals, edits the Port-
folio, and has now published a boys' book of adven-
ture, which is among the best of its kind. There Is
nothing strained or Impossible about Harry Blount's
adventures, yet the volume Is full of Incident; the
characters are naturally drawn, and the slight artis-
tic touches which come In here and there show that
the author has not forgotten his main avocation.
Mr. Hamerton fairly contradicts the popular proverb
about "Jack of all Trades," and shows that a man
may excel in two arts at the same time. We heartily
commend his book to boys and to their mothers, as
a healthy and high-toned story.
A PARAGRAPH HISTORY OF THE UNITED
STATES. By Edward Abbott. Tills little book is
written on a most useful plan. It is divided into
short numbered paragraphs, each containing a terse
description of some important event; and on the
margin are recorded contemporary occurrences In
foreign countries. Of course only the most general
mention can be made of the notable events in our
history ; but for schools, and even for older persons
desiring a compendium, this may prove invaluable.
From The Publisher, Boston :—
LITTELL'S LIVING AGE. April and May, 187R.
There is not in any contemporary so agreeable a
mllange as Is offered in the pages of LMtell. Here
in two numbers we find an excellent article, "Life
at High Pressure," by Mr. Grey, "The Heart of
Africa," from the Etlinburgh, "Have We Two
Brains T" from the Oornhill, stories by William Black
and Miss Thackeray, "Saxon Studies," by Julian
Hawthorne, and a number of shorter papers which
offer some attraction to every taste. The large cir-
culation of LUtell is a proof how judiciously Its con-
tents are selected from the great field of English
current literature.
From Henry C. Lea, Philadelphia:—
THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF THE MEDICAL
SCIENCES. April, 1875. Edited by Isaac Hays,
M. D, assisted by L Minis Hays, M. D. Published
quarterly.
lObcTi's J|tin-
JULY, 1875.
We commence this month another voUime, the
ninely-flrst, with a brilliant array of stories and en-
gravings. There is another Chromo—showing a mu-
sical party of youngsters celebrating the Fourth of
July. A pretty picture of a young beauty waiting
for her lover at the well. The colored fashion plate
contains handsome designs of walking dresses, a
dinner dress, a house dress, and an evening dress.
The extension sheet has on it later designs of walk-
lug dresses, etc, and bathing dresses, and many
other articles that are of use to the ladles.
The Illustrated article on Atlantic City In the
June number of the Lady's Book, certainly has re-
ceived an amount of praise from the press of Phila-
delphia that a publisher may well be proud of. The
number taken in itsentirety Is the best that we have
given out this year. It was a crowning close to the
ninetieth volume.
Godey's Lady's Book.—Tills, the oldest of Ameri-
can monthlies, maintains Its supremacy as a maga-
zine fur the ladles. The June number abounds in
fashion plates, designs for fancy work, steel and
wood engravings, music, and unexceptionable read-
ing matter. The opening article, by Dr. Thomas K.
Reed, on Atlantic City, is beautifully illustrated, and
It sets fortli the advantages of that place, from a
physician's point of view, as a sanitary resort—
Bulletin.
American ladies owe their beauty to the use of
Laird's "Bloom of Youth-' for removing tan,
freckles, and all discoloratlons from the skin. It
has no equal. Sold by all druggists.
Goldsboro, N. C—We would advise all persons
travelling from Washington to Charleston not to
take dinner at the dining house at Goldsboro, for of
all the atrocious dinners to be found at way stations,
you get the worst here. In place of taking dinner,
we advise all passengers to take a small piece of
India rubber with them and chew It, from which
they will get as much nourishment as they would
from what they facetiously call dinner, and for
which yon have to pay one dollar. Our party con-
sisted of three grown persons and two children, for
which we paid five dollars, and did not consume ten
cents worth of victuals, which was of course warmed
over for the next meal; and by the same means one
meal might be made to answer for a month, for we
defy any one to eat anything. It Is the greatest
Imposition we ever experienced in travelling. We
can recommend the following hotels: The Poreell
House, at Wilmington, N. C, kept by J. R. Darls,
Esq., one of the pleasantest and most obliging land-
lords we ever met with; the Charleston Hotel,
Charleston, S. C, kept by the Messrs. Jackson, and
we want particularly to call attention to the clerk
here, Mr. C. 11. Brehans, whose kindness and atten-
tion we can vouch for; the Pulaski Hotel, Savan-
nah, Ga., Messrs. Papot & Co. Here we have ano-
ther clerk who knows and attends to his business,
Mr. Poole: we never called him Johnny, as many
persons did.
QODEJ'S ARM-VRAIR.
95
Erratum.—How very short the step from the sub-
lime to the ridiculous sometimes Is, received apt
illustration In our last issue. No doubt many ot
our readers, on perusing our illustrated article,
"Atlantic City," were .posed by the phrase "sningly
beach," near the bottom of the first page. Indeed,
we happen to know that some of our near home sub-
scribers of the highest culture and intelligence were
utterly mystified thereby, and wrote to us asking
what that new-coined word meant Yet the word
was never coined at all, except in and by the wax
moulds of the eleetrotyper, a slight flaw In which
changed an h to an n. So, by the omission of an In-
significant fraction of a single letter, shingly became
sningly, sense became nonsense, and permission to
rise and explain was in the customary form accorded
to The Proof-Reader.
Hoi.lowat's Musical Monthly fob July Is
ready. We have not space to specify the contents,
but all music lovers should have this number. It
contains music for the practised musician and the
beginner, and more ot it than can be bought else-
where for four times the price. Bend 40 cents to J.
Starr Holloway, Publisher, 811 Spring Garden Street,
Philadelphia. The last three numbers will be scut
anywhere in the United States, free of postage, on
receipt of 81, and ten cents in stamps.
Back yuml^rs.—A. few of these still remaining,
all containing choice music. 30 cents each, or four,
all different, for 81, sent free of postage.
New Sheet Music—Snmeton the Mountains, pretty
song by M. D. Jones, 30 cents. A Handful of Earth,
new song by Luella, 20 cents. The Earth is Beauti-
ful, excellent song and chorus, by Barrett, 30. For
Ever and For Ever, 30th edition of this exquisite
song or duet by Converse, with beautiful picture title,
4tt Picking Berries Up the Hill, by G. W. P., 2a
Also, Picnic Polka by Campbell, 35. Lamoille Waltz,
very pretty, by Cloy, 3a Cherry Bounce Schottlsche
by Drewer, 2a Golden Wedding March, by Shelter,
20. Graceful Schottlsche, as pretty and graceful as
its name, by Beckel, 3a Stars of the Summer Might,
showy fantaisie by Rhollo. Send all orders addressed
to Mr. Holloway, as above.
Godet's Ladt's Book.—Never was this venerable
monthly more attractive than it tsat present; though
old in years, its youth Is perennial, for it keeps pace
with the march of the generations. Age cannot
wither nor custom stale its infinite variety.—Prin-
ter's Circular.'
TUB Right Kind of a Wife.—What a blessing to
a household Is a merry, cheerful woman—one whose
spirits are not affected by wet days or little disap-
pointments—one whose milk of human kindness
does not sour in the sunshine ot prosperity I Such a
. woman in the darkest hours brightens the house
like a piece of sunshiny weather. The magnetism
of her smiles, and the electrical brightness of her
looks and movements, infect every one. The chil-
dren go to school with a sense of something great to
be achieved; the husband goes into the world in a
conqueror's spirit. No matter how people annoy
and worry him all day; far off her presence shines,
and he whispers to himself, "At home I shall find
rest!" So day by day she literally, renews his
strength and energy. And If you know a man with
a beaming face, a kind heart, and a prosperous busi-
ness. In nine cases out of ten you will'find he has a
wife of this kind.
We have ourselves tried Dobbins' Electric Soap
(made by Craglnft Co., Philadelphia), and find it the
best, purest, and most economical soap we have ever
seen. Too much cannot be said in its favor. Try It.
There has been placed on our table the first num-
ber of what will certainly be a most magnificent
work, when complete, entitled "A Century After;
Picturesque Glimpses of Philadelphia and
Pennsylvania." It is published by Messrs. Allen,
Lane, & Scott and J. W. Lauderbach, and is to in-
completed in fifteen parts. Mr. Lauderbach for
many years has engraved the wood cuts for the
Laiy's Book. An excellent review of this work has
been given by the able critic of the Evening Tele-
graph of this city, from which we quote the follow-
ing extract :—
"The conception of this work is, we believe, dne
to Mr. Lauderbach, the most artistic of our Phila-
delphia wood engravers, his idea being to prepare,
in prospect of the Centennial Exposition, a publica-
tlon that both in its artistic and literary features will
be an adequate expression of the metropolitan cha-
racter of Philadelphia, of the enormous advances in
every respect that the city has made since the Decla-
ration of Independence was signed here one hundred
years ago, and of the scenery, architecture, life, man -
ners, and character of the city and, to a great extent,
of the state of which it Is trie manufacturing and
commercial metropolis, as they exist to-day. No
similar attempt has ever been made to Illustrate the
characteristics of any American city, nor do we know
ot any similar treatment of any city of Europe; and
Mr. Lauderbach and his coadjutors are entitled to
the hearty thanks of all Philauclphians not only for
the conception ot such an enterprise, but for the tho-
roughly adequate manner In which, Judging from
the first number ot the publication, they are carrying
It out It may be as well to state that 'A Century
After' is not, in any sense of the word, a guide-book,
although it contains vastly more Information about
the city and its history than any such publication we
have met with. It is an attempt to illustrate for the
benefit not only of Americans, but of the thousands
of visitors from all parts of the world who will attend
the Exposition, the picturesque, characteristics, the
history and antiquities and the life and manners of
a great American city. To this end the services of
some of the best artists of the country have been se-
cured, and the drawing of the illustrations and their
engraving have been conducted under the personal
supervision of Mr. Lauderbach himself, who for
many months past has devoted nearly his whole
time to preparing the work for the press. Among
the artists who have been engaged won 'A Century
After' may be mentioned Messrs. Thomas Moran,
F. O. C. Darley, J. D. Woodward, James Hamilton,
F. B. Schell, E. B. Bensell, and W. L. Sheppard."
Cultivation of Mushrooms.—Mushroom-grow-
ing, as carried on in some parts of France, Is so ex-
traordinary as to deserve mention. In tho vicinity
of Paris there are extensive caves formed by stone-
quarries long since abandoned. In these caves
sixty or seventy feet underground, and extending
great distances, the temperature is equable.and the
air moist, and here mushroom-beds arc made, and
Immense quantities ot the plant are grown for homo
and foreign markets. An idea of the magnitude or
the business may be formed when It is known that
one proprietor lias twenty-one miles of beds, another
sixteen, another seven, and so on through a long
list. In the ramifications of the cave of Montrouge,
just outside the fortifications of Paris, there are six
or seven miles' run of mushroom beds. It is entered
through a circular opening, like the mouth of a well,
aud the only mode of descent Is down a shaky po e,
furnished with cross-bars, the base of which rests fn
darkness sixty feet below.
An actor, engaged at one of the Baltimore thea-
tres, while going through a performance recently,
was suddenly taken with paralysis of the throat,
accompanied by swelling of the lips, tongue, and
salivary glands. Tho physician who attended hint
stated that he had been poisoned by cosmetics used
in coloring his lips and cheeks.
QODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Wondehfui, stories of women soldiers come out
from time to time. This is one ot them: Tberese
Sutter died in Paris in 1861, at the age o( eighty-lour.
In 1793 she enlisted in the Legion Allobrogienne,
employed at the slew ot Toulon, and there distin-
guished herself for bravery. Her vituperative pow-
ers were something remarkable. The First Consul
remembered an attack that woman made upon him
with her tongue when he was a colonel of artillery.
After the capture of Toulon, Therese entered the
Fifteenth Dragoons and took part in the campaign
in Catalogne. When the decree was issued banish-
ing womeii from the armies of France, an exception
was made in her favor on account of her bravery.
She was in the Italian campaign, and in 1800, after
five years' service, received a pension of two hun-
dred francs, with which she retired to Montelimar.
Entering the service again, she took part In the
campaigns of 1805,1806, and 1810 In Spain, where she
was captured by guerillas. She was sent to Lisbon,
and thcuce made her way back to France, by way
of England. She arrived in 1814, and entered the
service immediately. It was not until after Water-
loo that she decided to retire. In the course of her
exploits she had been once wounded by fire-arms
and four times with the sabre; she had Ave horses
killed under her, and, single-handed, she attacked a
patrol of cavalry, which had captured Gen. Eoguey,
and released her commander. After Waterloo,
Therese, who had married M. Sutter, entered the
Hospital of Enghein, where she lived on her modest
pension until it was largely augmented by Napoleon
IIL
Godkt's Lady's Book.—In addition to Its usual
array of entertaining light reading, brilliant plates,
information and gossip concerning the fashions, and
the other attractions regularly presented to its fair
patrons, the June number of this well-established
favorite contains, as its distinguishing feature, a very
interesting and finely Illustrated article on Atlantic
City, by Dr. Thomas K. Heed. This Is somewhat
of a novelty In the makeup of Godet, but win
doubtless be a very acceptable one to its readers.
Atlantic City Is naturally the seaside resort for
Fhiladelphians, and the fact is becomiug more
apparent every year that It has advantages equal, if
not superior, to any of its older and formerly more
fashionable rivals. It Is In fact more completely a
representative American watering place than any
resort of note on our coast, and now that, in addi-
tion to the advantages with which nature has en-
dowed it, fashion has begun to lend it the powerful
influence of her benignant smiles, It Is undoubtedly
destined to attain a great and permanent popularity.
Dr. Eeed is well qualified to write Its history by Ins
familiar acquaintance with the locality, and his
keen appreciation of Its aesthetic qualities, as well
as his professional understanding of its hygienic
advantages.—Inquirer.
Snow.—The world is crazy for show. There is
not one perhaps in a thousand who dares fall back
on his real, simple self for power to get through the
world, and exact enjoyment as he goes along. There
is no end to the aping, the mimicry, the false airs,
and the superficial airs. It requires rare courage,
we admit, to live up to one's enlightened convictions
in these days. Unless you consent to join in the
general cheat, there Is no room for you among the
great mob of pretenders. If a man desires to live
within his means, and is resolute in his purpose not
to appear more than he really Is, let him be ap-
plauded. There is something fresh and Invigorating
In such an example, and we should honor and up-
hold such a plan with all the energy In our power.
It is said that Mr. Darwin's theory of the origin
of man suddenly flashed upon his mind one morning
as he was brushing Ills hair In front of a looking-
glass.
"Among the most curious type3 of Paris life are
the women stock-brokers, the female gamblers, both
bulls and bears," remarks a correspondent. "They
are not allowed inside the Bourse, Its rules exclud-
ing women and children. They are therefore ferced
to promenade under the trees, like the old Greek
philosophers. The character of these brokers is, on
the whole, repulsive; they are often retired cooks or
housekeepers, and their appearance is not agreeable.
They are generally from forty to seventy years of age.
They never wear other than second-hand clothes,
being guided solely In the selection by the fact that
it Is necessary to have some; their dresses are short-
sometimes bought so: sometimes the end becomes
frayed, and a reef is taken in. They wear wooden
shoes, or sabots, In many cases varnished; and their
umbrellasare of ancient date. Some have spectacles
—In which they look more hideous; all have gloves
out at the finger ends. On the arm hangs a bag con-
taining the scrip and money in which they deal—for
all transactions take place on the spot—together with
paper to note the hourly fluctuations in the funds,
and to record business done; their pencils are cut at
both ends in the expectation they will last longer.
They are en rapport with scouts in every way in
keeping with themselves, who are constantly prowl,
ing under the peristyle to overhear the gossip of
brokers, footers, and clients, and bringing the news
to the female world—tapping one on»the shoulder,
retiring apart, and communicating some astounding
piece of intelligence."
Wkatheb Kittmes.—The old settlers of New Eng-
land preserved the old English rhymes and prophe-
cies of coming weather. Some of them am curious,
if not correct Many of them are so often found
true as to be now almost considered infallible :—
"When the glow-worm lights his lamp.
Then the air Is always damp."
"If the cock goes crowing to bed,
He °s sure to rise with a wet head."
"When black snails do cross your path.
Then black clouds much moisture hath."
"When the peacock loudly bawls,
Soon we'll have both rain and squalls."
"When you sec the gossamer flying,
Then be sure the air is drying.''
"A rosy sunset presages good weather;
A ruddy sunrise bad weather."
A bright yellow sky in the evening indicates wind;
a pale yellow sky In the evening indicates wet.
A neutral gray color at evening Is a favorable sign;
in the morning an unfavorable one.
The clouds. If soft, undefined, and feathery, beto.
ken fine weather.
Deep, unusual hues in the sky Indicate wind or
storm. More delicate tints bespeak fair weather.
"A rainbow In the morning
Gives the shepherd a warning"—
that Is, if the wind be easterly: because it shows
that the rain-cloud Is approaching the observer.
If at sunrislng or setting the clouds appear of a
lurid red color, extending nearly to the zenith, it is
a sure sign of storms and gales of wind.
"If the moon shows like a silver shield.
Be not afraid to reap your field;
But if she rises haloed around,
Soon will we tread on deluged ground."
"A rainbow at night is a sailor's delight."
This adage may also be a good sign, provided the
wind be westerly, as it shows that the rain-clouds
are passing away.
"When rooks fly sporting high In air.
It shows that windy storms are near.'
"The evening red. and the next morning gray.
Are certain signs of a beautiful day."
GO VIST'S AHM-UBAIli.
D7
Embalming the Dbad.—The Cornhttl Magazine
gives us ail Interesting article on the manner of em-
balming the dead iu ancient times:—
"The manner of embalming is described fullv in
the Euterpe, and by Diodorus Slculus. It wassho'rtly
this: The dead person's female friends, supposing
him to possess them as a man of propertv, having
disfigured their faces with dirt, ran about In public
half naked, with dishevelled hair. Arriving eventu-
ally at the embalmer's shop, they were shown there
samples of embalmed models. Just as an enterprising
wine merchant of the present day oilers you samples
of his excellent, or fruity, or full bodied, or the ltev.
Sir Charles Jodrell recommended, Madeira, These
samples, minutely described by Herodotus, were
ticketed at different prices, and the disconsolate
made such a selection as was suitable at once to
their sorrow and circumstances, combining doubt-
less. In the majority of cases, economy with emotion.
These accordingly acted thus: but the man who made
the first gash with a sharp Ethiopian stone for the
sake of disembowelling the dead nad a hard time.
No sooner, says Siculus, had he done so, than he was
pursued with curses and missiles, for the Egyptians
think such a man worthy of hatred.
"Necessary to the operation as a pantaloon to a
pantomime, and rewarded, like that unhappy artist,
tor his necessary action by the ingratitude of insult
and injustice, the reflective mind naturally asks with
wonder, 'How could this cutter or paraschiiter be
procured f But a solution of the difficulty will doubt-
less be found In a consideration of the accursed love
of gold. The dead was returned to his friends In a
box made in his own likeness. He then became an
honored though somewhat silent guest in the house
of bis survivors. The bloodless shadow shut up In
the scented wood or stone shared henceforth the for-
tunes of those who were once Its fellows; it failed
not to attend them both at bed and at board, and
followed the family who had gone to such expense
in its Interest, cleaving to it as Ruth clave to her
mother-in-law.
"But to every rule there Is an exception. There
wss one also to this otherwise inviolable attachment
An embalmed parent was not only an ornamental
article of furniture, a memorial of the transitory na-
ture of buman existence; he was, alas I also a satis-
factory security to a money-lender. A fast young
Egyptian might borrow a considerable sum on the
body of any one of his deeply-regretted relatives,
supposing, of course, that he or she had been em-
balmed in a highly respectable manner. It Is almost
needless to say that respectability and riches were,
«ven at that early period of the world's history, in
many respects synonymous expressions. Great dis-
honor, however, was attached to any one who did not
redeem this kind of pledge at the earliest opportunity.
Ternpora mutantur! Not a pawnbroker In the pre-
sent age could probably be found willing to lend even
a sixpence on such a deposit. But the Egyptians
held their dead iu high esteem. They were also a
very susceptible people; on the death of a cat they
•haved off one of their eyebrows. They also Intro-
duced, it is said, the black dress, which represents,
among us, sincere sorrow so well that It has usurped
the name of 'mourning.'
"In Otaheite the common folly of expectation of
continued duration, and the desire to avoid the night
of nothing, has led to embalming, as in Egypt Each
member of the deceased's family contributes to defray
the expense of this operation. As this people, like
the Japanese, entertains a serene disbelief in any
future state whatever, it cannot be charged with the
absurdity of the subjects of Pharaoh, who preserved
bodies for reanimatfon without brains. The process
is shortly this: The dead, being cleaned and washed,
and stuffed with antiseptics, is adorned with sump-
tuous apparel, and reclines en arande tenue on a
sofa, as if alive. So in this land it is literally true
that every house has Its skeleton. It is then fur-
nished with choice provisions. Several scenes are
acted before it In which it was wont once to delight.
Favorite books and beautiful girlsare Introduced for
hs Inspection. The sweetest music of Otaheite satis-
fies its ears. The gums and ointments In Its body
furnish It with the daintiest perfumes. Its head ft
circled with a coronet of flowers. Occasionally, as
in Scythia, it makes a round of calls, visiting its most
Intimate friends: but this pleasure is transitory; it
is vion brought home and placed in a corner. There
It leans against those who have gone before, with its
dry, dusty, and bloodless face, which sometimes de-
mands tears, but never drops them; and there—with
VOL. XCI.—7
month wide open, but not for sons—It moulders
gradually away, a ruin of old mortality and the for-
gotten times of a passed world. Soon il becomes a
Question as idle as those of Tiberius concerning the
emale appellation of Achilles and the song of the
Syrens to ask Its name. So the dream of dluturnlty
In its former tenant ends, and It serves but a* one
more sad proof that It Is feeding the wind and plough-
ing the waves to hope for any patent of security
against the oblivion under the sun."
It Is said that the Edam cheese can be made just
as well In tills country as in Holland, whence it
comes. The following is the receipt:—
"The fresh, sweet milk is curdled with muriatic
acid or spirits of salt, and the curd cut and chopped
and manipulated In the most thorough manner, in
order to expel every particle of whey. The curd Is
then soaked In a brine of sufficient strength to float
an egg for an hour. The brine Is then worked out
and the curd subjected to a heavy pressure In iron
molds, that give the pine-apple form to the cheese.
After from four to five hours' pressing, the cheese
Is taken from the form and anointed with soft but-
ter, having as much fine salt worked into It as it
will hold. Thus finished up, they are set singly in
rows on shelves in a cool, airy place, and with a
month's curing are in a fit condition to send abroad,
and will keep tor years In any climate. The largest
of these Dutch cheeses never exceed four and a half
pounds weight, to make one of wnleh requires about
six gallons of milk."
"Bbbakfast, Luncheon, and Tea," is the title
of a new work Just published by Scrlbner, Arm-
strong, & Co., New York. When we tell our readers
that It has been written by their old friend, Marion
Harland, there is little more that can be said. It is
a continuation of the "Common Sense in the House-
hold" series. Such dishes of eggs, fish, meats, sweet-
breads, salads, croquettes, cakes, puddings, fruits,
creams, etc., as she has here spread before us cannot
fail to please the palate of the most fastidious. The
receipts are given in a form that are not perplexing.
The book Is interspersed with "Familiar Talks," and
they are Just such "talks" as have made the name of
the authoress a "household word" In the homes of
every reader of the Lady's Book for years. The In-
troductory is most excellent Porter & (Joat.es, Phila-
delphia, have it for sale. Price, $1.78.
"WiLLthe boy who threw that pepper on the stove
C lease come up here and get a present of a nice
ook T" said a Sunday-school superintendent in Iowa.
But the boy never moved. He was a far-seeing boy.
Old Timber.—Probably the oldest timber In the
world which has been subjected to the use of man.
Is that found In the ancient temples of Egypt, In
connection with stonework which Is known to be
at least four thousand years old. This, the only
wood used in the construction of the temple, is in
the form of ties, holding the end of one stone to
another in Its upper surface. When two blocks
were laid iu place, an excavation about an Inch deep
was made In each block, Into which a tie shaped like
an hour-glass was driven. It Is therefore very diffi-
cult to force any stone from its position. The ties
appear to have been of the tamarisk or sblttlin
wood, of which the ark was constructed, a sacred
tree in ancient Egypt, and now very rarely found in
the valley of the Nile. The dove-tailed ties are Just
as sound now as on the day of their Insertion. Al-
though fuel Is extremely scarce In the country, these
bits of wood are not large enough to make It an ob-
ject with the Arabs to leave off layer after layer of
heavy stone to obtain them. Had they been of
bronze, half of the old temples would have been de-
stroyed years ago, so precious would they have been
for various purposes. •
08
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
CEMETERY ENTRANCE.
Drawn exprestlyfor Qodey's Laily's Book, 6yIsaac H. Hobbs & Son, Architect!, 8M Xorth Eighth Street,
formerly of 809 and 811 Chettnut Street, Philadelphia.
TnE above design is an evolution In the Ovo law
of architecture. Ic was designed and built for a
cemetery entrance in Lancaster City, Pennsylvania.
The building. Is of brick, with rubbed sandstone
dressings. The design was fully carried out in
front, but was left plain In rear for economy. Pro-
fessionally, we must say, for a clear proportion,
quiet, Intrusive beauty, and fitness for its purpose,
that we have never seen so small a piece of architec-
ture, costing so little money, contain half «>!' its
quiet, silent, reverential beauty.
This order possesses greater scope, and Is of that
feeling that Christianity, through the development
of the present human mind, is understood to teach,
n high morality, a refined and rounded culture, a
quiet and (emigrate feeling, with a love for all that
Is pine and good. Lines discordant, harsh, and
severe, are not in harmony with Its rounded senti-
ments.
The basement consists of a central carriage drive
15 feet wide, on one side an office 10 feet 5 inches by
18 feet, a stair hall and stairway 10 feet 6 inches by
12 feet, a receiving vault 10 feet 5 Inches by 13 feet 9
inches, properly ventilated; upon the opposite side
Is a flag-paved passage 10 feet 5 Inches wide, with a
stairway leading to the chapel, which Is 86 feet wide
by 48 feet 9 Inches deep, fitted with plain neat pews.
The whole structure cost $10,000, and is a highly
ornamental object In the vicinity. This must be
considered quite a plain evolution of the order, and
is capable of being made more ornate than any other
existing style or order of architecture.
We nave on baud Hobbs' Architectural Designs,
which we mall upon the receipt of $3. Drawings of
all kinds executed in the most careful manner: de-
sigus, original, made for all monumental and orna-
mental work. We have a large corps of assistants.
All work Is done reasonably In price and with dis-
patch. Any communication or inquiry will be at-
tended to when accompanied,by postage.
Cleanliness.—Lord Byron, In one of his letters,
says: "1 never was a great phrenologist, nor do I
Cretend to read mankind as quickly as yourself;
ut If a stranger comes in, I generally look at the
state of his hands. To a gentleman, dirty bands are
anabomlnation—thatsettlesone point. A respecta-
ble man never presents himself with dirty hinds
and foul nails; so, if I find mv customer with these
credentials, I conclude that he is an idler, a drunk-
ard, or a scamp, and I show him out as soon as
possible."
FASHIONS.
99
Thb editor of tbe Norrittown Herald and Free
Press pays a deserved compliment to the author of
our Illustrated article on "Atlantic City," when he
says that "Many of our readers will recognize, in
the well-rounded sentences and accurate word-paint-
ing, the pen of Dr. Thomas K. Reed, a gentleman
whose skill and kindness as a physician has gained
him the esteem of very many who yearly visit Atlan-
tic City, and whose familiar acquaintance with tbe
locality has made him a most suitable person to (lis.
course upon that representative American water-
ing-place. The article is illustrated with admirable
pictures of the bathing-grounds, drives, churches,
cottage homes, warm baths, etc., affording, in con-
nection with the text, quite a graphic description of
the scenes that will be teeming with that cheerful,
bright, and fascinating summer-life for which Atlan-
tic City is becoming famous."
Book Collecting Mania.—The beginning of the
absurdly large prices for old books may he said to
have commenced at the sale at auction of the library
of John, third Duke of Roxburghe, in 1S14. His
Grace had been the most energetic and eminent
book, collector In the TJnlted Kingdom. His library
was large and valuable, and the sale lasted over
forty-two days. Wealthy collectors assembled In
force, and gave high pricesfor such works as claimed
to be rarities. There were 10,120 lots In all, com-
prising about thirty thousand volumes, and the
money paid for them by the bidders at the auction
amounted in the aggregate to ££1,398. The Duke of
Devonshire gave £1000 for the "History of Troy,"
the first book printed by Wm. Caxton In England
In 1471; the bidders were eager to obtain it simply
because it was one of a very few copies of that edi-
tion known to be still in existence. There were
eleven other Caxtons in the catalogue, and the whole
twelve brought £246 each on an average. But the
great struggle was for Boccaccio's "Dccamerone,"
a copy of the first edition printed at Venice by Val-
darfar. The book was not very choice in any par-
ticular except that it was the first edition, and that
hartlly any other perfect copy of It was known.
The Duke of Roxburghe had given £100 for it some
years before. At the sale in 1812 the Marquis of
Blandford and Earl Spencer alike set their heads
upon possessing It; emulation grew warm; neither
one chose to give way to the other, and the earl did
not cease to bid till he had gone up to £2250; the
marquis bid another £10, and carried oil the prize
for the stupendous sum of £2260—the highest price,
it is believed, ever paid for a single volume.
Bayard TAYLORsays It is not generally understood
that woman in ancient Egypt was honored and re-
spected equally as man. There was among the
Egyptians a lofty appreciation of the marriage tie.
The wife's name was often placed beTore that of the
husband, and the sons often bear the names of tho
mothers, instead of those of the fathers. Women
often sat upon the throne, and administered all the
affairs of the government. The assertion we so often
hear in these days that woman has always occupied
a position of subjection to man Is glaringly false. In
ancient Egypt he possessed no important right which
was not shared by her.
Thb sight of a summer's day, when air, earth, and
water teem with life, throws the human soul into a
reverie of bliss; bills and valleys, rocks, trees, and
rivers, put on the face of Joy; a spirit of happiness
seems to pervade all things. It is the Influence of
the Deity.
Superfluous Hair removed from any part of the
body In Jive minutes, without injury to the skin, by
Tj'piiam's Depilatory Powder, $1.25 by mail. Ad-
dress 3. C. Upham, 25 South Eighth Street, Philadel-
phia. Circulars free.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Under this hpad will be found all Information
connected with MsS., and answers from t.ic Fashion
Editress.
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 particular, when writing, to mention the town,
county, and State yon reside in. Nothing can be
made out of post-marks.
Any person making inquiries to be answered in
any particular number must send their request at
least two months previous to the date of publication
of that number.
Authors are requested to pay full letter postage on
all MSS. Hereafter we will not takeany MS. from the
post-office when the full postage has not been paid.
F. C—Sent rubber gloves May 4th.
Mrs. C. L.—Sent patterns 6th.
Miss R. S.—Sent hat 7th.
L. C. J.—Sent dress goods 8th.
Mrs. M. P.-Sent child's hat 11th.
Miss S. J—Sent pattern 15th.
C. J. K.—Sent jewelrv 17th
Mrs. M. J.—Sent clothing 20th.
K. L.—Sent bonnet 25th.
F. R.—Sent patterns 27th.
Mrs. 8. W.—Sent rubber gloves 31st.
"A Year Ago," declined.
Will the author of " Literature as an Outgrowth of
Human Life" please send his address.
"Magazine Binder."—We do not bind books;
therefore could have no use for it.
"Good Intent," declined.
Maurie.—We cannot infringe npon a phvsicinn's
duty. There are some quack nostrums, but'it would
be dangerous to use them.
"Golden Hours," declined.
"April Snow," accented.
'•May Day's Sweet Sixteen," declined.
H. B. S—We are not purchasing any material at
present
"Musical Composer."—Have more pieces on hand
than we can use for some time.
We thank "A Subscriber" for the praise given the
Lady's Book; will publish soon.
"To Cheerfulness," accepted.
Larkspur.—We have no objection to publish "A
Visit to the Floral Kingdom," but decline "The
Widow May's Party."
"Cut Roses."—These may be preserved a long
time by placing a piece of charcoal the size of a wal-
nut iu the water with the roses; do not use rain
water. A plan we have found most excellent for
preserving them a long time is to place them in a
bowl filled with sand and powdered charcoal, kept
thoroughly wet; If the stems are cut off at the end
every morning, and replaced in the wet sand, they
will last for days without drooping or fading.
Eliza.—Strong spirits of wine or benzine will
speedily remove the varnish from your box.
A Loving Mother.—The question is rather one of
common sense than of etiquette. Children are ut-
terly out of place when you are paying a morning
visit; they either get into mischief and break things,
or begin to romp and make a noise; or If by any
good fortune they are quiet, they hear a good deal
not Intended for them, and make a fearful amount
of mischief by repeating, without understanding
what they hear. We strongly advise you not to
trouble your friend with the Infliction you mention.
Mrs. T.—Nothing will restore the black of your
stockings but having them dyed, and then the color
will be sure to come off on your feet In wearing.
A Constant Reader.— We reply over and over
again to correspondents that we know of nothing
better than washing the head daily with cold water
to promote the growth of the hair. Crimping or
curling It Is apt to break the hair, and is not condu-
cive to rapid growth.
Florence.—We cannot tell the cause of the erup-
tion; but strongly advise you to consult a physician*
100
GODBY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Laura.—A legend we have read says that the Pas-
sion Flower was first discovered In the Brazils, and
Its wonders were soon proclaimed to Christian king-
doms as representing the passion of Our Lord, whence
its present appellation. The leaves were said ex-
actly to resemble the spear that pierced our Saviour's
side, the cords that bound His hands, and the whips
that scourged Him. The ten petals are the twelve
apostles, Judas having betrayed and I'eter deserted.
The pillar in the centre was the cross or tree, the
stamens the hammers, the styles the nails, the Inner
circle about the central pillar the crown of thorns,
and the radiations the glory; the white in the flower
the emblem of purity, and blue the type of heaven.
In the I'assillora a lata drops of blood are seen on the
cross or tre -. The flower keeps open three days,
and then disappears, denoting t lie resurrection.
Annie W.—Recognize him first whenever you see
him. If he chooses only to return the bow upon oc-
casions, do not ever after take any notice of him
when you meet.
Isabel.—You must wait until some of your neigh-
bors call upon you: then making yourself as agree-
able as possible, and returning their calls speedily, is
the only way we can suggest.
Harry.—White camelia signifies "perfect loveli-
ness."
'usbions.
NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS.
HAVTNoliad frequent applications for the purchase
of Jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladles living at a dis-
tance, the Editress of the Fashion Department will
hereafter execute commissions for any who may de-
sire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the
time and research required. Spring and autumn
bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes,
time and research required. Spring and autumn
bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes,
hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, mantil-
las, and mantelets will be chosen with a view to eco-
nomy as well as taste; and boxes or packages for-
warded by express to any part of the country. For
the last, distinct directions must be given.
Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed
expenditure, to be addressed to the care of L. A.
Qodey, Esq.
No order will be attended to unless the money is
flrst received. Neither the Editor nor the Publisher
will be accountable for losses that may occur in re-
mitting.
When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail
here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will
be taken back. When the goods are sent, the trans-
action must be considered final.
Instructions to be as minute as possible, accompa-
nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general
style of the persoD. on which much dependsln choice.
The publisher of the Lady's Book has no interest
in this department, and knows nothing of its trans-
actions; and whether the person sending the order
Is or is not a subscriber to the Lady's Book, the
Fashion Editress does not know.
DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE.
Fig. 1.—Walking dress of two shades of purple
silk. Theundersklrtlsofthe llghtershade,trimmed
with puffs; the oversklrt and mantle of the darker,
trimmed with bands of the lighter. Hat of dark
straw, faced and trimmed with silk to match dress.
Fig. 2.—Walking dress of fcru-colorcd pongee.
Thc«nderskirt is trimmed with a kilt plaitlns, head-
ed with an embroidered band: the oversklrt is fin-
ished with an embroidered band; sleeveless basque,
covered with embroidery. Chip bonnet, trimmed
with black ribbon and blue corn flowers.
Fig. a—Dinner dress of a light shade of elephant-
colored silk. The lower skirt has the front breadth
formed of kilt plaiting, and finished at the bottom by
ruffles. Sleeveless polonaise of lace of the same color,
trimmed with fringe; It Is cut square In the neck;
silk sleeves. The waist would of course have to be
lined with silk. Hair arranged In pulls, with feather
clasped by a Jewelled ornament arranged in front
Fig. 4.—House dress of two shades of green silk
and grenadine. The underskirt Is of silk, trimmed
with a kilt plaiting; the oversklrt and basque are of
the grenadine, trimmed with silk ruffles and ribbon;
fringe around the edge of oversklrt and basque.
Fig. 5.—Evening dress of pink silk, made with a
trained skirt, the back breadth* cut in turrets with
a platting below them; the front breadth is even
across the bottom with a plaiting deeper at the sides
than the exact front, headed with a pud, plaiting,
and three rows of fringe; garlands of roses trim
the skirt. Low basque corsage, with bertha of a puff
and fringe. Hair arranged lu pulls and curls, with
roses between them.
DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET.
FIRST SIDE.
Fig. 1.—Walking dress of Icru and brown foulard.
The underskirt Is of the brown, trimmed with ruffles
of both shades. The overskirt Is of the light, with
dark ribbon bows; light basque bodice, trimmed
with folds of the dark. Chip hat, trimmed with the
two shades. Dark brown parasol.
Fig. 2.—House dress of black silk and grenadine.
The underskirt is of the silk; the overskirt and
basque bodice and sleeves are of grenadine, richly
embroidered with silk and Jet. They are trimmed
with silk and Jet fringe.
Fig. 3.—Walking dress of gray camel's hair and
silk; the underskirt is of silk, trimmed with puffs
and ruffles. The jacket bodice is of the camel's
hair, trimmed with silk, with long sash euds falling
down at the sides with pockets iu them. Hat of
gray chip, trimmed with feathers and silk.
Fig. 4.—Carriage dress of lilac silk, trimmed with
bands of darker silk, and sleeveless basque of the
darker silk. The sleeves are of the shade of the
skirt. White chip hat, trimmed with the two shades
and white flowers.
Fig. 5.—WTalklng dress of black grenadine. The
front breadths of underskirt are trimmed with folds;
the back breadths with ruffles, headed with folds
forming squares. The overskirt is trimmed with a
fold, the upper part in back being cut In scallops.
The basque is cut to correspond. Black chip bon-
net, trimmed with blue and black.
Fig. 6.—White chip bonnet, trimmed with white
crepe de chine and white flowers.
Fig. 7.—Hat of gray straw, trimmed with gray silk
scarf and pink roses.
SECOND SIDE.
Fig. L—Bathing toilet of pale gray serge. Trousers
and short-sleeved blouse of gray scrre, with bands
of a darker shade. Loose mantle of striped gray
and white flannel.
Fig. 2.—Bathing toilet for little girls. Short trou-
sers and blouse of white serge, braided with scarlet
worsted braid. Echarpe of scarlet Cashmere, with
knotted fringe. White bathing slippers, with scarlet
sandals.
Fig. S.—Bathing toilet of bright blue flannel.
Trousers and blouse of flannel; the latter braided
with white braid, and fastened with buttons. Loose
mantle of Baden-Baden cloth, bathing cap of oiled
silk bound with blue. Slippers with blue sandals.
Fig. 4—Seaside toilet Skirt and sleeveless Jacket
of black taffetas; the former Is plaited In front, and
arranged In flounces at the back. Tunic and bodice
of striped batiste Icru with guipure lace. Necktie
of lilac crtpe de chine. Hat of y In their
L_rAL^I^O own City or Town. Address ELLIfi M'FG CO., Vfttltuam, Mass.
AGENTS WANTED.Men or-meD ^
can Gold Mining Co.
week. Address Amebi-
Laramle City, Wyoming.
VIOLET TOILET WATER.
CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT.
CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap,
ARE YOU GOING TO PAINT?
THEN USE THE
Averill Chemical Paint
Most Durable and Beautiful Exterior
Paint Known.
Costs no More, nnil will Outwear the best
of any Other. "White and all the Fashion*
able Shades, Mixed ready for use, are sold
by the gallon*.
EXTRACTS FROM OUR LETTERS.
Hon. J as. Neglet, Pittsburg, Pa.: "Altogether I
find the ' Averill' the cheapest and best."
Pktbb Henderson, Esq.: "The 'Averill' has
proved superior to lead ana oil."
C. W. Spooneb, Treas. Cordage Co., Plymouth,
Mass.: "The 'Averill Chemical' has proved tood."
C. A. Alltn, Esq., Palmyra, K, Y.: "The 'Averill
Paint' is as bright to-day as wheu applied three years
ago."
Hundreds of testimonials from owners of the finest
residences in the country, with sample Card of
Colors, furnished free by dealers generally, and by
the
AVERILL CHEMICAL PAINT CO.,
33 Burling Slip, New York; or 139 East
River St., Cleveland, Ohio.
GEO. A! PRINCE & CO.
Organs & Melodeons.
The Oldest, Largest, and Most Perfect Manufactory
In the United States.
55,000
Now In use.
No other Musical Instrument ever obtained the same
popularity.
W Send for Price Lists.
Address BUFFALO, N. Y.
Weannouncethat (until further notice) we will sell
to applicants In any city or town where we have no
agent on the same terms and at the some discounts as
to large dealers who purchase from $30,000 to 850,000
value annually.
The fact of ours being the oldest and largest manu-
factory in the United States, with 55,000 instruments
now in use. Is a sufficient guarantee of our responsi-
bility and the merits of our Instruments.
GEO. A. PRINCE & CO.
WHAT SPLENDID TEETH!
Is the exclamation that a perfect even and brilliant set of
teeth elicits. Brush the gleaming ivory every day with
FRAGRANT
SOZODONT!
And thus render its charm imperishable. Kepp the enamel
spotless and the pirnis healthy with SOZODONT, and yonr
teeth, however uneven, will always be admired. No other
dentriflee makes the t«eth so white* and yet none is so en-
tirely free from every objectionable ingredient. It neutral-
izes all impurities that are destructive to the teeth, and which
defile the Breath. It has been endorsed by the most eminent
Physicians, Dentists, and Divines. Sold by all Druggists.
OODET'B LADY'S B0O& ADVERTISER.
A PREMIUM GIVEN TO EVERY SUBSCRIBER.
O-ODEY'S
LADY'S BOOK.
Tlie Oldest Magazine in America.
18*73- Volume 91. 1875-
IN ADDITION TO OUR
SPLENDID STEEL ENGRAVINGS
AND
WILL BE GIVEN FROM TIME TO TIME
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:—
Ino Churchill, Mrs. 0. A. Hopkinson, Louise S. Dorr,
S. Annie Frost, Etc.
OTTR OTHER DBPARTMENTS-
J.JM 17".ZLX«T7., 318 pages, contains New Methods, with-
out Drugs, for Home Treatment and Radical Cure.
iled for 81.50. Circular on receipt of stamp.
A. PARKER, 17 West 58th Street, New Yo
tfll^^ M pnlT to ROOO \gi ills.
a day fnianrateed nsJng oor Well
""'" $100 a month
. Auger A Drills.
'free. JUz Auger Co.,
Aujcer book
St. Louis, Mo.
$15 TO $25 PER DAY!
I,ocal Agents wanted to sell Bickford's Celebrated
Automatic Family Kuittiug Machine*.
Extraordinary inducements offered to first-class
General Agents. For Circular and full particu-
lars. Address
BIlKFORO KNITTING MACHINE MFG. CO..
Sole Manufacturers, Brattlcboro, Vt.
BREBAN'S INTEREST TABLES.
THE MOST CORRECT AND PROMPT MANUAL OF INTER-
EST FOR CAPITALISTS, BANKERS, MERCHANTS,
CONVEYANCEBS, TREASURY CLERKS, AND
MEN 01 BUSINESS IN ALL ITS
DEPARTMENTS.
A copy will be sent on receipt of 84. Address
L. A. GODEY,
N.E. Oor. Sixth and dtesinul Sis., Philadelphia.
Standard Lotta Bustle.
The Standard Lotta Bustle has outsold every other
Bustle in the market several times over. Diplomas
have been awarded them each year bv the Ameri-
can Institute. The new form thereof'No. 1 of the
Standard Lotta Bustle, is a laced back for narrow
dresses principally containing the same outvieiug
merits in weight supporting, closing upon sitting,
etc.. not found in any other. Faultless and perfect,
filling every requirement. For narrow dresses it is
perfection: all the Lottos are perfection. They are
the lightest, strongest, and most comfortable and
graceful Bustle, of any required shape, style, or size,
sustaining no injury by pressing, and the cheapest
in the market. These are requirements that all
otiier Bustles signally fall to meet. 1, 3, 5, best sell-
ing; also 15,18. 2, and 10.
Patentee mil Wholesale Manufacturer, 91 Whit*
St., JV. r.; anil HOI Knee St., I'hiln.
CHARLES 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 Wissahlckon
and Hamvell Mills,
EXTRA NOTICE.
Having a few copies remaining on hand of the following
popular Chromes, we will furnish them to our subscribers and
Uieir friends at the low prices given below, and pay the postage:—
ASKING A BLESSING - - - $2.50
THE OLD MILL - 2.00
THE OFFER ----- 1.50
THE ACCEPTANCE - - - 1.50
THE SINGING LESSON - - - 1.00
MY PET ----.- 1.00
OUR DARLING - 1.00
TRUE TO NATURE - - - 1.00
Address L. A. GODEY,
N. E. Cor. Sixth and Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia, Pa.
J\ ZE3I_ GAMP,
809 Obestnut, and 610 Jayno Street.
LITHOGRAPHIC ENGRAVING, PRINTING, ETC.,
IN ALL ITS BRANCHES.
WHAT ARE YOUR SYMPTOMS?
Is there pain in the right side,
yellowness of the eyes, nausea, de-
bility, irregularity of the bowels
and headache'? If
wrong; and to set [
tone and vigor to
SELTZER
so, your liver is
[it right and give
your system,
the one thing needftu is
TARRANT'S SELTZER APERIENT.
SOLD BY -A-ILiXj XDFtTJC3S-GS-ISTSr
■A.3VrFaj=LIOA3>J ULsHNTE.
THE AMERICAN STEAMSHIP COMPANY
OV rHILADKLPHIA.
WEEKLY MAIL STEAMSHIP SERVICE BETWEEN
PHILADELPHIA AND LIVERPOOL,
CALLING AT QUEEN8TOWN.
Sailing every Thursday from Philadelphia, and every Wednesday from Liverpool.
PENNSYLVANIA, OHIO, INDIANA,
"ILLINOIS, *ABBOTSFORD, *KENILWORTH.
FRIQES OF r>^SSA.aE IET CTJXlXtBIN'CrY.
Cabin 9100.
Intermediate and Steerage Tickets to and from all points at lowest current rates.
Steamers marked with a star do not carry intermediate.
Passenger accommodations for all classes unsurpassed. Ample attendance is provided. Every steamer
carries a surgeon and stewardess.
These steamers are supplied with Life-Hafts, in addition to the usual Life-Boats and Life-Preservers.
Through tickets and throukh bills of lading issued between all prominent points.
For passage, rates of freight, and other information, apply to
PETER WRIGHT & SONS, Gen'l Agents,
307 Walnut Street, Philadelphia.
RICHARDSON, SPENCE, k 00., Liverpool, N. k J. CUMMINS k BROS,, Qneenstown
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 t/ie United States.
sº. AUCUST. a
Look at the Splendid Chromo Premi ºven to every
Single or Club Subscriber for the ty 1875.
tº gº, *Cºg -
sº gº zºº º & º º P s -
º º
- - º ºr L * - - -
MRS, SARAH J. HALE,
L. A. GODEY,
~~
ºlouis a gº
PHILADELPHIAº
zºº -
º %22 Zºº
º
zºº”
To Subscribers for 1875.
One copy, one year ....
Two copies, one year
Three copies, one year
Four copies, one year
Five copies, one year, and an extra
copy to the person getting up the
club, making six copies
Eight copies, one year, and an extra
$3 00
5 00
7 50
10 00
14 00
copy to the person getting up the
club, making nine copies . $21 00
Eleven copies, one year, and an ex-
tra copy to the person getting up
the club, making twelve copies . 27 50
Twenty-three copies, one year, and an
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ENJOYING THE
HOLIDAYS.
121
|
0 Maiden, Dearest.
NICE VEZZOSA.
ARIETTA. -
The Italian words by METAstasio.
As published by J. STARR H0LL0WAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada.
English Wersion by Dr. W. J. WETMORE, Music by the late Sig. GIUSEPPE DeBEGNIS,
Andantino.
N-
o mai - den, dear - - est, Thou art my hope and pleas - ure,
Ni - - ce vez - zo - - Mi - o bel te - so - - ro,
Life's fond -est treas - ure, blest with thee.
Te so - lo a - do - - ro, Ca - ra bel - ta.
fond - est trea-sure, . .
so - lo a - do - ro, . . .
Entered, according to act of Conf. in ...'. 1875, by j. STARR HOLLOWAY, in the Office of the
ibrarian of Congress, at Washington.
'O MAIDEN, DEAREST.
And day - light dy
Quei dol - ci is - tan
thou think of
a - inor ci u -
I will re - mem-ber thee, Still ten
Ca - ra ra - men - ta - tati di chi
NECKLACE OF JET BEADS
OF &IFFERENT SIZES, WITH FRINGE OF PENDANTS.
CHILDREN'S DRESSES.
(See Description, Fashion Department.)
.
XJA
GODEY'S
ook attJtr ajtagapt.
VOLUME XOL-NO. 542.
PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1875.
ONE SUMMER.
BT M. T. ANDREWS.
"I loved you with a brooding dread,
The hashed solemnity
Of souls that stake their all to win
Or lose—eternity."
Silver Lake, as you all know, is a bewitch-
ing idyl of a place, much visited by wealthy
ones in search of charm and change. It is a
delightful summer resort, romantic, pictur-
esque, and grandly, quaintly beautiful; en-
chanting enough with its starry sheen of
flashing waters, its forests, its fruit trees, its
sloping lawns, sown with crimson and white
clover, and all astir with blue violets; its long
reaches of level meadow lauds, whitened with
wild daisies and low clusters of sunny heath,
looking like snowflakes scattered amidst the
green grasses. And then there are its groves
of dusky evergreen trees, its vine thickets and
flower shrubberies, its fountains here and there,
its pretty nooks and resting-places, its wide,
smooth grounds for croquet and other amuse-
ments, some uncultured spaces of wild luxuri-
ance away, apart in the shadow, a very wilder-
ness of bloom and incense and weird grandeur.
No wonder that pleasure parties liked to go
there, where they could walk, and drive, and
ride, and sail, and enjoy themselves to their
heart's content.
But the aristocratic crowd at Silver Lake are
doing nothing of the kind to-day, this blessed,
balmy midsummer day. They are conversing
here and there, In the dressing-rooms of the
Silver Lake House, on the porticos, the balco-
nies, in the ivy temples and pavilions on each
side of the arched avenue; a few have wan-
dered off to the play-ground, not so interested
but that they can come back at any moment
when signal or sign should warn and beckon.
They are expecting a new arrival, a lady,
young, beautiful, and distinguished, unknown
to them all. And one speaking now says:
"This Miss Beatrice St. Albans is the owner
of Linden Park, the finest estate in all that
part of the country, and a half million beside."
And another answers, with a little envy
blended with the wonder: "And so my lady
will come with a train of servants most likely."
"No, I believe not. Miss St. Albans has
only engaged rooms for herself and compan-
ion. This companion is a cousin of hers, a
poor girl she took to her home years ago. Her
name is Alice St. Albans, I think."
Haughty belles discussed the fair stranger
with a little venomous curiosity, wishing with
all their might that she would stay away.
Grave gentlemen and gay gentlemen discussed
about it with excited curiosity, for the carriage
from Silver Lake House had already been sent
to the station.
"1 wonder," said a smiling young girl, who
had been listening silently to information and
speculation—"I wonder who of us would know
which was Miss St. Albans and which was the
companion."
"Dear me, what a little simpleton," pro-
nounced a scornful beauty at her side. "As if
one could ever be at fault with regard to the
two."
"Well, they might," suggested the pretty
querist, caring but little about it any way.
"How stupid! Why, one could tell which
was the beautiful heiress at a glance. I could,
I know. Conscious of her supreme loveliness
and her high position, there would be about
her an unmistakable air of dignity and stateli-
ness and courtly ease, and that indescribable
grace of refinement and elegance that always
gives a royal seal to line culture and exalted
station."
"Why, yes; of course they could tell—why
shouldn't they?" one and another chimed in.
The poor little companion would be meek
and qniet enough, with no sense of sovereignty
125
126
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
to distinguish her, if her name was St. Albans.
Not much intuition would be needed to detect
the purple from the plebeian, and appoint
them their respective places.
All colloquy is put to instant flight now, for
the gilded carriage comes dashing through the
arched gateway, and up the broad, sheltered
sweep grandly. Simultaneously every one
moves a little. The polite, obsequious propri-
etor of Silver Lake House opens the coach- door
himself and assists the ladies to the ground.
How still it is everywhere I Though it seems
as if half the world is there looking at them—
these strangers, contrasting so unmistakably.
Their travelling costumes are alike, a soft, sil-
ver gray, plain and rich. But how dissimilar
the two I
Ah, wise little girl, you may shake your
pretty little head now, if you like, but every-
body knows in a moment which Is Miss St.
Albans. Why shouldn't they? She is a glori-
ous-looking creature, dark, regal, magnificent,
a very queen in her proud beauty and royal
elegance, and careless of It all in her courte-
ous, gracious condescension. But the danger-
ous black eyes flash a swift glance on either
side of her, at the elaborate array of vines and
flowers; and if she takes an inventory of all
interested watchers, close by and afar off, in
there and up yonder, they are none the wiser
for it. She looks just as they had expected
she would, this peerless Miss St Albans; a
tall, stately brunette, bewitching, fascinating,
with a little unconscious hauteur in the con-
tour of her superb figure, in the poise of her
proud head, and in the music of the magical
rich voice.
And the other lady was so different. She
was very small, but the impersonation of grace
itself. Her complexion was like the snow;
there is a weary whiteness on the young face
now that is not always there. The dreamy,
beautiful blue eyes have a tender brightness in
them. Some of the prisoned curls have es-
caped from their insecure fastenings, and are
gliding down over the dainty shoulders like
gleams of warm, soft sunshine.
Of course Mr. Parker, the deferential host,
knew which was Miss St. Albans, and intro-
duced her right and left, while the ladies'
trunks and boxes were being sent up stairs.
And then they were shown to their apart-
ments, the best suite in the handsome house.
The retreating footsteps of the official were
scarcely out of hearing, when the tall lady,
standing just within the door of the sumptu-
ous chamber, turned and locked it. Then, like
a spoiled child free from all restraint, she
flung her hat, with a treacherous toss, into a
corner as If it had been a plaything, and
waltzed across the softly carpeted floor swiftly
and noiselessly, wildly whirling here and there
with gleeful grace.
. "Oh, dear, dear I" she pouted, laughing in
a merry, mischievous manner. "Isn't this
role ridiculous and delicious. I do want to cry
hurrah with all my might, or say some other
dreadful slangish word, or do some awful out-
rageous, outlandish thing. I believe I laughed
the smiling, supercilious landlord in the face,
and came terribly n,ear 'speaking right out in
meeting,' " dancing up to the tall mirror that
reflected her vivid, wondrous beauty.
The other lady, looking like a pretty, tired
child, is wearily reclining on a sofa. She puts
up one little pale hand as she speaks.
"Oh, hush, hush, dear! Do be still, I beg
of you." She smiles faintly as she chides and
expostulates. "Don't make all this noise,
please, it tires me so. And besides, everybody
will be coming to see if you have gone crazy,
and I should half think so myself; but the ex-
perience of years proves that you are not alto-
gether Insane, with all your flighty, naughty,
lawless hilarity and mad merriment, that needs
constant correction."
Before she has finished, the queenly girl is
bending over her, smoothing back with a ten-
der touch the drooping curls, and kissing the
pure, waxen face.
"There, there, cousin I I didn't mean to tire
you to death with this stormy and strange tri-
umph of mine. But, oh, dear I wasn't it super-
latively nice, and grotesque, and grand to be
unexpectedly honored and burdened with so
much superfluous homage, which I, I believe,
accepted with unprecedented content, as if it
were all right and righteous. What else could
I do, my dear? I should have laughed out-
right if I had attempted a retreat under this
tempest of gallant proprieties."
"Yes, dear. But do hush, now. I wish you
would be still once in your life."
The pale girl leaned her faint head down on
my lady's shoulder. "Poor little darling I"
gathering the frail creature up in her arms as
if she had been a child, and caressing her with
a wistful passion of tenderness. Presently she
speaks in the old, piquant, independent way.
"Won't all of these wise, worshipful people
be surprised, astonished, and confounded when
they find that"—
The weary little lady lifts her head suddenly
and looks into the bright, sparkling face above
her. She is smiling sweetly and half sadly, a
mild quiver on the delicate cheek, like a bit of
fire in the heart of a pearl, the sweet, girlish
voice lingering and low.
"Let it go, dear; I shall be glad. We will
not inaugurate any unwelcome revelations to
refute the sincerities and certainties of our
friends here. It seems to me that I do not
want any one to speak to me all the time I am
at Silver Lake. It will be such a rest, just
now. My dear Mill St. Albant," playfully,
"you are beautiful and brilliant and grand.
And you will take this bit of praise and truth
from your humble companion, will you not?"
ONE SUMMER.
127
Mitt St. Albans half smothered the humble
emnpanion with kisses. Then she laughed a
merry, mocking laugh, that floated out of the
open window, through all the hushed air aflush
with summer glory, far away into the answer-
ing distances.
"I have half a mind to. Oh, dear me, I
hare I Wouldn't it be delicious and delightful,
an unparalleled event in the chronicles of my
UDwritten history, just like a story one reads,
as a weird poem that is half dream and half
song and all romance? How I shall queen it
among all these flatterers and fashionables, be
admired immensely, be the centre of every
circle, a light in every place, a star, a belle,
and an heiress! Oh, dear, dear! There are
handsome, grand-looking men here, and so 1
shall make conquests and captives, and—and
—but I shouldn't want to break anybody's
heart, you know. Mercy on me! what if I
should?"
A lonely, low voice breaks in: "Do be still
now, please, or you will break mine; I am
verily sure of that j" then softly, reverently,
"In this gay whirl of life, dear, with all these
present and prospective triumphs, never forget
the tried, true friend, whose love messages
come to you so often."
And the other answered, with sober gravity,
"Never. He is all the world to me."
Coming out of her dreamy, far-away mood
directly, she asked, "It must be near the din-
ner hour, 1 think; 1 will help you to dress.
What shall I get you, cousin?"
"Nothing, dear; I shall not go down. I
only want a muslin wrapper, and then 1 shall
lie here and try to rest. By and by I will have
a cup of coffee, and shall need nothing else."
"1 will not leave you, darling; we can have
something brought up for us both."
"No, no; help me to undress, please, and
then make your own toilet. I shall be better
alone for a little while."
The beautiful girl arrayed herself with infi-
nite grace. Every fold, and line, and curve of
her silken draperies were perfect. Rare gems
nestled about her throat, fastening the soft,
light laces, and sparkled and trembled like
stars amidst the graceful coils and braids of
her dusky hair. A fascinating, faultless pic-
ture she makes, this splendid stranger guest.
She is a little late; but there will be a seat of
honor reserved for the fair owner of Linden
Park. She goes and bends over the still, pale
face upon the pillows, kissing it once, twice,
many times lovingly before she leaves the
chamber.
A dazzling vision of splendor and regal
grace makes its first appearance in the dining-
room in the august form of Mitt St. Albans.
She was studied, criticised, admired, and pro-
nounced perfect, a sovereign then and there.
And from this day ever after she was the
teiguing belle, receiving homage, and honor,
and courtly devotion. It did not take them
long to find out that she was witty, and bril-
liant, and accomplished, and a trifle haughty,
too. When she accepted attentions, and ad-
vances, and proffered friendships, she was
conferring, not receiving favors.
She wore her crowning laurels and amethyst
robes with the stately grace of royalty. Why
shouldn't she? She whose little jewelled hand
had been refused to many an ardent pleader,
and whose woman's heart no one could win—
the coquettish thing, with the wild beauty
and grace of a tropical bird, unsnared, bewitch-
ing, grand in its wise freedom.
And so the pretty princess sung and played,
and read and rode, and danced and flirted,
with a dulcet despotism and capricious con-
descension that was irresistibly entrancing.
How should they know that the, radiant, bewil-
dering smile on the ruby lips meant mischief?
or that the starry sparkle of the dazzling dark
eyes was a Hash of scorn or triumph?
Miss Alice, the poor little companion, was
not of much account any way. She did not
expect to be, of course; yet, in her pure, sweet
loveliness, she always looked like an angel.
She seldom joined the pleasure parties or the
evening gatherings, but she liked better to go
away alone where the blossoms were the
brightest, and the birds' songs the sweetest,
with her sketch-book or a favorite volume.
But there was one that always looked long-
ingly after her, and to-day he has followed her
afar off. He is an artist, this Clayton Le Vere,
elegant and grand, with an air like a prince.
His superior culture and refinement and pleas-
ing manners rendered him a desirable, valued
friend, and his proud gifts fitted him for any
high, responsible position. But he was poor,
and therefore an ineligible match for the dear,
extravagant divinities that help to make up
the exclusive world at Silver Lake.
Alice St. Albans had found a quaint niche of
wild wisteria vines and willows. It was out
of the way enough, this dainty nook; nobody
would ever come there to interrupt her work.
She was sketching a distant view—changing
skies, a bit of river stealing in and out of the
petted garlandry with a silver sparkle, water-
flags along the bent edges, and low lilies; and
a winding, narrow path, broken through the
crimson clover where the children came ami
went, with the little wild birds rising up like a
sudden dusky cloud, fluttering away and out
of sight amongst the white flowering chestnut
trees on the close background. She had not
finished it quite, but she was tired, and had
flung the pretty pencilling beyond her reach.
It is a fresh, fragrant summer day, with a
soft brightness all about her. The sweet south
wind ripples into her recess, lingering with its
wealth of flower incense. Yoices are heard
in the distance, and music and light laughter
and trills of marvellous melody up in the cor-
128
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
ners and clefts of her stolen sanctuary—but
hers to-day by right of possession, this little
odorous Eden of a place; weary, languid,
dreaming, she likes this loneliness. Her atti-
tude is one of careless grace. She is leaning
against the vines, her soft cheek flushed, her
loosened curls falling about her like a misty,
golden veil, the wistful violet eyes looking far
away. Some crimson honeysuckles lie list-
lessly in her hands; a flutter of white flower
leaves have flaked her azure garments like
snowflakes. Such a lovely, child-like picture
she made, you would say, this frail, delicate
little creature, like an artist's ideal of beauty
and infinite grace, like the poet's dream of
angels in the heavenly home.
After a while footsteps sauntered into sight,
and came slowly towards the fair stranger's
charmed covert, just as If the wanderer had
known all the time where she was. Perhaps
he did; and he could have told you there was
a leaf in his sketch-book he would not have
parted with for gold. The dear little dreamer's
girlish reverie was put to instant flight. Were
her sweet, half-weary imaginings of this hand-
some loiterer that now stands before her, 1
wonder? The faint sea-shell glow that stole
over her dimpled cheek deepened and died
away. Slightly confused, she was reaching
out for her hat, aslant on a supple spray of
bloom, when the gentleman's half-pleading
voice arrested the movement. Removing his
hat, and bowing with his wonted courtly grace,
he said: "I beg your pardon for disturbing
you. But may I rest awhile here in your
lovely paradise?"
She smiled an assent, saving: "These
grounds, I believe, are free to all. I have no
claim here that another might not contend
for."
He is glad of the propitious reply, answering
at once with a respectful frankness.
"You are Miss Alice St. Albans, I think;
and I am Clayton Le Vere. Shall we not be
friends now, please?" he held out his hand.
The great blue eyes flashed a swift, search-
ing look into the man's true, Intent face, and
the white fingers rested trustingly in his warm
clasp.
He is seated by her, amidst the spicy ferns,
talking pleasantly of their surroundings. Then
they discourse of other things, music, books,
paintings, their expressed preferences wonder-
fully alike. He had been giving furtive glances
towards the neglected sketch that lay flutter-
ing at her feet, as if it really wanted to be no-
ticed, and solicited permission to look at it.
"I do not know." She bent forward to recover
the stray leaf. "It is not quite completed, sir.
I believe I got out of patience, or was tired,
or something. And after all your successful
efforts, Mr. Le Vcre, I am afraid you will be
a merciless critic to my poor little romantic
view."
He smiled indulgently as he took it from her
hand. For a few moments he examined it
closely, and with evident admiration; then
made one or two slight corrections with his
pencil.
"You have a correct taste, and a Just appre-
ciation of the beautiful, and you must have had
clever masters, and a good deal of practice."
"Thank you, sir." Then, with a little play-
ful pleading: "I think you have not been idle
all this bright, blessed day. I should very
much like the privilege of praising your work,
Mr. Le Vere," with a meaning glance towards
his portfolio.
The pale, proud face of the man crimsoned.
But he answered evenly enough :—
"Not now, please. I have not quite fin-
ished my task. When I have perfected and
painted the drawing I have made to-day, I
will bring it to you, my little friend."
Presently he proposed a walk. Across the
many terraces over yonder there was a mag-
nificent panorama and a multitude of quaint
resting places. Was she too tired to accom-
pany him up the hill "Difficulty?"
They were soon standing in that wilderness
of enchantment, crushing the little blue-grass
flowers at every step. Down there were the
lowlands of Silver Lake, with their unique at-
tractions, and welcoming haunts, and weird
grandeur. The shadows were growing fainter
and fewer. The fair young girl looked away
westward. The summer sun was sinking down
into the distant, dark waters, and flinging back
flashes of crimson and golden brightness. A
few minutes passed in wonder, surprise, and
awe, with no words spoken. But the strength
and glory and inspiration of that scene would
never be forgotten. The exquisite face of the
little companion was all aglow, and the soft,
dreamy eyes held a revelation of passionate
worship.
The very silence had a marvellous fascina-
tion. She laid a little frail hand on the arm of
the artist with the rapt fervor and enthusiasm
of a child.
"How sublime, and grand, and marvellously
glorious!" her sweet voice beseeching in its
reverence and prayerful humility. "What a
vast missal of beauty, and prophecy, and pro-
mise, with the Infinite Presence everywhere in
all this mystery and completeness!"
A slender white hand closed over hers with
a tender grace. She drew hers shyly away, as
if in her trance of admiration and excitement
she had done an unmaidenly thing.
The man did not seem to notice the little
deprecating movement, but walked by her side
directing her attention here and there to the
many wild weird pictures of changing loveli-
ness, answering in an easy, interested friendly
way. His very voice had a charm in it as of
low, sweet music in the twilight. There was
a certain air of distinguished repose in his every
ONE SUMMER.
129
movement, in his whole manner, that was im-
pressive and alluring.
When Clayton Le Vere left Miss St. Albans"
pretty companion on the steps of Silver Lake
House, they had planned an excursion for an-
other day.
Alice went up dreamily to her chamber.
"Why, cousin, dear, you might have had the
grace to say 'good-evening,' 1 should think,
you have been gone such a while," laughed
Miss St. Albans, removing the girl's hat and
mantle, and flinging back the rich draperies
that the wind had tossed across the sofa.
"Surely, you look tired, or glad, or something.
Why, darling," kneeling down by her and look-
ing up into the pure, young face, with its rose-
leaf glow and luminous smile. "How beauti-
ful you are! not the old statuesque loveliness
that makes you seem so proud and cold, but—
I can't ever define anything so delicate, so spi-
ritual, so divinely irresistible. And oh, dear,
dear! I shall have to look out for my laurels,
I am half afraid—if they are borrowed ones."
She laughed a merry, silvery laugh, and went
(lancing about the room, scarcely heeding the
wistful plaint.
"Don't tease me, dear. And do be still,
please; you forget that my humble, neglected
self don't like to live in a whirlwind. There,
hush—that vase of violets!" as the floating
flounces threatened a crystal urn, flower filled.
"How careless you are In your distracting
gayety!"
"Oh, me! There, I have been and gone and
done it, sure. Eureka—no! Saved from un-
mitigated disaster and destruction this time.
And now don't scold, please; I am ever so
sorry," with a pretended penitence that was
inimitable. "I wonder if I had spilled these
pretty things if Colonel Travers would ever
have sent me any more. He wanted 1 should
wear them among my 'royal braids' to-night.
1 wish you would let me dress you, and so go
down with me this evening. You like dancing,
you know."
"No, no, dear; not now. I have been so
unceremoniously set aside since I have been
here, I am very much afraid that no one would
request the honor of my hand for this set,"
a faint smile stirring the proud, sweet mouth.
"There is one that would, darling, though
he seldom comes into the dancing saloon. I
was vexed a little at first that he did not care
for me as all the rest do; this man, this glori-
ously gifted Mr. Le Vere. But when I found
him watching you every day and every hour, I
did'nt care so much, and, moreover, I have all
that I can attend to with the rest, to dispense
my smiles, and favors, and coquetries evenly,
you know." She bent down and kissed the
bright young face with yearning tenderness.
This girl, this Alice, was resting upon a sofa
now, a heap of golden curls on the amber cush-
vol. xci.—9
ions, and her soft cheek nestled down amidst
the mazy mass.
An hour or two later, slow, low footsteps
went down a private stairway at Silver Lak»
House. In the lower hall Alice St. Albans
paused for a few seconds to listen to the entic-
ing strains of Strauss's waltz music. She paced
the terraces a little while, a delicious freshness
and flower fragrance in tin: dampened night
air. She had been here sometimes in the morn-
ing, never before in the moonlight.
It was very pleasant, very peaceful, wander-
ing here amidst the cool silences and silver
deeps. Tired at last, she leaned against a col-
umn veiled with vines, living over again the
day's treasured dream, coming to her like a
last song with welcoming words and faintly-
remembered tune. Just back of her a door
was ajar, leading into a wing of the building.
She surely heard a weary moan as of some one
in distress. She pushed the door a little wider,
and stepped softly across the threshold.
"Clayton, dear,"said a faint, languid voice.
A lady lay on a couch looking pale and ill,
as she could see by the dim light of the lamp.
She went over to the invalid, saying kindly, as
she reached for the thin hand.
"Madam, don't think my coming in an in-
trusion, although I am not the one you expect-
ed. Can I do anything for you? Shall I go
for the gentleman you named?"
The lady opened wide her eyes, gazing upon
the winsome vision that must have wandered
in with a waft of the sweet south wind, and
spoke wearily.
"No, dear. I thought it was my son. Idid
not feel quite as well and wanted my wine, but
I was dizzy and could not rise for it myself."
"Let me get it for you, madam, and let me
stay with you, please, till your son eomes."
"You are very kind. Thank you! Clayton
went out to walk ; he will be back soon."
Alice soon prepared the iced draught, and
smoothed back the damp dark hair from the
aching temples with a tender touch. How like
the face was to the one she had looked up into
so many times to-day, and yet that other face
was stronger and grander even with the infi-
nite grace of contour and color.
"What little soft hands!" says Mrs. Le
Vere, taking one of the frail things and caress-
ing it with her own in a pleading, loving way.
"And how kind you are! Will you please tell
me your name, dear?"
"They call me Miss Alice. I live at Linden
Park."
"Oh, yes! I have heard Clayton speak of
you. You are Miss St. Albans' cousin. The
little world here at Silver Lake call her very
-beautiful. I hope she is good, too."
As it was not a question, the poor cousin did
not speak, only turning her head away, her
lips quivering a little. A moment later she
said:—
130
OODET'S LAD7S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
"Has your health improved since you have
been here, dear friend? You look very ill
still."
• "I am never strong. Tes, I think 1 have
been better. But we shall not stay much
longer—not many days, I mean; it is too ex-
pensive." She paused a second, never know-
ing what an attentive listener she had. "I
did not intend to come, but Clayton would not
leave me at home. He works very hard, and
sadly needs this rest. It troubles me to have
him toil so unremittingly, and I cannot do
much to help him. We are poor, and he has a
great deal to contend with. He has high
ideals and aspirations, and the gifts that God
has given him. My treasure, my all. Never
a mother had so good a boy as I have. It
seems to me ho is almost perfect." Some one
has come in. "Clayton, my son."
"Mother, dear. Ah, good-evening, Miss
Alice. So you have been keeping my mother
company. Thank you!"
Mrs. Le Vere explained.
"I hope you have enjoyed your ramble, my
son."
"Thank you! yes. But I did not intend to
leave you so long, mother. I am glad you
have not been alone." Then speaking to Al-
ice, "Bless you for your ministering presence,
little friend!"
"May I come in again?" smiled the sweet
lips. She whispered this in answer to Mrs.
Le Vere's look of wistful pleading.
Clayton opened the door for her, saying,
"Allow me to accompany you to the grand
entrance way, please, Miss Alice."
"Thank yon, no. I came down a private
stair, just a few steps along the portico." She
held out her hand to him with a low "good-
night."
He retained it to say, "You will not forget
our walk to-morrow."
There is a coquettish little shake of the
golden curls, and the girl has gone. Slowly
she went up the winding steps, listening to the
trancing strains of music not so very far away.
She almost wanted to join the dancers to-night,
she felt so strangely happy. But she went on
to her chamber, having some letters to write
that must needs go out in the morning mail.
It came to pass that in a week after this a
heavy remittance came to Mrs. Le Vere, from
whence and from whom she could not tell.
Alice had been to her apartment every day to
read to her and talk with her. The lovely,
child-like creature had become very dear to
this pale, weary woman. Just within her
chamber this morning she is standing, this
girl, smiling and dainty, and Mrs. Le Vere
gives her the little note that came with the
munificent gift, and told her all about it.
Clayton was so proud and sensitive that he
felt hurt and humiliated, but even his fas-
tidious independence could scarcely find fault
with the friendly message that seemed like the
voice of a prayer. She could not conjecture
from whence this auspicious offering came,
just when she needed it so much. But she
would think of it as God's remembrance of
her. So interested was she in what she was
saying that she did not notice how Alice was
trembling as she took the page with its promise
and blessing.
She went and stood in the enlarged window,
with the lines in her hand. She could not see
a word, yet she could read the few sentences
all the same:—
"Mrs. Le Vere, it is a friend that sends you
this. Please accept it, dear madam, and use
it for life's many recurring wants and needs.
The kind Lord has bestowed upon me much
of earthly wealth, that I may share it with
those that he remembers in cherishing love,
the dear, dear ones of his fold."
When she brought her book and seated her-
self on some low cushions by Mrs. Le Vere's
couch, there was a wild heat on either dimpled
cheek, and the blue eyes had a sudden dark-
ness, as of a rain-cloud crowding across the
sunny brightness of a summer morning. She
was not reading, and Mrs. Le Vere said, ab-
sently :—
"Clayton would like to go to Germany, and
Italy, and other places; but he says he shall
not make the journey until I can go with him.
Physicians have advised this for myself, but
he has not the means as yet; sometime he
hopes to have."
"Yes," the young girl whispered softly,
with a little flutter of fear at her heart that
was almost a wail of pain.
Weeks later. For once in her life, Miss St.
Albans was looking serious and thoughtful.
"What is it, dear?" asked the little com-
panion, leaning her pretty head against the
lady's shoulder, and reaching for the letter
that had fallen from her hands. "It is from
Oliver, I see. And when is he coming home,
dear?"
"In the next steamer. And then—and then
he wants to be married right away. Oh, dear,
it is so soon!"
"And then I am to lose you forevermore,"
a little forlorn tremor in the young girl's
tones.
Miss St. Albans bent down and kissed her.
"You won't miss me long, not long. Some-
body else will be claiming you, darling. You
and the handsome artist hav'n't been exploring
all the region around about Silver Lake for
nothing, I dare say. I hope you will listen
indulgently to the man's love whispers. He
is grand and good, and has met his fate in
Miss St. Albans' graceful little companion," the
old merry, musical laugh ringing through the
chamber. "You will never say the proud
gentleman nay, my fair cousin."
ONE SUMMER.
131
"Don't, please," she spoke wearily. "I—I
do not know as he—as Mr. Le Vere cares for
me."
"But I do; and his worshipful tenderness
will some day be your refuge and rest;" the
lady drew the trembling, girlish figure close
within her arms, caressing the golden curls
dreamily.
"We ought to go home at once, then; we
must go. There is so much to be done before
the wedding."
And so they were to leave Silver Lake to-
morrow. Alice had gone out to take leave of
some of her favorite haunts. The wild vine
temple where Clayton Le Vere had first found
her was the dearest spot. She wished he
would come now, so they could have one more
stroll together. Perhaps he did not care for
her, after all. She did not know. She almost
wished she had never come there; had never
dreamed this sweet love dream, if it was to be
shattered forever, and the ruins she must hide
away in her own desolate, breaking heart.
The great weary blue eyes were dark and wet
with a piteous sympathy for the young girl
whose life was so stricken and storm-beaten.
Ob, please Godl that was the man's step, the
longed-for step, the dear musical voice, sweet
and magical as flute-notes.
"I have been looking for you all the morn-
ing, little sprite, and finally went to Miss St.
Albans. She told me you had run away; and,
moreover, she informed me that you were to
leave here to-morrow. Is it true?" in anxious
undertone.
"It is true, sir," with a downcast look. She
was nervously breaking a cluster of laurel to
bits, and scattering the coral blossoms and
pale green leaves over her white garments.
"She has to make preparations for a very
dear friend, who has by a written message
announced his intention of coming to Linden
Park in a few weeks."
Ah, no need to ask explanations. A little
painful pause, a haunting dread, a burdened
silence, the artist was speaking very low.
"Will you accept of this, my friend, to take
away with you—this that my hands have fash-
ioned? You were to see it, you remember, when
it was completed. I have a copy or I would in
no wise part with it. Some of the divinest
hours I have ever known I have spent on this
painting."
He laid it in her hands, watching the crimson
tide surge up and back, up and back on the
sweet, startled face. It was a picture of her-
self, a rare masterpiece of art and truthfulness.
Oh, it was like life, in her graceful, careless
abandon, as she had reclined among the ferns
and vines; her wayward curls stirred by the
saromer wind, the beautiful blue eyes had taken
a starry gleam into their dreamy loneliness, the
pure, exquisite face, with its lovely rose-leaf
lint* and child-like expression, the sweet lips
parted. It was a treasure, a gem, this dreamer
amidst the flowers, where the gorgeous but-
terfly and golden humming-bird nestled and
flashed and tarried.
"You are not angry with me," he said, soft-
ly, after a little time.
She shook her head, but it drooped lower.
He ventured to draw her close to him. She
was trembling like a leaf.
"I must tell you how much I love you before
you go away. I did not mean to speak yet,
bnt I must. I am afraid I shall lose you. You
cannot know how I have longed for your love,
how 1 have wanted to take you into my life
with a worshipful promise of sacredest truth
and faith. What—what will you say to me,
darling?"
She did not speak, she did not move. Her
hands crept together as one praying.
"My darling, speak to me.'' _
She slowly lifted her head, and gazed into
the man's strong, true face, irradiated now
with impassioned tenderness, her own tremu-
lous and glorious with a beautiful light. She
waited a little, then laid her head against his
shoulder, with the low, wistful sigh of a weary
child finding its rest.
"My darling, my treasure, my own!" And
then lie uttered these words, oh, so earnestly:
"Some time I hope to have a pretty, pleasant
home, and then I shall come for my bride to
share it with me, if I may. Not a home of le-
gal grandeur, surely, but a paradise of love,
and flowers, and music, and rhythm; a sweet,
hallowed resting-place for my wife and my
mother. If it should be years first, long, slow
years, will you wait, my precious one, my
beautiful girl?"
"Yes, 1 will wait," the quivering lips whis-
per, the man's first kiss still warm upon them.
"Oh, I almost thought I had lost you, my
dear. But small danger of that, I might know,
when— Why, child! you are just like a fasci-
nating picture, all light and loveliness, and—
and— There, look in the mirror; I can't de-
scribe it. I don't talk poetry, I never had a
message from the muses in all my life." Miss
St. Albans laughed, carelessly. Then, with
Ineffable tenderness she kissed the dainty,
blushing face leaning against her, the low, lov-
ing tones saying: "And you are to be his wife,
darling? I am ever so glad. And when?"
The young girl lifted her face with a little
flutter and a suspicious smile.
"Not yet. When he has more wealth than
he has now. Our home is to be an idyl, an
Eden of brightness and bloom."
"Love in a cottage. Dear me I I hope the
fastidious gentleman will like the cottage."
Alice turned away, trembling a little. This
man was very proud. But she would not think
of that now.
"This is our last night here, you know, little
132
GODETS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cousin. You will go down with me to the illu-
minated regions below, will you not?" This
was all in Miss St. Albans' programme.
"Oh, I suppose so. I promised Mr. Le Vere
that I would join him in the rooms for a little
while."
It is a costly robe of misty white lace that
the fair girl is arrayed in this evening. She
had protested against it, but my lady was in-
exorable.
"I wish you would wear these gems, please
do," the velvet-lined coffer in her hand, "then
your toilet will be complete."
The pearls are pushed away. "No, dear.
Only these sweet forget-me-nots," fastening a
scented spray upon the bosom of her soft,
snowy dress. "There, gather my curls back
with the rest, please."
Presently, with a little exclamation of sur-
prise :—
"Why, child I you surely are not going to
attire yourself in that simple white muslin."
"Yes I am. Why not, pray? It will do
very well with a few green leaves, geranium
ium leaves."
"When you have-always dressed so superbly.
Why not wear your pearl moire with the point
lace flounces, or your silver silk, or the Valen-
ciennes"—
"Can't. Everything is packed. I have saved
out this and a wrapper and a travelling suite.
Either of them would not do very well to dance
in, I suppose."
"I should think not," with a little puzzled
frown.
There was a hush, then a murmur ran through
the apartments as the two young ladies came in.
The spirituelle loveliness of the smaller, fairer
one was noted, and attracted much attention.
Mr. Le Vere was waiting for his betrothed.
Like a vision of light she is standing by his
side, looking, he thinks, as a bride or an angel.
She danced but once with him, floating
through the intricate figures with a felicitous
elegance and ease that was unapproachable.
Into her face there had crept a new glory, into
her smile a beautiful gladness. Her graceful
movements scarcely rippled the sunshiny curls
that lay lightly against her white throat, her
soft garments looking like a flutter of snow-
flakes. No wonder that men's hearts beat
faster as she flitted by them with her gliding
brightness and glorious grace and witching
loveliness, with a soft darkness in her beauti-
ful violet eyes.
Miss St. Albans was gay and gracious and
brilliant, seeming none the less lovely and
enchanting in her white French muslin and
geranium leaves. But there was a dangerous
sparkle in the passionate dark eyes that meant
victory, scorn, or a little wilful wickedness,
and a deep red spot had burned into each dim-
pled cheek.
"We are going away to-morrow." The party
was about breaking up, and the petted heiress
had spoken this.
There was an instant hush and silence. She
smiled a little, she had more to say. "Don't
be alarmed, any of you ; I am not standing here
to make a speech, at least not a very long one.
But I want to express my gratitude to my dear
friends here assembled on this festive occasion,
to thank them for all their favors, for their
proffered courtesies and kindnesses, and to in-
vite you one and all, if it would give you plea-
sure to do so, to visit me at Linden Park, where
1 expect to be for the next few weeks. And I
promise you that you will be most cordially
received and welcomed, as my friends always
are, by my cousin, Miss Alice Beatrice St.
Albans.
"Years ago, when I was a poor lone orphan,
she took me to her home and heart, and I have
shared with her all the privileges and luxuries
and enjoyments of this charmed, bright life as
if I bad been her sister. Miss St. Albans is the
best woman in all the world, and, to me, the
most beautiful. I am Alice St. Albans, her
companion." A graceful, smiling, royal incli-
nation of the queenly head, and the white gar-
ments vanished vaguely away into the distance,
like the gleam of a cloud going out of sight.
There was a heavy-laden stillness in all the
room as if the wondering crowd had suddenly
been stricken dumb, or dead. Clayton Le Vere
stands there like one stunned, bewildered.
Presently there is a stir, a rustle, a whisper,
and he is looking in a dreamy kind of way for
the ethereal little creature so close to him just
now. But she has disappeared. He goes in
pursuit of her with a strange, dull pain and a
weary fascination in all his thoughts. He will
find her here, he is sure, in this little gem of a
bower filled with odorous flowers.
She is standing in the window, half lost
amidst the droop and sway of loosened drape-
ries. But she comes forward to meet him with
a little, shy hesitancy, her soft cheeks flushed,
the sweet lips quivering into a troubled smile,
comes and stands before him with the sup-
pliant humility of a child.
The man's proud face is very pale. A little
trembling, trusting hand steals up to his tall
shoulder. He speaks now, stammering through
the sentence that is so hard to say. "I—I did
not know that you were Miss St. Albans, the
heiress. I did not intend—or—I never, never
would"—
A fluttering little hand has crept across the
handsome, haughty lips, half pleading in their
hastened deprecation.
"Clayton," she whispers, softly.
"My darling!" He drew her close in his
arms, kissing her passionately, then as sud-
denly releasing her, stepping back, and mak-
ing an attempt to say something, but failing
utterly. It was a terrible trial. The words
came at last, but the man's strong frame shook.
134
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
WHY POLLY SAID "NO."
BI MIIII E. 00M8T0CK.
"Silly little Polly. She always was stuck
up and highfalutin in her notions I" said Ed-
ward Lucius, drawing himself up to his full
height aud speaking with a little tinge of lofti-
ness in his tone. "The greatest wonder to me
is that Rob Hazlitt could see anything to ad-
mire in our stiff little Polly, any way I"
"Why, if Polly were of the highfalutin kind,
I should think that would be the very reason
for her accepting Kob's attention. He's quite
magnificent with his six feet perpendicular,
Oriental beard, elegant broadcloths, and pol-
ished ways of the world. Everybody allows
he's handsome," said Cousin Lou, who had
run in to chat a minute on her way to the post-
office, taking up, as she entered, the remark
Edward Lucius was making.
Edward Lucius was Polly's brother and mine.
Father had come home to tea the night before,
and been very quizzical and funny about Rob
Hazlitt having asked if he might come to our
house and try to make himself agreeable to
Polly, with the intention of winning her to be
Mrs. Rob Hazlitt.
"What did you tell him, father?" askod
Polly, looking a little flushed and very pretty
as she took the pit of a preserved cherry from
beneath her pearly teeth, and with the tip of
her teaspoon put it on her China plate, which
plate had belonged to the set that had been our
great-grandmother's, and almost came over in
the Mayflower. I mention this because it
occurred to me at the moment as I was looking
at her, that Polly performed this little feat
with the same dainty, finished little business
air with which she did everything. Some peo-
ple would have called it elegance. And then
her eyes went questioning to father's face.
"I told him I 'd ask you," said father.
"Tell him no," said Polly, very promptly.
"Oh, pshaw! Polly Dolly, let him make
himself agreeable, that's all he asks," said
Lady Bird, our school-girl sister, whose name
given in baptism, being the same borne by the
good Queen Bess, we usually softened into the
less stately appellation of Liley. "He'll be
splendid to take you out to concerts and sleigh-
rides this winter. Don't be a goose."
"I don't intend to," said Polly.
"He's real nice," said Liley, "and maybe
you 'd like him."
"Don't want to."
"Why not? You ain't rich, nor a beauty."
"So much the better for me."
"You 're like a cat," said Edward Lucius;
"whatever is done or said to you, you eome
down on your feet."
"What's the matter with Rob Hazlitt, my
daughter," interposed father, "that you don't
like him?"
"I do like him very much."
"Why, Polly!"
"He has such an easy, luxuriant way. Every-
thing seems to move like oiled machinery when
he is around. It rests me wonderfully to see
how gracefully he does things, and he's pleas-
ant to talk with."
Papa and Aunt Eunice smiled at each other.
"Iguess I'll tell him he may come, "said papa,
teasingly.
"Don't; I 've no time for him," said Polly.
"I 'm busy."
"Take him for recreation hours. You can't
work all the time. What's the matter with
Rob Hazlitt, that if you like him you won't let
him come and see you?" said our brother.
"He is idle," said Polly.
"Oho! he has property 1 A farm and an
ore-bed, and tenement nouses, and I don't
know what all!" said Edward Lucius. "He
can afford to be idle."
"Nobody can afford that," said Polly, with
some spirit.
"Oh, now you 're hitting me," said Edward
Lucius. "You think that 1 'm a lazy dog, but
I 'm not. I disclaim the charge."
"Refute It by facts."
"Well, for insance," and Edward Lucius
helped himself to another of Aunt Eunice's
nice waffles, "I'm continually on 'the go.'
I 'm travelling at the present sitting at the
rate of something more than a thousand miles
a minute right on through space, and busily
supplying my mortal enginery with fuel at the
same time. Liley, will you help me to the but-
ter, considering my exertions; I wish you 'd
give us butter as they did in Paris, without
salt in it."
"Nice boy!" said Polly, a little scornfully,
"discussing Aunt Eunice's hot waffles by the
batch, and letting Mother Earth roll you along
in her lap without a jostle; smoother than in a
drawing-room car. Would you make a move
now if she should trot you with an earthquake,
or would you finish your cherry preserves?"
"Can't say whether I would relinquish my
present interesting activities or not," helping
himself to another lump of sugar in his tea.
"You see, Polly, I go on through life exercis-
ing my property of inertia very vigorously."
"And my patience at the same time."
"Yes. Now don't Rob Hazlitt accomplish
as much?"
"Just about."
"If Rob Hazlitt's society is restful to Polly,"
said Edward Lucius, looking loftily around on
our tea-table group, "if it acts in any degree
as a brake to her energy and momentum, I
move before the nouse adjourn that we let
him come; for either in brain or body she is
nothing short of perpetual motion, and she is
a constant reproach to me," said the young
man. "She is wearing to my constitution."
"Is too great inertia all that is the matter
WHY POLLY SAID '•NO.'
135
with Rob Hazlitt?" asked father, in quest of
further light.
"It's not his idleness alone," said Polly.
"He uses tobacco, and is a judge of wines."
"He never was intoxicated in his life, I'll
venture!" exclaimed Edward Lucius, with
spirit.
"Very likely; he gives himself opportunity
to find out just how much he can bear. He
tries the experiment very frequently."
"Maybe he'd sacrifice Bacchus to Polly.
Tou might reform him. It would be handy to
have the ore-bed and the farm in the family,
too, sis; our estate is getting so seeded down
with mortgages, and they adjoin us, you
know?" said Edward Lucius.
"I should prefer to have them without the
encumbrance," said Polly.
"But," said Lady Bird, opening her eyes
very wide in school-girl enthusiasm of moral
endeavor, "you might reform him Polly, and
I 'm sure he's worth it."
"I've all I can do to take care of myself,"
said Polly.
"Well, you 're abundantly able to do that,"
said father, laughingly, and he dropped in on
his way back to the office and told Cousin Lou
about it, and she, stopping in the next morning,
was discussing it while Edward Lucius looked
over the morning paper, and Aunt Eunice
hemmed some dish towels on the machine.
The general verdict was, as usual, where
Polly's action was concerned, viz., that the
person most interested was rather ideal in her
notions, and, moreover, was held back by too
rigid views of duty ever to "get on very well
in the world."
This was about as near as Polly had ever
come to matrimony. She was always coming
within one of it. She was always the recipient
of other people's love secrets. It was just a few
nights after this I beard Felix, our hired man,
when he fetched in the milk, confiding to Polly.
Felix is an American, has a good common
school education, and is what the Scotch call
"bonnie." He is not as fine looking as his
twin brother Donald, nor as gay in speech and
manner, but he is a very good fellow for all
that. Said Felix :—
"Miss Polly, I've been studying how to
transact a small matter of business a good
while, and I 've been wanting to ask you about
it. and now I'm going to. Hannah and 1, we
ate a philopoena and we wished; and she got
the philopoena on to me, and I 've been want-
ing to ask Hannah a question a good while,
and I didn't know how. I would like to make
Hannah Mrs. Felix Henniman, and I thought
when I went over there to-night I'd tell her
that when 1 wished and ate that philopoena I
wished that she was my father's daughter-in-
law. It struck me that would be a neat way
of putting it, Miss Polly."
"She might tell you to bring on your brother
Donald then, if she isn't already aware of your
intentions. Donald 's a great favorite, you
know. Or she might ask you why you didn't
speak for yourself, as somebody else did once."
I was sitting on the other side of a Virginia
creeper, and through it and the open door I
saw Felix's dazed look as he struck his knee
in a sudden fit of perception.
"That beats me!" said Felix. "I thought
I 'd got it fixed sure this time. I '11 never find
another way to put it, never."
"Ask her if she won't take you for her philo-
pojna present," suggested Polly.
"1 '11 be blamed if I don't 1" said Felix, in a
sudden ecstasy, his face looking like a full
moon emerging from a cloud. "That's neat,
too! Miss Polly, I 'm your debtor; I 'm a thou-
sand times obliged to you."
The next morning when Felix went after the
cows, and Polly was in the garden cutting
flowers for the vases, Felix put his head over
the fence, I saw him from my open window,
and he said: "That matter's all right, and de-
cided in my favor, Miss Polly." And Polly
banded him a pink to put in his buttonhole,
and said: "I'm very glad, Felix." Those
were her very words. I generally keep my
ears open, if I don't see quite as much as Polly
does.
Polly was sitting in her sanctum one morn-
ing writing an Essay for a Sunday School Con-
vention, when I happened to look out of the
sitting-room window, and saw Flora Litchfield
driving up to the door. She had one of the
bays and the phaeton and their black driver,
and she had got some of her new Paris things
on, that make those Litchfields always look a
little different from anybody else, though, for
my part, I think they get the latest idea now
about as soon in New York and Philadelphia,
as it's imported to any spot on this planet.
But the Litchfields make it a point to be first
in these things. So I always have a little ex-
clamation point in my mind to dispose of before
I can say anything when I meet them. Flora
hadn't been to our house for three months at
least, though she and Polly used to be excel-
lent friends. At least Polly was her confi-
dante; I don't think she was Polly's. I don't
think Polly has any. She says she lives and
acts on general principles, and all the friend-
ship she asks is copartnership and sympathy
in labor, or "play," she calls it Polly says
there are so many beautiful things lying around
loose in the world to be done for everybody,
and she just likes to have folks take a little
interest. That's friendship enough for her.
She took Flora Litchfield right into the sanc-
tum. It's a room with a desk and table and
shelves of books, and a green carpet and a
lounge that can be turned into a bed, and some
comfortable chairs, not a bit fashionable, and
a glass door opening on to a little porch with
136
GODEY'S LADT'8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
some vines over it. The girls sat there and
chatted a long time; Polly was very grave and
tender. Flora was a pretty, graceful little
butterfly, with a good deal of heart. It seems
that after Polly said "No" to Eob HazlitVs
advances, ho played the gallant to numerous
Voung ladies among the fashionables for awhile,
land then offered himself to Flora Litchfield,
and she had come to talk the matter over with
her old confidante. Polly told her very care-
fully what she thought of Eob, and Flora
pouted.
Polly left her to pout and came ont into the
broad kitchen and put a napkin on a waiter,
and cut some thin slices of pink ham, and took
some of Hannah's snowflake biscuit—Hannah
lived with us now — and some relishes and
jam, and some coffee in a China cup, and went
back to her sanctum to make peace with her
visitor.
"You must have left home early," she said.
"Just take a crura of something, dear, and
then I 'm going to get you some flowers to take
to your Auntie Floyd."
Flora broke a biscuit and tasted the Mocha,
and said: "Oh, what a pretty cup!" Then
she choked a little. The cup was blue and gilt
rimmed, and had a lovely Cupid on it, and
some laurel leaves and a dainty blending of
color. Then Flora tasted the jam and begun
to cry. "You 're a real kind old Polly, but it
makes me inad to have you gay such things
about Rob. It's real mean of you. But I feel
better now since I 've thought it over. I know
it's only sour grapes with you. You want him
for yourself."
Polly flushed very much, and drew herself
up an inch and a half taller than usual, and
sat like a figure in a tableau vitant, and opened
not her lips.
"Oh, you can't deny it. See how easily 1
can read you, Polly. But I ain't going to scold.
I don't blame you any. Though it's only fair
to tell you it isn't any use to be sorrowful, dar-
ling. I took off my engagement ring, it's a
superb diamond, this morning on purpose so
you wouldn't know right off that I had decided.
We are engaged. I just wanted to see what
sort of advice you 'd give your old friend, and
then I was going to surprise you all at once,
and ask you to congratulate me. We 're going
to Europe for a year or two, and oh, I 've worlds
to tell and ask about the wedding arrange-
ments."
"You 've found me so poor an adviser to be-
gin with that I think you 've had fair warning
to desist," said Polly.
"Well, I know your judgment's good about
everything in general except Mr. Hazlitt, and
I don't wonder you feel a little sore about his
coming away off to propose to me, when you
live almost next door as it were; but I excuse
it, Polly."
Polly yawned, and looked very much bored,
and cast a regretful glance at some letters that
required answers to be sent by next mail, and
her guest discussed the trousseaus of the latest
brides of the season.
Rob Hazlitt and Flora Litchfield had a fash-
ionable wedding. The bride was as rich in
simple prettiness as in bank funds. The world
said, "A good match;" a crusty old bachelor
said, "Not much brain ballast in that domestic
ship, but maybe Litchfield's stocks will float
them along in clear water."
They went to Europe, came home after
eighteen months, and took a palatial home
in a neighboring city, and entertained political
people and up-town society, as though it was
for that sole purpose they were sent into the
world. R. A. Hazlitt was very popular.
Poily kept at work as busy as ever with pen
work, and teaching, and studying, and practi-
cal agriculture. She said it was her way of
having a good time. She had lots of fellowship
along the way. She said fellowship was bet-
ter than friendship. Indeed, it was the true,
unalloyed essence of it. Since the father's
health had failed, Polly, had helped him take
up all the mortgages; so they were out of the
way, and now she was furnishing profitable
employment for all the family out of her
activities.
Meantime, R. A. nazlltt lost a political
nomination he had sought, and pledged his
house for all it was worth, and kept as expen-
sive wines on his table as he did before the
disastrous financial failure of his father-in-law.
One day he arrived at Polly's. Polly had just
returned to her Latin class after a conference
with Thomas about the west meadow and the
onion beds, when she was called to the parlor
to see an urgent visitor. Polly was not a little
surprised at first to recognize In the heavy-
looking man, with a tinge of grossness in his
personnel, the former elegant and fastidious
Rob Hazlitt. Agitation on the part of the
gentleman put aside all formality.
"Polly," he said, "you're the only person
that ever told me the truth about myself, and
you see right to the core of a subject. 1 need
a friend, and I 've come to you."
Polly had to absent herself and put her Latin
class in other hands, and then return to invite
her guest to the sanctum and proceed to ex-
amine a mass of business complications and
ill-advised transactions, that in their attitude
threatened foreclosure and disclosure simply-
ruinous. R. A. Hazlitt closed the statement
of facts that no man could have been proud of
with disjointed remarks.
"you used to help me out with my sums
and compositions at school when we went to
the academy together, Polly. It's strange to
come to a woman, but I thought maybe you
could see through as you used to. I can't
think, Polly; l'mina fog."
WHY POLLY SAID "NO."
137
Polly was, too. She could see the verge of
a precipice, however.
"Nothing but ready means will answer,"
said Polly, after standing with her back to
him and looking out of a window a long time
without seeing anything. "Payments must
be made, and you 've not an inch of resource
left."
The man winced. "You always stated
things so sharp, Polly."
"State them to suit yourself," said Polly.
"Atemporary accommodation would set my
affairs straight."
"Meantime, how can you live, your family
being now maintained by the sufferance of
friends? and how refund?"'
"I 'm bewildered, Polly."
"Can you work? Have you profession or
trade? Can Flora teach, or superintend, or
open a boarding-house?"
The gentleman rose to his feet astonished.
"ls'it as bad as that, Polly?"
"Just."
"I thought all last week that it was, and I
thought I 'd end it all/ accidentally, of course."
Polly sank into a seat and thought of all she
had meant to do with her funds in the bank.
She even wept a few little weeps. Some of
them were for her bank funds, some of them
were for Rob Hazlitt.
"Robert, do you want to be a man?"
"No; I'd rather be a woman just at pre-
sent."
"What does Flora say?"
"Why, she wanted to come and see you.
She couldn't; so I came."
"Go home again"—
"I'm like the French tongue; 'home'isn't
in my vocabulary."
"Go to Flora, then, and bring her and the
little ones to me."
"Polly!"
"Robert."
The two looked at each other in silence.
"Tell me, as before God, Robert Hazlitt, if
all you have told me is the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth."
"As I am a living man, in the Almighty's
presence."
Polly looked at him. "There is no use in
asking a pledge of you. I 've all my old liking
for my old school-fellow, more for a troubled
human brother; but you're developing the
worst part of you, Robert Hazlitt. By and by
you '11 be all worst. I don't dare ask you to
change your ways and become an industrious
citizen and an abstemious and honest man.
l"ou can't do it, I fear."
'Polly, I thought you believed in free-will."
"I believe in a free-won't in your case."
"Do you believe in a holy 'can'!'"
"Born of repentance and Christ-help, yes."
A notlier silence fell between them.
"if Hazard's letter and Philip's threat con-
tain the pith and marrow of it, your children
inherit the dishonor of a forger's posterity."
Robert Hazlitt broke down and sobbed like
a child.
"Polly, I 'm down; it's unfair to strike me
when I 'm down. I tell you I 've pegged at it
till 1 'm most insane. I couldn't be more un-
happy, more utterly wretched."
"Yes, you could."
"How?"
"By changingto-day'sdate until next week's,
when your dishonesty had furnished material
for a newspaper paragraph, and made your
wife and children the pity of their acquaint-
ance."
"You 're cruel; you 're unwomanly."
"It's only common caution to probe the
wound and find if there be any sound flesh in it."
"The man groaned. Polly drew her chair to
her desk and drew a check, filled its blanks,
and signed it. She put it in Robert Hazlitt's
hands, who was stilled into the apparent im-
passiveness of a statue.
"Lie down there for a little," she said, point-
ing him to the cushioned, roomy lounge, "till
I come."
He obeyed like a child. Polly went to the
kitchen and sent to the stable for Felix, and
directed him to harness the roan before the
buggy and bring it to the door. Then she made
a cup of fresh coffee and took it to the sanctum.
"Drink this," she said; "it will be late be-
fore you cau get tea. 1 will send you to the
early train, and you must get to B to-
morrow and draw the money at the bank, and
make those two payments; then hasten to
Flora and bring her here. The children can
go into school, and we will arrange hereafter.
I am finding employment for others constantly;
there may be something Flora can do. Robert
Hazlitt, wait," she added, as he rose, and, mak-
ing his adieu and broken acknowledgments, wa3
about leaving the room; and standing there,
they two, Polly dropped her face in her hands,
and briefly, earnestly commended him and his
interests to the Great Keeper, in whose hands
alone we are safe. "I work by prayer, Rob-
ert Hazlitt. I earned what I joy now to give
by prayer. I bid you God speed, my old
friend, and now you must not delay," she said
in explanation as she dismissed him.
Then Polly sunk down in a little heap all by
herself on the lounge and said, "Oh, bring
them all home to me, dear Father! Oh, strike
new life, Thy life, into the soul of the man
that is the stay and supporter and protector of
those innocent lives 1 Recreate him, energize
and save I Help me ever to do Thy good
pleasure, that I may be used to help others,
and make mo live close to Thee, that I may
see clearly I" Then Polly went back to the
school-room.
Polly'i school was growing every year; sho
had a great many boarders now. Polly treated
138
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Flora when she came as much like a guest as
possible, but the spoiled woman took all these
favors as a right, and demanded sympathy for
her privations. She was ill at ease In a well-
ordered, busy household. She soon left the
children to Polly's care, and sojourned among
relatives, or embittered Robert's boarding-
house retreat with her complaints.
. Robert Hazlitt had lapsed; he had business
reverses after gaining footing through toilsome
exertion; he relinquished effort sometimes and
returned to evil ways of ease and indulgence;
but, though thus frequently stepping back on
the ladder, the years showed noble and hard-
won ascent. He paid Polly every cent, al-
though it took him long years to do it. Flora
became a confirmed invalid. His daughter
graduated from Polly's school, and became his
home-maker. His children all did him, honor.
The threatened danger to their father's fair
name was never known.
Polly is glad with happy tears sometimes
now when she sees that little Robbie, with all
his father's youthful winning grace of mind
and manner, has yet sturdy pluck, strong in-
nate sense of honor, and natural energy of
character. She is thankful there is no blot
on his inherited name. She says inwardly,
"My old playmate is weathering the gales of
life better than I dared hope, but it's through
squalls. He wasn't seaworthy at the start; I
knew he 'd come to grief."
Polly did know with a prophetic instinct.
This was one reason why Polly said no.
"Polly, why hav'n't you ever got married?"
I said, one day, suddenly coming out of a
reverie.
"Hear the child!" said Polly. -'Why, I am
married. Don't she know that?"
"Polly—Molly — Dolly — Dix!" I almost
screamed, rising to my feet from the depths of
the lounge before the grate. Polly always
seemed to mean everything she said, and I
was scared, for I knew she never would trifle
about that. She liked fun, but she didn't joke
on that class of subjects. "Certainly I'm
married 1" said Polly. "I've been married
ever since I was born."
"Oh I" said I; then I looked at her a minute
and said, "Polly, much learning hath made
thee mad."
"You don't fancy that I 'm an entire person,
do you?" said Polly.
"Where is the other fraction, Polly?"
"In the dear Lord's keeping," said she, in
such a tender, solemn way, I couldn't laugh.
"When do you expect to discover him,
Polyanthus?"
"Not down here in this world, but after dis-
cipline is over. God never thinks of one of us
without thinking of the other. I would rather
we shouldn't meet till we get where misun-
derstandings are impossible. Next ^o never
meeting my playmate at all in the Elysian
fields, I think the worst thing would be to
meet somebody else and mistake for the one
God created to help me serve him.. Our work
is getting us ready to help each other there. I
hope we sha'n't discover each other down here
among these imperfect lights and shades. Be-
sides, there is so much to do to help those that
have found their mates."
And I suppose this theory of my sister's, of
which I never heard her speak before or since,
is another of the reasons why Polly said "No."
AUNTIE.
It is not derogatory to true womanhood to
say that nearly all women—of those who re-
main "in the world," as it is called—desire to
be married at some time or other of their lives.
Of course we exclude those whose vocation is
for a single life, dedicated to doing good and
serving God, and who have therefore taken on
themselves vows of seclusion and celibacy.
These are women who have probably never
contemplated marriage at all, or, if at all, then
with a shudder; but they form only a small
section of the community, and do not come
into our present plan. With the rest—those
who remain in the world, and who would
gladly be happy wives and proud mothers,
should fate and fortune so order matters for
them—there are two classes: the women whose
wish to be married lasts more or less through
life, so that they are never satisfied with their
lot, never happy, and are thus the typical old
maids, selfish, spiteful, aggrieved, slanderous;
and those who, when their chances have passed
them by and left them stranded as involuntary
celibates, quietly settle down into their position
as family helpers, whose lives have to be built
up of other people's joys and sorrows, whose
function is sympathy, not participation, and
who are to content themselves with being one
of many—all for others and nothing for them-
selves. These are the aunties of families ; and
in most cases the family would get on badly
without the auntie.
Nominally the least important auntie is prac-
tically the most useful and valuable member
of the family, save always the real parents.
Indirectly she Is a kind of parent herself; and
no one fulfils with more faithful zeal than she
the duties that are delegated to her. The first
thought of the harassed wife and mother in
her day of troubles is, "Send for auntie."
She knows by experience that auntie will come
at her call to help her in her house-cleaning or
her house-moving, or take her share of any-
domestic misery that may be afloat If the
children are "down" with measles, scarlet
fever, smallpox, or any deadly epidemic from
which others fly in terror, it is auntie who
conies to nurse thein, turn and turn about
with the anxious mother; It is auntie who sits
AUNTIE.
139
up o' nights that mamma with little baby may
have rest; auntie who takes thorn to the sea-
side when they are convalescent, and bears so
tenderly with their poor peevish tempers as
they grow tired and cross, and ungrateful and
trying; auntie who provides them with inno-
cent amusements, In which she must bear her
part till her arms, and back, and head all ache,
and who racks her brains for stories and uuex-
hausting games when the day is damp and
they have to stay indoors. It is auntie who
opens her house and her purse in holiday time,
and takes them all to the pantomime and the
Polytechnic, with interludes of Christmas trees
and round games at home, with such delicious
bonbons for the stakes. It is auntie who peo-
ples the doll's house with those wonderful
creations of wax and wood, with chests of
drawers and spun-glass chandeliers, with ma-
hogany couches and real japanned baths with
China babies in them, with kitchen ranges and
highly-colored banquets; auntie who takes
care that marbles and pegtops are always in
wholesome sufficiency, and who counteracts
the frivolous tendency of her picture books by
presents of more spiritualized literature for
Sunday afternoons. It is auntie to whom they
go when oppressed with the childish sins and
Borrows they are afraid to let papa and mamma
know without her intervention; auntie who
carries off the'sleepy little ones contentedly to
bed, on promise of a story if they will be good
and not quarrel with the sandman who has
come for them; and she was never known to
break her word or to get to the end of her tale.
As they grow older, yet are still too young for
the shame of pride, when they want anything,
they go straightway to auntie, and inform her
of their desire with the audacious confidence
of love; and, as auntie feels that the chief part
of her happiness lies in theirs, she generally
gives them what they ask, and proves once
more that she is "the dearest, sweetest, kind-
est, and best old auntie that ever lived."
In graver matters she is the alter ego of the
mother—a second pair of hands for work,
another useful brain for thought. She bears
on her shoulder half the weight of the burden
that else would go near to crush her sister to
the earth; and brings in the unworn nerves
and cheerful help which are so refreshing to
women whose health is maybe delicate, whose
nerves are over-taxed, and whose sense of re-
sponsibility is almost more than they can bear.
She heartens up the querulous desponding
mother, whose anxieties have rendered her so
timid of evil that she has lost all trust in na-
ture, and all self-control in the presence of
«:oubt. She comes in as the Providence who
will see that things go right, and who under-
takes to protect and defend as firmly as the
mother herself would; and her sister lies down
in peace, satisfied that all will be well, now
that auntie has taken things in baud.
Is this a mean part to play in life? Granted
that nothing of all this is for herself, nothing
is absolutely her own, and that at the best she
stands second and in the shadow of the greater
light, is it not joy enough that she is so rich
relatively, and able to play the part of good
angel to those she loves? If she is a true wo-
man, she thinks so; and the real auntie is a
true woman, and she does think so.
Her office of love continues from the cradle
to the day of "introduction," thence to the
bridal day, and beyond. If invaluable to the
little ones, so is she to the "young ladies."
When mamma is tired, sick, or perhaps only
indolent and disinclined to exertion, there is
always auntie to fall back on as the chaperon.
She is the "battle-horse" of the girls when
mamma pleads fatigue or indisposition to avoid
going to such a fite or such a ball. And as
auntie generally pays for all the pipers who
may be requisitioned for the occasion, mamma
has nothing more to say; and the girls go to
their pleasures joyous and protected. Some-
times, to be sure, she is a little more prudish
and suspicious than mamma, if at times she is
the reverse; perhaps she feels her responsi-
bility as the delegated guardian of youth and
imprudence; perhaps, not having had her an-
gles rubbed off quite as much as mamma, she
is really more strict, and tormented with grave
fears of wolves at every turn. In any case,
however, she is generally so far amenable to
the wishes of the young creatures whom she
mainly desires to please—if also she feels that
she must protect them against their own folly
—as to give way to all things reasonable.
And Ethel, and Alice, and Mary carry out
their innocent little plans with uninterrupted
success, and see as much as they desire of the
wolves, who, to their sight, are fairer than
lambs, and more delightful than the best and
bravest watch-dogs extant.
We do not know how the world would get
on without aunties and old maids. When
every one else is hurried and heated about
their own affairs, the old maid of the family-
dear, kind, sympathetic auntie, with nothing
more important in her own life to occupy her
than a change of maids or a rebuke to the man
—comes in fresh as a daisy to take her turn at
the mill, as a relief guard of some one else.
With plenty of leisure and inexhaustible love,
what may she not do in the way of help? and,
to her honor be it said, she generally does all
she can. This is the ideal old maiden auntie
of whom, thank Heaven! there are plenty
about in the world; though in justice to hu-
manity—truth being justice, and ideal portraits
not the only faces we ought to study—there
are others of quite opposite characteristics.
There is the peevish old aunt who has lived
only for herself, narrowing her sympathies
and contracting her understanding till she sees
evil in everything; the veritable old maid who
140
GODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
thinks that wedlock is at best a doubtful mat-
ter, and that a girl who is in love, and lets her
love be seen, is by no means a nice kind of
person, but one whom she calls witn unction
"chit" aud "hussie;" who Is snappish to chil-
dren, severe and repressive to all the young;
who sniffs at new fashions, and speaks with
asperity of those girls and women who desire
to look pretty and like to attract attention and
gain admiration. Well, she is not a very com-
fortable specimen of her class, and of no use
to any one save the abigail who tyrannizes
over her, and the pet she kills with over-eat-
ing. And there is the moneyed aunt, who
jingles her purse before the eyes of her ex-
pectant heirs, and makes them understand
that the one who is most assiduous in his or
her attentions is the one she will "remember
in her will." She probably leaves the bulk of
her fortune to a local charity, the funds of
which go more into the pockets of the admin-
istrators than into those of the recipients; or
she endows with, her whole wealth the home
for lost dogs. The discontented aunt, who
thinks no one was ever so badly treated as she
has been by every one, and who resents as
being put upon the request to do any hitman
being a kindness; who keeps her purse tightly
shut, and her heart like her purse, and who in
consequence is the most peevish and unpleasant
person you would meet with in a long sum-
mer's day; she is not one of our ideal aunties
who help to make the family life successful.
The juvenile aunt is another mistake —the
aunt who tries to rival her young nieces, and
who thinks she looks as well as any of them
when she has dyed her poor scanty locks a
bright canary color, because Ada has golden
tresses dyed and gifted by nature; when she
has copied Mabel's last new hat, the pattern
of which is too audacious for anything but
fresh youth and undeniable beauty; the aunt
who never grows old, who objects to being
called aunt at all, and only answers to her
Christian name, and who is as silly as the sil-
liest and youngest of her nieces, and as unfit
to chaperon them as if she was a girl herself.
Differentiated, she is the jealous aunt, who
has quite an enmity against her young nieces
all around, because they are young and because
men admire them more than they admire her,
treating her with civility and them with devo-
tion. And there is the cross aunt, who is al-
ways scolding, and from whom her young
relatives fly as from some old fairy-tale witch
of the woods, terrified and oft weeping. All
these are aunts not of the ideal type, but exist-
ing in full proportion. Let them pass. Though
real, they are too unpleasant to dwell upon;
let us leave them for the dear, kind, and smiling
auntie, who helps, and loves, and works, and
chaperons, and who has all the joy of mater-
nity without its taxes—blessed in her life be-
cause unselfish in her love.
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER
VALLEY HOME.
LETTER I.
June I5rt.
Dear Mr. Godet: I promised to write you
again in the autumn. Let me see—April, May,
June—two and a half months only have passed
away, yet I find myself longing to tell you of
our summer life In the Valley. It is so cool
and nice here, all encircled by the mountains;
and perhaps I may be able to send a breeze or
so through the heated, dusty city to cool the
cheek or brow of some poor invalid. Would
that I really possessed such power 1 And how
sincerely I wish that all the sick ones—sick in
body or mind—could spend a couple of months
in these dear delightful haunts—drinking the
healing waters, breathing the invigorating air.
I do believe that the higher our tastes are
cultivated the more we really enjoy the coun-
try. I know that I hare a double relish for it
now, notwithstanding my recently-acquired
power of noticing its lack of the elegances of
metropolitan life. But one doesn't want ele-
gances in summer. One enjoys neat calico
and muslin dresses, broad-brimmed straw hats,
and the flowers and ferns God gives us, for or-
nament. How abundantly they spring up all
around us I Great arbors of alder, covered
and wreathed and festooned with the graceful
vines and snowy blossoms of the clematis; and
this always by the brink of the rippling river,
the music of which, "babbling o'er its peb-
bles," no fountain In any park can ever imi-
tate. Acres of wild-roses scatter a perfume
more delicate than any of Lubin's costly ex-
tracts; while the fair blossoms are typical of
the modest beauty of a young, untutored girl,
"born to blush unseen." Great beds of mea-
dow-lilies hang their pretty heads to avoid the
warm kisses of the sun, their too ardent lover;
while columbines and harebells peep over the
rocks to see their fair faces mirrored in the
stream below. The wild azalea has departed,
but the laurel is in full bloom, enough growing
upon a mile of land to deck all the soldiers*
graves in all our cemeteries. And this makes
me wonder, if a laurel wreath is fitting for the
brow of a hero, why should not the graves of
our martyr-heroes, who fell for the salvation
of our country, be planted over with this em-
blematical shrub? whose blossoms would open
above their peaceful rest, and not wither in a
day, and whose wreaths of living green not
even the frosts of winter could destroy. It
seems strange that this has never been thought
of. Of course we could plant roses—and none
are too costly for such a purpose; but the lau-
rel is the plant devoted to the hero, and the
world never witnessed greater heroism than
was displayed by our young and fallen soldiers.
Ere long the more gorgeous rhododendron
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER VALLEY HOME.
14=1
will light up all our mountain gorges with its
huge balls of bloom; while still the smaller
blossoms', the pets and darlings of Flora—vio-
lets, houstonia, buttercups, and daisies—will
peep out from every shaded dell.
Then our river is so beautiful I There are
lovely little nooks all along its banks—fit homes
for fairies—fit studies for poets I When Lucy
first came to the Valley, all the still waters in
the stream were covered with broad, flat lily-
leaves. She was delighted, thinking, of course,
that they belonged to her favorite white pond
lily. But how disappointed she was when they
opened and disclosed the ugly yellow balls of—
the spatterdock I Well, she said she was going
to change all this. White lilies ought to grow
in our beautiful river, and they should grow
there! So, already she has them started to grow-
ing in her little lily pond, and as they increase,
she intends rooting them in the little inlets
and bayous along the stream. And so with the
beautiful Virginia creeper, or trumpet-flower.
She says that all the alder bushes have their
clematis vines, and why should not all the
elms and sycamores by the river have their
Virginia creepers? All that is necessary is to
scatter a pod of ripe seeds here and there, and
it is done. Now they are only seen about a
few of the homes. Nat says she's going to
make the "desert blossom as a rose." But
Aunt Hitty and I both say that he must not
even hint that this valley is, or ever was, a
desert. It is full to overflowing with all beau-
tiful things, and only wants people with suffi-
cient taste to take advantage of the gifts God
has bestowed upon it. A few of the farm-
houses hate tasteful yards about their homes;
but it is a candid truth, that, with ail our lovely
trees and native flowering shrubs and vines,
more than four-fifths of the houses are set in
open, sunny fields, with no sign of any knowl-
edge or appreciation of the beauties around
them. And often in less than a fourth of a
mile from their doors are spots that would
ravish the eye of an artist.
Lucy's home, as we call it (for she superin-
tends all its adornment) is already beginning
to look like a little Eden; and when her shrub-
bery grows larger, it will be exceedingly lovely.
The house is a six-room cottage, with kitchen
and small porch in the rear, and a nice large
piazza in front. The roof is steep and the
windows in the gables are wide and ornament-
ed. Already ber climbing roses and ivies of
various kinds are starting up in obedience to
her training. Dog-woods, red-buds, rhododen-
drons, laurels, and azaleas, all native flowering
trees and shrubs, are planted and thriving, to-
gether with our beautiful evergreens of spruce
pine, silver fir, white pine, and cedar, and a
number of our finest forest trees for shade.
Every flower or vine native to the Valley is to
have a place in her grounds; while only hardy
roses, lilies, and other flowering plants, are to
be planted there. She wants no trouble with
hot-house plants, she says; they are better
suited to a winter home in the city.
I believe fully, that the influence of that one
little woman, Cousin Lucy, will cause a great
change in the homes of the Valley before three
years shall have passed away. She is very
popular with the country people already. She
never criticizes them, directly or indirectly.
She praises their snowy bread, golden butter,
and delicious preserves and cream, and then
says, "If I were you, Mrs. Miller, I would have
a climbing rose or honeysuckle over this porch;
it would make your house look so cosey. I 'U
get you some slips from mother, if yon 'd like
them; mine are too small yet. And, Mr. Mil-
ler, when she plants thein, don't turn your
calves in, and have them eaten np. Do you
know that your wife will be much more kind
and pleasant always, if you let her have plenty
of flowers, and help her in the evening to fix
them np? Don't laugh and shake your head,
but just try it awhile. I wouldn't think half
so much of Nat if he didn't humor me about
my flowers." And sure enough, he would help
her, and even come over to Aunt Hitty's for
the slips. So there is one step in the refining
process, and I predict that it will go on.
As for Nat, he will have a perfect garden of
Ilesperides. Every kind of small and large
fruit grows here finely, and he has planted
enough to supply half the Valley.
But 1 must ramble no longer upon this, my
favorite topic, of Lucy and her flowers. I
must tell you about our old home. The queer
old house, with its low ceilings, whitewashed
walls, and the rafters bare overhead, looked
exceedingly strange to me at first. So did the
rag carpets, and splint-battomed chairs, and
great, open fireplaces, and many other things;
notwithstanding I had been accustomed to
them all my life before I went to the city. But
it has been a very cool spring, and it took but
a short time to prove to me that an open wood-
fire is the pleasantest thing possible in a house-
hold. It is so cosey, and communicates with
the feelings so conversationally, if I may coin a
word to suit. When I sit looking into its beam-
ing face, I need no chattering human compan-
ionship. It tells me fairer tales and sweeter
stories; it sings ine more delightful songs,
even, than those of Kellogg. It mingles its
lights and shadows with my thought's thought
—with my inner life, which none but the fire-
light and I understand. It mirrors my hopes
clearly to my own heart, and betrays them not
to others. It helps me to build my castles in
cloud-land, and none but this silent friend of
mine can know how tall they rise, or upon
what a slight foundation they stand. It whis-
pers of all the possibilities of love and hope
and faith, and gives me rarest dreams of the
life to be. Oh, my old wood-fire I Not alone
in the summer-time can this mountain region
142
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cliai-in the spirit. For its pines are everlasting
as its hills, and the spirit of the wood-fire,
though it may die out in all the earth beside,
will yet be nourished here. So I would always
come to thee, old valley, when the October
woods are all aflame with scarlet and gold and
crimson and maroon, and remain with thee each
season (no matter where my dwelling-place
may be) until I can dream my yearly dreams
before the rich, clear blaze of the resinous yel-
low pine. But I wonder if people dream at all
when they grow older. Or if, as some say, the
dull realities of life really cover with a hard-
ening crust all the romance and ideality of
youth. Ah, I hope not; for we cannot remain
young, and I would not, my beautiful friend,
be deprived of the comfort of still dreaming by
your side, ^nd receiving your cheerful and
honest sympathy; a sympathy which changes
not, and a friendship which dims not, nor he-
trays.
I will tell you a secret, Mr. Godey. Last
night it was cool here—very cool. So I had
my pine fire built in the wide old parlor fire-
place. After all had retired I sat over it,
dreaming and thinking; and all at once I felt
the impulse to write my thoughts in numbers.
I took pencil and paperand wrote these stanzas.
But "tell it not in Gath." Somebody might
think I had plagiarized them. They say that
when a young roan falls in love, he falls to
writing poetry. Is there any material differ-
ence in the natures of young women, to hinder
them from indulging in the same propensity?
But my wood-fire, my more than lover, was
my inspiration. Here are the lines:—
Oh, noble Pine on the mountain's brow,
Like a sentinel being I see you now;
A grand old giant of Osslan's time,
With tall, straight form and a voice sublime:
Standing forever a sentinel;
Guarding the valley you love so well;
And lifting to God your dally prayer
For the peace of the land which seems so fair.
Oh, grand old Pine I oh, towering Pine!
You rise to the clouds like a thought divine;
And my spirit bows at your lofty shrine
And worships the God of the mountaiu Fine,
Tou stand erect In our mightiest ships,
Bracing each wing as It nils and dips
In the broad Atlantic sea today.
And a month ago in the far Cathay.
You bring our treasures of tea and silk—
The cocoa-nut with its Orient milk,
The quaint, rich China of old Japan,
And gods from the palace of Kubla Khan.
Oh, grand old Pine! oh, towering Pine!
You rise to the clouds like a thought divine;
And my spirit bows at your lofty shrine
And worships the God of the mountain Pine.
But more than all, my dear old Pine,
You feed my Are with your resiuous wine;
You flame and sparkle and dance and sing:
Like a prisoned bird you spread your wing;
And because you cannot fly away
You chant and croon in my ear all day.
And I tell you my secrets and list to yours.
While the snowflake falls or the dark rain pours.
Oh, grand old Pine I oh, towering Piuel
You rise to the clouds like a thought divine;
And my spirit bows at your lofty shrine
And worships the God of the mountain Pine.
And to-night you whisper of one afar
Whose thought Is my light, my guiding star.
Oh, tell me truly, my prescient Plue,
Is bis love for me a thing diviner
That will never change or fade away
When my cheeks are pale and my hair is gray?
But will live and grow in the coming years
Through all of life's shadows and doubts and fcarsf
Oh, grand old Pine I oh, towering Pine!
You rise to the clouds like a thought divine;
And my spirit bows at your lofty shrine
And worships the God of the mountain Tine.
But my young friends will surely think that
love has made me mad. So I will try and talk
common sense for awhile. I am vain enough
to think, from the letters I have received, tiiat
my little love story has interested some of your
readers; and that my young friends would like
to hear more about M. Lemoine. lie expects
to come to us in August, to remain a montli or
two for the hunting and fishing. Nat says that
he is terribly in earnest in regard to me, and
that be is too sensible to allow homespun and
ungrammatical relatives to divert his thoughts
from their object for a moment. He says that
any foreigner in the world would fall in love
with our mountain scenery. It is always a
surprise to them. There is so much said aud
written and printed, regarding the mountains
of Europe, even in America, that it is only of
late years that any of our grand mountains
have been known abroad; and strange as it
seems, those are In the farthest west. Church
in South, and Bierstadt in North Ameriea, have
had the honor of teaching Europe that we hate
mountains; while the grand old Blue Kidge
and Alleghanies still lift their heads to the
clouds, in patient waiting for an artist to paint
their luxuriant beauty and lofty sublimity. It
is true that some particular points have achieved
illustration in "Picturesque America," and
other publications; but these mountains are
worthy of the notice of the greatest artists.
They are grand and illimitable, with a beauty
of foliage, and castellated walls, and pictur-
esque streams, never surpassed.
But again I ramble from M. Lemoine. You
will think that I am not very enthusiastic; but
you are mistaken. I am falling in love a second
time with our mountain scenery while trying
to anticipate his appreciation of it, when he
comes. "When lie comes!" this is now the
burden of my heart's song, though I am out-
wardly very calm. I am quietly talking to my
friends of the young foreigner from Washing-
ton, and discussing the subject of entertaining
him, and taking him to see all the loveliest
places; while Nat, dear Nat, is aiding me in
the nicest way, by telling the boys what a real
FABLES OF FLOWERS.
143
good fellow he is, and how they must go with
him a deer hunting over the ridge; and that
he must watch at the Lick a night or two with
them; and they must take him up the hollows
to hunt turkeys and pheasants; and show him
all about snaring rabbits, if he can be persuad-
ed to stay late enough; adding sometimes, with
a wink, "I reckon he'll stay I" Then he will
say, "I say, Allie, you must try and persuade
Lemoine to stay late enough to enjoy your
favorite pine-fires, and gather autumn leaves
to press and send to France. I reckon we can
flax them all hollow on autumn leaves."
Then Lucy will cry out, "Nat! Nat! more
slang? and you a Congressman, too I"
And I will laugh and say: "I reckon a Con-
gressman 's not a whit better than other folks.
If I learned nothing else in Washington, I
found out that much. So, my dear Cousin
Lucy, don't think you've caught any great
prize!"
You see habit is strong; and notwithstand-
ing all the education I have received, together
with my winter's polish in the "best society,"
I sometimes will let slip the old "1 reckon."
And no great wonder, when everybody around
me uses it. But Nat has conquered it in him-
self, long ago, and never uses it except to tease
me. He wouldn't use it for anything before
his mother. For ever since the criticism that
hurt her so, and caused her to stop writing let-
ters to Godey, Aunt Hitty has been exceed-
ingly sensitive, and has really improved very
much. Now Nat wants me to be as nearly per-
fect as possible; and so has "set out," as you
Northerners say, to break me of this Southern
phrase. And "I reckon" he will succeed; for
I seldom use It in his presence, and when I do,
he rebukes me by using it, with emphasis, in
the next sentence, as quoted above.
Our house has been recently whitewashed
throughout; several of the rooms being tinted
with coloring mixed in the wash. The room
prepared for M. Lemoine has a very delicate
tint of blue, while the parlor and hall have a
touch of pink. I have also arranged In his
room neat white curtains, looped with blue,
and with lambrequins of blue chintz. The pil-
low and sheet shams are embroidered with
groups of bine pansies, and the easy-chair cov-
ered with chintz to match the curtains. Then
we have a qnaint set of old-style, almost trans-
parent blue ware for toilet use, which I placed
in this room. I also embroidered toilet mats
to match the pillows; so the old room looks
very pretty and fresh.
Our whitewash is not composed of lime, but
of what Kercheval, in his "History of the Val-
ley of Virginia," calls "gray earth," but which
our people call "white clay." It is really a
very fine white clay, called "kaolin," and the
same, Nat says, as is used in France, Italy,
Mnjorea, and England, In the manufacture of
Sevres China, Fayence or Majolica ware, and
porcelain. There are mines sufficient in this
valley alone, Nat says, to make China-ware for
our whole country, without sending abroad for
it. But a single range of mountains, ten or
fifteen miles across, shuts it out from all rail-
road facilities; and so it remains unused, ex-
cept for whitewashing. When dry, it is as
white as the purest lime.
So our house is all in order. Father and
mother were quite nervous at first about our
visitor. But Nat has talked them over till they
think he is all right. We have some elegant
old family silver, which, during the war, lay
buried for a long time. This is all burnished
and set away, ready for use. And Nat, like
the generous fellow he really is, ordered a real
French China dinner set from New York,
which was a beautiful surprise to mother when
It came. As for her table-linen, it is always
nice, if it is homespun. She has some older
than I am, and as white as snow. I love to
iron It, for it shines like satin when ironed
nicely. As for my parents, they are true gen-
tlefolks, if they do use the Virginia provincial-
isms; and it would cool my affection for any
one, quickly enough, who should treat them
with disrespect.
But I anticipate nothing of the kind. I think
we will have a glorious and delightful summer,
with the aid of Nat and Lucy. And I think
we will have any amount of fun with some of
the characteristic people "among the hills,"
hereabouts. Nat is an elegant leader in such
matters. He knows how to extract bushels of
enjoyment from them, without ever hurting
their feelings in the least. He praises all they
have and do, and Ihey think he's the "smart-
est" and best man in all the country. But when
once we gather together at evening on the porch
of either homestead, and Nat "reads us his
Notes," as he calls It, it is.then that the fun
really comes in. Alice.
FABLES OF FLOWERS.
BT HELEN nEATH.
The historic and fairy mysteries connected
with flowers are many and sweet. From time
immemorial they have been the abodes of elfins
wee, and the cups from which fairies have
sipped dew-drops; beneath the concealment of
their leaves mischievous brownies have hidden,
only venturing forth to perpetrate some of the
tricks and bewitching frolics which they have
plotted in their sweet homes, where, one would
suppose, gentle deeds would be inspired.
A few of the lovelier meanings and more in-
teresting facts respecting flowers I offer you,
gleaned from many sources, a wild and min-
gled poesy; but the perfume of fields and
woods may still cling to them, and if so, I need
offer no apology for its scantiness orcrudeness.
We can never weary of the beautiful and an-
144
OODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cient fable of the Anemone. Venus loved the
beautiful youth Adonis; as she was with him
in the forests one day, he perceived a wild boar,
and, despite her entreaties, gave it the chase
and drew his bow; the arrow hit its mark, but
the infuriated beast, only stopping to draw the
dart from its side, turned upon Adonis and
gave him his death wound. Venus heard his
cries as she was floating through the air in her
chariot towards Olympus; she turned back and
hastened to the spot where Adonis lay. In de-
spair as she sees him dying, she lifts her hand
In supplication, the finger-tips reddened with
hte heart's blood; a zephyr comes and wafts
the ruby drops to the earth, and there springs
up the delicate Anemone, the wind flower.
Too closely allied with the (Jueen of beauty
that it should be omitted, is the history of the
red Rose. As Venus fled through the woods
to her wounded Adonis, a treacherous thorn
pierced her foot, and the blood which flowed
fell on a white Rose, which ever after retained
the hue.
There is the Heliotrope, or sun flower, -which
calls forth those beautiful lines of Moore's,
which alone would keep it in tender remem-
brance, were its mythological story lost to our
minds.
The sorrowful story of Narcissus causes us
to regard that pale flower with sadness. The
poor, foolish youth who fell in love with his
own image, which he saw reflected in the clear,
deceptive waters, as he reclined on a mossy
bank at the brookside. Yearning after this
mythical being, whom he could never find, ex-
cept at the brooklet, and who would never ad-
dress even one word to him, he wasted away
with sorrow and weeping, until all that re-
mained of the beautiful youth was the pale
Narcissus.
The Fates wore wreaths of Hawthorn blos-
soms and Cedar.
The Narcissus and whito Daffodil were sacred
to Pluto, as he found Proserpine gathering them
when he went to carry her away to his gloomy
home.
There is the Poppy, which is said to grow at
the entrance of the Palace of Sleep; and the
beautiful Hyacinth, memento of the dead youth
Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved. .
The Rose has many legends connected with
it, and was the best loved flower of the an-
cients. Wreaths of Roses always encircled
their wine-cups at feasts, as they believed the
presence of this lovely flower dissipated the
intoxicating property of the red wine.
In historic lore wo learn of the Violet, so in-
timately associated with Napoleon, the Lily
witli the Bourbons and others.
Margaret of Anjou, the fair young queen,
glorified the beautiful Daisy when she left
France to become the bride of nenry. She
took it as her emblem as suited to her extreme
youth, and, we may add, loveliness. In her
honor all the nobility of France and England
wore it emblazoned on their crests, and the
king added it to the decorations of his crown.
The Marguerite may have derived Its name
from this fact also.
The Golden-hearted Daisy is best known to
maidens who, with earnest faces, tell on its
leaves, "He loves me, loves me not."
Of the wee Forget-me-not, the flower of
heaven's hue, we have pretty tales. A lofty
Flantagenet did not deem this floweret too
lowly to adorn his crest, and he, it is held by
many, first endowed it with its poetical name.
As be was about to leave France and claim his
English throne, he had a spray of this flower
emblazoned on his shield, and caused his
initials, "S. S.," to signify in regard to it,
"Souveigne de Moye," forget-me-not, and
adopted this as his "rivQt." Perchance with
tiiis flower he first wooed Joanna. Who can
tell?
The German maiden who, standing at a
brook-side with her lover, longs for the flower
blooming on the opposite bank of the stream;
he plunges into the water to gratify her half-
spoken wish, procures the cluster of flowers,
and just as he would regain the shore where
she stands waiting, his strerigth fails; with
one despairing effort he casts the flowers upon
the bonk, and, dying, prays, "Forget-me-not."
Maidens' tears we read in this sweet flower.
The Thistle is a sturdy flower, by many
greatly despised; still we should not look
alone at its rough setting, but at the royal
Amethystine heart. Many years ago a power-
ful enemy invaded Scotland. Having planned
to surprise the Scottish forces at night, they
removed their boots that they might approach
the sleeping garrison more stealthily. When
near the encampment, one of the foe stepped
on a thistle; he cried out loudly with the pain,
aroused the camp, and Scotland was saved.
No wonder they adopt it as their national
emblem.
Although we have no national flowers as
emblems, we have many endeared to us by as-
sociation, and immortalized by our own poets.
Golden-rods and Asters, which stands as silent
requiems on summer's death ; Bloodroot, each
leaf a blanket to a baby pearl; Fringed Gen-
tian, Heaven's sweet boon, and many others
which bring to us the breath of our broad fields
and sweet woods.
Find Fault tn Private.—Find fault, when
you must find fault, in private, if possible, and
some time after the offence, rather than at the
time. The blamed are less inclined to resist
when they are blamed without witnesses. Both
parties are calmer, and the accused person may
be struck with the forbearance of the accuser
who has seen the fault, and watched for a pri-
vate and proper time for mentioning it.
CINDERELLA.
145
CINDERELLA.
BT SNOWDES HAT.
PART I.
The night Is cold, and dark, and dreary.
The wind, a freezing northeaster, is blowing
fiercely without; each gust dashing the fast-
fnlling sleet against the window-panes, and
whistling some fitful molody through every
keyhole. God pity the hapless poor on sucli a
night! The howling of this winter storm, with
its icy dreariness without, the luxurious warmth
of this delightful old parlor, and the brightness
and cheery comfort within, recall one night, just
twenty-six years ago, when I sat as I now do,
alone, looking into a pile of glowing anthra-
cite, and watching the playful pranks of Its
bluish-colored flames. Only then, dear reader,
I was building rather sombre castles in the air;
taking a somewhat gloomy satisfaction in won-
dering what fate the future had in store for me,
a penniless, almost friendless orphan. And
now I look back, and see how my sainted
mother's prayer for the child she left behind
was answered, and with loving gratitude I
thank Him who has said, "Leave thy father-
less children to me I"
Ever since the gas was lighted I have been
busily engaged in cutting curious little dia-
mond-shaped pieces out of some scraps of soft,
bright-colored merino, and sewing thpm to-
gether. And now, stuffed and finished, it is a
ball as varied in hues as was Joseph's far-famed
"coat of many colors." With the promise of
this ball on the morrow, a little curly head was
beguiled to its pillow; and before the bright
eyes closed in sleep, a pair of chubby arms met
around my neck, and with the good-night kiss
came the whisper, "P'ease, g'andmamma,
don't fordet Eddie's ball." Dear little fellow,
he knows that a promise to him Is always faith-
fully kept, and that as sure a3 to-morrow comes
he will find his wlshed-for treasure.
Glancing towards the mantle I find that time
has glided away more rapidly than I was aware
of, while engaged in this labor of love, and so
lost have I been hi my reveries of the past, that
had it not been for that more than usually
strong demonstration of the storm-god's power
—which has just made every shutter of the
house, every sash in the windows shudder and
creak—I had almost forgotten my pleasure-
seeking truants, who, an hour ago, so laugh-
ingly defied his power to shut them up at home
to-night. How strange it seems to me that
they should be willing, even in spite of furs
and a close carriage, to venture out as though
they were Laplanders or Esquimaux! But I
must not forget that they are young, that the
life-blood bounds cheerily In their veins; while
I am old, or getting old, and shiver at what
Is only exhilarating to them. Doubtless the
"pomps and vanities" would have appeared
vol. xci.—10
as bewllderlngly fascinating to me when I was
as young, had my childhood and youth been as
free from care and sorrow, as I devoutly thank
God theirs have been thus far. "Mother"
should be the last to judge her pets harshly, so
while waiting for the hour to roll around which
will bring them from the festive scene, she will
employ the intervening time in telling the his-
tory of the never-forgotten evening which this
one so vividly recalls.
My mother's death, which occurred just as I
entered my twentieth year, made me an orphan.
My father died five years before. He was a na-
tive of New York, descended on his maternal
side from one of those old Knickerbocker fanff-
lies, which flourished during the peaceful reign
of Peter Stuyvesant, in those good old days
when fends and family quarrels were made to
end in the smokebf the soothing, peacemaking
pipe. One of the stories in which as a child I
mostdelighted, was the account of a visit which
the worthy old governor made to the home of
my great-great-grandfather, bringing with him,
as a present, a genuine Dutch pipe, grotesque
in form and quaintly carved, and which bore
on a little gold plate, Ingeniously embedded in
the carving, the significant Latin word, Pace.
This pipe was sacredly preserved and handed
down from one generation to another as a pre-
cious legacy. I used to revel in those old le-
gends, in some of which my ancestors bore a
conspicuous part; and so familiar were the old
burgomasters and their long stories, I almost
imagined that I had "lived, and moved, and
had my being" among them. I remember,
though, even as a child, wondering if they did
nothing but sit and gossip and puff their pipes,
telling over and over again the marvellous
tales—born, as I slyly suspected then, of brains
beclouded witli tobacco sinoke—of the periodi-
cal returns of the "Storm Ship" up the waters
of the Hudson, and who had last encountered
one of the phantom "Gusts from Gibbet's
Island;" while their notable housewives are
to this day held up as bright and shining mod-
els in industry and domestic economy, for the
lasting benefit of careless, ease-loving house-
hold divinities all the world over.
My father certainly did not inherit this lack
of gallantry, for one of his striking character-
istics was his exalted estimate of woman; seem-
ing to regard her as the crowning work of the
Creator, too frail and exquisitely fashioned to
be regarded by man save as God's most pre-
cious gift, something to live for, to work for,
to be tenderly cared for, and to love with his
strongest, best affections.
My father lived in the home of his boyhood
until my grandfather's death left him and an
elder brother alone in the world. Bereft in
early childhood of a mother's care, they clung
with increased ardor to the remaining parent,
who thereafter devoted his whole life to the
proper rearing of his sons; becoming the com-
146
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
paniou iu whom tliey confided, the friend who
sympathized in all their boyish troubles, and
the unerring guide who safely led them out of
every perplexity. Breathing in such a health-
ful atmosphere, hedged about by such home
influences, it is not strange that they grew to
manhood unassailed, comparatively, by the
manifold temptations which beset the path of
the young man, and the student of Uni-
versity especially. Following the bent of their
wills, they chose each for himself that calling
in life for which they seemed best suited, re-
siding still under the old roof-tree which had
so long sheltered them.
Just at this time, when life seemed to open
a pathway bright and sunny and full of hope
before them, my grandfather was taken from
them after a brief and painful illness. "God
bless you, my dear boys, and help you so to
live, that I may on that day say, 'Here, Lord,
am I, and the children whom thou gavest me I'"
the lips moved as if In prayer, but no sound
reached the ears of the grief-stricken watchers
at the bedside.
Crushed by the sorrow which had so unex-
pectedly come upon him, and wishing to be
anywhere rather than iiij.lie home so fraught
with tender recollections, where every object
recalled the loved and lost, my father remem-
bered a promise which yet remained unful-
filled, viz., the paying of a visit to his college
chum's home in the sunny South. So, acting
at once on the impulse of the moment, he wrote
a letter to his friend, telling him of his bereave-
ment, and also of his plan of a tour throughout
the South, and that he might expect him at
"Bellevue" in about a month's time. "There
is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew
them how we will." In other words, how mys-
terious are the workings of Providence, and
upon what trivial, or seemingly trivial things
do our futures for good or for evil often de-
pend. How often and how fervently have I
heard my father bless the benignant fate which
drew him to the hospitable home of Colonel
Singleton, for there he met my mother 1 He
had often heard his "chum" speak of his fath-
er's beautiful ward, but any mention of her
generally irritated instead of interesting him;
because whenever the young men were discuss-
ing any pretty woman in particular, and the
conversation turned upon %eauty in the ab-
stract, Many would always end it by exclaim-
ing, "But, oh, boys, you ought to see our
Bell! when you do, you will see the fairest
type of feminine loveliness the sun ever shone
upon'." This constant lauding of this Southern
beauty stirred all the chivalry of his boyish na-
ture, and impelled him often to break a lance
in behalf of the fair ones of his native clime.
My mother! Oh, the many bright and pre-
cious memories which cluster around that sa-
cred.name! Would that pen of mine eould
faintly portray her as she ever seemed to me—
the perfect embodiment of grace and loveli-
ness! How hard it is for me to realize that I
am older now than she was when God took her
from me. I could never think of her as grow-
ing old, but how gracefully she would have
done that, as she did everything else! How
ineffably sweet and precious to me is the dear
face enshrined in my heart of hearts; a face
still youthful, and which will continue so even
if I should be permitted to count more than my
four-score years and ten, for "Time moves on
with the living, but stands still with the dead."
My grandfather's estate, when divided, gave
to each of his sons a handsome portion, which
was entirely sufficient to support them in com-
fort, even luxury. But my father felt that it
would be wrong to eat the bread of idleness,
and bury in the earth the talent his Maker
had given him; so, as there was nothing to
draw him northward, and much, very much,
to keep him where he was, he accepted Colonel
Singleton's offer of a partnership with him,
and forthwith began the practice of law.
Not very long after this, as my father used
to say,/came "to bless their Joined lives;"
and very sure am I that not many little ones
were ever more blessed in the wealth of affec-
tion and loving caresses lavished upon them
than was I in my helpless infancy.
I was born in the month of May, the season
of the year when the very air at the South is
laden with the perfume of flowers. So many
gorgeous bouquets were showered by congratu-
lating friends on my home, in honor of my
arrival, that my father declared it should be
said literally of me that I "lay upon a bed of
roses." So, after piling the glowing, fragrant
clusters together, making a fairy couch fit for
Titania herself, he laid me on it. My mother
said that, as he looked upon me, his helpless,
new-born babe, lying so utterly unconscious
of the floral bed his loving hand had prepared,
tears filled his eyes, and iu a low, earnest
voice, came the half whispered prayer, "God
bless my little darling, and grant that this
may be emblematic of her future life!" What
bitter, scalding tears would have been then
shed could he have known of the sharp thorns
which years after pierced the nightly pillow of
his desolate orphan!
I remember distinctly being carried about in
old "Mammy's" arms—the name all Southern
children were taught to give the head nurse in
the household—and how my wee face was al-
ways washed, my short, downy hair twisted
in the shape of curls, and a clean apron put
on me, that "Papa's little girl might be fresh
and sweet to kiss him," when he returned
from his office, tired and ready for dinner.
He had made for himself many warm and
admiring friends, and the home presided over
by my fascinating mother consequently became
the favorite resort of the refined aijd intelli-
gent of both sexes. As I was a pretty—and I
CINDERELLA.
147
have been told a remarkably precocious —
child, mucli attention was lavished upon me,
and doubtless I was sadly spoiled. When
about three years old, however, my "nose"
was in a measure "broken" by the advent of
a little sister. Daisy was the pet name given
her, because she came to us in the early spring,
when the little flower whose name she bore in
countless multitudes covered the earth. And,
indeed, she seemed herself a tiny, winsome
little blossom, too fair and fragile to stand
very long the summer's heat, or the cold winds
of winter. Dear little pet! for long, long
years the daisies have come and gone on her
grave; while she, an immortal flower, is bloom-
ing in the Paradise above I
Have you become weary, dear reader, of the
rambling talk of an old woman? Maybe, nay,
doubtless, it is tiresome to you. But, in taking
up ray pen to write, I prayed :—
"Backward, flow backward, O Time In thy flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!"
and so entirely has the prayer been answered;
so vividly does the old home, with its precious,
hallowed memories, the loved ones, once the
light of It, long since passed into the silent
rand, rise up before me, that 1 feel a strange
yearning, as a tired child, to rest my head on
my old refuge, mother's bosom, and cry my-
self to sleep, lint 1 am old now, and in no-
thing does age begin to show itself more than
in this tendency to the reminisccntial; this
remembering events which happened long ago,
so much more distinctly than those of recent
date.
With the exception of my little sister's death,
which for a long time shadowed the home and
hearts she had so brightened when alive, my
childhood glided along without a care or a tear,
until 1 became a school-girl. Feeling that
some discipline would be absolutely necessary
for my future well-being, my parents thought
it best that I should be sent to boarding-
school; so, after many and long struggles with
myself, 1 finally yielded a tearful consent to
become an inmate of Madame Lamonte's cele-
brated seminary for young ladies. Madame
always contended it was "a gross insult to
woman to call her a female, and utterly un-
worthy of this enlightened nineteenth cen-
tury." Up to this time my mother had been
my only teacher, and the hill of knowledge
was anything else than tiresome to climb, un-
der so accomplished a guide, whose cheering
word was always ready to encourage me when
faltering over any rugged places, and whose
sonny smile never failed to beam a congratu-
lation over every conquered difficulty.
I don't think I at all realized what leaving
home would be to me, for the excitement of
Pitting ready, and then the journey before me,
kept my spirits up wonderfully, child that I
*as, even in saying "good-by" to mother;
»"d not until my father had given me his last
kiss, and the door closed on him, did the over-
powering sense of loneliness and home-sickness
come over me in all its force. Then the rattle
of the carrriage which bore him away sounding
on the gravel of the long avenue leading to the
seminary seemed to me the knell of departed
peace and joy. Children, I believe, can be-
come accustomed to almost anything; and,
although the bustle of the school, and the clat-
ter of so many busy tongues, at first made me
almost dizzy, yet in time 1 began to enjoy the
excitement, and became one of its most ener-
getic noise-makers.
When 1 had been there about nine months,
the event which changed eutirely the current
of my life happened. A party of the merriest
among us were gathered in the hall, discussing
a laughable linguistic mistake made by our
teacher of foreign languages—a freshly-Im-
ported German—when a letter was handed to
me. It was directed in mother's handwriting,
and I gleefully ran up to my room to see what
the home news was. Only a few blurred lines
met my gaze, and it was some seconds before
I could take in the full meaning of the tear-
splashed page; then 1 stood petrified. My
dear father had died suddenly—the doctors
said of heart disease—and 1 must come home
at once to my broken-hearted mother.
Oh, how changed was the happy, sunshiny
home of my childhood, with its vacant chair,
the constant listening for of the familiar foot-
step which never came, and the ceaseless
yearning for the loved face we knew we would
never see again while life lasted. True it is
that "troubles come not singly, but in battal-
ions," for only a few weeks after my father's
death Colonel Singleton received a letter from
my uncle at the North, informing him of the
hopelessly insolvent condition of Bank,
and therefore of our poverty, as our entire
property was invested in it, except a small
annuity which had been settled on my mother
by her father's will. The tidings of this finan-
cial disaster did not seem to affect her In the
slightest degree. Indeed, h«r heart was so
entirely charged with grief, I do not believe
that anything of an earthly nature could have
moved her in any way. Not a tear had 1 seen
her shed since the sorrow came whieh seemed
to have turned her Into a beautiful marble
statue; and even when told that the luxurious
home in which so many blissful years of her
life had been spent must be given up, no change
could ba seen, except that the soft eyes closed,
and there was a momentary quivering of the
chiselled faatures.
Going into the library, however, with her
one day, just before our final depnrture from
the loved home, I saw her go to a table whereon
lay an open book; as she moved it, a dead
rose-bud dropped on the floor. I stooped to
pick It up, and as I handed it to her a flood
of painful recollections seemed to overpower
148
Q0DE7-S LADV8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
her, and with a low moan she sank upon the
lounge.
The fountain of her tears was hroken up;
some tender memory connected with the dead
flower seemed to thaw the frozen heart; and
alarmed and distressed as I was, ft seemed
hours before she could speak. Then she told
'me that she had been seated just where she
now was reading, on the Sunday afternoon:
preceding the night on which my father died;
that he had returned late from a solitary stroll,
and, coming into the library hat in hand, had
laid this first rosebud of spring, slightly blight-
ed by frost, on the open book in her lap, re-
marking that he had "found it on Daisy's
grave." The room had not been disturbed
since then; and now this shrivelled blossom,
the last gift from her husband, seemed to form
in her mind a connecting link between the dead
father and the angel baby, and uniting them,
brought the soothing assurance that they were
not "lost,"only "gone before." Oh,the power
to weep is a blessed privilege! What, indeed,
would become of suffering humanity had not
God in mercy granted, as it were, an escape
valve for the pent-up sorrows of over-charged
hearts?
My mother had a passion for music, and sang
delightfully; and this talent had been culti-
vated to the highest degree by the most accom-
plished masters the country afforded. As we
therefore had so little to live upon, and she was
so well qualified to teach, several persons asked
for the privilege of sending their daughters to
share the instructions given me by my mother
in this accomplishment. Those were peaceful
days that we spent together in our quiet little
cottage home; and I love to think of them as
a green spot, as an oasis In the life of my early
womanhood, which rendered by contrast even
more barren the desert years which they pre-
ceded than they would otherwise have been.
I don't think 1 at all realized how excessive-
ly frail my mother was, for she had always
been delicate, and seldom complained. And
if I at any time noticed that the flush on her
cheek—which I thought then was so beautiful
—seemed to burn more brightly than usual,
and the feet moved more feebly than was their
habit, a wan smile, but one full of ineffable
tenderness, would lighten the lonely face, and,
as if to quiet any apprehension concerning her,
she would say," I don't feel sick at all, my child,
only so weak and tired. And, you see, it is
hard for your mother to become used to walk-
ing in this rough world without her prop to
lean upon, your dear father's strong, willing
arm." This explanation, or something similar,
was generally sufficient to allay my fears, and
putting far away from me even the thought of
trouble, I enjoyed with youthful zest the life
my Maker had given me. How crushing, there-
fore, was the blow when it finally came! We
had always—my mother and I—been in the
habit of walking on Sunday afternoons to the
cemetery; and in the summer we generally
spent several hours by my father's grave talk-
ing of him, and placing as many flowers as we
could get on the mound heaped over him. My
mother said she believed he was watching us
from his home in the skies, and that she never
felt so near the beloved spirit as when engaged
in this labor of love. I noticed that she always
returned home soothed and pensive, and that
a peculiarly heavenly light lingered for hours
after in the soft eyes. Towards the close, how-
ever, of the fifth year of her widowhood, she
never went herself, saying that the walk was
too long for her; but she always gathered the
flowers herself and sent me to place her weekly
love-offering on the grave of her dead.
Returning one evening from this errand, I
was surprised to see the doctor's buggy stand-
ing in front of the cottage gate, and with a
wildly-throbbing heart I hastened in. I was
greatly relieved to meet mother's welcoming
■ smile, and stooped to kiss her as she lay on the
sofa—her usual place now—even before I shook
hands with our kind old physician. I noticed,
though, that he looked very sad, and in part-
ing from me on the piazza, said, "You are
growing more and more like your mother,
child; I trust you will be like her in every re-
spect, for, as a woman, it can be said of her,
that'her price is above rubies.' Strive to imi-
tate her, and nurse her tenderly as long as God
spares her to you. I will call again In the
morning. Good-by!" I knew that my mother
had been one of the doctor's pets since her
childhood, but 1 was puzzled to account for
this unusual style of speech.
For several days I had had a headache, and
been feeling wretchedly tired and dull; and
the walk in the bracing fall air, instead of in-
vigorating seemed to add to my depression
mentally as well as physically. I had never
been sick in my life, and not knowing what
ailed me, except that I felt utterly good-for-
nothing and wretched, I sat down on the floor
by mother's lounge, resting my head near hers,
and commenced sobbing hysterically. I think
now that she must have been under the impres-
sion that the doctor had informed me that she
couldn't live many days, for she smoothed my
hair for a long time with the hand which had
once been so plump and soft, now so thin and
transparent, and waited until my sobs had in
a measure ceased before she spoke, then she
said :—
"My darling child, compose yourself, or you
will make me worse. I ought not to have al-
lowed this to come so suddenly upon you; but
I hated to distress you by speaking of death,
and I thought you couldn't fail to see that I
was growing weaker every day, gradually-
dying. Oh, my precious child! nothing but
the thought that I am leaving you an orphan,
alone in the world, distresses me now. And
CINDBRELLA.
149
you will not be alone either, for your father's
and mother's God will take care of you. To
Him I commit my fatherless one, with im-
plicit faith in His gracious promises. And
when death has made you motherless you must
not weep for me, but always think of your
mother as supremely happy in the other world,
united forever with the loved ones there."
There is a wide hiatus in my memory here.
1 believe I was stunned by my mother's words,
for I remember I could neither move nor speak
for some time. I remember indistinctly, too,
going to bed after having kissed her, and that
my head ached so violently I could scarcely
see, and that the strange dizziness I had felt
several times that day, and the day or two pre-
ceding it, came upon me so violently I could
scarcely find the bed. When I came to my
senses I thought I had just awoke from a long,
troubled dream about going to my mother's
grave, and finding her there with Daisy in her
arms; and when X could have gone nearer, she
motioned me away, saying I was of the "earth,
earthy," and not ready yet to touch her; then
it seemed not to be mother at all, but father,
who said he was waiting for her. I tried to
lift my hand, and it felt so strangely light I
opened my eyes. To my surprise it was as
pale and thin as mother's, and the wrist was
as small as a baby's. I raised it to my head,
wondering what was the matter, and found
that my hair was all gone.
This movement seemed to arrest the atten-
tion of some one in the room, and instead of
mother, whom I expected to see, I recognized
Mrs. Singleton. As 1 said, in a weak voice,
"What is the meaning of this? Where have I
been, and where is mother?" I noticed that
she bad been weeping, and at the last question
she averted her eyes, and a hot tear fell on my
hand as she held it. She went to the bureau,
and, after raising my head, said: "Never mind,
now, my dear; I can't answer any questions.
Drink this medicine the doctor left for you,
and you will feel a great deal better after you
have taken a nice nap and woke up again."
I had had brain fever and been delirious
from the first; my head had been shaved
and blistered several times. So violently, in-
deed, bad the disease taken hold of roe, that
more than one of the consulting physicians had
said I could not recover. This was told me in
answer to my questions soon after conscious-
ness returned. But they did not tell me, until
1 bad guessed from their evaded replies, the
awful truth that my precious mother was
dead! Then, forgetting the tender care that
had nursed me back to life, and remembering
only that but for tt I might then have been
with my mother in the spirit world, in the ex-
tremity of my anguish I savagely asked why
they did not let me die too!
Mrs. Singleton took me home with her as
soon as I could be moved, and petted and
watched over me as my own mother would
have done. It was strange that after the lapse
of so many years, the old home which had shel-
tered my mother so long should have opened
its hospitable doors to receive her orphan child.
It is a wonder that I recovered my health and
strength at all, weighed down as I was by the
crushing sorrow whicli had come upon me,
never forgetting my idolized mother, nor ceas-
ing to long for her every moment of my life.
What comforted mo most was the assurance
that she was at perfect rest, and no w supremely
happy. I believe her heart was broken when
my father died, and this was what the doctors
called a "giving way of nature," which had
killed her by slow degrees. I occupied the
room that had been hers in her girlhood, the
very furniture of which Mrs. Singleton said
had remained unchanged since she left it a
bride.
It may be imagined that I clung with the
tenderest affection to the inmates of this home,
where my dear mother had been so loved, and
accepted Colonel Singleton's offer to become
his adopted child with devout thankfulness.
As Harry—my father's friend and their only
child—was married and settled in a distant
city, I hoped and prayed that I, their adopted
daughter, would be a comfort and companion
for them in their declining years.
Just as we thought that everything was ar-
ranged satisfactorily to all parties, however, a
letter came from my father's brother, my un-
cle at the North. It was full of the kindest
expressions of sympathy for me, and grief on
learning that the sister-in-law he had so much
admired was no more, and contained the re-
quest, nay, almost command, that I should
come on at once and make his house my home,
adding that as my only near relative he had
the right to me, and his heart yearned over his
brother's orphan. Of course, I said, as soon
as I heard the letter read, that I would not go,
preferring to remain where I was. But Col-
onel Singleton said there was no disputing the
fact that my uncle had the best right to me,
and though the idea of giving me up was dis-
tressing both to him and his wife, he dared not
urge me to stay. The best thing he could
advise was that I should spend a year in my
uncle's family, and if at the expiration of that
time I still preferred my Southern home, he
had no doubt that my uncle would allow me
to choose between them. As I had to go—atid
there was no reason why I should not go at
once—Colonel Singleton wrote to my undo
that I would sail the following Saturday, and
he would consequently know when to expect
me at the wharf in New York, adding that his
son, who was going North at the same time,
would take charge of me until he—my uncle—
claimed me.
150
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
PART II.
. In spite of Mr. Singleton's watchful kind-
ness and fatherly care, the journey northward
was a gloomy one; and how could it have
been otherwise, when everything dear and
sacred to me was left behind, save the treas-
ured memories of them, which thereafter be-
came a part of my very being. The shades of
twilight, which deepened as we passed Staten
Island, added to my depression, in view of
the fact that I was rapidly nearing my point
of destination, where everything new and
strange awaited me, and consequently the
parting from this kind friend of my childhood,
who seemed the last link which bound me to
the past.
We waited until the last passenger had left
the vessel, and the crowd on the pier had al-
most disappeared, expecting momentarily to
see my uncle. As no sign of him appeared,
and several hacks were yet wailing, Mr. Sin-
gleton gave the driver of one of them my
uncle's address, and occupied the remaining
time in the fruitless effort to cheer my failing
heart. The carriage stopped in front of a
handsome brown stone residence, the lower
story of which seemed ablaze with light. I
tried to be brave in view of the trial before
me; but, oh, how my heart sank as Mr. Sin-
gleton rang the bell! and how utterly alone I
felt in the great city 1 A servant almost imme-
diately answered the summons, and on learn-
ing that my uncle was at home, Mr. Singleton
sent in his card, and requested to see him at
the door for a moment. Only a few seconds
elapsed before the parlor door opened, and my
father's brother stood before me. He shook
hands warmly with his old college friend;
then, turning to ine, said, "And this is my
niece. My dear child, this is a most pleasant
surprise; I hardly hoped to see you so soon;"
and gave me a kiss of welcome.
He warmly urged Mr. Singleton to make his
house his home during his stay in the city, but
the invitation was declined with thanks, as he,
Mr. Singleton, had business to transact in
Brooklyn, and as soon as that was accom-
plished he would return to the South by land.
"I hate to say good-by to you, dear Connie,"
he said, putting his arm around roe; "but you
know we must part. Don't let your city home
occupy so much of your thoughts that you
won't have time to think of us all sometimes,
for you know there is a warm place in our
hearts for your mother's child, even If we
didn't love you dearly for your own sake.
Come, yon are surely not going to let me go
without a kiss, are you?"
I was holding down my head, trying to keep
back the tears which were dropping in quick
succession, and so choked was I that if my life
had depended on it I don't think I could have
spoken a word. As he stooped to kiss me,
my utter loneliness, my dreary, desolate or-
phanhood, came crushingly over me, and with
a smothered sob I flung my arms around his
neck. He let me cry there for a few moments,
and then gently disengaging my arms, he said,
after kissing me several times, "Good-by, dear
child 1 good-by I God bless you I" and the door
shut with a clang after him.
My uncle did not wait for ine to recover my-
self at all, but, taking my hand in his, said,
"It is natural for you to show some grief in
parting with an old friend, but I hope you
will soon learn to love your relations here.
Wipe your eyes now, child, and I will intro-
duce you to your aunt and cousins, and more-
over we will catch cold if we stay any longer
in the hall."
It was a cruel thing to ask me to go in
among perfect strangers before I had time to
make at least an effort towards stilling the
tempest which was raging in my soul. My
eyes were so blinded by unshed tears that
everything seemed enveloped in a haze as we
entered tho brilliantly-lighted and luxurious
apartment. My uncle introduced me as his
niece from the South, and I received, as each
cousin's name was called, a rather chilling
shake of my extended hand, and from my
aunt a formal kiss on my cheek, feeling con-
scious all the time that I was being scrutinized
from head to foot by every occupant of the
room. The pause which succeeded my intro-
duction became painfully embarrassing, and
was finally broken by my uncle's inquiring
why I had not written to inform him when I
was coming, so that he might have met me at
the wharf. As I timidly replied that Colonel
Singleton had written a week before I left
home, my aunt arose from her chair, and, put-
ting her hand behind the French clock on the
mantle, drew forth a letter, which she handed
him, remarking that it had been brought to the
house during his absence from the city a few
days previous, and she had entirely forgotten
to deliver it on his return. He made no reply,
but I imagined he looked slightly irritated,
that I should see such carelessness shown in
reference to a letter which his family well
knew pertained to my coming. I must have
looked lonesome and miserable enough, be-
cause, after I had declined my aunt's offer to
have a cup of tea brought to me, my uncle
said, turning to his wife:—
"I expect Constance would prefer a quiet
sleep to anything you can offer her, and you
had better let her retire at once."
Oh, how 1 thanked him in my heart for this
kindly suggestion! I arose almost immediately,
but my aunt said, touching the bell-rope:—
"Wait a moment, and Lisette will show you
to your room."
As the French maid's face appeared in the
open doorway, my uncle arose from his chair,
and coming towards me said-, kindly:—
CINDERELLA.
191
"We have not forgotten, my dear, that you
have been lately nn invalid, and the long jour-
ney must have tried your strength severely j
but I hope a good night's rest will do you
good, and," patting my cheek, "that the lilies
here will soon give place to the roses. Good-
night!"
Thanking him, I picked up my travelling-
bag, which he had laid on the sofa beside me,
and nodding a good-night to the assembled
family, my aunt included, I passed out with
Lisette for my guide. As soon as the door
closed behind us, every tongue seemed to be
unloosed, and the late quiet parlor to have
become a Babel. Of course I knew they were
discussing poor forlorn me, and was as equally
confident that their criticisms were not flatter-
ing; but so utterly wretched did I feel in mind
and body I did not care for anything they
could say; did not want anything they could
.give me, save a corner all to myself, where I
could weep unseen, and hug my miseries to
my aching heart. Even this boon was denied
me, however, for as Lisette threw open the
door, saying I would find my trunks in here,
my eyes fell upon a diminutive figure seated
by a table reading.
"Miss Lily, here Is your cousin from the
South," the maid said, and immediately with-
drew.
Although at first only a feeling of vexation
that I was not to have a nook to myself came
over me, yet this gave way as the pale face—
but one unnaturally sweet and gentle—turned
towards me, and a delicate little hand held out
bade me welcome.
"O Cousin Connie! —I may call you so,
may'n't I?—I am so glad you have come! I
heard that you were as good as you were beau-
tiful, and I have been hoping that you would
love me. Tou see, 1 spend most of my time
up here, because I am deformed, and my sis-
ters don't like me to be in the parlor when
their visitors call; so, when mamma told me
you were coming, and that you would have to
sleep In my room, I could not help being glad,
because I am often very lonesome when I get
tired reading and mamma and the girls are out
chopping and visiting. Papa is, oh, so sweet
and good to me I and brings me books and pic-
tures to look at, and sits sometimes the whole
evening with me, and we talk about what I
have been reading; but then he is so tired
from being busy all the day, it keeps me from
enjoying my evenings with him as much as I
would do; so, after he is gone, I wind up my
music-box, and while it is playing the tunes I
never get tired of, I sit and think of all he has
been saying to me, and I never forget when I
say my prayers to thank the good Lord for
giving papa to me. But, just see, Cousin Con-
nie, I have talked myself out of breath, and I
meant to be good and quiet, and not disturb
you at all, for I know you are tired from
travelling such a long distance, and ought to
go to sleep. Never mind, I won't say another
word; only kiss me good-night, and I will be
as quiet as a mouse, so as not to wake you
up."
Here, then, I had at last found a welcome,
and where I had least expected one. Although
both my head and eyes were aching and I was
very tired, yet I lay for some time after my
head rested on the pillow watching the thought-
ful face bent over the book. Something about
the child fascinated me, and for some time I
was puzzled to know what it was; but as a
smile flitted over the features, I saw a resem-
blance to my mother. Perhaps it was only the
pensive look and the expression of patient suf-
fering which made both pale faces alike, but
there was a strong bond at once established
between the warm-hearted child and the lonely
orphan.
I was awakened the next morning by the
maid bringing in Lily's breakfast, which she
always took In bed. She Informed me that my
uncle had given orders that I should not be
disturbed; but it was late now, and the family
had almost finished breakfast, so she "guessed"
I had better dress as soon as I could, as the
mistress was "uncommon particular" about
all eating breakfast at the same time. I hur-
ried with my toilet, assuming the sable gar-
ments, the badge of my orphanhood, which
never failed to bring the tears to my eyes as I
saw myself reflected in the mirror, arrayed
therein. I don't think the operation of "dress-
ing" occupied me ten minutes, for there was
no trouble at all about my coiffure; I had only
to brush my hair and it immediately arranged
Itself into short, flat curls all over my head;
and so, after putting on my crepe collar, and
clasping it at the throat with a brooch contain-
ing my parent's hair surrounded with pearls, I
kissed Lily and hastened down stairs.
When I had gotten half way down the richly-
carpeted staircase, there seemed to be an ani-
mated discussion going on in the breakfast-
room, and a loud, drawling, peculiarly un-
pleasant voice said, "Good gracious! she is as
thin as a lath, and pale as a ghost. Judging
from the way Arthur Schuyler raved about the
'angelic blonde' when he came from the South,
I thought"— Here the speaker was inter-
rupted by my timid rap on the door, which was
slightly ajar, and some one said, in a stage
whisper, "There, Hattie, she heard you!" "I
don't care if she did !" was the retort, and my
aunt opened the door.
She seemed to have thawed somewhat since
the previous evening, and, after bidding me
I come in and get my breakfast, she asked if I
; felt "rested." My cousins were still seated at
i the table, and seemed to be amusing them-
! selves in stirring up the dregs of sugar and
j coffee left in their cups. Both nodded "good-
! morning," and after taking an Inventory of
152
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
my person and dress, left me to my breakfast
and thoughts. They were fashionably "gotten
up," and attired in handsomely embroidered
morning dresses. Hattie, the eldest, my senior
by two years, was a tall brunette, with rather
prominentfeatures, and a short upper lip, which
•Save a haughty expression to her face, Mag-
'gie, the next in order, about my own age, was
neither dark nor fair, but seemed a mixture of
both. Neither was at all handsome, critically
considered, but both stylish; of which fact they
seemed well aware. Lily came between Mag-
gie and Bertie; the latter being a handsome,
well-grown boy of six summers, and named
Albert for my father.
The conversation became lively, and ran
cbietly upon some grand ball which was to take
place in about a month's time, and at which
Maggie—as she graciously condescended to in-
form me—would make her debut. It may be
imagined that this style of conversation was
anything else than congenial to my frame of
mind, and after expressing my interest in, and
admiration for, Lily, I asked the privilege of
teaching her daily "to the best of my ability."
My life was spent almost exclusively in my
room for months after I went there; and only
when the family were out did I avail myself of
uncle's invitation to practise my music as much
as I pleased on the parlor piano. As I didn't
interfere at all with the girls' amusements,
seldom went out except to church, and only
at rare intervals, and then by special invita-
tion, spent the evening in the parlor, I became
a cipher in the household to all except my af-
flicted little cousin, and one day was as another
in its dull monotony. Maggie did say to uie
one day, "I wonder you don't die, Constance,
shut up in that stupid room from morning to
night. I know /should, from 'ennui' if no-
thing else I" I only smiled, and replied, she
"must not forget Diogenes and his tub"—
"Yes," she answered, "but that classic worthy
loved sunshine too." Tet she never asked me
to walk with them, although she and her sister
sallied forth daily for their "constitutional;"
or, when too tired to walk, a carriage was at
their disposal. Had my uncle been at leisure
my life would have been very different. But
he was so engrossed in business that he only
saw his family early in the morning and after
he came home in the evening. Doubtless ha
thought—as I never complained—that his wife
and children did everything in their power to
render his orphan niece comfortable and happy.
But I doubt if a thought that any responsibility
rested on them, to this effect, ever entered their
heads; or, if it did, it was put aside on the
ground that what I had was good enough for
me, and if I was satisfied they ought to be.
They, mother and daughters, were gay, frivo-
lous devotees of the world and its vanities,
whose highest aspiration seemed to be to shine
as leaders in the world of fashion around them.
Only once, during my entire stay there, was
there manifested the slightest affection for me
by either of the sisters, and it was in this wise:
A grand fancy ball was to be given—the ball,
in fact, of the season—and for weeks before-
hand it was the engrossing theme at every
meal, and, it seemed to me, at other times too.
flattie was to represent Evening and her sister
Morning. Of course the costumes were de-
signed by an artiste in such matters, and made
by the most skilful hands. Yet when the
morning of the long looked-for day arrived,
there was found more to be done about Mag-
gie's costume than it was possible for her fin-
gers to accomplish, be they ever so busy.
Feeling really sorry for her in this dilemma, I
very cheerfully offered my services for the day,
which seemed greatly to relieve her. The gas
was lit some time before the last stitch was
made, and the whole pronounced "perfectly
bewitching" by the enthusiastic mamma. Al-
though my back and eyes ached sadly from the
very unusual exertion, and I took no sort of
interest in this kind of thing, I waited patiently
until Lisette had adjusted the last fold, put in
the last pin, and the excited worldling pro-
nounced herself "almost ready."
"There is only one thing lacking now to
make me absolutely lovely to-night, and that
is an abundance of pearls. Oh, that some
kind fairy would drop me a casket of them;
eh, mamma?"
I slipped out of the room as this wish was
expressed, and diving deep into the safest cor-
ner of my trunk, I drew forth an ebony box
bound with silver. My tears dropped on the
precious gems as I opened the lid, and I stood
hesitating as to whether it was not sacrilege to
have them used. It was an exquisite set of
pearls, consisting of a bandeau, necklace, ear-
rings, and bracelet, which had been my fath-
er's wedding gift to mother, and which she
wore the night she was married. The pearls
were beautifully arranged, and on each sepa-
rate piece of the set there was a rosette formed
of very large pearls, in the centre of which
sparkled a cluster of small diamonds. No for-
tune could have purchased from me this gift
of my sainted mother, and it can well be ima-
gined how I shrunk from the idea of seeing
them on one who cared little or nothing for me
or mine. But I stifled this feeling and hurried
to the girls' room.
Maggie was still standing before the mirror
putting on some "finishing touches." Lifting
carefully the gauzy drapery which hung from
her head, I slipped the necklace on and clasped
it before she knew what I was doing. I don't
think I ever saw any one more surprised than
she was, as each piece was drawn from its vel-
vet bed and fastened on its appropriate place.
"There I" said I, stepping back to see the
effect, "'Morning' has her glistening dew-
drops now 1"
CINDERELLA.
153
"Ob, how perfectly lovely they are! But
where did they come from?" she exclaimed.
"Why, the fsiiry whom you invoked hap-
pened to come in the shape of my old trunk,
and made me the bearer of the prize," I ex-
plained.
"But, Connie, are they yours?"
"Mine now; they belonged to my mother."
"And you are kind enough to let me wear
them?" Then putting her arms around my
neck she kissed me, saying, "You dear, un-
selfish girl, I don't know how to thank you!"
My uncle's family was an excessively musical
one; not that any one of its members excelled
in the art at all, nor, as I believed, really loved
it. But they cultivated the taste for it because
they said it was absolutely indispensable for
a woman of fashion to be entirely conversant
with every popular opera, etc., so that she
might be able to appreciate and criticize every
prima donna who offered to exercise her talent
for the edification of the art-loving portion of
New York.
I had become acquainted with very few of
my cousin's friends, although a goodly number
of both sexes were constant visitors at the
house. Their special favorite and confidante,
however, seemed to be a young lady who had
recently returned from abroad, Florence Bailey
by name, the daughter of one of the wealthiest
bankers on Wall Street, and tiie owner of one
of the most princely residences in the city at
that time. She seemed to be their authority on
•very conceivable subject—from the tying of
a sash and the trimming of a dress, to the dis-
cussion of high art in all its departments, as
"she had herself witnessed it in the old world."
I had met this prodigy once, having gone into
the parlor for a book one day while she whs
there, and was amused to see with what avidity
my aunt and cousins were drinking in the sense-
less chitchat of the conceited spoiled pet of for-
tune. "She wasn't pretty," they had told me,
"but very accomplished, and had a voice equal
in many respects to most of the professional
singers."
Being a passionate lover of music, instru-
mental as well as vocal, 1 felt a great desire as
well as curiosity to hear her perform, and this
desire was soon gratified. One morning, not
long afterwards, as we were seated at the
breakfast-table, my uncle was informed that
he must not come home too tired to enjoy com-
pany, as a few select friends were invited to
spend the evening, and Florence had promised
to sing for them.
"By the way," he exclaimed, "that reminds
me. Errol Murray is back from Europe again;
came a few days since on the Manhattan, and
dropped into my office yesterday to say how-
d'ye do. He is looking remarkably well; his
long sojourn in Europe and his tour through the
Holy Land have improved him. After making
many inquiries about you all, he said be would
do himself the honor of calling here this even-
ing to.pay his respects in person. 1 had for-
gotten to mention it until now; but as you art*
to have such choice spirits here to-night, it will
doubtless make bis visit pleasanter."
Errol Murray! The name was as familiar
to me in my Southern home as it seemed to be
here. I longed to ask if the expected visitor
was Uncle Harry Singleton's friend and com-
panion in Europe five years before, whoso,
likeness hung in an honored place in the dear
old drawing-room at home; but the confusion
1 of tongues and exclamations of delight with
which my uncle's announcement was received
\ precluded the possibility of my being heard.
That never-forgotten evening was an era iu
my joyless existence. I can shut my eyes now
and almost believe that I am among that
riehly-clad company, listening to the brilliant
music which filled the luxurious apartment;
can imagine that I see the amused smile which
played over my eldestcousin's haughty features
as I arose to sing, at Mr. Murray's request, a
little German song he had vainly begged of
Miss Bailey; can see as distinctly with my
mind's eye now as I did then the characteristic
shrug of that young lady's shoulder., when her
incredulous laugh, accompanied by her pet
phrase, "Now verrons," grated on my ear as I
took my seat at the piano. The recollection
of it stirs me now; then it was my inspiration.
The gift of song was my one accomplishment,
and faithfully had my dear mother striven to
cultivate it. This incredulity, therefore, on
the part of some, at least, of the company,
seemed a reflection on those years of patient,
careful teaching, and I sang, forgetting my-
self, forgetting the crowd which gathered
around the Instrument, thinking only of her,
and wishing only to prove myself worthy of
my mother's training. The song recalled so
many memories of the past—the old happy
home life, and her whose voice joined mine iu
singing it, now one of the "white-robed"
throng, and member of the angelic choir—that
I failed to notice, as the last note died away,
the profound stillness of the room. I became
conscious of it, and of the embarrassing fact
that all eyes were bent on me, as my uncle's
hand rested on my head and woke me from
my reverie. Looking up into his face, I was
astonished to see tears in his eyes as lie said,
"My dear child, this is, indeed, a surprise.
Why havo you kept your wonderful talent
hidden from us for so long?"
After this my life there was less monoto-
nous, inasmuch as my evenings generally were
spent in the parlor, my uncle insisting on my
being there to sing and play for him, no mat-
ter how tired and sleepy he might be. Mr.
Murray became a frequent visitor at the house,
seeming to choose those evenings when there
was less likelihood of meeting others there.
My eldest cousin claimed him as her especial
154
OODEV'9 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
property, and the family did not conceal their
delight at the prospect of her brilliant settle-
ment in life. I, too, looked forward to his
coming with unmitigated pleasure, feeling
that the evenings on which he was the pre-
siding genius fully atoned for the dullness and
insipidity of the others. And then he was al-
ways so kind and polite to me, never seeming
to regard me, like so many others did, as the
unfortunate, parasite of the wealthy house.
I was never made to feel my position in this
respect more painfully, perhaps, than one day
when my uncle's home was the chosen rendez-
vous of a bevy of fair ones and their escorts.
A collection of fine European paintings were
on exhibition, and the whole of New York
was flocking to see them. Although I neither
drew nor painted, I took a passionate delight
in fine pictures, and my desire to see these
works of the old masters was intense. But
the gay crowd parted from me In the parlor
without having asked me once to accompany
them. The day was bright and beautiful, aud
I longed for a breath of fresh out-door air; so,
after finishing my daily duties, I put on my
furs and hat, and sauntered out for a stroll in
the sunshine. I had gone only a few yards
when I encountered Mr. Murray.
"Fate has favored mo!" he exclaimed. "I
was on my way to your uncle's to ask you to
go with me to see the pictures this morning."
Thinking that, of course, he meant only to
include me with the others, I explained that
the girls had already gone.
"Oh, I did not come for a party this time;
only for you!" he replied. "You will go with
me, will you not?"
The gallery was r considerable distance off,
and very pleasant was that walk with Mr.
Murray for a companion. I don't think 1 will
ever forget the expression of my cousin's face
as we met her In that dense crowd. She be-
came palo first, then crimson, and lastly, as-
suming her most nonchalant air, she nodded
to Mr. Murray, utterly ignoring my presence.
I did not know until this petty exhibition of
jnalousy how much she cared for him; and
this was the clue to her subsequent treatment,
nay, almost persecution, of me. I had always
thought that she disliked me, but as I had
never crossed her path in any way, she pas-
sively endured me. From that time, however,
her dislike seemed to grow into positive hatred,
and no opportunity was lost in which she could
make me feel, directly, or by adroitly concealed
hints, that I was unwelcome, and had no right
to her home.
The year allotted for my sojourn at the
North was now drawing to a close, and I was
already beginning to look forward to a return
to the home, of my childhood and the loving
welcome which awaited me there, when a let-
ter came, ominously sealed with black. In my
Inmost soul I felt that it sealed my doom also, for
it contained the news of my guardian's death.
My life here was unpleasant before; now,
when it was known that I had no other home
opened to me, it became unendurable. I knew
that I would have to earn my daily bread, and
even began to cast around mentally as to where
I would be received as governess; but as place
after place came up, all equally uninviting, I
shrunk from the blank future that stared me
in the face, feeling utterly desolate and alone.
It is true that my uncle, in answer to some in-
quiries of mine, protested against my leaving
his protection and home, offering me both as
long as he had them to give; but I knew that
would never do.
It was on just such an evening as this is,
twenty-six years ago, that I was left alone
with the servants in the great house. My un-
cle had taken every member of his family to
hear some celebrated singer, and had insisted
on my going with them ; but I felt too wretched
in mind and body to mingle with the gay mul-
titude. "The world was before me where to
choose," and I preferred solitude and my own
thoughts In making the decision, though the
thoughts were sad and bitter. I had several
letters to write, but the desk lay unopened on
the table beside me, and I was dreaming over
the glowing coals, when a sharp ring of the
door-bell startled me. In a few minutes the
parlor door swung open and Mr. Murray ad-
vanced towards me, a bright smile lighting up
his fine features.
"The servant informed me that the familyl
are out, with the exception of yourself, and I
was bold enough to come in at once, without
waiting in the cold for your gracious permis-
sion. I trust I may be forgiven If I am in-
truding."
"Freely pardoned," I replied. "My thoughts
are not such pleasant company that I do not
cheerfully relinquish them for your society."
How dark and hopeless the world looked to
me at the beginning of the evening! how bright
and full of joyful anticipations at its close I
With the blissful consciousness that my future
was to be bound up with that of Errol Murray,
I felt strong to bear cheerfully any present
discomfort. The desolate orphan had thus
found a home; the happiness of which she had
not dared to hope for.
"You have made a great conquest, little
one," my uncle said, tapping my flushed cheek
the next day, Mr. Murray having had a confi-
dential talk in his office that morning. "God
grant that your life may be as happy as it now
promises 1"
And, dear reader, that prayer has been an-
swered. "The lines have fallen unto me In
pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heri-
tage." Are you nodding now, put to sleep by
an old woman's long, rambling story? Well,
I will forgive you, because, to tell the truth, I
have talked myself into a doze. That ring at
POETRY, ETC.
155
the door-bell, announcing the return of my
wanderers, called me back from the land of
dreams. My pen is still in my hand, though,
and my eyes can open wide enough for me to
see how to write good-night I
LEGEND OF ST. GREGORY.
DT MRS. JULIA P. BALLARD.
4tnftff"*'"' _■__■-
Hi who was destined from his earliest day
(So In a vision did his mother read)
To be one day head of the church on earth,
Shrank from the office when his ho«r had come,
And, flying far from Rome, concealed himself
Within a cavern. Here, celestial light
Forming a halo 'round his dark abode,
Bevealed his lurking place, and he was brought
Back, to be hailed with joy the people's choice.
With the sweet grace of charity bis soul
Was wholly filled: while yet a monk, one came
And asked an alms, and asked one yet again,
And still again, receiving gifts each time.
Once more he came; instead of being spurned,
A sliver porringer—a sacred gift
From his dead mother—he the beggar gave.
Nor when a Pope, and surnamed, well, "The Great,"
Did this sweet grace of charity decline:
Twelve men he bade, from poor and lowly homes,
To sup each evening at his royal board.
One night he called his steward; "There are twelve,"
He said, "who at my table should appear,
And here I count thirteen; pray, how is this?"
The steward's eye ran quickly down the board;
•*Xay, Holy Father, sure there are but twelve!"
Yet Qrenory saw an uninvited guest,
And, when the meal was done, "Who art thou?" he
asked
Of the poor stranger; and the man replied,
"I am the poor man thou didst ouce relieve.
And yet my name is 'Wouderful;' ask now
Whatever thou may'st wish, and for my sake"
(How trifling now the silver porringer!)
"God, who knows all, shall quickly grant it thee."
Then Gregory knew an angel unaware
Had supped with him and his poor chosen ones.
"Servant of servants" he had styled himself;
God knew, and owned him Gregory the Great.
—
The most valuable part of every man's edu-
cation is that which lie receives Troni himself,
especially when the active energy of his cha-
racter makes ample amends for the want of a
more finished course of study.
Pride and IIumii.itt.—I never yet found
pride in a noble nature, nor humility in an un-
worthy mind. Of all trees, I observe that God
hath chosen the vine—a low plant, that creeps
npon the helpful wall; of all beasts, the soft
and patient lamb; of all fowls, the mild and
guileless dove. When God appeared to Moses,
Jt was not in the lofty cedar, or sturdy oak, but
in an humble slender bush; as if lie would, by
these elections, check the arrogance of man.
Nothing procureth love like humility; nothing
hate, like pride.—Owen Felthak.
SELF-RICHES AND THEIR USE.
No one doubts the wisdom of a man's gain-
ing for himself coffers of gold, if so be he can
secure them by the use of legitimate means,
since it is said that wealth gives opportunities
for culture and for usefulness; yet such are
the reverses of life, such the gradations of
talent, and such the freaks of fortune, that
few out of the great mass can hope to attain to
anything beyond a modest competence; but in
the matter of self-riches, it depends greatly on
individual choice whether intellect and heart
shall be cultivated, or whether they shall be
left, like unfilled fields, arid and waste, en-
tirely given over to rank weeds and dank
growths.
In our day it is not as it was formerly, when
books were In the possession of the few, and
were purchased with difficulty, the means of
education are now liberally diffused in our own
country, and even if this were not* true, the
book of nature presents an open page, and he
who studies diligently therefrom may learn
great and potent truths.
What does not nature teach the willing pnpil
if ear is atuned to catch her harmonies, and
eye trained to trace her mysterious processes?
From her the poet derives his inspiration, and
the painter gains his power. "Truly, she is
the great teacher," every budding leaf and
every bursting blossom tells some wonderful
story. Both heart and soul are fed by drink-
ing draughts from nature's pure fountains.
In her changing seasons she reminds us that
we are immortal; in sunshine she teaches us
to be glad in storms; she tells us of the ma-
jesty of the great Jehovah; in woody solitudes
she teaches patience by pointing us to the
mighty growths that have been so surely yet so
silently progressing in the passing of ttie years.
To sum all up in a word, there is nothing in
art or science that may not be gleaned from
this inexhaustible source; we learn from It to
look downward to the earth for the supply of
our physical needs, and upward to the stars
for divine strength and inspiration, and so our
characters are enriched and fed if we are at all
receptive of the truth taught by such a potent
agency.
Then, apart from the book of nature, there
is the written record of the struggles of men in
this great surging, restless world of ours, from
which we may learn how they have toiled for
fame and fortune and won the wealth of vic-
tory, or how they have been disappointed and
defeated in their pursuits. Herein is told the
story of sin and suffering, and the mighty
power of love. In books the history of nations
and of Individuals is recorded; from them we
learn by what slow and tedious processes the
great masters in literature and art have won
156
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
their way, and, in fact, gain knowledge of
everything that can in any way Interest either
the head or the heart. What wealth of learn-
ing is there not stored away in dusty volumes
on the shelves of capacious libraries!
Many, who find no pleasure in reading the
history of human lives from the printed page,
gain large accessions of self-riches by the study
of men and manners, on the public thorough-
fares of life and in the marts of trade. Here
the excitement of mental friction affords what
is considered a healthy stimulus, giving play
to the varied powers of the mind. Each learns
how to measure his own strength by compari-
son with that of others; learns where he is
weak and where strong, learns, in a word, what
books with all their wisdom cannot teach.
In conjunction with the means just men-
tioned for acquiring self-riches, there is the
habit of patient, persistent thought, that de-
velops great ideas. What problems affecting
human destiny are solved as the result of sys-
tematic thinking! We find that the mind is
enriched by various means, all of them worthy
of consideration.
Then arises the question of the use of these
acquired riches. Naturally one answers, they
are to be employed for the good of others and
for the glory of God. With larger sympathies
and resolute will, there will always be found
ample scope for the employment of any and
every talent one may possess, since the work
of the world will never be done so long as the
earth endures.
Human hearts will ever respond to the voice
of love. The same sweet stories that have in
the past charmed the fancy, will still in the
future delight. The world will still need its
heroes, since there will always be battles to
fight for the good and true; will ever want
its poets to sing sweet songs for weary souls;
will want its painters to commit to canvas the
glory of sunset skies; will want its practical
thinkers and workers to do Its every-day prac-
tical work; will want, too, its saintly souls,
that have enriched their hearts by thoughtf u 1 ly
dwelling on the mysteries of a free salvation.
For such, what scope is there for the use of
their garnered riches—what ignorance to be
taught, what sickness to be ministered unto,
what tender words to be 6poken, what sweet
charities to be performed, what labor for poor
humanity, that shall redound to the glory of
the great Creator?
Dozing.—There is no time spent so stupidly
as that which inconsiderate people pass in a
morning between sleeping and waking. He
who is up may be at work, or amusing himself;
he who is asleep is receiving the refreshment
necessary to fit him for action; but the hours
spent in dozing and slumbering are wasted
without either pleasure or profit.
AN EPISODE OP A FOREIGN
SCHOOL.
BT MARIE KLT.
It was a drizzling day, and the sight of an
exquisite piece of point lace, which recalled
my foreign school life, and the romance of my
English governess. Well do I remember my
arrival in old Villette—the hilly streets, the
pointed houses, the unique Grande Place, and
then the school, with its grim porte-cochere
and cheerless, uncarpeted rooms. The dormi-
tories, with their dozen beds and white curtain
partitions, are not conducive to refinement or
delicacy; but, as the foreigner is, when neces-
sary, ever deceitful, you prisoner-like must
ever be harnessed to your gang under surveil-
lance. This is galling enough to an honorable
Anglo-Saxon girl, but she must endure it until
she has proved herself an exception and trust-
worthy.
Our life was busy and monotonous, though
healthful. We rose at six, followed by prayers;
Protestants in one small room, Catholics in
their pretty oratory; for breakfast, only coffee
and rolls; lessons, a plain dinner at noon,
recreation, needle-work, an early supper, and
to bed by nine o'clock. No midnight oil was
ever consumed; no nervous, pale faces were
seen; our meals were without desserts or deli-
cacies, though there were beer decanters on the
table, and by the majority of plates paternal
wine bottles. Fancy them at an American
ladies' school 1
A word as to the principal and her assistants.
Mile. E. was a tall, stately, but very homely
woman; she never taught; at dinner criti-
cized our manners and appearance. We could
wear no jewelry, and very simple dresses; she
wore elegant Parisian costumes, and enjoyed
a very easy existence. To Friiulein fell the
drudgery; she seemed to enjoy it. She had
Argus eyes, a skeleton figure, and hissing,
rasping voice. Our Frencli instructress waa
short and dignified, deeply versed in her own
language, and so fiery a patriot as to leave
when the Franco-Prussian war broke out, de-
clining further intercourse with Germans, and
deploring that she ever taught them a word of
her beloved tongue.
The girls were mostly young, superstitious,
and passionate; I cared but little for their so-
ciety. But Miss Grey was enough. She was a
lovely, chestnut-haired blue-eyed gentlewo-
man, always showing good birth and position.
Perhaps her greatest charm was her sweet, love
voice. A story seemed written in her eyes, but
she was too brave to wear her heart upon her
sleeve, and time unlocked for me the mystery.
Sometimes we had half-holidays. We then,
often took delightful trips in the quaint old
town, visited the marvellous Wiez collection,
or the Musies, or grand old St. Gadule, with
POETRY, ETC.
157
in wooden pulpit, n chiselled poem of man's
fall and redemption.
One rare summer day we all went to the
Bois du Cambre, the suburban park of Brus-
sels. We rode in the American Tramway
(i.e., horse-cars without bell punches); the
girls were all aglow at the prospect of woods
and fields. On arriving at the Bois, we could
not keep our charity orphan line; some of us
even tried riding a shaggy diminutive donkey,
though the taller ones were not sure as to
whether they walked or rode.
After a Ions ramble, we rested on the grassy
slope of a hill overlooking a miniature lake,
some few chatting, but more with "far-away
eyes," which recalled dear scenes in the Vater-
land, or by English .meadows; mine were over
the seas, wandering in orchards and lanes with
one who is "now under the daisies." We
lunched at a rustic cabaret, with such fragrant
coffee, nice "tartines," and honey cakes;
while there we saw from the windows a gayly-
dressed company of peasants, with garlands,
and very merry from a recent wedding.
Returning home, we chose to separate, some
going by the carriage road, and a few by the
adjacent woodland path. Miss Grey and I were
slightly in advance. Suddenly she clutched
my arm; by her pallor I thought her about to
faint. Driving past was an English party—an
officer and two ladies*; he seemed quite discon-
certed, but a dash of the horses and a turn in
the road quickly carried them out of sight.
That night the charming governess told me
her story.
"My parents," said she, "belong to the gen-
try; were formerly rich; but an unfortunate
indorsement has left a bare income for their
support. I am the eldest of three girls. I
was well educated, and in good health. If I
were a son, I would feel expected to seek
employment. Why not, though a daughter?
Of course, 1 met opposition; my aristocratic
friends ridiculed my independence; but I pre-
ferred teaching to adding to father's heavy
burden; or wearing their cast-off finery, as so
many decayed gentlewomen do. The officer
you saw, I was engaged to. After our misfor-
tunes, his family opposed the natch, he being
a younger son in the army. I wrote him a de-
cisive release. What it cost me nobody knew.
Soon after I procured this situation, he was
ordered to a distant port, and I have heard
and seen nothing until to-day."
Sunday came; Miss Grey pleaded illness; no
one could have suspected otherwise. Madame
accompanied us few Protestants to the door of
the English chapel, and I, as eldest, marshalled
the girls to our places. Near by was the young
officer. I tried to be good, and follow the
drawled, mutilated liturgy; but Miss Grey's
brave attempts and his seemingly cowardly
desertion were oftener in my mind. Service
over, I heard him questioning the rusty pew-
opener; strengthened by a gold piece, she
gave him much information. Shades of Puri-
tan ancestors! do ye ever cross the waters to
watch with horror your degenerate descend-
ants?
In the evening we were all together in the
dining hall. Some were playing games, some
getting up charades, a few dancing, and us
English-speaking girls trying hard not to pay
attention to them, but read quietly, when a
knock came, and then Lisette, the pretty cap-
crowned waitress, brought a card for "Mees."
The governess rose hesitatingly, but went out
I afterward learned it bore the following
words: "You have been unjust and merciless.
Hear me. George."
After a long time she returned; she had
been before the "Mater Dolorosa," now she
resembled the Kegina Victoria. Later she
told me it was all clear; he had ever been
true; malice and misunderstandings had sepa-
rated them. She was too happy in the present
to think of the future, and glad to curtain the
past.
I left Brussels in the early spring. My only
object at school was the drill in the languages
and music; sciences are only peeped at by for-
eign girls; mathematics and philosophy are
undreamt possibilities. Soon after Easter I
received Miss Grey's cards in England. Con-
trary to her generous hospitality, we went to
the village inn, which was delightfully old-
fashioned, with the quaintest furniture and
most obliging of landladies.
My heroine was married in the Abbey church,
with its many inscriptions and statues; some
bore her name. Perhaps not even these old
knights were more brave-hearted than this
gentle bride; her path was strewn with flow-
ers, and a merry chime rang in happier days
for the English governess.
PERHAPS.
It may be because I am tired,
It may bo because I am old.
It may be because I 've not riches,
This world seems so largo and so cold.
It may be because that my children
Are dead, and too far for to hold;
It may be because that their father
Walks also the "streets of gold."
It may be because I am dying.
That the eyes of my spirit, grown bold,
See glory that's past the denning
In a world as eternity old.
Idlenes travels slow, and poverty soon
overtakes her.
Let your recreation be manly, moderate, and
lawful; the use of recreation is to strengthen
your labor and sweeten your rest.
158
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
TEN YEARS.
BY M. M. 6.
Of picturesque, "old red school-houses,"
dear reader, you have doubtless heard and
read often aud enough; but if my written de-
scription fails to awaken in your imagination
the vision of a prettier, more romantic "hall of
learning" than any red school-house could pos-
sibly be, my pen will have been but an unfaith-
ful servant to my memory.
A gotliic cottage, situated on a gentle hill-
side slope, with rose-vines climbing at their
own sweet will to its gabled eaves, and sur-
rounded by a beautiful flower-garden, where
the taller shrubs and bushes strove in vain, by
their luxuriant growth, to hide the violets and
daisies that thickly studded the sod beneath, it
would have seemed more fit had it been made
a nestling place for young love rather than a
rendezvous for careless, noisy school-girls.
Such, however, was the use to which it had
been devoted by its owner, and this was the
way in which it happened that he made such
an appropriation of its beauties.
The town of C was in every respect a
growing place; indeed, some of its inhabitants
thought that it very nearly approached perfec-
tion when the new Presbyterian church, with
its gilded steeple, the town hall, and the court-
house were completed. But since the social
lies at the basis of all civil and religious sys-
tems, and the first men of C , who took so
much pride in its institutions, were fathers, it
was not surprising that, when their attention
was directed to the fact that their town, though
greatly improved in other respects, as yet
afforded no proper facilities for the education
t>f their children, more particularly for that
of their daughters, they regarded the want of
them a serious defect, for which a remedy
should immediately be sought.
It was at this juncture of affairs that Judge
Burnett gave the contemplated enterprise great
impetus, by suggesting Rose Cottage as an eli-
gible site for a school, and placing it at the dis-
posal of those particularly interested in the
new undertaking. Now be It understood that
the judge in commenting upon the stupidity of
the builders of Rose Cottage, and the more ex-
asperating fact of his own stupidity in becom-
ing its purchaser, had been known to express
himself in terms not remarkable for their mild-
ness. For, pretty and convenient as the build-
ing was, a farmer's family would have found
it too small for their accommodation, while it
was situated too far from the town to render it
a suitable residence for those who might other-
wise have found it desirable. Therefore from
year to year the cottage had remained unoccu-
pied, until the judge was fain to find a use for
it that would reflect any degree of credit upon
himself, and really exercised no self-denial in
yielding it rent-free to the use of the public.
Through the efforts of others, one willing to
assume the charge of the school at its estab-
lishment was found in the person of Professor
Neal. And of more importance still, to the
welfare of the new institution, one and all
united in giving it their patronage. Young
ladies who had been sent from home to receive
advantages which C had hitherto been
unable to afford, were immediately recalled
now the defect was remedied, and thus, under
most favorable auspices, the school at Rose
Cottage, whicli soon after took the name of
Hillside Seminary, entered upon its existence-
just ten years ago.
At the time I, being away from my home,
received all the particulars concerning it from
the pen of Berenice, oftener called Berce Bur-
nett, the judge's only daughter and my dear
friend. As one of its prospective pupils, they
were, of course, very interesting to me—how
the tiny parlor and dining-room had been
thrown into one, which was to be used as a
school-room; to what use other apartments in
the house had been put; and, of paramount im-
portance, how she appropriated the choicest
sent in this new school-room, to be occupied
by herself and myself.
When I came to take possession of it, I tally
approved her selection, In a little bay-window
that commandod an agreeable out-look away
over hills and fields to the sky-touched moun-
tains in the blue distance, it was situated nei-
ther directly under the professor's espionage,
nor so far out of his range of vision as to make
him suspicious of our every movement; every
school-girl, that is or has been, will recognize
how great were its advantages. More than
ever were we convinced of them by the envi-
ous glances bestowed upon the desk by some
of our senior schoolmates.
Stately Kate Sterne thought the presnmption
of those children (we were only fifteen then)
quite intolerable, and did not scruple to ac-
quaint us with the fact. Studious Fannie Tyne
sighed for the comparative seclusion of the
bay-window; and numerous others at differ-
ent times threatened to present their superior
claims to Professor Neil, and then submit the
matter to his arbitration.
Oftentimes I would have surrendered our
much-contested title to it at discretion, but
Berce said "No, possession was nine points of
the law, she believed; and as to the other
point, viz., Professor Neal's permission to de-
prive us of it, they might get it if they could;"
this last with a little defiant shake of the head,
for Berce knew very welkin whom she trusted
when that trust was placed in Professor Neal.
So, despite opposition, we kept our chosen
place until our right to it was recognized by
all, and day after day Berce Burnett sat there
TEX YEARS.
150
by my side, her face outlined against its back-
ground of flowers and trees, being to me the
dearest object upon which my eyes rested dur-
ing all the long school hours, our girlhood's
friendship becoming stronger and sweeter
through our constant intercourse.
Under Professor Neal's guidance the school
prospered greatly; satisfied with his position,
those who installed him therein were pleased
with the manner in which he discharged his
duties, therefore it seemed highly probable that
his reign, after it had already lasted three
years, would be of still longer continuance.
Such, however, was not to be the case; for
unforeseen circumstances obliged the worthy
professor to resign bis trust, to the sorrow and
regret of all concerned, just as Beree and I
were entering upon what was to be the last
year in our school life.
Another person qualified to fill his place
could not immediately be found, but in the
mean time an under teacher presided, and
school exercises were not interrupted. Rather,
their form was gone through with as usual;
some of the students, perhaps, performed their
duties quite as conscientiously and well as if
the necessity for doing so had not been re-
moved; but I very much fear that Berce and
I could not have been classed among their
number. The soft May days, with perfumes
of spring flowers and budding leaves in their
breath, were suggestive only, it seemed to us,
of pleasure and ease, and while we might do
so with impunity, unhesitatingly we yielded
ourselves to their influence.
Text-books in those days were useful chiefly
in their capacity of shields to volumes of a
more entertaining nature. And, as usual, one
morning about a week after Professor Neal
had left us, I had been whiling away the time,
very much to my own satisfaction, living amid
the scenes and with the characters my author's
imagination had so vividly depicted. Closing
the book with a sigh when its end was reached,
my mind still busied itself with tbe thoughts
and feelings it had awakened. Its heroine had
been charming, after the manner of heroines;
and wondering whether so much beauty and
grace were ever to be found In real life, I
looked at one and another of the young faces
grouped around me, while mentally I was
making up into sums total the personal charms
of the most attractive, and comparing results
with the ideal that had for a time past occupied
ray imagination. Berce came under my in-
spection at length; and, as fair as any of my
dream ladies, her appearance banished any
doubts I might have had as to the possibility
of such existing in the flesh.
I had always heard my friend called "pretty,"
a term, by the way, that is very indefinite in
its signification, and had always thought her
so myself, I suppose; but it was not until then
that her beauty was made manifest to me as in
a revelation. What time, therefore, could be
found more fitting in which to tell of the large
eyes, whose light was brilliant now, and now
so soft and tender, of the heavy masses of
light brown hair that matched them in tint,
and of the long, curling lashes of a contrast-
ing color, tbat cast shadows in their shining
depths? Roses bloomed on the fair, round
cheek only when her heart spoke through its
messengers to them; but full and ripely-red
the lips, that opened to display such beautiful
pearls, were perfect in form and coloring.
Listless and indolent, with one white band
holding a book whose pages her eyes never
sought, while the other supported her partly-
bowed head, she looked like some artist's im-
personation of the "dolce far niente."
But my reverie was broken, and Berce looked
interested, when, after a premonitory tap had
been given, the school-room door opened to
admit two gentlemen, in one of whom we re-
cognized Mr. Bell, a patron of the school, and
in the other the gentleman who in all proba-
bility was to be its new principal.
With a prefatory ahem! and the benevolent
smile of one who, while ho has it hi his power
to keep a company in suspense with regard to
some information he possesses of interest to
them, chooses rather to gratify their curiosity /
at once, Mr. Bell confirmed our suspicions by
introducing the stranger to us as "Mr. Hart,
Professor Neal's successor." Then, after a
few words spoken in acknowledgment of the
introduction, and a few more added in an aside
conversation with Mr. Bell, the latter took his
departure, and Mr. Hart immediately assumed
the duties of his new position.
For one week we had been looking forward
to this stranger's appearance among us, and
naturally had formed many conjectures as to
what he would be like, and how wc should like
him. Professor Neal had been a middle-aged
gentleman, learned in the classics, and, In our
opinion, wonderfully wise on all other sub-
jects; I think we were united In the expecta-
tion that his successor would be similar to him
In most respects. No wonder was it, there-
fore, that our astonishment, and, in some cases
amusement, even before it was possible for us
to express them fully in words, were made
known to each other equally as well by the
significant looks and signs that circulated freely
when we found him to be not an elderly and
sedate, but a young, fashionably-attired, and
decidedly handsome man. The confident ease
and self-possession of his manner would have
bespoken him, perhaps,-some twenty-eight
years of intercourse with the world; but a cer-
tain boyish frankness that lurked in his smile,
and betrayed itself at times in the impulsive-
ness of his movements, might have led n care-
ful observer to deduct three or four from that
limited number.
Berce, 1 have said, manifested some interest
160
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
in them when Mr. Bell and his companion en-
tered the room; but after she had seen thein,
all signs of it, if she still felt any, vanished;
and she was quite as indifferent to everything
that was transpiring around her, after their
coming, as she was before.
At recess, among the groups that gathered
here and there, the subdued tones of the con-
versation, together with the stealthy glances
and occasional bursts of laughter that accom-
panied it, plainly denoted who and what was
the subject of it all. Various were the opin-
ions given concerning Mr. Ilart and his capa-
bilities for the situation he had taken; but
Berce, sitting quietly at her desk, refused to
give the talk countenance either by word or
look. It was not until we had parted from
our schoolmates, and were pursuing our home-
ward way, which lay in a direction opposite to
theirs, alone, that she gave vent to the vexa-
tion and dissatisfaction which I had suspected
lay hidden beneath the indifferent demeanor
she had maintained during the day.
"A delightful prospect, truly!" she ex-
claimed; then throwing her books upon the
greensward, where, in the shade of the wood,
we were in the habit of tarrying every after-
noon to talk over the events of the day, and
seating herself beside them. Curt and sharp
those few words, spoken in a voice quivering
with unmistakable passion, expressed her feel-
ings fully.
Ilalf laughing at, yet half deprecating the
prejudice she seemed to have conceived against
the new head of our school, I asked In what
the "delightful prospect" consisted.
"Why in the fact that we are to have such a
grand gentleman to exercise authority over us
in the future, to be sure; how can you ask?
Can it be possible that you do not consider
yourself highly privileged in being destined to
receive instruction from this handsome, accom-
plished, and elegant man? for I assure you I
heard him pronounced to bearl this more than
once this morning by the admirers, which, as
it appears, he has already found among his
pupils." And then, descending from irony to
commonplace protest. "Really, I should have
thought that the person or persons who had this
matter in charge might have had better sense
than to have placed such a person over a school
like ours. ITalf the girls, I suppose, will be quite
silly enough to consider it their duty to fall in
love with him without delay. And he, doubt-
less, with the conceit natural to his sex and
class, will think himself 'monarch of all he
surveys.' Of favoritism, and the jealousies
and strife of which ft will be the cause, I see
no end. Bah! it's disgusting I" and with this
peroration, Berce gave me an opportunity to
say a word on the subject. But all my argu-
ments to the effect that having this young man
for a teacher might not prove so disagreeable
8s she imagined, produced no visible change
in her opinions concerning him. On the con-
trary, she declared, at length, that if such a
thing was practicable, she would break her
connection with "Hillside Seminary" at once.
"What would I do then, Berce?" disconso-
lately.
"Oh, If I went elsewhere, you would go, too,
of course 1" and so we parted.
On the next and all succeeding days, how-
ever, we continued to attend school as usual,
for Berce, though apt to talk rashly, was too
wise to act upon impulse, even In matters of
slight importance.
Contrary to her predictions, our little world
was not revolutionized by the introduction of
an unexceptionable male element into its midst,
nor were the course of its affairs materially
changed thereby. That Mr. Hart was equal
to all the demands made of him, was not to
be questioned, and, combining dignity with a
rare geniality inherent in his nature, he never
failed to command respect, while he won an
enviable place in the esteem of all.
Berce was the exception to tills rule, that
otherwise would have been nniversal; the
hostility with which she had at first regarded
him having been in no wise diminished by the
entire absence of ail those effects of which she
had believed his coming amongst us would be
the cause. Of Its existence he appeared to be
as unconscious as he certainly was unmindful.
Oftentimes I wondered how it were possible
that Berce, so beautiful and talented, could be
brought dally under his notice without attract-
ing his attention more strongly than she seemed
to do. Once I thought 1 had reason to believe
that he regarded her with more interest than
was apparent for when she was unaware of
It I saw his gaze linger long upon her face,
while an expression came Into his eyes that
was of itself a contradiction of his assumed
indifference; but other than this, neither look
nor sign came to confirm the belief until, as I
shall relate, I had positive proof that it was
not without foundation.
I have said that the path leading to Berce's
home and my own lay in different directions
from those taken by our schoolmates, but have
omitted to state that upon the first day of his
arrival we had been informed that Mr. Ilart
had found a boarding-place in a house situated
near our homes.
This fact had not failed to excite some ap-
prehension at the time, lest the privacy of our'
homeward walks might come to be invaded,
and Berce particularly was fully prepared to
resent any such intrusion. But weeks passed
by in which our fears proved quite vain ; there-
fore they had been almost forgotten when at
last they were realized.
As usual one afternoon, we were sitting iu
the shade, made by a group of pine trees,
which we by courtesy called "The Grove,"
when Mr. Ilart, passing by, saw and there-
TEN YEARS.
1G1
upon joined us there. Berce had gathered in
her apron some of the pine cones that thickly
strewed the ground, and sat with her face
turned from the road as she tossed them one
after another on the little brook that ran by
our retreat, lading each with a hope that was
to be realized or disappointed as its tiny vessel
sank or swam. Mr. Hart's approach, there-
fore, though perceived by me, was unknown
to her until he made her aware of his presence
by taking one of the cones from her lap, and
saying, as he smiled down into her eyes, with
a look that might have spoken to her of many
things, " I lade it with a truce." Then he threw
It on the stream, and, without waiting to see
Its fate, before Berce had sufficiently recovered
from her surprise to frame the haughty reply
which he seemed Instinctively to know trem-
bled on her lips, he turned and laughingly
asked of me permission "to make our company
a crowd;" a request which, listening to the
counsels of the "Imp of the perverse," I very
readily and graciously granted. In the con-
versation that followed, he and I were for
some time the only participants; but before
we separated, Berce took part in it also, to my
secret amusement as well as satisfaction.
We had hitherto known Mr. Hart ouly in his
official capacity; but that afternoon, ignoring
our mutual relations, he was only the polite
gentleman in ladies' society. I had always
thought him talented and handsome; I found
him witty and entertaining as well; pos-
sessed, too, of the rare power of mingling in
his conversation wisdom and folly in agreeable
proportions, so that while the wisdom never
savored of egotism or pedantry, the nonsense
was quite as far removed from silliness. I
recognized his fascinations, and acknowledged
them. Perhaps, had not my heart at the time
been wholly and entirely another's, that strong-
hold might have been in jeopardy. As it was,
I could greatly admire, yet only like, while I
found delightful occupation building "Cha-
teaux d'Espagne," in which Berce reigned a
queen.
I have said that before our interview with
Mr. nart came to an end, Berce had softened
a little her demeanor towards him, that had at
first been most rigid. It may have been owing
to this that so short a time elapsed before lie
Joined us again in our accustomed resting-
place in the grove. When he came there
again, it was evidently because he found it to
be our pleasure as well as his own to have him
do so.
Little by little Berce's studied reserve wore
away as we became better acquainted with
Mr. Hart, and circumstances, being propitious,
forwarded the Intercourse that I surmised was
constantly becoming pleasanter to her, loth
as she was to admit the fact, if fact it was,
when an incident occurred that threatened to
end it by building up anew the barriers to it,
vol. xci.—11
that I had been glad to believe were fast disap-
pearing.
A short time after taking charge of our
school, Mr. Hart had proposed that two new
classes should be formed in it, one of which
should undertake the study of the more diffi-
cult parts of geometry and trigonometry, while
the other directed its attention to chemistry.
By performing their own experiments, and
endeavoring to make the knowledge thus ob-
tained useful and practical, the members of
the latter class were expected to gain a better
understanding of their subject than is usually
acquired by merely passing over the words of
the text-book. He had said that joining either
of these classes would be an entirely optional
matter with the scholars themselves, but if
any did so, he wished them to understand that
hard study would be necessary if they wished
to derive any material benefit from their pur-
suit; and that, without such application, any
time devoted to them would be worse than
lost.
Both classes when organized were small, but
composed, as I think he had expected them to
be, of those who ranked highest among our
scholars. There was no little rivalry, there-
fore, among their members, each striving to
excel in gaining clear and definite views of the
subject under their consideration, as well as in
their method of expressing them in recitation.
No inducement was offered to excite their am-
bition, nor was any needed other than their
desire to do credit to themselves and their
teacher.
One day, however, the subject of the next
day's lesson being of importance, and one to
which lie desired thein to give particular atten-
tion, Mr. Hart told the class in geometry (of
which Berce was a member) that, after it had
been recited, if he found it possible to do so,
he would decide who among their number
mo9t thoroughly understood the subject, and
then would give them the benefit of his deci-
sion. After this announcement, that every
one would do her best was quite certain;
and upon the next day, when the recitation
was to take place, the geometry lesson took
precedence of all others, in some cases not a
little to their detriment. Every moment that
could be spared or stolen from other duties
was devoted to the perfecting of it; Berce
alone, either from too great confidence In her
power to excel, or the want of a desire to do
so, letting the minutes pass by unimproved.
Although in the morning her "Legendre,"
witli its yellow leather covers, for a time held
a prominent place on her desk, I knew that
the attention she had given to its dry truths
was not sufficient to make her master of them.
I ventured to hint as much once, and asked
her "why she was not more studious." But,
upon her replying carelessly, "There's time
enough, my dear; never fear for me," I con-
162
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
eluded that I was troubling myself unneces-
sarily. However, when only a half-hour of
the time available for preparation remained,
Berce seemed suddenly to become conscious of
the deficiency of her own, and evidently then
did her best to remedy it; too late, as after-
ward appeared.
In the first part of the recitation, she acquit-
ted herself creditably as usual; but as it pro-
gressed, and more difficult parts came under
the notice of the class, that her knowledge -of
them was at least very superficial became very
apparent. Too proud to receive the aid that
it was necessary should be given to enable her
to return any answers whatever, she allowed
question after question to pass her by without
making an effort to reply to them; and in the
demonstration of the problem that ended the
recitation, she likewise failed utterly. The
crimson that burned on either cheek testified
to the mortification she felt, that was in no wise
lessened by the fact that it had been caused
by her own negligence.
Would not he be offended, I wondered, that
she should so entirely have disregarded his
special request, the first he had ever made of
his pupils, and one which all others had shown
themselves eager to gratify? Would it not
weaken the friendship that had been growing
up between the two? A friendship about
which ere another hour had passed I had
ceased to conjecture, believing that it had
ceased to exist, for Berce's trials for the day
had not ended with her first unfortunate
failure.
The algebra class, which recited during the
last hour of the afternoon session, had also, as
It happened, a very difficult problem to dispose
of; one which, even after Mr. Hart had, given
it a most lucid explanation, Berce declared
herself incapable of understanding. Where-
upon he desired her to remain after school had
been dismissed, when he would endeavor, if
possible, to make it clearer to her, since the
class had already given it more time than was
desirable, and its other members needed no
more instruction with regard to it. Ah! even
I was angry then. To be detained was igno-
miny to the youngest scholars; a means which
was seldom resorted to, in order to obtain per-
fect lessons from them; certainly, in this case,
the use of It might have been avoided. And
Berce, as might have been expected, was an-
grier still; so angry that two tears forced
themselves from her eyes, whose burning light
one would have thought might have denied
them existence. That it did not do so was to
be deprecated, since, in still further diminish-
ing her self-satisfaction, they served to increase
her dissatisfaction with others.
The usual forms having been gone through
with, school was dismissed. I had expected to
see Berce openly defy Mr. Hart's authority by
leaving the house with the rest, but was grati-
fied to see her respect it by remaining at her
desk. That she would resent the use he had
made of it, however, by placing herself beyond
its influence for the future, I did not for a mo-
ment doubt; therefore I was somewhat sur-
prised when, the next morning having arrived,
I found her waiting for my coming, to accom-
pany me as usual to Hillside. No lingering
shadow was visible in her bright face, nor did
she in any way allude to the occurrences of
the previous afternoon, until, my curiosity get-
ting the better of some little reserve I felt, I
broached the subject myself. Then she laughed
a little, blushed more, and ended the answer
she made to my query with the ejaculatory
words, "Oh, well, he was so kind I" spoken
only half as carelessly as she had Intended
them to be.
And this was the result I had feared. Verily
things had gone contrary, though very agreea-
bly, as it appeared, so I would be contrary,
too, and sarcastic.
"Kind In giving you extra and strictly pri-
vate lessons in algebra? Doubtless, very! I
am glad you could appreciate such kindness."
"Now, Nell, don't be hatefulI" and the
red lips kept the shape of the words that
had escaped them; that is (perhaps I had bet-
ter explain), expressed by their pretty pout
her mingled feelings of annoyance and amuse-
ment as plainly as did the words themselves.
But I was not to be overcome so soon, and
asked again, "You understand it thoroughly
now, I suppose?"
"Understand what?"
"That problem of which Mr. Hart was so
kind as to give you a second explanation, of
course; of what else have I been talking for the
last five minutes? Really, your wits seem to
be wool-gathering, my dear; it Is to be hoped
that last evening you were better able to fix
your attention upon the subject under discus-
sion."
That Berce's serenity of mind was not to be
disturbed just then by any insinuations I might
make, wasquiteevident wheuan "Oh, pshaw I"
was the only answer she vouchsafed to this
rather sour speech; therefore, since I found
her disinclined to do so, I said no more about
the subject. Nor did I learn the nature of her
interview with Mr. Hart until a long time after
it had transpired.
Its events, however, whatever they were, did
not banish him from our society. Again and
again he joined us as we tarried on our home-
ward walk, until the grove became a very
trysting place, where day after day we lin-
gered until the lengthening shadows of even-
ing warned us away. Sometimes listening to
the poems of the "grand old masters," whose
"footsteps echo along the corridors of time;"
whose words are echoes never, but real sounds
still, sublime and true. Oftener choosing to
hear the songs of our later poets, masters too,
TEX TEARS.
163
as they are. And to their rhymes was lent
"the beauty of a voice," whose exquisite mod-
ulation and perfect tone enhanced, not a little,
our appreciation of them.
The remembrance of those times is pleasant,
ah, so pleasant to me yet; the so* sighing of
the wind among pine trees never conies to me
now, but there drifts to me on It some frag-
ment of verse, some thought, or some sensa-
tion known in those by-gone hours. Sweet to
me, what must it be to them who through its
influences were drawn nearer in heart and life?
Vacation came at length to vary the routine
of the days, but our intercourse with Mr. Hart
was only to be interrupted by it, not ended,
for our teacher was to be returned to us at its
close.
We had learned that he had almost finished
his law studies, preparatory to being admitted
to the bar, when Professor Neal, a friend of
his father's, who had known him when a col-
lege student, had applied to him to take the
situation, which otherwise he would have been
obliged to leave vacant for the remainder of a
term that was Just commencing.
Thinking that, for a time at least, the novelty
of the occupation would prevent its being irk-
some, and knowing also that aside from its du-
ties he would have sufficient leisure in which
to complete his studies, he determined to oblige
the professor by granting his request. He had
not intended remaining with us at the farthest
longer than the one session; but when, at its
close, all those interested in the school were so
urgent and sincere in their expressed desire
that he should continue his connection with it
another term nt least, he yielded to their en-
treaties.
He told us he had done so, mentioning that
many were desirous of his return; but fi ankly
adding that he had chiefly consulted his own
pleasure in the matter, theirs being only a
secondary consideration. He liked his situa-
tion, and was very much interested in the senior
class (our class by the way); therefore was
well pleased to retain his place until at the end
of the next term its members should graduate.
So we parted with the hope of soon meeting
again.
I thought that something like a shadow of
regret, a sense of something wanting to round
them into completeness, marred for Berce the
brightness of the first days that followed the
parting; but this vanished as the weeks passed
by; why should It not, when every passing
day diminished by a day's length its cause?
And I was so happy then, that I did not be-
lieve that anything could disturb my joy and
contentment for a moment that left that hap-
piness uninvaded. Supremely happy, as we
may* be but once in a life-time, as the many
never are. So for me the summer passed only
too quickly, and autumn took me by surprise
when she commenced dealing forth her sweet
September days, that called us back to books
and study. Yet It was not unwillingly that I
hearkened to her call, and, for the last time,
took up anew the broken thread of school
duties.
The fame of "Hillside Seminary" had been
on the increase ever since its first establish-
ment, and at length, those who came to C
from other towns to attend it, constituted fully
half of the number of its pupils. Mrs. Doctor
Curtis, a friend of my mother's, had told me
that a niece of her husband's, one Miriam
Brent, would spend the winter with them,
partly for the purpose of so doing; and had
requested my aid in making her sojourn with
us agreeable.
This circumstance, which had almost faded
from my mind, was recalled at length by Mr.
Hart, who asked me one day whether, among
the strangers who had come among us, I had
noticed her particularly.
"No," I answered. "Why should I?"
"Because she has such an exquisite face,
and is—is, 1 think, rather distinguished in her
appearance." The last part of the sentence,
being evidently a second thought, sounded
constrained after the warmth expressed in the
first.
"Do you know her? That is, had you any
previous acquaintance with her before she
came here?" asked Berce.
"No personal acquaintance, no;" and then
Miss Brent ceased to be the subject of our con-
versation.
The next day, however, I sought her out,
both by inquiry and observation; as a result
of the latter process I did not find in my own
a confirmation of Mr. Hart's opinion expressed
in his .declaration that she had "an exquisite
face." ner eyes were, I thought, too large to
harmonize with her other features, and though
fair enough, I did not deem her face unusually
attractive.
It was not until familiarity with it had taught
me how the lights and shadows that darkened
and brightened the dove-gray eyes with rapid
changes, could render them wonderfully ex-
pressive; how her hair, light in tint and soft
as silk, seemed to have caught a trick of
curling from twining grape-vine tendrils, and
lay crisped up in tiny ringlets whenever it
could escape from the bondage of order; and
made mo note more carefully how perfectly
formed were the rather diminutive features,
that I came to know his estimate of it to have
been more correct than my own. Time, how-
ever, though it had convinced me of her attract-
iveness, had brought to my heart no love for
this Miriam Brent. Others bore witness that
she was possessed of every amiable virtue; she
might have been, without my feelings being
altered thereby; for by these very qualities,
together with her other charms, she seemed to
be winning an allegiance, upon the faithfulness
101
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
of which depended, as I believed, the happi-
ness of one whose happiness was very dear to
me.
Ambitious, not of excelling others but of
gaining knowledge, which she sought with a
persevering effort that put to shame the sur-
face application which young students gene-
rally denominate study; at first it seemed only
natural that Mr. Hart should desire to give her
all the assistance which it was in his power to
render; but when his every spare moment was
devoted to her, when every recess time found
him at her desk busied with some Latin trans-
lation, or other research which they had un-
dertaken independently of school lessons, his
zeal began to appear overstrained, unless it
was excited by some other motive than the de-
sire of encouraging and aiding a talented pupil.
Something of this soon came to be evident to
the scholars generally, and they began to jest
and talk about Miriam Brent and Mr. Hart,
coupling their names, and saying the pretty
stranger had left all our native beauty in the
background, and wondering why she claimed
so much of our handsome teacher's attention,
which hitherto had been more equally distri-
buted.
Berce's name had never been made the sub-
ject of such playful raillery, since our acquaint-
ance with Mr. Hart, other than that formed
at school, had been known only to ourselves.
And she gave the subject no heed for a time;
but at length a little frosty reserve was visible
in her manner toward him; so slight that it
might have escaped the notice of an observer
less interested than myself. A reserve that I
also had unwittingly contracted, and there-
fore the confidence that by tacit consent had
existed between us and our teacher was insi-
diously invaded. Yet he seemed to entertain
no suspicions that a change had taken place in.
us until the time came when he fully realized
the fact.
An Indian summer day, blushing through
the pines, had wooed us to visit the grove onco
more one afternoon in autumn, which, of late,
bleak winds had rendered cold and desolate.
We were about leaving it again, when Mr.
Hart met us there. Excusing himself for being
so late, he said, "Miss Brent having a book
which he desired, he had accompanied her home
to obtain it." Then Berce, without turning
her eyes toward him, said, in a tone so cold
and careless as to be almost insolent, that
"Mr. Hart seemed to entertain the belief that
his presence there was expected; If he did so,
she would beg leave to inform him that'The
Grove' had been an especial rendezvous of ours
before we had known of his existence; a fact
which she hoped would convince him that we
might still occasionally frequent it without re-
quiring his presence there also."
Had she struck him in the face with her soft
hand he could not have appeared more utterly
astonished than he did upon hearing her sweet,
mellow voice take such a hard tone to utter
words whose significance was more bitter than
were the words themselves. But with an effort
he recovered from his evident surprise before
she had finlthed speaking, and made no other
reply to them than the one that might have
been taken from the polite adieux he made
us almost immediately afterward. The book
which he carried he had handed to me, saying,
"Miss Brent had given him permission to ex-
tend the loan of it to us." And upon looki ng at
its title, I found it to be one which Berce and
I had often, in his hearing, expressed a desire
to read.
"Let us say no more about it, Nell, please,"
Berce said, after he had left us, when I would
have spoken of what bad just occurred between
them. Seeing how earnest it was, I could not
do otherwise than respect her request, and for
a long time after that last meeting in the pine
grove, Mr. Hart's name was never mentioned
by either of us in other than the most casual
manner.
At Christmas, although the session through
which he had stipulated to remain at Hillside
was only half completed, he resigned his posi-
tion of principal to one whom he had found
willing to occupy his place; mentioning to none
the reasons which he might have had for his
altered plans.
To have said that the life had gone out of
our school when he left it, would not have been
saying too much. Every one and everything
seemed to miss his spirited direction and over-
sight.
And Berce—I pitied her in those days that
followed his departure, loth as I was to
yield her, even in thought, a tribute of pity;
for 1 knew she was struggling to be strong
and self-sustained, when, being a woman, her
strength was only weakness. She would con-
quer, though, In time, I thought, hopefully.
She must, for no one so unworthy as she be-
lieved him who had betrayed its trust to be,
could long retain a hold upon her pure, true
heart. Her respect for him must be gone;
therefore, any warmer feelings which she
might have entertained for him would die, too,
naturally.
But, meanwhile, she drooped and failed,
both in health and spirits. Friends said hard
study was the cause of her depression, never
once suspecting the true one; so, when our
"Alma Mater" had enrolled our names among
the number of her graduates, Berce, at her
father's desire, went away from C to
join a company of relatives and friends who
were to spend the summer, seeking health and
amusement in the pure air of some mountain
resort.
Letters brought me tidings of her at stated
Intervals during the season, but they were all
very unsatisfactory missives. Abounding in
TEN TEARS.
165
accounts of where their party weiit, and what
they did, collectively; but saying very little
about herself, of whom I most desired to hear.
At length, however, there came one that did so,
and it made me sadder than al 1 the rest had done.
She wrote that "the summer being over, she
would soon return home, notwithstanding her
friends' entreaties for her to remain with them
during the winter to enjoy a taste of city life.
She was tired of gayety; tired of everything,
she believed, but the thought that soon she
would be with me again, her dearest friend."
I was just about going to C to make
some social visits when I received this letter,
and as I drove hither, after reading it, my
mind continued to be occupied with the thought
of Berce to which it had given rise. There-
fore, when, upon entering the village, I saw
the name "Robert Hart" blazoned upon a law-
yer's sign that was displayed upon the front
of a neat little office in M Street, it was
not wonderful that at first I was inclined to
think the unexpected vision a spectral illusion,
occasioned by the subject of my recent thoughts,
rather than a reality.
Of its real existence, however, I was con-
vinced, when, a little farther on, I met none
other than Mr. Hart's self. So pleased was I
to see him again that I forgot the resentment
that for so long a time even a chance thought
of him had been sufficient to awaken in my
mind; and, stopping my pony to exchange
greetings with him, 1 received in return to my
own one that was apparently quite as cordial
and sincere. He was accompanied by a gen-
tleman whom be introduced to me as "Mr.
a Hughes;" so we parted, after he had asked
permission to see me again very soon.
An hour later I was destined to see the two
gentlemen again, and this time Mr. Hughes,
at least, appeared under circumstances much
more interesting than the very commonplace
ones that had characterized our first meeting.
And since his conduct then led me to suppose
a fact that served as the key to a more satis-
factory explanation of other facts than I would
otherwise have been able to have given them,
I conceived a decided liking to the gentleman,
which prepossession I have never had cause to
reconsider.
It happened on this wise: at the time, I was
calling upon an acquaintance who resided op-
posite Dr. Curtis' home. Sitting by an upper
window as I talked with my friend, my atten-
tion was attracted by the opening of a door
over the way. Mr. Hart emerged therefrom.
"Ah !" thought I; but my thought had scarcely
completed Itself (what it was it Is not neces-
sary to say) ere Mr. Hughes followed him.
Then when Mr. nart, having nodded a smiling
good-morning to the lady who stood in the
hall, walked away, Mr. Hughes lingered still,'
and in the shadow of the doorway pressed a
good-by kiss on Miriam Brent's upturned lips. I
Only a moment, then the door closed between
the two, and I, who had witnessed the tender
parting, had, to my eternal credit be It said,
presence of mind enough to restrain giving
expression to the surprise it caused me. Not
even the little ejaculatory "oh I" that comes so
naturally to woman's lips had escaped mine,
therefore my knowledge was unshared even
by the lady who sat near me at the time. As
might have been expected, it led me to indulge
in that process "of comparing facts with facts,
and newly-acquired facts with others to which
they have a known relation," which is the
especial prerogative of an active, inquiring
mind. And since my deduction and inquiries
led nie to the discovery of gratifying truth,
they were not made in vain.
As one of their immediate results, her other
visiters having been gone only a short time,
Miriam Brent had another in the person of
myself; and during my stay with her, as deli-
cately as might be, I told her I had witnessed
the kiss she had given and taken a few mo-
ments before; then, assuring her that my mo-
tive for so doing arose from no Idle curiosity, I
asked "What was this Mr. Hughes to her?"
And, with the same spirit iu which I had asked
the question, it was answered, Miriam Brent
thereby convincing me that she was as trust-
worthy as she was trusting. Nor did our con-
fidence in each other end here, when it had
commenced. I found myself talking to her of
my plans and expectations as freely as though
the friendship which I already felt for her had
been of months rather than of an hour's
growth. And she told me more of herself and
of her past life than I had known before.
One year ago, she said, her fattier had died,
leaving her alone in the world and penniless.
At the time she was betrothed to Mr. Hughes;
but both were young, and he had not yet
finished the study of the profession upon which
he must depend for a livelihood. Therefore
she had obtained a situation as governess,
and was preparing to enter upon its duties;
when, very unexpectedly to herself, she had
received Doctor Curtis' invitation for her to
spend the winter with him in C . She
had determined to accept it, however, and,
instead of becoming a teacher at once, for
the winter months at least to be a scholar at
"Hillside."
Then she told me, so simply and sweetly
that I loved her for the telling, how kind Mr.
nart had been to her "for Fred's sake"—Fred
nughes and he, it appears, had always been
intimate friends; and how, through his efforts
and influence, he had had a very desirable
situation ready for her acceptance, if she had
made application for it. She had never done
so, because, when Doctor and Mrs. Curtis had
learned her intention of leaving them, they
had effectually prevented her from putting it
into execution. "They had no daughters of
Liu
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
their own," they said, "and since she already-
occupied a daughter's place in their hearts,
she must fill one in their home also, until the
time should come when some one would call
upon her to hold in his another still more im-
portant." And when the doctor learned that
the one who sometime would make such a de-
mand was a young medical student, with good
recommendation, but as yet without practice,
he had at once, with characteristic generosity,
associated him in his own extensive practice,
which he suddenly found himself unable to
care for without further assistance.
Sweet Miriam Brent! She deserved all her
good fortune. That I should so long have
avoided her who had won the hearts of all
others, was attributable only to the strength
of an unfounded prejudice.
Bcrce returned as she had expected to do
before the winter came, and I was doubly glad
to welcome her home, one reason for my being
so resting in the belief that among her home
friends she would find more congenial com-
pany than she had met abroad. And I was
right, it seemed, for ere many months had
elapsed, from among their number she had
chosen a life-companion.
This morning I have been to "Rose Cot-
tage," for "Rose Cottage" is still in existence,
notwithstanding it has lost its individuality,
and now occupies a place secondary in impor-
tance, as a wing to the beautiful mansion
that graces the hillside where once it stood
alone. Nor is my visit there an unusual oc-
currence, for almost as frequently as in the
days of "Jang syne" do my steps tend in its
direction. The pleasant apartment that made
such a pretty school-room looks even prettier
as a family sitting-room, where Berce's sewing-
chair occupies the bay-window, and another,
well-cushioned and capacious, which little
voices call "papa's own," stands in the place
of authority where once stood the principal's
desk.
But the winds from the "isle of the long-
ago" must ha»e been fresher and stronger
than they are wont to be, or my memory's
harp attuned to be more perfectly responsive
to their whisperings, for every breath called
from it answering notes until the past seemed
with me as the present. A fragrance of sweet-
brier in the air, that had so often floated
around me in the old school-days, first recalled
them; and then, when as of yore I lingered
while on my homeward walk in the grove, so
fraught with associations, the melody of memo-
ries that had been thus commenced again over-
powered me, and long I sat listening to its
strains.
Of Its first notes I have written, because they
were joyous and glad; but of how its tones
deepened and widened to breathe in their mi-
nor chords the passionate sorrow that came to
banish joy and light from my life, I cannot
write. Ah, well! ah, well!
"Some may grasp, some must resign.
Some drink life's rue, and some Its wine."
Then why should I mourn that the ten years
which have given to Berce all her heart's de-
sire have left me desolate? "Oh, ye of little
faith!" do you not know, can you not believe,
that
"God will make the balance good?"
that, with fine gold in the hereafter, He will
outweigh the little dust of our sorrows, and so,
trusting and patient, be satisfied to waitt
THE OLD MAN'S THOUGHTS.
BT SLLA.
The days are stealing on, love,
The days are stealing on.
And autumn's golden fruitage
Gleams In the morning's sun;
The winter days will come, love—
The days so cold and drear:
The whistling winds, the falling snows.
The closing of the year.
Our lives are stealing on, love.
The summer's sped away,
And nearer draws the winter
With every passing day;
Our youth, forever faded,
The Joyous days that were,
When first I saw your face, love.
Your face so sweet and fair.
Yes, time Is flying on, love,
I gaze upon the past.
And see the lengthening shadows
That all around are cast;
And yet, though winter's coming,
I cannot feel the cold;
I cannot think that you and I,
Dear wife, are growing old.
God's care has been around us, love,
God's love has cheered our way,
He'll still sustain and comfort us
Through every changeful day t
The sky is bright and clear, love,
No blight or death is seen.
For true love dwells within our hearts.
And keeps them always preen.
If you have great talents, industry will
strengthen them; if moderate abilities, indus-
try will supply the deficiency.
Happiness consists in a virtuous and honest
life, in being content with a competency of
outward things, and in using them temperately.
Mora t, Elevation.—As we come to see that
the comfort and security of every member of
society depend upon the. general welfare, self-
ishness will be checked, or, if you choose, re-
fined, while invention will at once multiply and
facilitate labor. The cure for all social evils
lies in the moral elevation of society, in the
increasing spirit of fraternity, and co-opera-
tion; and that is as sure as it is slow.
8ELF-EXILED.
1C7
SELF-EXILED.
by i. a s.
Free at last! The last vision of "auld
Scotia" had passed, and all around lay the
immensity of waters. Proudly the gallant
ship ploughed her course over the trackless
deep; gayly the gambolling waves washed her
storm-beaten sides; softly gleamed the autumn
sunshine; and loudly, grandly, old ocean's
mighty voices shouted forth the glorious notes
of his freedom. And the youth who stood on
the vessel's deck echoed the wild strain.
Tes, he was free at last. Free from Scot-
land's stern laws, from parental restraint,
from all the chains that had bound and galled
his proud young spirit. Free to roam the
world at will; no master to consult but his
own desire; free to seek Justice wherever he
would, and pleasure where he might choose.
He looked on the boundless stretch of waters
—before, beside, and behind him, and his spirit
exulted in its pride; it was all his, to work for
himself a way to glory, and fame, and wealth
in the wide, wide world. The waves might
cover themselves with sparkling foam in their
merry glee—he was as free as they, as careless,
as buoyant, in hopes of tho glory which awaited
him.
There was no room now to think of how the
grave, stern father might be bowed with grief
for him, his youngest born. No room to reason
whether the stately mother might not wear in
her bosom a loving heart No room to feel
that the favored elder brother must grieve to
lose the playmate of his youth. There was
but one whose image called forth a sigh—the
blue-eyed sister. Heaven bless her I she would
miss him, would mourn for him. From the
others ho had received little, save indifference.
Passionate, ardent, aspiring, he had striven to
win a hold on their hearts and pride, and per-
haps had succeeded; but nothing had broken
the grave reserve of his father, or called a lov-
ing caress from the courtly dame who was his
mother. He was only the younger son! Not
the one on whom rested the honor of preserv-
ing the fine old name in future days. Second
in birth, he was second also in wealth and in
power, altogether an unimportant personage
in the household.
Although now an exile from home, he had
no cause to grieve, for he was not happy then.
The partial mother had not nursed him with
that fond maternal care which he dreamed was
so exalted in its purity; she was too high-born
for that. Once in a while she had visited him
at his nurse's cottage, occasionally in his school-
room; but the stately kiss of those meetings,
the patronizing touch of her jewelled hands,
seemed but a mockery of the holy love of
maternity. This love needed the vivifying
influence of showers of tears, which flow in
answering sympathy for its nursling; of those
outbursts of warm, sunny feeling, which lend
strength and color to its existence. He was
only fifteen. Self-exiled at the age when the
tender germ is Just springing into the fullness
of life; when it needs the gentle influence of
regulated warmth to bring it into perfection;
when a single blast may mar its beauty, another
destroy it forever.
People weary of monotony, and grand as is
old ocean, even he grows tiresome. The vessel
in which our hero, James Douglas, sailed, made
a prosperous voyage, and one glorious October
morning the Joyous sound of "Land, ho!" was
heard on deck. Everything was wide-awake.
Joy and gladness beamed from every eye.
Even the little lap-dogs skipped about in fran-
tic delight, which they had possibly imbibed
from their masters and mistresses. About
noon the gallant ship anchored in the harbor
of the "Crescent City" of the South. When
tho youthful wanderer landed on the soil of
America, all thoughts of the Old World were
lost in the bustling throng of new ideas and
scenes that came rushing upon him.
There is a dingy little bar-room in the tav-
ern at , Virginia. Very dingy, indeed;
but it is a cold, dreary night. The trees are
covered with rattling shrouds of snow and ice,
and Old Boreas is blowing his coldest blasts
over the whitened earth. There is a warm fire
glowing and crackling in the bar-room, and
the great arm-chairs around the hearth have a
welcome look. The bar-keeper's face is round
and jolly, and he rubs his hands in the bland-
est manner as he opens a small crack in the
door in answer to a knock, saying, in a cheery
voice:—
"Come in, come in; have chairs, gentlemen;
I '11 pile on more wood; I love a cheerful fire,
gentlemen. Ah, my young friend! you found
it rather cold in your room, eh, and concluded
to try my fire?" be said to Douglas, who had
just entered by an inner door. "That's right;
it's enough to freeze soul and body anywhere
else to-night. Draw up your chair and make
yourself cosey and comfortable. Now, gentle-
men, what kind of drinks will you take while
you are wanning? Anything you can fall for,"
accompanying the words by a movement to-
wards the bar.
The men all took drinks, but Douglas sat
gazing musingly into the fire.
'•Take a drink, sir?" asked the bar-keeper.
"No!" was the brief reply, as he still fixed
his eyes on the fire before him.
The men called for a table, and jest and
song and cards beguiled the hours rapidly
away; but Douglas' ears were deadened to
the sound. It was New Year's Eve, and as he
sat with his hat pulled over his face, memory
was rushing with its mighty tide over his soul.
He was thinking of Scotland. Bow merrily
168
GODBT'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
the Highlanders beat down their neighbors'
doors with kale-stalks, making them drink to
the good luck of the new year with them.
How grandly solemn the farewell service in
the kirk I and, as the town-clock proclaimed the
birth-hour at midnight, how joyfully swelled
the jubilant shout of welcome to the new-born
year! He thought of the forms around the
well-spread board—father, mother, brother,
sister; no matter what contentions or divisions
there might have been among them, they were
his life-time companions, they were all he had.
His deep and restless eye filled without his
will as before him rose the scene. He could
see the lron-grny head of his father bowed sor-
rowfully as he breathed a prayer for his absent
one. He could see every eye turned to the
vacant chair by his sister's side, and he knew
there was one moment when the thought of
each was resting upon him. Homesick, friend-
less, and weary, the exulting pride of his new-
found freedom lay silent, overpowered by its
conflict with memory of home.
"Is there religious service in any of your
churches to-night?" he asked the bar-keeper,
without raising his head.
"Preaching? Yes, there's something a-going
to be down at the Methodist church at twelve
o'clock."
"Then I will go," said Douglas, rising.
"Will you be so kind as to direct me?"
The jolly man pointed out the way, wonder-
ing at the strange fancy of a youth who had
chosen a cold walk and church service in pref-
erence to his warm fire and merry companions.
It was the old Scotch service. The church
was decorated with evergreens and mottoes;
and as Douglas entered, the whole congrega-
tion were chanting a solemn farewell to the
dying year. Then there was a pause. Silence,
unbroken by the softest sound, reigned over
the church until midnight; when, simultane-
ously, the exultant song of welcome seemed to
rise from every heart and voice. Douglas's
eyes filled with tears; the old weary longing
for the land across the water seemed to lessen
with the sound. He was no longer alone—a
stranger in a strange country—but this one
event had made America his home.
Twelve more years were numbered with the
past. The youth had merged into a stalwart
man. Roaming the world at his own free will,
without counsel or aid in his most needy days,
seeing it in its darkest form, learning more of
its vices than Its virtues; all that was harsh or
evil in him had found ready means of promot-
ing its growth; while the gentler traits, un-
aided by the Influence of religion or home, had
drooped and almost died. Like most youths
of his fiery, impetuous nature, he came through
the ordeal sadly scathed. His deep, satirical
taste, ungoverned by refining Influences, with
a spirit to rule, won him many enemies. He
had none of that gentle chivalry which gains
friends, and the few wlw cared for him were
those generous enough to overlook his many
faults, and seek, beneath a morose exterior,
the virtues he still possessed.
"Alice, I have brought Mr. Douglas home
with me," said young Mr. Norwood to his wife.
"I found him sick at the station, and persuad-
ed him to come."
"I am glad you did, Willie. I shall be
pleased to show him kindness. Tou know he
has none to care for him but strangers; but we
can show him that they sometimes have warm
hearts."
Alice Norwood went into the open piazza,
where Douglas was sitting with his head rest-
ing on the balustrade. He was very pale, and
there were deep lines of suffering on his broad
forehead.
"Mr. Douglas, you are ill," she said, gently.
"You must come in the house and lie down,
and let us try to relievo you all that we can."
With a few words of thanks, he rose lan-
guidly, and followed her. There was a silent
language in her manner, and In the quiet, home-
like aspect of the cool room, with its snowy bed
and draperies, into which he was ushered, that
spoke to his heart with an eloquence almost
overpowering.
For weeks, even months, Douglas remained
a guest under the hospitable shade of Nor-
wood's "roof-tree." Fever wasted his strength
—pale Death seemed hovering near, waiting to
receive its prey; but gentle hands smoothed his
pillow, and unremitting attention brought him
back to health again. The chivalric sense of
honor, the manly dignity, and courteous bear-
ing of his young host won his highest admira-
tion; and there was something so fresh, so
good, so bright about Alice, that each tone of
her voice, and every change of her mobile ex-
pression possessed a charm for him, causing a
feeling of deepest reverence. Her influence
over him was ever for good. Worthy thoughts
sprang to life under its genial warmth. She
talked to him, in her winning way, of his home;
asking him questions with delicate, womanly
tact, always in the right place; until his heart
would ache with wishing for those fair green
shores he had never hoped to see again. She
talked of her sister, till his arms would fain
embrace his own dear one. She spoke of the
little babe in her arms; and Douglas, watching
the soft look in her face, and love-light in her
eyes, lost all the bitter feelings he had cher-
ished so long against her who had given him
birth. Homesick, longing for Scotland, he
would turn away, fearing to trust his face un-
der the quick eyes of his friend.
His nature was one of those made to derive
its better part—its greatest beauty from the
hallowed Influence of a Christian home and
Christian friends. He looked at Norwood's
happy life, and felt more keenly the void In
LEA VE8.
109
his own. Winter was coming on, and with it
the New Year—they had just been speaking of
it—and Douglas yearned to spend it once more
under his father's roof. And this is how it
came to pass.
One evening late in November he sat wrapped
in a dream of home, when ho heard Alice talk-
ing to her husband in her own room, in her
sweet lively way; then he heard Norwood go
out, and Alice took her baby to rock him to
sleep. Douglas listened to tho soft, cooing
voice soothing the little one, till his heart melt-
ed beneath the potent spell of the pure mother-
love that breathed In every tone, when she
began singing Mrs. Hemans's "Prodigal's Re-
turn." The tune was sweet and plaintive, the
voice of the songstress clear and full of melody.
It said tenderly, beseechingly :—
"Oh, when wilt thou return
To thy spirit's early love;
To the freshness of the morn.
The stillness of the grove t
"Still at thy lather's board
There Is kept a place for thee;
And by thy smile restored
Joy In each heart would be 1"
Not one note escaped him, as In breathless
silence he listened to the touching appeal—it
had reached his heart and subdued it. This
was his last evening at Norwood's hospitable
fireside; and when he bade his friends good-by,
little did they dream what his plans were.
There was a little cottage on the burn-side
near Douglas Hall, and on New-Tear's day a
gentleman knocked at its door. The summons
was answered by an aged woman, who stood
for a time gazing with an embarrassed air at
the stalwart stranger. Neither spoke for some
moments; and a great emotion seemed stirring
the depths of the strong man's soul. At length
he asked, In a low voice that faltered slightly :—
"Do you not know me, nurse?"
The old woman looked once more, and a joy-
ous light spread over her face as she ran for-
ward, throwing her arms around him, saying,
"Oh, my bairn! my balmt Me pulr heart wi'
br'.ik wi' sae much joy I"
Then with tears, and smiles, and loving
words, she welcomed James Douglas, who had
been her nursling years ago. She brought out
her short-cake, and he remained long enough
to taste it with her, then went to tho lordly
mansion on the hill.
It was the dinner hour when he ascended its
broad steps. He Impressed silence on the ser-
vants, who gazed at him in well-bred amaze-
ment, and paused on the threshold of tho room
where the family were sitting down to their
holiday repast. They had just come in. Doug-
las observed that his mother's hair was thickly
sprinkled with gray; and, thougli she had never
been a dear mother to him, his heart smote him
with the thought that he had helped to cause
them there. The old look of stately coldness
was gone from her face as she turned toward
the two vacant chairs, which, by the Scotch
usage, were placed for the dead and absent
members of the family. The sister's lip quiv-
ered, and there was a look of sad disappoint-
ment on her fair countenance, and she did not
once glance upward as she took her place at
the well-spread board. The grave father's
eyes were dim as1 they rested- long on the two
chairs, and with a husky voice lie said:—
"Let us ask God to rest the soul of the dead,
and pray for a blessing on our absent one and
ourselves."
"Father, lam here! Will you bless me?"
said James Douglas; and in an instant ho was
in the old man's embrace.
"My son! my son! God be praised!" was
all he could say.
The mother clasped her hands, echoing his
words: "My son! oh, my son 1" and fainted.
The sister clung to him with joyful smiles
beaming through thankful tears; and the ser-
vants drew near to join In tho wanderer's wel-
come.
Never was a happier New Year. Every face
reflected the brightness of the spirit within.
Tho exile was at home at last. Their prayers
were answered, their heartaches were cured,
and the long separation was at an end.
LEAVES.
Leaves are beautiful objects; rich in color,
graceful in shape, simple in structure; they are
among the most exquisite productions of Na-
ture's loom. The earth coyly veils her face
with them from the too ardent glances of the
sun, and through their silken network of light
and shade her homeliest features possess a
wonderful witchery. Wherever a green leaf
trembles against the blue sky there the spirit
of beauty manifests Its presence, and attracts
our love; and there, too, likq the olive leaf in
the dove's bill of old, It Is a token to us that
Noah's flood will no more go over the earth.
Leaves speak of security and pence, for where
they grow the sterner forces of Nature are un-
known. Down in the valley, where the wind
lulls, and the storm raves less wildly, and the
hot sunshine has a core of coldness, they ex-
pand in a genial atmosphere of quiet; and
from homeless moors, and wind-swept moun-
tain ridges, and scorching deserts, we enter
their shade with a feeling of home-shelter and
rest. Summer owes much of the charms of its
music and poetry to them; summer would not
be summer without them. They laugh in the
sunbeams and sing In the breeze, and make
the wilderness and solitary place to be glad.
Life under tho green leaves Is a keeping of the
feast of tabernacles; the troubles of the winter
wilderness are over, and the joy and fruition
of the harvest-home are nigh.
170
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
ASHES OF ROSES.
"Fon woman's love Is a bitter fruit,
And however he Mte it or sip;
There's many a man has learned to curse
The taste of that fruit on his lip"—
Quoted Maxwell Vernon to his friend Philip
Ainsworth, as they sat enjoying the breeze on
the veranda of the Ocean House—the only re-
ply he vouchsafed to the young man, who, with
characteristic impulsiveness, had been telling
of an affaire de cceur in which he was deeply
Interested.
"Ah, Max!" Phil rejoined, merrily, "such
sentiments are but the hallucination of a dis-
ordered mind, or rather what we would term
'poetic license.' But, seriously, because there
are, hero and there, women unworthy of their
name, who sport and jest with the best feelings
of the heart, is no reason there are not those
whose love would be a priceless gift, women
for whom some men would die."
"Oh, well, Phil, I see you are not yet over
your romantic days; when you have arrived at
my age, seen as much of the fair creatures as I
have, you will be but too ready to indorse the
poet's views upon that subject. My boy! just
let me give you the sum total of my experience,
and that, you know, has not been small—
namely, that woman's highest ambition is to
be admired; her greatest aim to excel in those
petty arts by which to ensnare men's hearts;
her noblest vocation flirting, and"—
"Fie I Max. I will listen to no such tirade;
the saints defend me from such views concern-
ing Heaven's last, best gift I"
"Heaven's last, best gift I" echoed Max, and
the contemptuous curl of his lip told his opin-
ion concerning that gift. "Phil, I can assure
you the time will surely come when you will
find that whether brilliant at a ball, or kneel-
ing in the house of prayer, she is but plying
her vocation, and that love which you are now
disposed to place upon a pedestal of infinite
worth, will, after all, prove to be but 'ashes
of roses,' or, rather, Dead Sea fruit"
"How I will delight, some day, in retailing
this conversation to the future Mrs. "Vernon,
for notwithstanding your cynicism, Max, there
will come a day when the little god"—
"Never, Phil; for listen, and I will tell you of
an experience bought at bitter cost," and into
the fine dark eyes crept a fire which gloomy
retrospection had kindled. "Upon leaving
college it was my father's desire that I should
join my sister, who was then upon a bridal
tour, and endeavor to make myself familiar
with all the historic grandeur of the old world,
as well ns acquainting myself with the manners
and customs of the different nations, thus lay-
ing, he deemed, a solid foundation upon which
my talents and energy were to build a goodly
edifice. Alas I poor old man, he was doomed
to see those bright hopes which be entertained
for his only son fade away one by one, and he
went down to his grave disappointed and heart
broken;" and over the handsome face swept a
shade of deep melancholy.
"Aye, Max I What became of those bright
aspirations, those excelsior aims with which
you left college? When called upon to bestow
upon you the laurel wreath, and crown your
efforts with the success they so richly deserved,
we did it gladly, feeling sure that not far in
the future we would be proud to claim as a
classmate one who would reflect such lustre
upon our Alma Mater. What has caused this
torpor—I will not say decay, for, old friend, I
feel I know you will redeem the promise of
your youth, will arouse those powers within,
so capable of developing not only worth but
eminence—Max, what has caused this torpor?"
"The perfidy of a woman, Phil—the awak-
ening from a dream similar to the one in which
you are now indulging." Philip withdrew the
hand which he had laid affectionately upon his
friend's shoulder, as the sneering tones mocked
that which he held of inestimable value.
"Never mind; forgive me, Phil, and I will
speak only of myself. After obtaining my de-
gree I started for the old world, and joined my
sister at Nice, where we were compelled to lin-
ger for some time. While there we became ac-
quainted with an American family, consisting
of father, mother, and daughter, who, like our-
selves, were in the pursuit of pleasure, and in
company we continued our journey. Natu-
rally, I became the young lady's companion,
and I soon found that in her I had a read y par-
ticipant in my rhapsodies over the beautiful
works of nature and art that everywhere
greeted us. But, Phil, why continue—it is the
same old story, the same drama of passions as
old as the hills?"
"But, Max, was it not the fatal fascination
of beauty, rather than that deep undercur-
rent"—
"I believe now that it was, for she was a
perfect houri. with her tiny, slender figure, with
its nameless grace and willowy motion; her
dark, rich complexion, with its tides of rosy
color; her sweet, flexible mouth, and great,
luminous brown eyes; aye, Stella she was fitly
named," he murmured: "all, all served to
weave about ine a spell, a charm, which in the
end paralyzed every nerve and deadened every
ambition."
"But, Max, did you never tell her of your
love, never"—
"Be patient, Phil, and I will tell you all.
Though I had noticed in her character certain
traits which in my soul I could not but abhor,
signs of that despicable coquetry which now I
believe to bo inherent in every woman's na-
ture, yet under the glamour of one of those
splendid Italian sunsets I told her of my love,
and won from her a confession of her own and
ASHES OF MOSSS.
171
thr promise to be mine. Only after this 1 ven-
tured to remonstrate with her, but she would
laugh away my reproaches, and quiet my fears
with such apparent devotion, that I would for-
get all save the witchery of her presence—fool
that I was—too late I learned that fatal fasci-
nation had darkened many a young life and
robbed many a fireside of its brightness. But,
to shorten my story, upon reaching our native
land we parted with the understanding that I
was to claim my bride the following May.
"Once more at borne, I plunged eagerly into
business, striving to win a name worthy of my
promised wife, at the same time beautifying
the home she was to grace with every luxury
that taste could suggest or wealth procure;
and now, old fellow, when.within one week of
the appointed time, just as I was about start-
ing for her home, came a letter telling me that
our 'little romance,' as she termed it, must
end; that while travelling it was very agreea-
ble, pour j'lisscr k temps, but that she had been
engaged for years to a cousin, and that upon
the day she had 'playfully' appointed for our
wedding, she was to marry him, and, hoping
that I would forgive the 'harmless jest,' she
bid me an 'affectionate' adieu, accompanying
the whole with invitations to the nuptials."
"How utterly heartless and cruell" Phil
ejaculated. "Max, from my heart I pity you."
"Thauk you, my friend, for your sympathy,
though I hardly deserved it even then, for it
seemed as if in an instant all the love I had
felt was turned to gall; continuing on my in-
tended trip, there was none whose feet kept
merrier time to the music of the wedding bells
or who offered with easier grace the customary
salutations to the lovely bride than I, whose
whole life-time her treachery had darkened.
From that time, Phil, my energies seemed dead-
ened, and plunging wildly into the giddy whirl
of society, I strove, in every excess that folly
could suggest, to drown my own heart-wrongs.
And now that I have unfolded to you this page
of my life's history, do you wonder that I can
repeat so feelingly, 'woman's love is a bitter
fruit,' etc."
"Hardly," Phil answered; "but, Max, there
axe, thank God, pure, noble, true-hearted wo-
men"—
"If there are," Max interrupted, "they are
'like angels' visits, few and far between.'"
Just then the rumble of the stage-coach was
heard, and soon after a party of three were
seen waring the house. *j
"Some new arrivals, Phil; some more of
those 'last, best gifts,' you were talking
about;" but his words failed to arouse his com-
panion from a revery into which he had fallen,
said revery being caused by sunny memories
which had come floating to him of a dainty,
ringlet-crowned head and tender blue eyes, he
bad left among the green hills of Vermont.
"Well, Phil, who are the new arrivals? you
have surely found out by this time."
The friends had met again at the conclusion
of the evening meal, on the moonlit lawn in
front of the house.
"Yes, indeed," laughed Phil, "it is old Kos-
dick of Baltimore, or rather more recently of
Washington."
"But the ladies?"
"Oh, that is the portion of the family you
are interested in? Well, they are his wife and
niece—the latter heiress prospective of all his
wealth—so now *s your chance, old fellow, for
the lady is handsome enough to satisfy even
your fastidious taste, and with you the old
motto used to be 'Veni, Vidi, Vici.'"
"Ah, but Phil, you will prove too dangerous
a rival"—
."Never fear me—I could tell you of some-
thing"—
"The same old story, eh, Phil?"
"Well, Max, of that another time; first you
start ahead, and may success attend you."
"Not quite so serious as that; but anything
to relieve the monotony of this life, anything,
you know, pour passer le tempt; but you may
rest assured that 1 shall not forget my favorite
quotation, woman's love is"—and as he repeat-
ed the lines the rustle of a dress attracted their
attention, and, looking up, the moonlight fell
upon the beautiful face of the woman about
whom they had been speaking; but the pale,
quiet countenance told nothing, and they start-
ed down the lawn, satisfied that their light
words had not been overheard.
'"Veni, Vidi, Vici,' is it?" repeated Isabelle
Tremaine, rising from her position on the bal-
cony which had made her ail unwilling listener
to the conversation. "Not an unfitting motto
for that Apollo-like figure; but, young gentle-
man, the 'race is not always to the swift,' and
I am so tired of this false, artificial life, so
weary of 'the hollow, the base, the untrue.' I,
did so hope here at least to lay down all dross
and tinsel, but 'tis not to be," and humming
gayly "there's life in the old bard yet," the
world-weary girl of nineteen started to her
room.
The parlors of the Ocean House are thrown
open and brilliantly lighted, and within are
gathered a merry, motley crowd, all upon en-
joyment intent, while the fanciful and pictur-
esque costumes would make us believe that
the days of the Arabian Nights had returned,
or that some enchanter's wand has suddenly
transplanted us to fairy-land, so gorgeous and
brilliant is the display It is a masked ball,
the very pinnacle of enjoyment at a watering-
place; and here we have gathered together rep-
resentatives from every age and clime—Turks,
Arabs, and Chinese mingling with beauties
from the court of Louis XIV., gypsies and
modest Quakeresses, Holy Sisters, and merry
flower girls—in fact every costume that inge-
172
GODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
unity and taste can suggest. But the tall,
stately figure of Isabelle Tremnlne, in the garb
of Queen Elizabeth, and the handsome, stal-
wart form of Maxwell Vernon as the courtier
Kaleigh, are the admiration of the evening.
The small crown, high ruff, and long train of
this famous sovereign are peculiarly becom-
ing to the tall, queenly woman, and surely
sovereign never had subjects more devoted.
There was about the woman an indescribable
something, a charm which perplexed while it
enthralled—a strange blending of strength and
weakness, of depth and earnestness, which
gave her undisputed sway over all hearts.
Scarcely a month had passed since her arrival
at the Ocean House, and yet ever at her side,
the peculiarly favored among the many, was
Maxwell Vernon, the ennuied man roused from
his lethargy, and under her touch seemingly
awakened into new life.
"Never before could I appreciate the devo-
tion the English have always felt for the good
'Queen Bess.' To-night the enigma is solved,
for were she but half as lovely as her fair
representative"—
"Ah, Max I I see your case is getting pretty
bad. Beware! beware I she is fooling thee;"
and Philip Ainsworth's merry laugh echoed
through the room. The two friends were
standing in an alcove viewing the merry scene.
"Well, Phil, if so, 1 am determined to know
it this night, for to-night, as in the olden time,
Kaleigh will lay at the feet of his queen, not a
cloak, but heart, life, aye, very soul. So wish
me good luck, my friend, now that my dark-
ness has all gone, my day-star arisen," and he
started to join Miss Tremaine as she stood one
moment alone.
"Your loyal subject, lady," and he bowed
low over the small hand extended as if with
royal favor; then, placing It in his arm, he led
her to a deep bay-window, where they had so
, often sat listening to the wild tossings of the
ocean, or viewing its calm security; he listen-
ing to the voice that was growing dearer each
day, she stifling the better feelings, and teach-
ing her heart to look coldly upon the man,
whose mocking words were still ringing in her
ears, and whom she deemed only an idle trifier.
"Does not the ocean, In its calm security, re-
mind you of the heart which holds within Itself
powers which, if aroused, can overthrow a
whole nature, ruin a whole lifetime?"
"It does, indeed, with Its vast, infinite
power," and the far-away look he loved to
watch crept into her soft eyes; "but there are
within the heart powers which the ocean has
not—powers to subdue, and In subduing gather
strength."
"Ah 1 but then other aid must be given, or
naught were gained; the strong must aid the
weak, the weak the strong."
"No;" she answered; "in the great life-
conflict the soul must go forth alone; none can
share the strife. And, oh, how often do wo
toy with the infinite I destroying, even as the
ocean, those life-boats freighted with precious
cargo, engulfing by mere lethargy what might
be both grand and great, destroying the star
that is set in the soul's diadem, because it has
failed to enkindle in others that light which
had been fondly hoped."
"Then glorious must be the privilege to
arouse the master-power, to sweep the hand
over the heart- strings, and awake the silent
chord that completes the grand harmony."
"Ayo, a privilege, Indeed," she mused,
dreamily.
"Isabelle, beloved," and he possessed him-
self of the little hand, "such is my life; yours
the power to awake it from its lethargy, to
teach it the better part. Isabelle, be my guide,
my good angel, my wife?"
The deep earnestness of the tones stirred
her, and for a moment she felt that she had
misjudged him ; that beneath the gay, brilliant
exterior, was an undercurrent of depth ami
veracity; but again wafted to her ears upon
the evening breeze came the echo of his care-
less words, and turning coldly away she an-
swered :—
"No, Mr. Vernon, that can never be."
"Never, Isabelle?" and the fear of losing
her made Ills voice sound harsh and stern.
"Never?" he repeated. "Why, then, did you
not warn me? Why allow me to feed day by
day, hour by hour, upon your beautiful face,
and never tell me of the terrible retribution In
store for me?"
"Retribution I" she faltered. "It is I that
should speak of retribution. Was it not merely
'pourparler k temps' you sought me? Ah.no!
some day you will thank me for the favor 1 do
you to-night, for you know
"' Woman's love is a bit ter fruit,
And however lie bite it or sip,
There's many a man has learned to curse
The taste of that fruit on his lip.'"
She repeated the words mockingly, and with a
light, scornful laugh, left him.
The gay crowd saw their gallant courtier no
more that night, and few that looked upon the
smiling Queen Bess knew that upon the altar
of Nemesis she had just then laid her choicest
treasure.
"My day-star lias gone down in impenetra-
ble darkness, Phil," were Max's parting words
to his friend, and with the echo of those mourn-
ful ♦ords still ringing in his ears, he bad
sought Miss Tremaine and told her the story
of that clouded life, and left her with the
words, "Miss Tremaine, let woman beware
how she play fast and loose with man's heart."
It was the winter of 187-, and Washington,
with its brilliant life and deep undercurrent of
worldliness and deceit, was ringing with the
name of a young representative, whose elo-
ASHES OF ROSES.
1V3
quence was waking in the Senate chamber
strange echoes of those by-gone days when the
voices of C|ay, Calhoun, and Webster were
heard within its wails; one whom all the al-
lurements of society had failed to win from
retirement, and who seemed devoted to the
cause he so ably espoused.
"Our young representative, Maxwell Ver-
non, .will call to-day; so, Isabelle, my dear,
reserve your sweetest smiles for him," were
Mr. Fosojjck's parting words as he started
forth on his New Year's calls.
"Vernon! Maxwell Vernon !" repeated Mrs.
Fosdick. "Isabel le, was not that the name of
the young man we met at the Ocean House,
and who left so suddenly?"
But Isabelle, unperceived, had left the room,
and In her boudoir stood alone, murmuring
again and again the name which was so dear,
and which had power to send the rosy color
flitting over the pure, pale face. Only once
had they met since that fatal summer night,
and then at a crowded reception, where she
had seen clinging to his arm, and gazing with
infinite love into his handsome face, a tiny,
sylph-like figure, with great liquid blue eyes,
and meshes of golden hair; a sight which had
then seemed to chill the very life-blood, rob-
bing her cheeks of their brilliant glow, and
dimming the lustre of her eyes; the remem-
brance of which even now had power to check
the ready wit and sparkling repartee which
made her the life of the circle in which she
moved; for, with woman's intuition, she felt
that that was the houri whose faithlessness
had once caused those haunting shadows in
his eyes; and, though the conviction brought
bitter pain, she felt that, with the success of
his later years, had come back the love of his
youth.
"Ten o'clock! It is too late; be will not
come;" and a cloud of bitter disappointment
swept over the beautiful face. "But perhaps
It is better so. It would have been a bitter,
bitter trial to have met him, with those haunt-
ing blue eyes forever between us."
Isabelle Tremaine, her perfect figure set off
by the close-fitting velvet robe, a white rose-
bud in the folds of her soft dusky hair, stood
nnder the full blaze of the chandelier, listless
and dejected, till suddenly a voice pronounced
her name—a voice whose tones banished the
ennui, and sent the rich blood to her cheeks in
crimson torrents.
"A happy New Year, Mr. Vernon I" and
the little hand she extended in greeting trem-
bled, In spite of her efforts of self-control.
"And is that all?" he asked, looking down
upon the averted face. "Is that all?" he
repeated, as he led her to a seat.
"Need I say I wish you many happy re-
turns?" and she glanced archly into his face.
"Think yon, Isabelle, that I have waited
until this hour, when I might see you alone,
I to hear from your lips the same words that
you have uttered to the scores of admirers who
have thronged your doors to-day? Since we
parted, over eighteen months to-day, my one
j endeavor has been to forget you. To-night
shows the result of that effort—finds me once
more at your side; but determined, aye, deter-
mined—mock the word if you will, Isabelle—
to learn from your lips the truth. In the
past"—
"It is needless to recur to the past, Mr. Ver-
non—the words I heard the night of my arrival
at the Ocean House"—
''Those words," he interrupted impatiently,
"were but the idle jest of the hour, the repeti-
tion of words spoken by another. The words
1 now speak are the earnest of another and 1
trust a better life. The love"—
"But, Mr. Vernon"— she interrupted, with
woman's strange perversity, the words her ears
were aching to bear.
"Nay, Isabelle, you must hear me to the
end. Again, as in that night, 1 ask you for
your love; but not tremblingly, fearingly, but
boldly, for I will have what is my own"—
"But suppose I do not, did not then, love"—
"Ah, but you did!" and he bent tenderly
over her.
"Mr. Vernon, you are strangely assertive"—
"Did you not, Isabelle?" and he caught her
hands in a fierce, passionate grasp. "Look
into my eyes and deny it if you dare."
Glancing bravely up, the trembling lips es-
sayed to utter the falsehood, but failed in
their effort, and the soft eyes fell, veiled by
their long silken lashes.
"I knew it I I knew, my darling," Max Ver-
non exclaimed, triumphantly, as he drew her to
his arms, and with a caressing touch smoothed
the bands of her soft hair.
For a moment infinite peace seemed about
her, and then suddenly came a vision of a
fairy-like figure, with waves of golden hair,
and, stifling the bitter cry, she drew herself
away, while a deadly faintuess overspread her
face.
"What is it, my darling?" and Max wound
his arm more tightly about her.
"Ah, Mr. Vernon!" she responded, with a
hollow laugh, "you should remember to be off
with the old love before you are on with the
new."
"Isabelle!" and his stern tones made her
tremble, "has there not been unhapplness
enough? Explain your words."
"O Max! who was that golden-haired girl I
saw clinging to your arm? Was it not the one
you loved in your youth? The one—the one
Philip Ainsworth told me had made a desert
of your life? Surely, surely, Max, you will
not deceive me."
"My dear girl," and he bent tenderly over
the agitated form, "that was my sister—your
sister that is to be;" and then, with her head
174
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
resting on his shoulder, the dreamy eyes up-
raised to his, he retraced all the shadowed
past; and then, painting in vivid colors the
future that lay before them, and the happiness
it would bring, they sat, unconscious of the
hours, till a hasty ring of the bell and the an-
nouncement of Philip Ain'sworth roused them
from their "vision of beauty."
"Miss Tremaine! Max I so we three meet
again; and not, as our old friend Will Shak-
speare has it, 'in thunder, lightning, or In
rain,' judging from present appearances," and
his merry laugh echoed through the room.
Isabelle turned quickly aside to hide the
burning blushes the merry words called forth,
while Max grasped his friend's hand.
"Give me your heartiest congratulations,
Phil, for I have emerged from darkness Into
marvellous light."
"And how about 'bitter fruit,' eh, Max?"
"Ah, Phil I I have found it to be what we
term 'bitter sweet;' I have found it to be,
most truly, 'the infinite sense of something
immortal, unknown, and immense.'"
"LITTLE BELLE."
BY ADDIE T. VAS K.
It was one of those brightest of summer's
sunshiny days, when the air is heavy witli the
sweetness of the fragrant meadows, and drowsy
with the humming of the pollen-covered bees.
A few fleecy cloudlets were drifting about in
the hazy blue, and the little river that lay be-
tween the orchards and the low-bending wil-
lows scarcely rippled Into "eddies about the
water-lilies pushing out from either bank, so
motionless was It.
It was Just the day to dream and drift; at
least so thought Guy Halifax, lounging along
with his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and he
was just a little bit provoked when a low rus-
tic fence, right across his path, awoke him from
his imaginings.
"Pshaw I Confound the fence I" very little
dreaminess about his voice Just then. "I sup-
pose I '11 be ordered off if I jump over. Tes, I
see. 'All trespassers,'etc. Pshaw!"
"You can come over, sir, if yon wish; papa
will have no objections. That rule does not
apply to gentlemen," ventured a timid voice;
and, after one startled glance, I am afraid my
hero obeyed with suspicious alacrity, for beside
the river bank, under one of the stately chest-
nuts there, a yonng girl was standing,
Such a sweet child face she had, with wide-
open, innocent brown eyes, and pure, proud
mouth. A quaint, Quakerish-brown muslin
she was dressed In, with the whitest of snowy
rufflings at neck and wrists; and just above
one pretty pink ear a half-blown rose-bud was
resting in the shining braids of her glossy hair.
Both chubby hands were holding close against
her breast a tiny squirrel, who, from his perch
looked with the brightest of jetty eyes at the
new-comer.
He lifted his hat as he came nearer. "1
hope this is not an Intrusion; but the river is
bo beautiful, I should like to follow it up still
farther."
She put the squirrel down upon the grass,
and with a' little wave of her hand In the oppo-
site direction, said with grave, childish dignity:
"My father is in the fields yonder, he will show
you the way," giving him a quiet bow of dis-
missal.
Not Just yet, he thought, he could not leave
her yet; he must see once more those shy brown
eyes, so coy of their glances- for the stranger,
and hear the soft, girlish voice again, and he
said: "Won't you show me the way to him?"
"If you wish," she answered, simply, turn-
ing immediately. "It is quite a little distance
to the corn-field, and papa—perhaps you would
be unable to find him."
"And Is the river Just as pretty farther up?"
"Oh, yes, sir I" with one of the upward
glances he was striving for. "I think it's even
nicer; the banks are full of strawberries and
wild-flowers, and then the willows are so
pretty."
He was as enthusiastic as she, apparently,
and soon they were chatting quite comfortably
of this, and those other rivers far away, where
the richer bloom of the orange trees and the
darker glances of "Italla's dark-eyed daugh-
ters" were reflected Just as sweetly.
By and "by the trees that arched over them
so closely, parted more and more; Just beyond
the yellow sunlight was dancing unbrokenly
upon the river; their walk was ending. It was
a fair stretch of meadow-land that they came
out on, "flowing rye" and snowy wheat-fields,
to one side the "level pastures lay" where a
score of cattle browsed knee-deep In the purple
clover, and back against the hills that hemmed
In the little valley, a low, brown farm-house
nestled, with Its sheltering eaves and wide old
chimneys, its row of bee-hives, and shelf of
bright tins before the door, and great well-
sweep beyond.
Guy Halifax stood gazing with the eye of a
connoisseur over the quiet home scene, so
wholly entranced with its beauty as to be en-
tirely unmindful of the old gentleman who ap-
proached them until he heard a proud "My
father," from his little guide. Then he made
friends with the gray-haired farmer at once by
his genial courtesy.
"So you want to see the river, do yon?" he
asked, when Guy had told his errand. "Well,
come with me and see the farm first; stay to
dinner with ns, and 1 "11 take you up to Its
source this afternoon. It isn't far from here;
we can easily row there in the 'Little Belle.'"
"Yon have a boat, then?" said Guy, when he
•LITTLE BELLE:
175
had accepted and thanked him for the Invita-
tion.
"Yes, there she lies," pointing off to a tiny
bay that ran in nearer to the house, where a
graceful light-green boat swung among the
lilies. "Isn't she a beauty? I named her
after my little girl here," his brown hand rest-
ing softly on the sunny head that reached no
higher than his heart.
"Yes," assented Guy, dreamily looking down
at the pure, uplifted face.
The' farmer saw where his glances rested,
laughed, and then grew thoughtful, as he said,
"You hav'n't told me yet whom I am to have
the pleasure of entertaining. I am Farmer
Newton. My daughter, this Is"—
"Guy Halifax, of Boston."
"What, the son of Claudo Halifax of the
same place?"
"Yes, dr."
"Then your father was an old friend of
mine, and 1 am glad to know his son. Will
you come with me to the rye-field yonder for
one moment, and then I shall be at your dis-
posal? Good-by, child."
She raised her eyes with a bright glance to
his face, then, after a quiet bow to "Mr. Hali-
fax," turned, with that quaint dignity that sat
so naturally upon her, back through the woods
again.
The old farmer looked after her In a rapt,
loving way with eyes that were growing misty
as he gazed. "She is very dear to me, for she
is all I have."
"Yes?" In kindly sympathy.
After that Farmer Newton's heart opened
and let the stranger in, and he took him, not
without a certain wholesome pride, over the
great grain-fields where the reapers were so
busy, and through the barns and poultry yards
all neat as hands could make them.
At last when the sun was overhead as they
paused under the great trees in the orchard for
a "breathing spell," clear and sweet over the
meadows a horn piped out the chorus of
"Home, sweet home."
"Ah !" laughed Mr. Newton, starting up and
replacing the wide-brimmed straw hat that he
had been fanning himself with meanwhile.
"Dinner's ready. Belle always calls me that
way. Come."
Quiet as ever, the petite brown-clad figure
presided at her father's table. With one of his
"stock-up notions," as the neighbors called it,
only his family ate at Farmer Newton's table;
so while the men dined in the great, roomy
kitchen, the farmer and his little daughter took
their noonday meal in the cosey sitting-room
beyond.
That this was Belle's favorite room a half
glance would have told you. Pictures of quiet
scenery were upon the walls; the wide old fire-
place, instead of being hid by an ugly screen,
with impossible cats and sorrowful dogs de-
picted thereon, as is usual, was filled to the top
with hemlock boughs, and In the centre was a
graceful image of "Samuel kneeling." The
windows were open, and through them bright-
faced roses peered inquisitively, and bowed
and courtesied as the wind passed them. Guy,
glancing at the quiet hands fingering the quaint
China so daintily, wished that the meal might
last forever, and forgot sometimes to answer
the farmer's questions; and when Mr. Newton
proposed deferring the expedition np the river
until some future period, a gleam of amuse-
ment lighted up his face at the readiness with
which the young man assented.
But the day was over at last, and walking
home with the river, wakened from its dream-
Ings, singing by his side, Guy thought it over.
Could he ever win her for his own, this shy-
eyed woodland lassie who had once, just once,
called him "Mr. Halifax" so timidly? and he
walked on dreaming.
Before the summer days were flitting Guy
had become almost a daily visitor at the brown
farm-house, and little Belle's manner, while it
lost none of its rare dignity, accorded to him
an added friendliness that proved that she
trusted him. The brown eyes, though, were
just as chary of their glances as before, the
"Mr. Halifax" just as timidly spoken.
"What is the matter, Guy? You are sadly
distrait to-day, I think," and stately Madam
Halifax sank still more languidly into the
depths of her easy chair, playing idly with the
chain npon her fan. "Are you getting tired
of this stupid place? Quite natural; so am I."
He was standing by the window, looking off
over the country where the fair autumn skies
were mellowing the changing skies; but as
she spoke, he turned.
"No, mother," lounging down upon the
sofa near her, with a half-bashful, half-pleased
smile upon his face. "I was thinking."
"l)e qwnf"
The flush upon his cheek grew deeper. "That
I am in love, I think."
He did not see the angry light that deepened
in his mother's eyes as he told her how he had
spent the summer; but long before he had
half reached the ending, she had come to a
conclusion.
"Guy," she said, as he was off the next
morning, "won't you go over to the Claytons'
this afternoon? They were here yesterday
after you left me, and I half promised that
you should help them in their croquet match
It would be unkind to fail them."
"All right, I'll go," said he, with a little
quiet grumbling, thinking he would make up
for the infliction by getting little Miss Newton
to let him row her np the river under the
moonlight. "And if I could only get cour-
age"—and here he stopped to laugh a little as
he thought how he must have changed since
the winter before, when he had flirted with
17G
GODET'S LAD-T'8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
half the city belles at once, that he shouldn't
dare to tell a little girl only seventeen or so
that be loved her. "But then," he added,
half in extenuation of his unwonted modesty,
"slie isn't like any other girl I ever knew.
She makes a fellow feel wicked, she's so
pure."
In less than an hour after he had gone, the
Halifax grays were speeding up the road to
the Newton farm, and their mistress, in the
heaviest of black silks and richest of point
lace, was lolling back on the fawn-colored
cushions, communing with herself somewhat
in this wise:—
"My only son, Guy Halifax, and millionaire,
shall never wed a farmer's daughter if 1 can
prevent it. Ah, this is the place I" as the car-
riage stopped. "Picturesque, upon ray word I"
Little Belle, in her white dimity morning
dress and soft blue ribbons, was kneeling upon
the porch petting old Bruno at a wholesale
rate, when a lady came up the flower-skirted
walk. She never in all her life remembered
having seen any one half so "grand," and
gazed at the beautiful high-bred face with open
admiration in the innocent brown eyes; then,
with her own fair girlish dignity, advanced
and greeted her.
Mrs. Halifax drew her with apparent fond-
ness to the little rustic seat upon the porch,
and, sitting down beside her, began ber task.
After talking of this and that—how thought-
less Guy was, and how fond of country scenes
—she mentioned incidentally that they had
come up because the Claytons were there, and
Guy and Bessie; and here she paused with a
significant smile, adding, "however, I mustn't
betray my son's secret," then glanced at the
quiet face beside her to see how the poison
worked. The childish cheeks were white, the
sweet mouth almost painful in its perfect
quietude, but that was all. "Did she under-
stand or not?" was the question that troubled
my ladyship all the way home.
Guy, going up that evening for his moonlight
sail, was told that Miss Belle had complained
of not feeling well, and had already retired.
"And Mr. Newton?"
"He is in the sitting-room," ushering him in.
The gray-haired farmer rose as lie ap-
proached, but forgot to take bis offered hand;
and when, after a few remarks upon the beauty
of the evening, Guy asked again for Miss Belle,
said, sternly :—
"No, sir, she cannot see you, and requested
me to tell you that she would prefer not to
have you call again."
"And will she not tell me why ?" stammered
Guy, in blank amazement.
"If you were a gentleman, you would not
need to ask," with almost a sneer in his honest
voice.
All the pride of the Halifaxes rose to Guy's
voice, as he said, bitterly :—
"If I did not respect your gray hairs so
much, you would not say that with impunity.
Good-evening, sir I" and went his way, his
life-dream broken. The next day the Hali-
faxes left for town.
The winter came and went, and one day
Guy Halifax sat in his room alone. Ho had
been reading, but now his book was resting
on his knee, and he was looking with a wistful
sadness ttiat showed that his thoughts were
far away, over the gay promunaders below.
Suddenly his mother came in white as the
paper she carried in her hand.
"Guyl Guy!" sharp agony In her tones,
"she is dying, and I have killed her 1"
There was but one "her" in the world to
him, and whiter even than her own grew his
face as he read. It was a letter from Bessie
Clayton :—
"Little Belle Newton," so the letter ran,
"our prettiest country lassie is dying, I think.
She has changed so you would scarcely know
her."
"What had you to do with her illness,
mother?" The tones were quiet from their
very intensity of emotion.
Without once looking up or pausing, she
told him what she had done, and then pleaded
for his forgiveness. There was a moment's
silence, then she cried, "Guy, Guy, you must
forgive tnel"
He drew her to him, and, pillowing her head
upon his breast, touched his pale lips to her
forehead, saying, softly, "MotherI"
That afternoon he was at the farm. He
must first see Mr. Newton, he said; he would
not seek her without his permission, and
through the fields he saw him coming towards
him, his gray head bent, and all the old
brightness gone from his face.
"Mr. Newton," he began. The farmer
started angrily when he saw who it was that
called him, but Guy grasped him by the hand.
"Mr. Newton, if you forbade my visits to your
daughter because you thought I was trifling
with her, will you recall your edict? for I have
loved her all along. If there is another reason,
I have a right to know."
"I. heard that you were engaged, aud be-
lieved it. She loves you yet, and it is killing
her," and he turned away, his voice trembling,
his eyes wet.
Turning toward the old familiar grove, Guy
espied her upon a rustic seat beside the river
bank. She was leaning listlessly back, smiling
half wearily at the little squirrel gambolling
about her. The pretty cheeks were thin and
pale, the brown eyes drooping. He stood
quite beside her before she saw him.
"So my little girl couldn't trust me?" he
said, sadly.
She started up, clasping the squirrel in the
old childish way close to her heaving breast ,
then, quite forgetting the speech that all the
THE AUTUMN OF LIFE.—POETRY.
177
way up in the ears be had beeu composing, lie
took both the bright-eyed squirrel and his
brown-clad mistress to his heart, and the shy,
sweet eyes were hid upon his shoulder. The
old chestnut trees bent their boughs about her,
as if they knew that, like her gentle namesake
in the sweet old story,
"In the childish little heart below.
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out In happy overflow
From the great brown eyes 1"
THE AUTUMN OF LIFE.
My dear grandma is visiting us. There
never was just such a grandma; so pleasant,
and always so happy to entertain us with a
fund of stories at her command. She seems to
have retained only the sunshine of life. To see
her sitting with her children, grandchildren,
and great-grandchildren about her, smiling,
and telling stories, keeping us attentively lis-
tening, you would not think that she was an
old lady of ninety years. We see her always
busily sewing. Sho is now making a fine shirt
for a son who is fifty-five years old. She has
made every shirt that he has ever worn, with
one exception. Her busy hands are never idle,
and she plans some work to do after she has
compii-ted that which she has in hand. When
she is not at work, sho is reading, until the
light of day glimmers and fades into twilight.
She sits in the rocking-chair reading her Bible,
and while she reads a chapter each day she
finds some text for her children to apply to
themselves. She discusses the news of the day
with quite as much piquancy and more real
common sense than most people. We all go to
her with our affairs, relying upon her judg-
ment, from the eldest to the youngest. Her
faculties are not impaired in the least, save a
slight difficulty in hearing. This she considers
a blessing, rather than an infliction, for she
says that she cares not to hear all that is said,
and God has not denied her the gift of sight.
She can still enjoy nature and all beautiful
things, and behold the forms of those she loves;
and so kindly has the Lord dealt with her that
she retains her strength, and is able to walk
around. Thus she recounts the blessings that
she possesses. It shames our poor grumblings,
and enables us to look with a clearer insight
into God's providence. The influence of her
example sheds a lustre upon her children,
enabling them to see beauties in life which,
without the help of her enlightened under-
standing, we should pass by as unworthy of
notice. May her life be prolonged in uninter-
rupted good health for years to come, to be a
blessing to her children and grandchildren,
with no care to cloud her brow, passing with
sweet serenity her declining years 1 She is the
genius of ninety, for there are but few women
vol. xci.—12
who can carry so many frosty winters with so
much dignity of character, and with so much
enjoyment of the beauties of life. It is the
light of the soul which illumines her being
with glowing tints of beauty, bestowing upon
all that are brought into her atmosphere tho
radiance of the Divine light of love and peace.
May peace and love abide with thee ever,
grandma. Jean Scott.
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
bt si'san meservk bates.
TVk climbed the Sandwich Mountains
One golden August day,
And watched the flitting shadows
That o'er tho hilltops lay.
Of mountains to the northward
More lofty far than they.
The stillness ot a summer noon
. Hung o'er us like a spell.
As We lingered 'mid the shadows
Of that rock-bound mountain dell.
And deemed we heard the chiming
Of some old cathedral bell.
We kuew 'twas but the rushing
Of the Bearcamp's crystral stream
That fell upon our musings
Like the music of a dream,
■While through some forest vista
Wo caught the Saco's gleam.
The sun toward the westward
In tropic splendor rolled,
And clothed the northern mountain
In robes of burnished gold;
The glory of those "granite hills"
By pen can ne'er be told.
Calm Ossipee lay at our feet.
And on Its surface fell
The shadow of each mountain cliff,
And tiny twig as well;
Within Its depths we surely deemed
The naiad queen might dwell.
The purple shadows warned us
That night was near at hand;
But still we lingered, loth to leave
The realms of fairy land.
And break the spell thrown over us
By some enchanting wand.
And when at length our truant feet
The homeward pathway sought.
The wonders that His hand hath made
Were In our every thought;
Beside those grand, "eternal hills,"
Our noblest works are nought.
When do wo begin to love people? When
they begin to let us look into their hearts, and
their hearts are found to be worth looking
into.
There is often in one kind word, one look
of sympathizing affection, or one small act of
disinterested love, more of real nobleness of
spirit than in notions which have rung in the
oars and found an echo in the hearts of ad-
miring thousands.
178
QODET-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAOAZ1RE.
WORK DEPARTMENT.
APPLIQUE AND EMRROIDERED
HAND-SCREEN.
Circular ground of light-gray taffetas, with
narrow border of a darker shade, embroidered
in chain stitch. Centre medallion of blue taf-
fetas, with lyre of brown taffetas sewn on in
overcast stitches of purse silk. The wreath of
roses, buds, and leaves is embroidered in satin,
with several rows of ribbon wire. This is hid-
den by a feather border of pale gray. The
screen is then fitted into a carved handle.
LIZARD IN JET.
The foundation is of wadding. This is cov-
ered witli silk or some tliin black material,
Lizard Iu Jet.
overcast, and knotted stitch, with pale-gray,
rose-color, and shaded green and brown silk.
The blue medallion is outlined with soutache,
and the strings of the lyre are worked with
gold cord. The forget-me-nnts are embroidered
in knotted stitch of blue silk. The completed
embroidery is lined with stiff muslin and lute-
string, and the outer edge is strengthened
Border: Spangles.
then thickly worked over with small jet beads.
It is intended for ornamenting hats, or to be
worn in the hair. Fine wire will be needed In
the tall and claws.
KEY-POCKET.
Key-pockets may be made to any size re-
WO UK DEPARTMENT.
IT3
quired. The entire length of front, back, and
flap is in one piece, with the border let in.
WORK BASKET.
The framework of this basket is black bam-
TRIMMINGS, ETC. IN SPANGLES.
The foundation for each of these trimmings
is net. The trimmings are shown in the full
size, and are used for ornamenting dresses,
jackets, otc. A small jet bead is placed in the
centre of each spangle.
boo, with pearl knobs. The side work is
embroidered Cashmere, stretched over thick
card-board, cut to fit the size of the bamboo,
and lined inside with quilted satin. The bor-
der is worked in two shades of green, three of
blue and gold silk; the dots are in gold, the
flowers in blue, the edge stripe in three shades
of gray.
Trimming: Spangles.
KNITTING BASKET.
The foundation of this basket is made of
very thick card-board; this is covered with
green satin, and the outside is worked in cro-
chet silk to match the satin; a ruche of green
satin ribbon, green cord, and tassels finish the
basket. You require for the foundation two
circles of card-board five inches In diameter;
180
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
divide these two circles into sixteen sections,
and cut away two sections (close together);
then lay the edge of the card-board over the
next section, and sew down securely. This
will enable you to give the card-board the
rounded shape. If the card-board is so stiff
that it will not bend easily, half cut through
the other sections by the lines. You then
cover them outside and in with satin ; the top
is fastened to the bottom by bows of ribbon.
The crochet. Make 5 cli, unite into a ring, in
this ring work 10 rounds of dc crochet; in the
last round you should have 40 stitches. IMA
round. 4 ch (the 3 first are for the 1st treble, *
1 treble on the next stitch, 1 ch; repeat from
*; at the end of the round work 1 single on
the 3d of the first 4 chain. V2th. 4 ch, 1 treble
on the next treble, * 1 ch, 1 treble on the next
treble; repeat from *; at the end of the round
work 1 single on the 3d of the4ch. 13(7t. 5
ch, 1 treble on the next treble, * 2 ch, 1 treble
on the next treble; repeat from * Then re-
peat this round, increasing the number of chain
stitches between the treble stitches, where
necessary, to keep the work the right shape.
Work the other piece the same, and make up
as directed, putting a rosette of ribbon on the
lid over the rounds of double crochet.
SACHET: EMBROIDERY.
This pretty sachet is suitable for evening or
dinner dress. It may be made of silk of two
shades or colors. The form will be easily
copied from design. The top has a double
slide at the ends, in which strong elastic is
run. Bows of ribbon ornament the ends, and
the sachet is suspended by ribbon, with pearl
buckles for ornaments. Many beautiful de-
signs in embroidery will be found in our pages
for centre of medallion. The outer part is in
buttonhole stitch. The whole of the embroid-
ery is in purse-silk.
CROCHET EDGING FOR UNDERLINES,
ETC.
(See Fig. 11 Extension Sheet.)
1st row, to form the lower edge of the work:
"17 chain, close the 9 last into a circle witli 1
slip stitch, 5 chain, 1 slip stitch in the 11th of
the 17 chain, 3 chain to form 1 treble, 11 treble
in the 12th to 17th of the chain which was
closed into a circle, 1 slip stitch in the 6th of
the 17 chain, 11 treble in the 5 chain crocheted
before the last double, 1 slip stitch in the 3
chain that formed 1 treble, repeat from *. 2d.
l double in the 4th of the 11 treble by the side
of the round pattern, * 10 chain, 1 long treble
in the 9th of the 11 treble, in the 4th of which
1 double was worked, 1 double long treble in
the centre of the 5 chain between this and the
next round figure, 1 long treble in the centre
of the 11 treble of the next round figure, 1
double long treble in the centre of the 5 chain
between the two round figures, 1 long treble in
the 3d of the 11 treble of the next round, 5
chain, join to the first long treble, 1 double, 1
treble, 3 long treble, 1 treble, 1 double in the 5
chain, 1 slip stitch in the last long treble, 10
chain, 1 double in the 9th of the 11 treble in
the 3d of which 1 long treble had been cro-
cheted before, 5 chain, 1 treble in the centre of
the C chain between 2 rounds, 5 chain, 1 double
in the 4th treble of the next round; repeat
from *. 3d. * 1 treble in the flth of the next
10 chain, 5 chain, 1 treble in the centre of the
next 3 treble, 5 chain, 1 treble in the 6th of the
next 10 chain, twice alternately 5 chain, 1
treble in the centre of the next 5 chain, then 5
chain ; repeat from *. ith. 1 treble in every
stitch.
FLOUNCE FOR A DRESS.
WORE DEPARTMEyT.
181
COUVRETTE (CROCHET).
Theiie have been many inquiries in our
Work Department for couvrettes of simple
make, and we think the accompanying one
will answer for those who wish an easy and
quick pattern. It is crocheted in two shades
to the design, sew up the stripes so that the
squares come alternately. At the ends you
loop in lengths of wool cut six inches in loDgth,
and knot them together as shown in the en-
graving.
Fig. 1.
or colors, say two shades of gray, or in gray
tad blue. It is worked in stripes, eleven
stitches wide, in plain crochet tricotee; work
eleven rows, then change the wool and work
eleven rows of the other color. On all the
lightest squares work a star, and on the dark
cues five little rows of cross stitch according
WORK-BASKET.
Fio. 1 shows a basket of wicker; Fig. 2
shows the size of the foundation, and the pat-
tern worked under it in chenille. The inside
of basket is lined with quilted silk, and fitted
with pockets. A ribbon ruche finishes the top
of lining.
182
GODEY-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
tti$tz, rotf.
RUDIMENTS OF COOKERY.
PLAIN LIVING NOT THE MOST WHOLESOME—ADVAN-
TAGE OP VABIETT IN POOD.
The commonly received Idea that what goes under
the denomination of "good, plain living"—that Is,
joints of meat, roast or boiled—Is best suited to all
constitutions, has been proved to be a fallacy. Many
persons can bear testimony to the truth of Dr. Kitch-
ener's remark, that "elaborate culinary processes
are frequently necessary in order to prepare food
for the digestive organs." It may be truly said that
many persons ruin their health by ovcr-ludulgenco
in food rendered indigestible by being badly cooked.
In French cookery, those substances which are
not intended to be broiled or roasted, are usually
stewed for several hours at a temperature below the
boiling-point; by which means the most refractory
articles, whether or animal or vegetable origin, are
more or less reduced to a state of pulp, and admira-
bly adapted for the further action of the stomach.
In the common cookery of this country, on the con-
trary, articles are usually put at once Into a large
quantity of water, aud submitted, without care or
attention, to the boiling temperature; the conse-
quence of which is, that most animal substances,
when taken out, are harder and more indigestible
than In the natural state.
The foundation of all good cookery consists in
preparing the meat so as to render it tender in sub-
stance, without extracting from it those juices which
constitute its true flavor; in doing which, the main
point in the art of making those soups, sauces, and
made dishes of every sort, which should form so
large a portion of every well-ordered dinner, as well
also as In cooking many of the plain family joints—
Is boiling, or rather stewing, which ought always to
be performed over a slow Are. There is, in fact, no
error so common among all English and American
cooks as that of boiling meat over a strong fire,
which renders large Joints hard and partly tasteless;
while, if simmered during nearly double the time,
with less than half the quantity of fuel and water,
and never allowed to "boll up," the meat, without
being too much done, will be found both pliant to
the tooth aud savory to the palate.
For Instance: The most common and almost uni-
versal dish throughout France is a large piece of
plainly-boiled fresh beef from which the soup—or
"potage," as It is there called—has been partly
made, aud which Is separately served up as "6ow-
illi," accompanied by strong gravy and minced
vegetables, or stewed cabbage. Now this, as con-
stantly dressed in the French mode, Is ever delicate
both in fibre and flavor; while. In the American
manner of boiling it. It Is always hard and insipid.
The reason of which, as explained by that celebrated
cook, Careine, who superintended the kitchen of his
Majesty George IV., Is this: "The meat, Instead of
being put down to boll, as in the English method, is
in Fiance put In the pot with the usual quantity of
cold water, and placed at the corner of the fireplace,
where, slowly becoming hot, the lieat gradually
swells the muscular fibres of the beef, dissolving the
gelatinous substances therein contained, and disen-
gaging that portion which chemists term 'osma-
zome,' and which Imparts savor to the flesh—thus
both rendering the meat tender and palatable, and
the broth relishing and nutritive; whilst, on the
contrary, If the pot be Inconsiderately put upon too
quick a fire, the boiling is precipitated, the fibre
coagulates and hardens, the osmazome Is hindered
from disengaging Itself, and thus nothing Is obtained
but a piece of tough meat, aud a broth without taste
or succulence."
Meat loses by cooking from one-fifth to one-third
of its whole weight More Is lost by roasting than
by boiling meat. In calculating for a family, one
pound per day for each Individual is a general
allowance tor dinner.
Meat that Is not to be cut till cold must be well
done, particularly In summer.
The use of skewers in joints should be avoided as
much as possible, as they let out the gravy; twine
will answer better often.
In every branch of cookery much must be left to
the discretion of the cook, and kuowledgt of the
family's taste, particularly In force-meats and sea-
sonings.
Suet,—When sirloins of beef or loins of veal or
mutton are brought In. part of the suet may be cut
oil for puddings, or to clarify. Chopped fine and
mixed with flour, if tied down in a jar, it will keep
ten days or a fortnight. If there be more suet than
will be used while fresh, throw it into pickle, made
In the proportion of one-quarter pound of salt to a
quart of cold water, and It will be as good afterwards
for any use. when soaked a little.
To remove tho taint of meat, wash it several times
in cold water; then put It into plenty of cold water,
into which throw several pieces of red-hot charcoal.
If you fear meat will not keep till the time it is
wanted, par-roast or par-boil it; that is, partly cook
it; It will then keep two days longer, when it may
be dressed as usual, but in rather less time.
When meat is frozen, it should be brought Into tho
kitchen and laid at some distance from the fire early
In the morning, or soak the meat in cold water two
or three hours before it is used; putting it near the
fire, or into warm water, till thawed, should be
avoided.
Meats become tenderer and more digestible, as
well as better flavored, by hanging. In summer,
two days Is enough for lamb and veal, and from
three to four for beef aud mutton. In cold weather,
the latter may be kept for double that time.
Legs and shoulders should be hung knuckle down-
wards.
An effectual way of excluding the fly is by using a
wire meat-safe, or by covering the joints with a long
loose gauze or some thin cloth, and hanging them
from the ceiling of an airy room. Pepper and gin-
ger should be sprinkled on the parts likely to be
attacked by the fly, but should be washed off before
the joint Is put to the Are.
A larder should always be placed on the north
side of the house; the window may bo closed with
canvas, but wire is preferable. There should be a
thorough draft or air through the room.
Articles that are likely to spoil should not be kept
In or laid upon wood.
Warm, moist weather is the worst for keeping
meat; the south wind is very unfavorable, and
lightning very destructive; so that, after their oc-
currence, meat should be especially examined.
MISCELLANEOUS COOKING.
Lemon Pickle.—Peel very thinly about six lemons,
take off the white, and cut the pulp Into slices, tak-
ing out the seeds. Put the peel and pulp Into a Jar,
sprinkling between them two ounces of bay-salt;
cover the jar, and let It stand three days: then boil
In a quart of vinegar six cloves, three blades of mace,
two or three onions, and two ounces of brutsod mus-
tard-seed; pour it boiling over the lemons In the jar
and when cold tie over. In a month strain and hot-
RECEIPTS.
183
tie the liquor,and the lemons maybe eaten as pickle.
The above is a useful sauce, especially for veal cut-
lets and minced veal.
Beef Forcemeat—Cut into small pieces one pound
of lean beef, quarter of a pound of beef suet, and
half a pound of fat bacon; beat them together, with
half a teaspoonf ul of powdered thyme and marjoram,
the same of ground allspice, and half the quantity or
pounded mace. Season with pepper and salt, and
mix with the whole two well-beaten eggs.
Veal Forcemeat—Scrape one pound of veal and
half a pound of fat bacon: beat them well together,
adding the crum of a roll, powdered mace and nut-
meg one drachm each, one taulespoouful of chopped
onions, parsley, and mushroom, with pepper and salt.
Mix all this together with two well-beaten eggs, and
rub it through a sieve. This forcemeat may be used
'on all occasions for balls, pies, etc. If rolled up in
balls, covered thickly with bre.id-crums, fried In hot
fat, and served with fried parsley, it makes a nice
dish.
Veal Pics.—CM some roasted veal into small
squares, dress iu a pan over the lire with butter and
parsley, cut up small. Thicken it with some flour,
and add some stock broth or gravy. Boll down until
the liquid has soaked into the meat, and then empty
the contents of the saucepan into a plate to cool.
Now get ready a paste made with flour, ■ butter,
water, and salt. Koll It out into a thin sheet, and
place the meat on it in small heaps, separated one
from the other, and cover each of them over with
some of the same paste. Cut the sheet of paste
around each heap, compress the edges of the upper
and lower pieces of paste to unite them, and then
cook the pies in an oven not too hot
Bread Sauce.—Pour over the crumsof a small stale
loaf half a pint of boiling milk, with an oniou, a blade
of mace, and a few peppercorns tied up in a piece of
muslin. After boiling a few minutes take out the
onion and spice, and beat up the bread very smooth
with a small piece of fresh butter and a little salt.
Pork Kidneys Dressed in Wine.—Put some flour
and butter in a stewpan, and brown it Add the
kidneys, cut up small, with salt, pepper, nutmeg,
parsley, and onions cut small. When sufficiently
done, add a glass of white or red wine, and then
thicken it with more flour and butter.
Sliced Bacon Pried Kith Bread.—Cut through the
middle of a small roll, and lay on it some slices of
bacon. Divide the bread and bacon into slices, dip
them in gome raw eggs beaten up, and fry them over
a moderate Are. They may either be sent to table
as they are, or with any sauce that may be preferred.
Egg Sauce.—Chop up tine two hard-boiled eggs,
and add them to melted butter, with a little salt.
CAKES, PUDDINGS. ETC.
Simple Hard Biscuits.—To every pound of flour
allow two ounces of butter, about halt a pint of
skimmed milk. Warm the butter in the milk until
the former is dissolved, and then mix it with the
flour Into a very still paste; beat it with a rolling-pin
until the dough looks perfectly smooth. Iloll It out
thin; cut it with the top of a glass into round bis-
cuits; prick them well, and bake t hem from six to
ten minutes. The above is the proportion of milk
which we think would convert the flour into a stilt
paste: but should it be found too much, an extra
spoonful or two of flour must be put in.
Soda Biscuits.—One pound of flour, half a pound
of pounded loaf-sugar, quarter of a pound of fresh
butter, two eggs, one teaspoonf ul of carbonate of
soda. Put the flour (which should be perfectly dry)
into a basin; rub in the butter, add the sugar, and
mix these Ingredients well together. Whisk the
eggs, stir them into the mixture, and beat it well,
until everything is well Incorporated. Quickly stir
in the soda, roll the paste out until it is about half an
Inch thick, cut it into small round cakes with a tin
cutter, and bake thein from twelve to eighteen min-
utes In rather a brisk oven. After the soda Is added,
great expedition is necessary In rolling and cutting
out the paste, and in putting the biscuits immedi-
ately into the oven, or they will be heavy. Sufficient
to make about three dozen cakes.
Lemon Marmalade.—Boil the lemon-peel in water
until soft, and beat It up in a mortar with an equal
weight of apple pulp. Then take twice their weight
of loaf-sugar and make it Into syrup, using for this
purpose a pint of water to each pound of sugar used;
put the pulp into it, and boil it until it becomes clear.
Add the Juice of the lemons to it, and preserve the
marmalade in pots or glasses.
A Nice Plum Cake.—One pound of flour, quarter
of a pound of butter, half a pound of sugar, half a
pound of currants, two ounces of candied lemon-
peel, half a pint of milk, one teaspoonful of carbo-
nate of soda. Put the flour Into a basin with the
sugar, currants, and sliced candled peel; beat the
butter to a cream, and mix all these Ingredients to-
gether with the milk. Stir the carbonate of soda
into two tablespoonfuls of milk; add it to the dough,
and beat the whole well, until everything is tho-
roughly mixed. Put the dough into a buttered tin,
and bake the cake from one and a half to two hours.
Bice Cake.—Half a pound of ground rice, half a
pound of flour, half a pound of loaf-sugar, nine eggs,
twenty drops of essence of lemon, or the rind of one
lemon, quarter of a pound of butter. Separate the
whites from the yelks of the eggs; whisk them both
well, and add to the latter the butter beaten to a
cream. Stir in the flour, rice, and lemon (if the rind
is used, it must be very finely minced), and beat rho
mixture well; then add tlio whites of the eggs, beat
the cake again for some time, put it into a buttered
mould or tin, and bake it for nearly an hour and a
half. It may be flavored with essence of almonds,
when this is preferred.
lemon Paste.—Boil some lemons In water, season-
ing the first water with a handful of suit, and boiling
them again In fresh water until they are tender.
Place them in a bowl and beat them to a pulp with
a rolling-pin, and strain them through a coarse linen
cloth, wringing it hard to cause the whole of the
pulp to pass through. Place this in a clean sauce-
pan, and add to it an equal quantity of sugar, and
boll it down until it is nearly ready to candy, pour
it Into plates, and dry them in a slack oven. The
sheets of lemon paste may then be cut In strips, or
any other shapes that may be desired.
Empress Pudding. — Half a pound of rice, two
ounces of butter, three eggs. Jam, sufficient milk to
soften the rice. Boll the rice in the milk until very
soft; then add the butter: boil it for a few minutes
after the latter Ingredient Is put In, and set it by to
cool. Well beat the eggs, stir these in, and line a
dish with puff-paste; put over this a layer of rice,
then a thin layer of any kind of Jam, then another
layer of rice, and proceed in this manner until the
dish is full; and bake In a moderate oven for three-
quarters of an hour. This pudding may be eaten hot
or cold; if the latter, it will be much improved by
having a boiled custard poured over it. Sufficient
for six or seven persons.
Delhi Pudding.—Your large apples, a little grated
nutmeg, one teaspoonful of minced lemon-peel, two
large tablespoonfuls of sugar, six ounces of currants
184
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
three quarters of a pound of suet crust. Fare, core,
and cut Hit; apples into slices; put them intoasauce-
p.ui, with the nutmeg, lemon-peel, and sugar; stir
them over the lire until soft: then have ready the
above proportion of crust, roll it out thin, spread the
apples over the paste, sprinkle over the currants,
roll the pudding up, closing the ends properly, tie It
in a floured cloth, and boil for two hours. Sufficient
for five or six persons.
Fig Pudding.— Two pounds of figs, one pound of
suet, hull a pound of Hour, half a pound of bread-
crums, two eggs, mill;. Cut the figs into small
pieces, grate the bread finely, and chop the suet very
small; mix these well together, add the flour, the
eggs, which should be well beaten, and sufficient
milk to form the whole into a still paste; butter a
mould or basin, press the pudding into it very close-
ly, tie it down with a cloth, and boil for three hours,
or rather longer; turn it out of the mould, aud serve
with melted butter, wine-sauce, or cream.
Plain Lemon Pudding.—Three-quarters of a pound
of flour, six ounces of lard or dripping, the Juice of
one large lemon, one teaspoonful of Hour, sugar.
Make the above proportions of flour and lard into a
smooth paste, and roll it out to the thickness of about
half an Inch. Squeeze the lemon-juice, strain It into
a cup, stir tlte flour into it, and as much moist sugar
as will make it into a stiff and thick paste: spread
this mixture over the paste, roll it up, secure the
ends, and tie the pudding in a floured cloth. Boil
for two hours.
BRITISH OTTO OF ROSES.
Takk any convenient quantity of the petals of fra-
grant flowers, such as roses, Jasmine, and others of
the same season, with a small quantity of sweet-brier
and mignonette; the rose-petals exceeding in quan-
tity that of all the other flowers.
Spread the petals on a layer of cotton which has
been dipped in the fluest Florence or Lucca oil;
sprinkle over thein a very small quantity of salt
finely pounded. Lay over the flowers another sheet
of cotton, and on it place more flowers and salt as
before; over them place another layer of cotton
dipped In oil, and on It lay more flowers and salt;
repeat until a China vessel or wide-mouthed glass
bottle be full. Tie over tightly a bladder, and place
the vessel in the sun; and if under a garden forcing-
glass, it will be all the better. In about fifteen days
remove the bladder, and squeeze the mass, when a
fragrant oil will be expressed—nearly equal to the
real aud high-priced otto of roses.
The bottle into which tin; flowers and cotton are
squeezed tnust be immediately corked up. If not
squeezed into a bottle, the oil must be Instantly bot-
tled and well corked; but a bottle with a glass stop-
per will lie the best kind to use. Tie over the cork
or stopper a piece of the bladder, and over that
white k d, to prevent evaporation.
MISCELLANEOUS.
Lavender Water.—Take one pint of the finest
spirits of wine, half an ounce of best oil of lavender,
half an ounce ol bergamot, some musk; mix all to-
gether in a bottle, and shake it occasionally. The
longer it Is kept the better it becomes.
Drying Wild Flowers requires great skill and pa-
tience, as these fragile blossoms of the field perish
so quickly. The points to attend to are to dry the
specimens quickly, thoroughly, and with a pressure
that will not crush them. A good method is to place
each specimen in a sheet of brown paper, aud inter
pose several empty sheets between each that Is filled,
then to place them In a napkin press, and press them
gently for the first day or two, Just enough to pre-
vent the leaves and flowers from shrivelling.- When
the papersare quite damp, separate them, aud spread
them on the floor of a room where they can dry a
little, then gather them together and place them
aualu In the press, rather increasing the pressure.
This operation should be repeated dally till the flow-
ers are quite dry. A quicker and better, but more
troublesome way, is to shift the flowers daily out of
their damp papers Into hot aud dry ones, immedi-
ately pressing them down.
Worth Knowing.—Boll three or four onions in a
pint of water; then with a gilding brush do over the
frames of your picture and chimney glasses, and rest
assured that the flies will not light on the articles
washed with the solution. It will do no injury to
the frames.
Cure for a Scald or Bum.—Four ounces of olive
oil, four ounces of lime water, mix, aud use as an
embrocation.
German Polish for Furniture.—Put in a pipkin
over a slow fire four ounces of yellow wax and one
ounce of powdered black resin; when melted, add
gradually two ounces of spirits of turpentine, and
mix them well together. This composition should
then be. poured into a bottle and securely corked.
If some of this varnish be spread over the furniture
with a piece of cloth and well rubbed. It will cause
the article to appear as if it were varnished.
2b Prevent Stoppers Sticking in Empty Bottles.—
When decanters are left untouched for a long time,
the stoppers are very apt to get fast, so that they
cannot be removed without the risk of breaking the
vesseL This may be easily avoided by merely wrap-
ping each stopper in paper before putting it into the
mouth of the decanter.
The Best Way to Wash Hair.—Rub the white of
an egg into the roots, making partings for the pur-
pose. Some use yelks and white beaten together.
Hub the head all over whilst the egg Is about it.
Wash well with soap and tepid water. When clean,
pour some water as warm as can be borne over the
head, and Immediately afterwards some water quite
cold. A pint basin is a good medium for applying
this douche. Kill it and empty on the back of the
head, holding the face over a large basin. Wring
the water out of the hair. Rub the scalp, till it
glows, around and around with a rough towel. Roll
up the hair next, aud tie a towel around the wet
head; after awhile take It off. The hair then is
nearly dry, and the head warm. Brush the hair
with a clean brush and spread it out. Do nor dress
it till quite dry.
Oration About Ivory. — Articles made of Ivory
should on no account be exposed to heat or dryness.
They should uever be exposed to the direct rays of a
hot sun, nor placed on the mantleslielf, as they are
very apt to split In such circumstances. They also
warp like wood when exposed to heat or a very dry
air. It Is said that when ivory becomes discolored
by being kept, the white color it previously had may
be restored by soaking the article in water, and
then, when wet, exposing it to the action of light,
while shut up In a well-closed glass case. When
ivory has been long kept. It diminishes, owing to the
loss of the gelatine of which it Is partly composed.
This may be remedied by soaking the article iu a
solution of that substance. In consequence of ivory
not always preserving the same length under all cir-
cumstances, it has been recommended that It be not
employed iu making very minute measurements.
EDITORS' TABLE.
185
;bit0rs' faM*.
CHRIST'S COMMAND.
A MISSIOHAKT POEM.
And He said unto them," Go ye into all the world,
aud preach the Gospel to every creature."
St. Mask, xvl., 16.
O Lovn DrvnfB! It pave our race
This holv gift of hc.ivenlv grace-
The glorious Gospel light to bear.
Ami wake the nations dead in sin.
Salvation's Joyous song begin.
And draw lost souls Its light within
By love and faith aud fervent prayer.
The followers of the Son of God
Found living waters where he trod,
And pure the draughts of love were given;
The words of Christ redemption wrought
That purified man's inmost thought.
And life divine, new-born, blood-bought,
Drew heart and soul and mind to Heaven.
O, wondrous day of Pentecostl
Have we its lire of baptism lost
Where heathen men wear Satan's chain?
In our free hands we hold God's VVokd,—
Shall we not wield His "Spirit sword?"
And fight thenattles of the Lord?
And crush flie serpent's evil reign?
Our country's test for Christ hath come:
Our sons and dan -liters leave their homo
And bear the cross of holy strife;
Our sons, like winds that sweep the night
Of darkness—till Truth's star shines bright:
Our daughters, sunbeams, warm with light,
To give their heathen sisters life.
Old Asia's bronzed and sombre face
Grows soft beneath the gleams of grace
That bring God's gift of heavenly love;
And, starting forth. In mute surprise,
Poor Afric's dusky hands uprise.
As if to grasp the pure blue skies
Aud draw her Saviour from above.
One lowly missionary's name
Hath won a loftier height of fame
Thau war can gain by mortal might:
Behold the Christian hero stand,
Up-bearing on his faith's firm hand
Old Niger's dark, death-sunken land,
To meet Salvation's blessed light I
Then see him on his knees in prayer
Bowed low—for Christ and Death are there;
He knew his crown In Heaven was won:
And In the land that gave him birth,
His Queen—who sways o'er half the earth—
Among her Dead of noblest worth.
Gives room for David Livihgstone.
"Go, preach"—for man is Christ's command!
The Bible lives In woman's hand.
Taught, day by day. In love and prayer;
Beneath her sway the children come;
The Bible speaks where men are dumb;
*Tis woman makes the Christian home.
And by her faith draws Jesus there.
O, praise our Heavenly Father's grace 1
His love exalts the human race
Above where angel's wing can soar;
God's children—sawi-'-by Him are shriven;
Their sins, for Christ's dear sake, forgiven;
■White-robed, and heirs with Christ in Heaven,
They live with God forever more.
GOODNESS.
nowE'Er. it bo, it seems to me
'Tin only noble to be pood;
Kind hearts are more than coronets.
And simple faith than Norman blood.
Tennyson.
THE INFLUENCE OF SURROUNDINGS.
In Forstcr's life of Dickens is a minute description
of his writing-table covered with little grotesque fig-
ures, without which he could not write in happiness;
and the biographer tells us how necessary the roar
and bustle of London was to the fertility of the nov-
elist's imagination. He went sometimes to Italy and
to Switzerland; but in the midst of the most beauti-
ful scenery of the Continent, his thoughts went back
to Charing Cross. Scott, on the other hand, needed
for happiness and Inspiration the open air life and
Scottish scenery of the Tweed. He told Lockhart
that if he went where he could not feel the heather
under his feet, he thought he would die. Apart from
mere homesickness, the desire to see familiar places
and revive old associations, the longing of men aud
women for a change of locality, seems to come down
to one of these desires: either they must be In the
"busy hum of men," at the centre? of intellectual
activity, or they need the beauty and variety of na-
ture. Dickens is a good example of the former feel-
ing; Heine and Dr. Arnold of the latter.
"Who does not deeply pity poor Heine in his last
sad years, when he lav fixed on his couch of pain In
his narrow Parisian lodging, and compared it to the
sounding grave of Merlin, the Enchanter, 'which Is
situated In the wood of Brozcllande In Brittany un-
der lofty oaks, whose tops taper like emerald flames
toward heaven. Oh, brother Merlin!' he exclaims,
'I envy thee those trees, with their fresh breezes, for
never a green leaf nestles about the mattress-grovn
of mine in Paris, where from morning till night I
hear nothing but the rattle of wheels, the clatter of
hammers, street brawls, and the jiu^ling ot piano-
fortes!'"
When Dr. Arnold went to Rugby, he was literally
starved by the absence of natural beauty. "We have
no hills," he lamented," no plains—not a single wood,
and but one single copse; no heath, nodown.norock,
no river, no clear stream—scarcely any (lowers, for
the Has is particularly poor in them—nothing but one
endless monotony of Inclosed fields and hedge-row
trees. This Is to me a dally privation: it robs me of
what is naturally my anti-attrition; and as I grow
older I begin to feel It."
Finally he made his holiday home In the Lake dis-
trict, and his health was better from that day.
"Body and mind seem alike to repose In that dell-
clous quiet, without dulness, which we enjoy In West-
moreland." He wrote his Roman History, his great
book, mainly at Allan Bank, and dilated upon his In-
spiration In writing, "with such a view before one's
eyes."
Most of us have known similar cases, of persons in
whom the longing for natural beauty was too strong
to be disregarded by them without danger to their
health. As great cities increase in number and mag-
nitude, It has become an actual necessity with many
to escape for a certain season every year from bricks
and mortar. Few, however, can leave the sphere of
their dally work and of their domestic life foragreat
length of time, or can inour great expense In so doing.
To meet the wants of all who love to spend a day In
beautiful scenery, our city parks have been laid out.
At great expense, all of our principal cities—notice-
ably New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore—have
put within reach of every citlzcnaspaciousand beau,
tilul district where ho may spend day after day with.
186
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
out repetition or monotony in the prospect around
him; when he breathes fresh air, sees beautiful flow-
ers, stately trees, and has all the enjoyments of the
country. The value of such an accession to our city
life can hardly be overestimated.
LOCAL HISTORIES.
Histories of counties, cities, and towns are often
more Interesting and instructive reading than na-
tional or State histories. In the latter we get the
general outline of events, but the minute and per-
sonal details, which give life to the narrative, and
bring the past vividly before us, are wanting. Those
careful annalists who gather up the memorials of
the places in-which they reside, from local archives
and the recollection of tho elders, and preserve
them for the Instruction and gratification of future
residents, are doing a work deserving of much com-
mendation.
These remarks are elicited by an elegant and at-
tractive volume which has been recently published,
containing tho "History of the Town of Queeusburg,
N. T.," by Dr. A. W. Holden. Queeusburg Is the
town (or township, as in some parts of the country
it would be styled) In which is situated, on the
Hudson River, the picturesque and prosperous man-
ufacturing village of Glen's Falls, a village from
which every visitor must carry away agreeable
remembrances of the intelligence and worth of its
inhabitants. Queeusburg is in the region which
was for a long period a frontier district or "debata-
ble land"—atone time between the powerful Iroquois
and Mohican tribes, afterwards between the English
.".iul French settlements, and at a later day between
the revolted and the loyal British colonies. Many
memories of aboriginal warfare and border strife
are connected with the vicinity. During the Revo-
lution the town was twice burned, some of the in-
habitants were massacred, and others were carried
prisoners Into Canada. Of these events many par-
ticulars are recorded by Dr. Holden, which give us
a vivid picture of the character of the times and the
people—such, for example, as the following:—
Among those who suffered captivity was one Wil-
liam Roberts, or Robards, who belonged to a family
conspicuous in the early history of the settlement.
He enlisted In a company of rangers, and was twice
a prisoner in Canada. On the first occasion he was
released on parole, and afterwards exchanged. The
second time he was offered the freedom of the "ja.li
liberties" on parole, but he refused to accept It. He
had a young wife and two children, and was deter-
mined to escape. If possible, and return to them.
For two years he remained In Jail, before the oppor-
tunity of escape arrived. Then, with another pris-
oner he broke through a window at midday, leapt
Into the street, and ran. The guards fired at them,
while, the friendly Canadians on the street cheered
and shouted to encourage the fugitives, and directed
them In the best way for escaping. HI* companion,
a British deserter, soon left him, terrified by tho
dangers before them. But Roberts found means to
cross the St. Lawrence, and plunged boldly Into the
vast and dreary wilderness, tenanted only by wild
beasts and hostile Indians, which lay between him
and Ids home. He travelled by night, guiding his
course by the stars, and lay concealed during the
day. At length he reached Lake George, where he
was fortunate enough to find a canoe, in which he
embarked on the lake. As he approached the south-
ern shore, he had also the singular fortune of meet-
ing his brother, who, witii a neighbor, had come out
In a boat for the double purpose of fishing and scout-
ing. They returned together, and his brother went
forward to break the news to William's wife. In
tliis delicate mission he was not particularly sue
cessfuL As he met her near the door, he said,
"Phoebe, I have got good news for you; I've heard
from William." "If you have heard from him,"
she exclaimed, with womanly qulckuess of thought,
something in his manner doubtless betraying the
truth, "you have seen him!" and she fell In a dead
swoon. Happily In her case the old saying proved
true, and Joy did not kill. The sturdy firmness with
which William Roberts endured a close Imprison-
ment of two years for the chance of escaping through
two hundred miles of trackless wilderness. In which
many fugitives had perished by starvation, affords a
lively Idea of the spirit which animated the men of
those days; for his case, as the history shows, was
by no means a singular one.
The author, besides giving the usual pictures of
churches and other public edifices, has had the good
Idea of illustrating his book with many portraits of
notable persons connected with the town, some of
whom have held high office, and attained national
celebrity. His pages thus present a goodly array of
Intellectual countenances, of the well-known typo
which belongs to the leaders of men. There Is a
map of the village of Gleu's Falls, remarkable for
the Dumber of public schools, "select schools," and
academies, which it exhibits. On the whole. Dr.
Holden's book affords In many respects a good ex-
ample, which those who collect the annals of their
localities for publication will do well to consult. Of
such useful contributions to hlstour we cau hardly
have too many.
Liberality in India—In the Presidency of Mad-
ras a government order, which Is both liberal and
considerate, lias been issued on the subject of the
medical education of women. Should ladies desire
to study for a degree, every encouragement will be
given to them; but In that case they will have to go
through the full course of studies prescribed for
that distinction. If, however, they prefer to take a
more limited and practical course, which has been
suggested by the medical authorities as sufficient,
arrangements may be made accordingly, and they
will receive certificates of the degree of proficiency
which they may attain. In this case they will attend
the same courses of lectures with students of the
other sex, with certain exceptions—these exceptions
being in midwifery and surgery, and in some lec-
tures on anatomy and physiology, which they will
receive separately. Good sense Is restricted to no
latitude or longitude; but it Is still not a little nota-
ble that the most thoroughly sensible and thoughtful
arrangement as yet announced as the education of
women In the medical profession should bo found In
an Indian Presidency.
OUR REPUBLICAN SOVEREIGNS.
We have lately urged the expediency of training
the future mothers of our country to some pursuits
that shall be useful. May we suggest a similar ob-
ject In the bringing up of our future sovereigns—the
citizens of "The. Great Republic?" We think It
may be fairly assumed that when lads are approach-
ing the "years of discretion" (In fact, the most in-
discreet years), a course of smoking, billiard play-
ing, dancing, anil diversion Is not fitting them to be
legislators, congressmen, or presidents. Something
more than the "outlines of history," with questions
in the foot-notes, to bo answered with the least pos-
sible study, is requisite to a statesman. A profound
and thorough consideration of the rise and fall of
States, of the constitutional history of the great
powers of Europe, would help our law-makers to
EDITORS' TABLE.
187
profit by experience, and prevent them from ailing
crude notions of government
A very Important question now agitating the coun-
try is that of currency, and finance in all its bear-
ings. Men who consider that study in this- matter
is needless, start up with theories of which a little
knowledge would make them ashamed. "He serves
a 'prentlceshlp who sets up shop," but our legislative
halls abound with heaven-born political economists.
To make a shoe, requires teaching and pains In the
craft. How can a nation be governed without
knowledge of statesmanship?
SONGS FOR CHILDREN.
THE RAINBOW.
0 beautiful rainbow,
All woven of ltehtl
There's not in thy tissue
One shadow of night
It seems as heaven opened
When thou dost appear.
And then joyful voices
Of angels draw near,
And sing the rainbow I
The ralnbmvi
The smile of God is here.
1 think as I'm gazing
Thy colors to mark,
How on the lone mountain
Where rested the ark,
The save I, from the deluge,
With wondering eye.
Beheld the first rainbow
Burst over the skv,
And sung the rainbow!
The rainbow!
Thy promise,* God on high! )
And ages on ages
Have lived and are dead
Since on the first rainbow
That promise was read;
Man dies and earth changes,
But still doth endure
God's signet of mercy, ,
Fresh, lovely, and pure;
Then sing the rainbow!
The rainbow!
Tht Word, O God, is Sure!
LADIES AS SAVINGS-BANK CLERKS.
Women have done so well In the telegraph offices
In England, that it has now been decided to place
them in a still more responsible and confidential i*>.
sition. They are to be admitted to clerkships in the
"Post-Office Savings Bank."
"This scheme," an English paper states, "Is now
definitely settled, and several ladies will shortly be
nominated by the Postmaster-General to compete
before ihe Civil Service Commissioners for a few of
the new appointments. The limits of age within
which candidates are eligible are liberal—namely,
sixteen to thirty; and the scale of salary is fixed at a
more liberal rate than has been adopted hitherto for
the remuneration of female labor In the post-office.
The scale is as follows: Second-class £40, rising by
Ci 10* yearlv to £75; first-class, £80, rising by £7 10*.
yearly to £100; principal clerks, £110, rising by £10
yearly to £150.*
One fact alone ought to bo sufficient to ensure the
admission of women into all offices of trust which
they are qualified to filL Since our government has
* And God said, This Is the token of the covenant
which I make between me and you and every living
creature that Is with you, for perpetual generations:
1 do set my bow In the cloud, aud It shall be for a
u>ken of a covenant between me and the earth.
And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over
the earth, that the bow shall be seen In the cloud:
and I will remember my covenant, which Is between
me and you and every living creature of all flesh;
ami the waters shall no more become a flood to
iKstroy all flesh.—Genesis, ix., 12—15. Head the
chapter.
employed them iu such capacities, not a single case
of misuse of the public funds has occurred among
them. If the unfortunate "Freedman's Savings
Bank" at Washington had been managed by women,
we may feel sure that it would have escaped the ca-
lamitous fate which overtook It. Our country, which
has been the first to make use, on a large scale, of
the teaching capacity of women, should also be the
■ most prompt to take advantage, for the public good,
of their well-kuown prudence and honesty In dealing
with money.
NOTES AND NOTICES.
Barnes' Notes on the Gospels and Epistles.—
The first volumes of these Notes were published in
1832, and the remainder between that time aud 1851.
The author, the Rev. Albert Barnes, was a well-
known clergyman of Philadelphia, whose appear-
ance and voice were familiar to hundreds In this
city, and whose character, and ability commanded
universal respect The circulation of these Notes
was such that the stereotype plates wore out, and
had to be replaced by new ones. This edition, whose
publication was begun in 1868, and lias just been
completed. Is the final result of Mr. Barnes' revision,
and will possess a peculiar value for all who knew
their author. Every text Is the subject of a long aud
careful commentary, for Mr. Barnes has preferred
explaining even that which might seem clear to leav-
ing any possibility of error. These volumes were
the work of his life, and will be his most enduring
literary monument
Sixra Annual Report op tub Women's Branch
op tub Pennsylvania Societt for tub Preven-
tion op Cruelty to'Animals.—This praiseworthy
society is extending its field of work. A branch has
been established In Pittsburg, which has already
made report of active and successful efforts in- the
cause of humanity. The law has been so amended
In Georgia as to subject persons found guilty of cru-
elty to animals to fine and Imprisonment; and all
over the country the conscience of the people seems
to be awakening to the great wrong of leaving help-
less beasts to the caprice of their degraded owners.
In this result the Women's Branch have been fairly
Instrumental. We hope and expect for them an even
larger measure of success.
The Antiquity op Iron.—The Iron Age says that
a wedge or plate of iron has been discovered imbed-
ded in the masonry of the great pyramid. It has
been a great puzzle, to those who attributed the first
use of. Iron to a date not much more than 2900 years
back, how such sharp and well-defined hieroglyphics
could have been cut on porphyry, granite, and the
hardest stone as are found on the tombs, temples,
and sarcophagi of ancient Egypt But the piece of
Iron found In the great pyramid shows that this
metal was produced and wrought in the age of King
Cheops, which Is placed by some authorities as far
back as 5400 years ago. The similarity of earlier in-
scriptions on stono to those made In the time of King
Cheops suggests the supposition that Iron may have
been in use more than six thousand years ago.
Again Mr. Isaiah V. Williamson has shown his
large liberality, benevolence, and good judgment. In
bestowing his giftsof money and property on worthy
and most useful objects during his lifetime. We
need not recite what has been so recently placed be-
fore our readers. The latest good deeds of Mr. Wil-
liamson are those which have just conveyed thirty-
seven acres of land, probably worth $50,000, to endow
133
OODETS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
"tree scholarships" in the Women's Medical College
of this city, and "free beds" In the Women's Hospi-
tal attached to that institution, and ground-rents to
the value of $25,000 to the Academy of Natural Sci-
ences for the purchase of scientific books to add to
its already valuable library.
icjtlflj §*parim*ttt.
TREATMENT OF POISONS.
The Successful Treatment of a Case of Poisoning
mainly depends upon the shortness of the interval
which elapses from the taking of the poison to the
exhibition of the antidote, so that here It is of the
utmost importance that there should be some guide
at hand to which the heads of a family may apply
during the anxious moments when medical aid Is
expected. The followlngare the most readily acces-
sible antidotes for the more common poisons, that
Is, those most likely to be used wilfully or by mis-
take in ordinary lite.
(1) Opium, Laudanum, and Morphia; or for the
Child, Syrup of Popples, Godfrey's Cordial, and
Other Milder Preparations of Opium.—These all
may be either taken wilfully, or be administered by
mistake, or in an overdose. The Symptoms are
great drowsiness, followed by stupor, and heavy
sleep. Sickness sometimes causes their rejection
before they have time to produce their fatal effects,
but In general when given in large doses there is
nothing of the kind. The Treatment consists in
producing vomiting, for which ipecacuanha Is too
Blow, and the sulphate of zinc is the best remedy;
for this from ten to thirty grain's should be dissolved
in a tumblerful of water and given immediately. It
generally produces vomiting in a few minutes, but
if not, the inside of the throat must be tickled with
a feather, or irritated with the finger. One or two
teaspoonfuls of sal-volatile In water may also be
administered, and the patient kept awake by any
means, however painful, walking about the room,
being the least obnoxious of any. As soon as the
stomach is cleared of the poison, which should be
encouraged by giving repeated draughts of mustard-
and-water (half a teaspoonful dissolved in half a
tumbler), a cup of hot coffee may be administered,
and the patient kept awake by walking until the ar-
rival of the medical man, who will Judge of the pro-
priety of allowing sleep; and not till then is it safe,
or at all events for six or eight hours after the poison
is rejected. Cold water dashed over the head and
down the back is a good remedy In aid of the above,
or a mustard plaster to the stomach.
(2) Belladonna, or Deadly Nightshade; Hellebore,
Hemlock, Foxglove, Laburnum-Berries, Monkshood,
Laurel-Leaves, Yew-Leaves and Berries, Arum,
called also Lords awl Ladies, Poisonous Fungi,
Wild Parsley, and Savine, are all of them at times
eaten by children from motives of curiosity, or
sometimes with more improper intentions. The
Treatment in all cases consists in procuring the re-
jection of the poison by means of some emetic, the
sulphate of zinc being the best (see 1). If this is not
at hand, mustard may be tried (see alsol), or ipe-
cacuanha in doses varying from ten grains to thirty,
suspended in water. If there is great depression as
aconsequenco of the poison (which is particularly
likely to be the caso after digitalis or laurel-leaves),
sal-volatile or brandy, or both, must be adminis-
tered. Or, if hemlock or monkshood have been
taken, strong coffee is the best remedy after the
vomiting hits ceased.
(3) Arsenic is seldom taken by accident, though
I such a thing has occurred, and may occur again, as
long as it is sold In its natural state as a white pow-
der, differing very slightly in appearance from car-
bonate of soda, or cream of tartar, or whitening. It
Is not very soluble, but sufficiently so to cause death
by moderate quantities of its solution In water.
The Treatment consists as before, in administering
an emetic, and here, perhaps, ipecacuanha is better
than zinc, especially after the first dose, as it is not
so irritating and does not increase the subsequent
inflammation of the stomach. The stomach-pump
is generally used, but when arsenic in substance has
been taken, it is not nearly so useful as a powerful
emetic Vomiting should be kept up for at least an
hour at intervals, with successive dose3 of emetics
given with plenty of fluid; which also, if possible,
should be somewhat glutinous, as flour boiled iu
water for a few minutes and diluted to the consist-
ence of thin grueL The after effects of arsenic will
always, of course, come under the treatment of the
physician, those which are described above being
only Intended to be used prior to his arrival.
(4) Oxalic Acid when taken is often swallowed by
mistake for Epsom salts, to which in appearance it
is very similar. It is a violent corrosive poison, and
causes horrible agony. The Treatment must be on
the principle of neutralizing the acid by a carbonate,
which will form an Insoluble oxalate, and this should
be administered In the shape of chalk or carbonate
of magnesia, both of which are generally at hand.
As much as can be ponred down the throat of either
of them, mixed with water, should be given, and in-
a quarter of an hour after vomiting may be at-
tempted by a dose of sulphate of zinc, as it is better
to bring up the oxalate of lime or magnesia than to
allow it to pass through the body.
(5) The Mineral Acids commonly known as Oil of;
Vitriol, Aquafortis, and Muriatic Acid are some-
times swallowed in their full strength, and, if in any
quantity, act so Immediately on the mucous mem-
brane as to preclude all chance of recovery. In
small doses, however, dilution with water In large
quantities is the most available remedy likely to be
of service, followed by carbonate of lime, magnesia,
soda, potass, or even soap. Any of these unite with
the acid, and render It harmless, but there is seldom
time for their exhibition.
(6) Phosphorous may be very probably sucked by
children who have access to the common lucifer
matches. The Treatment in such a case should be
by an emetic of sulphate of zinc, or mustard, given
as directed at (1). No time is to be lost in such a
case.
(7) Corrosive Sublimate can hardly be swallowed
by accident, except from being mistaken for some
other medicine, as its taste Is extremely pungent
and acrid. It is a very rapid and virulent poison.
The Treatment is fortunately easily managed by the
exhibition of white of egg in large quantities, giving
it without mixture with water, anil following it up
with an emetic of sulphate of zinc (see 1). The
quantity of white of eggs will only bo limited by the
capacity of the stomach or the number of eggs at
command. If unfortunately there should be none,
or only a few In the house, milk makes a good sub-
stitute, or even flour and water: but the latter Is not
to be wholly depended on. It the emetic does not
act freely, salivation is almost sure to take place, as
the corrosive sublimate Is converted Into calomel by
the albumen; against this, in addition to the emetic,
a mild dose of castor-oil should be given, so as to
carry off the poison before it Is absorbed Into the
system.
(8) Tartar Emetic and Sulphate of Zinc will gene-
LITERARY NOTICES.
189
rally effect their own removal, unless given In re-
peated doses, with a wilful Intention, to poison, and
against such a horrible practice the directions in
this hook are not Intended.
(9) Copper may be Imbibed in poisonous doses
from cooking in vessels made of this metal, or from
sweets, pickles, etc., which have been colored with
it In the Treatment, the good effect of albumen is
said to be considerable, as In corrosive sublimate j
but It should be followed by emetics, as In other
littxuxyi Motius.
From J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia: —
THE GREEN GATE. A Romance. By Ernst
Wlehert. Translated from the German by Mrs. A.
L. Wister, translator of "The Second Wife," etc.
Mrs. Wister Is especially fortunate In her selection
of German novels for translation into English. "The
Green Gate" is one of the most Interesting stories of
the season. It Is full of romance and sentiment, and
Is as lively and entertaining as many German novels
are dull and heavy. It Is certain to be a most popu-
tor book.
SIGNA, A Story. By "Ouida," author of "Strath-
more," etc. The romances of Ouida's writing are
most fascinating. There is an Intensity about them
that Inthralis the senses, while the reader is still
further charmed by the i>oetic style and the fine play
of the imagination. Nevertheless, they are written
in a morbid tone, and in no wise represent true pic-
tures ol life. Their influence upon the reader, espe-
cially upon the young reader, cannot but be perni-
cious, and their publication must be deprecated. In
"Si gna" we find the two very frequent characters of
her novels—an abnormally, unnaturally good and
innocent man, and an equally abnormally and un-
naturally bad woman.
THE ABUSE OF MATERNITY. By Elizabeth
Bison Evans. We have read this book with great
interest, and we now cordially recommend Its peru-
sal to every woman In the land. While we cannot
agree with all that Mrs. Evans says In this little
work, we yet find so much to approve of, and so little
to condemn, that we are sure its reading will prove
In the main beneficial. The discussion of subjects
such as this book treats of, is most desirable, and
whatever Is said about them, leads naturally to fur-
ther thought, which will at last result In the truth
being discovered and understood more generally
than It Is now.
From T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Phllada. :—
BERTHA'S ENGAGEMENT. By Mrs. Ann &
Stephens, author of " Mabel's Mistake," etc. Au au-
thor like Mrs. Stephens is too well known to the
reading public to need any special flourish of trum-
pets whenever she Issues a new book. Her stories
are read in mansions and cottages all over the land,
and the simple announcement that a new volume
from her pen has appeared, will cause an eager de-
mand for it.
THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN. By Sir Walter
Scott. This i3 the eighth volume of the Waverley
Novels now being Issued by the Messrs. Peterson.
ANNETTE; or. The Lady of the Pearls. By Alex-
ander Dumas.
From Hknry C. Lea, Philadelphia:—
THE OBSTETRICAL JOURNAL OF GREAT
BRITAIN AND IRELAND, INCLUDING MID-
WIFERY AND THE DISEASES OF WOMEN AND
CHI LDREN; with an American Supplement, edited
by William F. Jenks, M. D., Surgeon to the State
Hospital for Women: May, 1875.
From Harper & Brothers. New York, through
Claxton, Remsen, & Haffelfinger, Philada. :—
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH PEO-
PLE. By J. E. Green, M A., Examiner in the School
of Modern History, Oxford. With maps and illus-
trations. History Is only just beginning to be writ-
ten in a proper manner. Historians are learning
that the account of kings and their conquests is not,
after all, of so much importance, as a description of
the people, and the progress of science, ait, and the
other evidences of civilization. We are glad to be
able to announce that this book Is written In this
latter-day belief, and that in its pages the reader
will obtain a clearer Idea of the English people as a
people, than from any other work of its class which
It has been our fortune to examine. The work is
prepared with the utmost care, and the chronologi-
cal annals which precede the text will be found ex-
ceedingly useful to the student and the general
reader. The history begins as far back as the sev-
enth century, before the Danes had made a conquest
of the Island.
THE LAST JOURNALS OF DAVID LIVING-
STONE, IN CENTRAL AFRICA. By Horace Wal-
ler, F.R.p.S. With portrait, map, and illustrations.
This volume contains a record of the events In the
life of Livingstone from 1865 down to the time of
his death. The edition is a cheap and popular one,
though the contents of the work are precisely the
same as those of the library edition, published by
the same house. The work should find its way, in
one form or the other, Into every household in the
land.
MAN AND BEAST HERE AND HEREAFTER.
By Rev. J. G. Wood, M.A.,F.L.a,author of "Homes
Without Hands," etc. "I Cauna but Believe that
Dowgs Hae Sowls," Is the significant motto of this
volume. And in this belief the book is written,
while It must be confessed that the talented author
makes out quite a strong case for his brute favorites.
The Rev. Mr. Wood has an Intimate knowledge of
the habits and traits of character of animals, and,
like all familiar with them, he has become strongly
impressed with their Intelligence. The book Is the
best and liveliest of reading, not being by any means
a dry treatise on natural history, "but a connected
series of anecdotes, most of them original. It is a
volume which will suit every taste, from that of the
mature man and woman, to that of the mere child.
THE EARLY KINGS OF NORWAY: Also an
Essay on the Portraits of John Knox. By Thomas
Carlyle. Need we give anything more, in announc-
ing this volume, than the name of Its writer? If one
wishes to read a history at once authentic and inter-
esting, of a people too little known and understood,
written in the quaintest and most forcible of Eng-
lish, he can find nothing better than this "Early
Klngsof Norway." The last half of the volume eluci-
dates a portion of Scottish history.
OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR; A Winter in
Mexico. By Gilbert Haven, author of "Pilgrim's
Wallet," etc. This is a charmingly readable book,
giving us lively sketches of a country which, though
so close at hand, Is peopled by a race differing In
many respects broadly from our own, and about
whom, as well as about the country itself, we have
the most perverted of Ideas. The author knows
well how to describe the scenes Which have fallen
under his notice, and to make the narratlvo so inte-
resting that the reader regrets when the end is
reached.
100
OODEY'S LADT'8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
THESATIRESOF A FERSIUSFLACCUS. Edited
by Basil L. Glldersleeve, Ph. D. (Gottingen), LL.D.,
Professor of Greek in the University of Virginia.
The aim of this editor has been to make the student
familiar with Persius, and, as lie phrases it, " making
him less distasteful" to the reader. The notes to
the work are very full.
THE WORK OF GOD IN GREAT BRITAIN: Un-
der Messrs. Moody and Sankey, 1873 to 1875. With
biographical sketches. By Rufus W. Clark, D.D.
Not only will theologians be interested in this book,
but the student of human nature, who would know
something of it under its religious and emotional
phases, will here find much food for thought.
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. By Charles Dickens.
This volume belongs to the splendid household edi-
tion of Dickens' works, which is being issued by the
Messrs. Harper. It contains forty-eight illustrations
by J. Mahouey; but of these we cannot speak in
unqualified praise. Neither artist nor engraver
seems to have been happy In their execution.
BLUEBEARDS KEYS; and Other Stories. By
MIs3 Thackeray. We arc charmed with Miss Thack-
eray's version of Bluebeard, and think that, while it
so closely resembles, it is yet an improvement on the
old story. Miss Thackeray is fast making good her
right to be the daughter of her father.
RAPE OK THE GAMP. A Novel. By C. Welsh
Mason. A lively story, full of romance, sentiment,
and adventure.
THREE FEATHERS. A Novel By William
Black, author of "Love or Marriage," etc.- Black is
one of the most graceful and charming of English
novelists. If the illustrations, which arc quite nu-
merous, were as good as the story, we should have
nothing to complain of.
WALTER'S WORD. A Novel. By James Payn,
authorof "Carlyon's Year," etc. This is an English
novel, reprinted in Harpers' library of select novels.
From G. W. Carletoh & Co., New York, through
PoBTEtt&Coates, Philadelphia:—
A WOMAN IN ARMOR. By Mary Hartwell.
This Is evidently a first novel, yet its author gives
promise of doing good literary work in future. Her
style is finished, and her characters stand out with
a certain individuality, which is a strong feature In
the book. Its weak point is in its plot. There is
really no woman in armor whatever. Only a woman
who, in her bearing, promises much; but who, when
It comes to action, lays down all her weapons, and
leaves to time and chance to fight all her battles for
her. Then there is a wonderful lawyer, who, after
accepting a retainer from one side, proceeds, out of
the fulness of his own generous heart, to work up
his client's case in a manner opposed to that client's
interest. Miss Hartwell's next book, which we hope
may not be long delayed In its appearance, will be a
better and a stronger one.
SHIFTLESS FOLKS. An Undiluted Love Story.
By Christabel Goldsmith. This novel is by one of
the liveliest and sauciest of Americau novelists—
a woman who has already written half a dozen
stories, though she chooses in this one to make her
appearance under the name of one of her own hero-
ines. But a page or two lets out the whole secret,
and then the reader settles himself down compla-
cently to his book, knowing lie is going to have a
good time.
From Dodd & Me\d. New York, through Clax-
ton, Remsen, & Haffelfingek, Philadelphia:—
CHRISTIAN MISSIONa By Rev. Julius H-Seelye,
Professor In Amherst College. This volume is a col-
lection of lectures and sermons, all of them treating
of the subject of missions either in a general or spe-
cial way. The^ubjects selected are of importance
to the Christian world, and will bear the closest con-
sideration.
• A DOUBLE STORY. By George Macdonald. Do
our readers wish to sit down to a real poem in prose?
Then let them procure George Macdonald's last
story, whose title we have given above. It is one of
the most charming things he has ever written, and
that is saying a great deal. It is a sort of fairy story:
but it will amuse the oldest as well as the youngest
reader.
From Roberts Brothers, Boston, through J. R
Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia:—
THE GOOD TIME COMING; or. Our New Cru-
sade. By Edward E. Hale, author of "In His
Name," etc. This is a thoroughly practical story,
which has the temperance reform for its subject,
and which offers some very valuable hints as to the
proper manner In which to conduct a temperance
campaign. Mr. Hale's reputation as a story writer
is too well known to need any special eulogy.'
From Lee & Shepard, Boston, through Porter &
Coates, Philadelphia:—
WOLF RUN; or. The Boys of Vie Wilderness. By
Elijah Kellogg, author of " Elm Island Stories," etc.
OCEAN-BORN; or, The Cruise of the Clubs. By
Oliver Optic, author of " The Boat Club Series," etc.
These two books belong, the former to the "Forest
Glen Series," and the latter to the "Yacht Club
Series" of juvenile books. These books are Im-
mensely popular among the young folks.
HOLDENS BOOK ON BIRDS. By Charles F.
Holdcn. Mr. Holden Is already an authority on the
subject of birds, as bird fanciers are well aware.
This volume is a new edition, revised and enlarged,
of a former work. It gives practical directions con-
cerning the proper care of all kinds of cage birds,
with the manner of treating their various diseases
and with descriptions of cages and aviaries.
AUGUST, 1875.
Though the season is hot, and everybody away
that can get away, it lias in no wise caused us to tire
in our work of giving to our subscribers a most ex-
cellent number. Whether they are at the seaside,
the lakes, mountain retreat, or at home, the Book
| will be found rood reading, especially the first arti-
I cle, "One Summer," by M. F. Andrews. "Why
j Tolly said "No," entertainingly conveys a good les-
son. Our young friend " Alice," the niece of "Aunt
Mehitable," is sending us some interesting letters
| from her country home In Virginia; the first one we
give in this number. Then there Is the true story of
"Cinderella," " Ten Years," "Self-Exiled," and some
pretty short stories, serving to make the number, as
| we said before, good reading. The contributors, as
will be seen, are the best that the country affords.
The Weekly, published at Montezuma, Geo., says
that the Lady's Book is always on time, always wel-
come, and always attractive.
A BEAUTmn. Complexion is the result of using
Laird's "Bloom of Youth." Price, 75 cents per
bottle. Sold at all druggists. Depot, 5 Gold Street,
New York.
GOBEY'S ARM-CHAIR.
101
The following advice at this season of the year
may be of service to those who are enjoying the
luxury of the bath at Cape May and Atlantic City.
There have been several persons saved from a watery
grave by this simple plan: Have the presence ef
mind to clasp the hands behind the back, and turn
the face toward) the zenith; you may (hen float at
ease, and In perfect safety, in tolerably still water.
If, not knowing how to swim, you would escape
drowning when you are iu deep water, you have
only to consider yourself an empty pitcher, let your
mouth and nose (not the top of your head) be the
higheH part of you and you are safe. But thrust up
one of your hands and down you go.
Godey's Lady's Book.—Thin is one of the vary
oldest periodicals published in the United States,
and like a pure life, age only adds to its glory.
Everybody who wants a first-class magazine and a
good standard fashion book, ought to subscribe for
Godet's La>>y's Book.—Leader, Ciblleld, Md.
Summer and Fall Excursions.—Those of our
readers who have not yet shaken off the dust of the
city and its hot pavements, and who prefer, instead
of the seashore, the cool, leafy nooks of the moun-
tains, or the shores of the many inland lakes that
mirror our northern landscapes—to those persons
we say, call or send to 732 Chestnut Street, and get
a copy of the "Tourist's Guide," in which will be
found all needed information relative to routes
through the picturesque regions of America.
Love.—The love that survives the tomb is the no-
blest attribute of the soul. If it has woes, it has
likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming
burst of grief is lulled into the gentle tear of recol-
lection, then the sudden anguish and convulsive
agony over the present nilns of all we most loved
are softened away into pensive meditations of all
that it was in the days of its loveliness. Who would
root such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may
sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright
hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the
hours of gloom, yet who would exchange It for the
song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No; there
is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there
is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even
from the charm of the living.
Godet's Lady's Book.—This pioneer In the field
of publishing an exclusively ladies' magazine, giving
for their benefit the latest fashions and useful knowl-
edge in all branches peculiarly interesting to them,
has kept its original purity of tone and its own pecu-
liar style through the chances of many years in a
most remarkable manner.—Tribune, Exanaba, Mich.
Thet must use up an enormous number of straw
hats in Paris. We see it stated that every winter
about eight thousand straw hat makers start from
Belgium and take up their quarters iu a suburb of
Paris and form a little colony there. Most are mar-
ried, but all leave their wives and children at home
and live en garcon during their stay at Paris. Au
experienced man can make at least eight francs a
day, and, therefore, by exercising a little economy,
they can easily save thirty francs a week, or about
Ave hundred francs during their four months' stay.
Ik the Old Colony days, the duties of a schoolmas-
ter in Massachusetts were described as follows: To
act as court messenger, to serve summonses, to lead
the choir on Sundays, to ring the bell for public wor-
ship, to dig the graves, to take charge of the school,
and to perform other occasional duties.
The residents of Philadelphia have facilities for
enjoying themselves during the hot days of summer
superior to any other city. With the beautiful
steamboat ride up the River Delaware to Burlington
and Bristol, and the invigorating trips up the Schuyl-
kill, those who belong to the "Can't get aways"
have as much pleasure, or more, than some of those
who are away. It is a pleasure to see the happy
faces that throng these boats. The morning is a
good time.
The purest article Is the cheapest In the end.
Dobbins' Electric Soap (made by Crasin & Co.,
Philadelphia) is perfectly pure, snow-white, and
preserves clothes washed with it. Be sure and try it.
New Sheet Music—Our Beautiful Mountain
Home: this beautiful duet of Glover's Is Just pub-
lished in a new and handsome edition by Mr. Hollo-
way, to whom all orders should be sent to secure his
edition. Price 50 cents. A Handful of Earth, pretty
ballad by Luella, 2a I Wish I Were Single Again,
new edition of this capital comic song by Beckel, SO.
English Sparrow Waltz, by Neilson, 20. Volunteer's
Quickstep, by Karl, 30. Aureola Polka, by Cloy, 30.
Gladlola Waltz, very pretty, by Hackelton, 30.
Holloway's Musical Monthly for August is a
sprightly, pleasant number, containing music Just
suited to these warm summer mouths. Send 40 cents
to the publlsher,.or $1 for the three latest numbers,
and you will receive them by return malL Address
all orders to J. Starr Ho'.loway, Publisher, 811 Spring
Garden St., Philadelphia.
TnE household receipts, a feature never neglected
In Godey, are among the best published, while the
stories, music, poetry, and general contents are up
to the standard of magazine literature.—Republican,
Ottawa, 111.
Gambling for enormous stakes still continues in
the miniature kingdom of Monaco. At the saloon
of M. Le Blanc, an American is said to have lost re-
cently $150,000, and a Russian princess $1,503,000, at
which she went raving mad. A Scotch duke won
SC0.0O0 In less than half an hour, and lost all of that
and a great deal more before the end of the same
day. There were three cases of suicide within a
week, owing to disastrous losses. The Prince of
Monaco receives a yearly rental of $150,000 for the
saloon, and hence he Is not disposed to disturb it.
The following are the details of another case of
suttee that lately occurred in a small village near
Lncknow, India:—
"Having bathed and dressed, the suttee went to the
burning place, accompanied by her relatives and a
number of low caste Hindoos who were iu charge of
the dead body. Wood being scarce, the funeral pile
was in part constructed of other fuel, which was
heaped around the woman us she sat with the head
of her deceased husband In her lap. The pile was
then covered with straw; her nephew handed the
suttee a lighted torch, and in a moment the whole
mass was on fire. The Chowkeydar and the police-
men, when they arrived, found only a heap of ashes.
About thirty persons, Including the village headmen
and the woman's relatives, have been committed to
the sessions on the charge of having been directly or
indirectly guilty of murder."
"Seasonable weather," which in winter time
generally means cold weather, and in summer hot
weather, is very commonly supposed to be conducive
to health. It is shown, however, by the returns of
the British Registrar - General, that "seasonable
weather" always Increases the death rate, while
mild degrees of heat and cold, and consequently
"unseasonable" weather, have the opposite effect.
192
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Tiie Santa Rosa Times, of California, gives the
following account of the maimer In which the Dig-
ger Indians build their wigwams, and some of their
habits of life:-
"The wigwams of the Digger Indians are built
throughout of redwood bark, and are round in
shape, which can better be explained by saying that
they are in the shape of a bowl upside down, with i
smaller one placed also upside down on top. There
are no windows, and aside from the aperture for
entrance, which is about two feet square, and a
small opening at the top to allow the smoke to
escape, there is no opening to this conical-shaped
enclosure. To enter one of these huts, it becomes
necessary to get down and crawl in. Once Inside, a
strange sight greets the eye. The majority of both
sexes go perfectly naked, and, being scrupulously
particular, each one does his or her own cooking.
They sleep in a circle in hollow places in the ground,
with feet to the centre. Their cooking apparatus,
which consists of good-sized rocks hollowed mil, Is In
convenient reach, and the Digger need not rise to pre-
?are his breakfast. The food consists of bread made
rom acorns, which are first buried, then roasted,
then pulverized, and lastly mixed up with water and
baked. This bread Is said to be very nourishing.
Their mode of preparing squirrels, hares, etc., is to
take them Just as when killed, pound them to a Jelly,
and then roast them. Another article of food very
common with them is known as the 'flshworm.' The
Digger is an Inveterate gambler, and his principal
game is very simple, consisting of holding both hands
behind him, in one of which is a stick, while another
bets he can tell in which hand he holds it. It is
stated that they scorn cheating, and after the bets
are made never change the stick from one hand to
the other. Their money consists of little round
shells with a hole in the centre, which one of their
number Is selected to manufacture. No counterfeit-
ing is ever attempted. Each shell represents about
half a cent of American money, and Is taken by
their tribe as greedily as cold. A string of this
money can be seen at this office, and it is wonderful
how uniform these buttons can be made by simply
rubbing them on stone with the hand."
Visitors to our city should not fall to inspect the
many relics that are now on exhibition at Indepen-
dence Hall. It has been put in excellent order.
Every day adds to its attractions.
Herman, the perfume manufacturer, of Cannes,
uses annually one hundred and forty thousand
pounds of rose leaves, thirty-two thousand pounds
of jasmine flowers, twenty thousand pounds of vio-
lets, eight thousand pounds of tuberoses, and other
perfume-laden flowers in like proportion. It is esti-
mated that in the cities of Cannes anfl Nice over
twenty tons of violets are consumed. Nice alone
makes a yearly demand for one hundred and ninety
tons of orange blossoms, and Cannes for one hun-
dred and fifty tons of acacia flowers.
In the valley of Splti, which Is a monntaln-bound,
almost inaccessible place, 12,000 feet above the sea,
among the Himalaya, there are said to|livo the most
hideous women in the world. Their features are
large and coarse, the expression of their faces is usu-
ally a natural grimace, and they hang huge rings In
their noses. They dress in thick tunics and trousers,
and their heavy boots, coming above the knees, are
often filled around their legs with flour for warmth.
The French Canadian families employed In the
mills at Brunswick, Maine, have a large number of
children. There is one family which consists of
father and mother and twenty-four children, all the
children large enough being at work. The woman
is the fourth wife.- A brother of the husband living
with ills fifth wife in Montreal, has twenty-five chil-
dren! Ten and twelve and fifteen children are by
no means uncommon in the French Canadian fami-
lies, but twenty.four is a little above the average.
Books for the Fire.—Young reader—you, whoso
hearts are open, whose understandings are not yet
hardened, and whose feelings are neither exhausted
nor encrusted by the wbrld, take from me a better
riile than any professors of criticism will teach you I
Would you know whether the tendency of a book is
good or evil, examine in what state of mind you lay
it down. Has it Induced you to suspect that what
you have been accustomed to think unlawful, may
after all be innocent, and that may be harmless
which you have hitherto been taught to think dan-
gerous 1 Has it tended to make you dissatisfied and
Impatient under the control of others t and dispose
you to relax In that self-government without which,
both the laws of God and man tell us there can be no
virtue, and consequently no happiness T Has it at-
tempted to abate your admiration and reverence for
what is great and good, and to diminish in you the
love of your country aud fellow-creatures t Has It
addressed itself to your pride, your vanity, your self-
ishness, or any other of your evil propensities 1 Has
It defiled the imagination with what is loathsome,
and shocked the heart with what Is monstrous T Has
it disturbed the sense of right or wrong which the
Creator has Implanted in the human soul? If so^if
you have felt that such were the effects that it was
intended to produce—throw the book in the fire,
whatever name it may bear on the title-page! Throw
it in the fire, young man, though It should have been
the gift of a friend; young lady, away with the whole
set, though It should be the prominent furniture of a
rosewood bookcase.—Southey.
An Unfortunate Match. —The London corre-
spondent of the Liverpool Daily Post writes:—
"It Is not generally known that the Grand Duchess
Marie leads a life of dally martyrdom with her Brit-
ish husband, the Duke of Edinburgh. But Russia
knows it: and the heart of every son of Muscovy
burns In listening to the gossip current about the ill-
treatment which the daughter of the Czar receives
at home and the discourtesy shown to her abroad.
I learn this from a private letter written by an Eng-
lishman long resident In St, retersburgh. He states
that these rumors are talked of In all circles, and are
accepted by the common people as unquestionable
truth."
The Ancient Egyptians.—Dr. S. Birch, in an
entertaining sketch of ancient Egyptian history, as
deciphered from its monuments and tablets, dwells
at length upon the many proofs of the high charac-
ter of the civilization of Egypt Commenting upon
the peculiarly elevated position of women among
the Egyptians, he says:—
"In domestic life the Egyptian was attached to his
wife and children, and the equality of the female
sex with the male most marked: the Egyptian wo-
man appearing always as the equal and companion
of her father, brethren, and husband. She was
never secluded In a harem like the Asiatic lady, but
appeared In private company or public rites, par-
ticipated In equal rights before the law, served in
the priesthood, and even mounted the throne. She
was thought to have a soul the same as man, unlike
the conceptions of Islam. Her name is mentioned
In the genealogies of families. Unfortunately, the
women known In Egyptian history, or depicted by-
romance, do not bear a good character, nor is it
probable that their education was sedulously eon-
ducted, as no literary compositions or other writings
of women are known. They form, In this respect, a
striking contrast with the remarkable women men-
tioned in the Scriptures. They, however, were ac-
complished in music and some of the other arts ana
sciences. Both sexes sat at table on chairs or on the
ground; and the Egyptian never reclined like the
luxurious Assyrian or Greek while his wife sat re-
spectfully on the chair at the foot of the couch. In
i eating, the hands only were used, and the only ap-
I pliancies on the table were the bowls aud mats which
I held the viands."
aoDiar'8 arm-uhaih.
19:?
The Shrine or Mecca.—About four thousand pil-
grims, od an average, leave Damascus on tills annual
pilgrimage to Mecca. The road lies through wild
country, and all along the route the Bedouin tribes
have to be subsidized to avoid brigandage. Each
sheik has his black-mall In money or goods fixed by
immemorial custom; huge cases of goods and silver
dollars form part of the caravan; and the tax is
dropped en route with the regularity of a London
parcels delivery-cart The pilgrims bring back cof-
fee and carpets in large quantities, as well as a
certainty of Paradise, and the commercial Idea is
crowding out the religious. One or two hundred
slaves almost always form part of the merchandise
brought away from the Holy City. It Is one of the
chief emporiums of the East African slave trade, and
the market for the maintenance of the Arabian and
Persian harems. But this year there was smallpox
In Mecca, and the pilgrims did not dare to bring
away the usual supply. The trade has, of course,
been long forbidden by the Turkish Government,
but it continues to be carried on with very slight
attempt at secrecy, at any rate In Damascus. A
correspondent of the London Times writes from
Alexandria, giving a description of the return of the
pilgrims to Damascus :—
"The caravan halts for a night outside the town,
and is escorted the following morning, with much
pomp, through the streets to the Government house.
We hired a balcony on the line of march, and estab-
lished ourselves there at seven o'clock to await the
arrival of the procession. It was a bright, sunny
day, and all Damascus was out to see the sight. The
street was one mass of moving color lit up by bril-
liant sunshine. The little open shops were filled with
women and chlldre i, and looked beds of flowers.
The women made no compromise with comfort or
elegance such as one sees in Cairo, when the eyes are
always uncovered, and the veil Is of the thinnest mus-
lin. Here they wore a large white linen cloak, com-
pletely hiding the form, and a dark-colored cotton
veil, as completely conccalingthe face. They always
sat together, too, never with the men. Even a hus-
band does not recognize his wives save in the privacy
of his harem. There were some large plane trees in
the street, and boys in yellow or red cotton garments
squatted in the brandies. Just opposite our balcony
nv.is a mosque, the mosque of the Derweeshes. The
Iron-baricu windows were filled with faces, outside
on the flat roof and around the dome, women and chil-
dren occupied every cnlgne of vantage; and the steps
of the entrance were as closely packed as the gallery
of a London theatre on boxing night Everybody
was good-tempered, and a pleasant sound of talk and
laughter filled the air. Men with big brass vessels
of lemonade, covered with huge lumps of frozen
snow from Mount Ilermon, went about the crowd
clinking their brass vessels by nay of invitation, and
calling out the very words of Isaiah, 'Ho, every one
tli.it tblrsteth, come ye to the waters and drink,'
while others with large wicker trays of cakes urged
all to buy and eat in the name of the Prophet. Cam-
els, horses, and donkeys struggled through the crowd,
bringing in whole families from the country to see
the sight, and fathers with children behind and be-
fore, went gravely by on the family steed. Scarcely
anybody was armed, but every now and then a Be-
douin would pass in his white cloak—one of the guard
of the caravan—with spear slung at his back and pis-
tols and knives stuck in his girdle.
"We had two hours to wait but there was much
to look at, and the lime passed easily. The proces-
sion at length arrived. First came the Governor-
General or VValy, of Syria, in an open carriage with
out-riders. The carriage excited much more inter-
est than the occupant, as driving In Damascus is
about as novel as elephant-riding would be in the
streets of London. Next came the Commander-in-
Chief, In gorgeous uniform, and with him the Grand
Cadi, or Lord Chief Justice, In Judicial robes of green
and a huge white turban, followed by a crowd of
smaller dignitaries on horseback. All these eminent
persons were remarkable for their portliness and
gravity. If a Turk wants to rise in the world he
must get stout and cease to smile, and these good
folks had carried out this rule to the letter. Bands
played quaint Turkish music, and the crowds on
VOL. xci.—13
roof and ledge, windows, doorsteps, and ground,
looked on witli a contented smile, much as does a
pleased audience at a theatre. A crowd of camels
followed bearing the harems of wealthy pilgrims.
They carried on their backs large boxes, fust high
enough for a sitting posture, with windows at the
sides and entrance In front, much like the box that
was made for Master Lemuel Gulliver at Brobdig-
nag. The accommodation looked confined for an
eighty days' Journey, but a restless European cannot
Judge of the amount of cross -leged Immobility an
Oriental lady can endure with comfort. We could
not see the occupants of these tiny seraglios, as both
doors and windows were closed bv curtains. After
the harems came two small brass cannon which had
been dragged to Mecca and back by four weary
horses In order to signal the times of prayer and the
hours of halting and departure during the expedi-
tion. The drivers of this extensive field of artillery
were recognized by friends opposite us, and a great
kissing and hugging went on among grave and gray-
bearded men. The cannon were fired near us, and
a shout of satisfaction followed the report This ap-
plause of the cannon was the only cheering we heard.
No welcome was given to any of the authorities.
Kulcrs in the East are looked upon as necessary evils
to be borne with patience, rather than as benefits
calling for gratitude. The people will kiss the hem
of their garments, Just as some people pray to the
devil, in order to propitiate them, but they do not
cheer them as public benefactors. After the cannon
came long lines of soldiers, horse and foot; then
some wild-looking men on foot, whose theory of re-
ligion seemed to be the more they suffered on the
road the greater would be their chance of Paradise.
They wore long matted hair hanging down their
backs, they had scarcely any clothing, and thetr
faces were almost blackened by exposure to the
sun.
"Next came the great object of attraction—the
Mahmal, tho gilded case in which the Kiswch is
taken to Mecca. Over it hung a golden conopy, and
it was borne by a magnificent camel, covered with
embroidery, who, at the end of tho pilgrimage Is ex-
empted from all future work and treated royally all
the rest of his days. The people went rattier mad
over the Mahmal and Us canopy, and the attendants
had to endure much hugging. Still, there was no-
thing like the religious enthusiasm I expected over
either the Mahmal or the pilgrims. To touch this
canopy used to be esteemed an Inestimable blessing,
and Mahomet said of the pilgrim, 'God pardoueth
the pilgrim and him for whom the pilgrim lmploretli
pardon.' In the old days a mad crowd struggled
and fought to touch the fringe, and each pilgrim
was beset with the Incessant cry, 'Pray for pardou
lor me, O pilgrim 1'
"After the Mahmal came some more very holy
men,butthistimeonhorseback. Theywercstrlpped
to the waist wore no headdress, their hair was long
and matted, they perpetually rolled their heads from
side to side, and in this fashion they had gone all the
way to Mecca and back—an eighty day-.' Journey,
glorifying Allah and his Prophet Some dervishes
followed, in tall, brown felt hats and green robes,
the color Indicating their claim to direct descent
from the Prophet. They were succeeded by the rank
and file of the caravan on camels, all jammed together
In a brown, shaggy mass, like cattle on a Hamburg
boat Bands of music, cannon, cavalry, and troops
of Bedouins closed the procession."
Marbles.—The chief place of the manufacture of
marbles—those little pieces of stone which contribute
so largely to the enjoyment of boys—is at Ouersteln.
on the Nahe, In Germany, where there are large
agate mills and quarries, the refuse of which is
turned to good paying account by being made Into
small balls, employed by experts to knuckle with,
and are mostly sent to the American market. The
substance used In Saxony is a bard, calcareous stone,
which is first broken Into blocks, nearly square, by
blows with a hammer. These are thrown by the
hundred or two into a small sort of mill, which is
formed of a flat, stationary slab of stone, with a num-
ber of eccentric furrows upon its face. A block of
oak, or other hard wood, of the diametric size is
placed over the stones and partly resting upon them.
{ The small block of wood Is kept revolving while
l water flows upon the stone slab. In about fifteen
minutes the stonesare turned into spheres, and then,
being fit for sale, are henceforth called marbles.
One establishment, with but three mills, turns out
i sixty thousand marbles each week.
194
QODEY-a LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
CHILDREN'S HOME.
Drawn expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hobbs & Son, Architects, 804 JS'orth Eighth Street,
formerly of m and 811 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
Tot above design was drawn for. and the building
Is now being erected by, the Commissioners of Scioto
County, Ohio.
Such designs are organized entirely for utility and
usefulness: no extraneous appendages are added
but what become necessary. The building is treated
in the highest art of proportion by suitable ornament-
al shapes; by this process, which is entirely Amer-
ican In spirit, parties have given us the credit of
introducing simplicity and common sense into archi-
tectural structures. The practice of ancient and of
some modern architects, of adding string courses,
colonnades, false windows, chimneys, projecting
piers, balustrades, etc., for simple ornament, with-
out a particle of use, appears cowardly, expensive,
and frivolous, when viewed by intelligence of the
highest order; for whatever is seen In any building
that does but deceive the person in regard to utility
in Its structure, Is a deficiency in sense and a lack
of the highest principles of art, except In monu-
mental work, which, like poetry, conforms to rules
not admissible in prose.
The engraving gives a fair representation of the
building, hut lacks that elegance and breadth that
the liutshed structure will have.
It will cost between twenty-five and thirty thou-
sand dollars when finished, and be a standing monu-
ment of liberality and usefulness for many years. It
is not a large building, but every inch tells with force.
The people of Ohio, especially about Portsmouth,
have shown great energy in school and other build,
lngs for the comfort and instruction of the inhabit-
ants. They seek the best designs, and carry them
out with economy. The following are the dimen-
sions of the rooms.
Ground Plan—A servant's sitting-room, 15feet 6
Inches bv 24 feet; B B play-rooms, 15feet 6inches by
24feet, 16by23foet6inches: C laundry, 18by 18feet;
D drying-room, 8 by 18 feet: E bake house, 20 by 20
feet: F pantry. 9 by 15 feet 6 Inches: G kitchen, 20
by 24 feet: II dining-room, 16 by 40 feet; I lavatory,
9 feet 6 inches by 16 feet; J water-closet.
First Floor.—K parlor, 16 by 24 feet: L matron's
parlor, 10 bv 24 feet: M M school rooms, 18 by 24
feet, 20 feet 6 inches by 30 feet: N N sitting rooms, 16
by 25 feet, 16 bv 24 feet; O sewfng-room, 16 by 25
feet; P chapel, 20 feet 6 inches by 24 feet; Q matron's
room, 8 feet 6 Inches by 17 feet
GROUND PLAN.
FTKST FIXX1R.
We have always on hand copies of "Hobbs' Archi-
tectural Designs," a book of cottages, etc., which we
mail upon the receipt of 83 to any address in the
United States.
Designs furnished promptly for cottages and all
kinds of architectural structure, monuments, etc
GODEY'S ARM-UHAIR.
195
THE ORATOR'S DILEMMA.
To be wise or witty, tliat 's the question:
Whether 'tis better to please the multitude
With quips and Jokes and mirth-provoking puns.
And thus bring truth down to their common level,
Or, giving them a learned dissertation,
Assault the breastworks of their ignorance
With rapid lire of learned words and phrases,
Is a momentous question yet to be decided.
The Brat will needs provoke the comment,
"Well, surely he is not so very smart
Who merely gives us common thoughts.
Dressed In the garb of common phrase and diction.
Why, not a word was used that savored of book
learning.
And one would think, to hear him rattling on.
That he was one of us j with the same thoughts and
feelings
As other people; and only told us what we knew be-
fore
For fear we might forget It."
The second method (provided any be awake to criti-
cize).
May cause the learned, who can understand.
To nudge each other's elbows, and exclaim,
"B 's made a splurge to-day;
I think he must have breakfasted on dictionary.
With Latin salad, and a goodly dish
Of apples from the tree of wisdom for his dessert.
But had he been less temperate, and quaffed
A generous portion of the wine of wit,
Digestion would have been a deal Improved.
I wonder how the common people liked It 1"
"Oh!" quick replies a second, "I o'erheard one as I
passed,
With dreadful yawn, exclaiming to a neighbor,
Whose red eyes well explained how he had spent hte
time,
"He's smart, and every word, no doubt, was full of
wisdom.
He's smart, but wondrous dull and tiresome."
What is it to be smart? Were that magic word
But properly denned, 'twould not so oft be heard.
A person writes a sermon, long, dull, and dry.
Abounding in wisdom ana the longest words,
And straightway gains a reputation.
Everybody says, How smart!" and the poor man
On public pedestal, dare not stoop to rise a Jest
Or tell a funny anecdote for fear of losing casta.
Another still, more wittily Inclined,
Writes out a book of Jokes on all mankind.
His character established for a witty man,
He feels In duty bound, where'er he can,
To Joke and pun with all his might,
Or else he feels he disappoints the public
Considering the matter, my opinion is,
(The weight of which you must determine not my-
self).
That smartnets does not show itself
In quip and jest alone, or yet in Greek and Latin,
But is most strikingly to be acknowledged
In those, who, though they hav'n't been to college.
Accommodate themselves to any place they 're put in,
Whether to make an almanac or write a poem;
But to return. Perhaps our long digression
May furnish us an answer to the knotty question
At first propounded. Ah, now I have ft,
I '11 treat my hearers to a dish of salad,
Sound wisdom for my staple, garnished o'er
With piquant sauce of wit in plenteous store,
While other meet Ingredients shall lend their aid
To render mine a dish that cannot be gainsaid.
The wise and ignorant, in concert may partake.
Each finding something suited to his palate,
And thus with wit and wisdom skilfully combined,
1 .1 please myself, and haply all mankind.
lias. Frank Howard.
Wk have received Part I. of "A Century After,"
published by Allen, Lane, & Scott, and J. W. Lau-
derbach. There are thirteen views embraced in this
number, all of them executed in the finest style of
the arc As this work is sold only by subscription,
the public should not delay in subscribing for it.
Scperfltjocs Haib removed from any part of the
body in Jive minutes, without injury to the skin, by
Vpham's Dritlatory Powder, S1.25 by mall. Ad-
dress S. a Upliam, 26 South Eighth Street, Pliiladel-
phla. Circulars free.
Goldsboro', N. C—We take great pleasure in in-
forming our readers that the dining-house at the
above place, to which we referred in our last num-
ber, has passed into other hands. It is evident that
the change has brought about an Improvement, for
the house is now spoken of with the highest praise.
Gregory & Freeman are the present proprietors.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Undhr this head will be found all information •
connected with MSS., and answers from the Fashion
Editress.
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 particular, when writing, to mention the town,
county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be
made out of post-marks.
Any person making inquiries to be answered in
any particular number must send their request at
least two months previous to the date of publication
of that number.
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.
Miss K. L.—Sent pattern June 1st.
C. T—Sent Jet pins 1st.
Mrs. M. M. A.—Sent comb 2d.
Miss. A. B.—Sent infant's wardrobe 2d.
J. L.—Sent hat 2d.
T. B.—Sent trimmings 3d.
Miss L. H.-Sent gold cuff 3d.
Miss J. C—Sent ring, etc., 4th.
Mrs. E. H. L.—Sent braiding pattern 4th.
Mrs. R. S.—Sent collars 4th.
Mrs. L. A. A.—Sent articles by Adams' express 5th.
Mrs. C. J.—Sent silk 7th
A. C. T.—Sent pattern 8th.
M. E. M.-Sent zephyr 9th.
Mrs. W. L.—Sent trunk by Reading express 10th.
Dr. McP.—Sent Instrument 11th.
E. S.—Sent pattern 11th.
Birdie.—Sent collar 11th.
W. P.—Sent lead comb 11th.
B. D. T.—Sent chromo 12th.
Miss J. C—Sent lead comb 12th.
A. E. W.—Sent dress 15th.
Mrs. L. F—Sent rubber gloves 17th.
L. Y.—Sent pattern 17th.
H. T.—Bent gloves 19th.
L. M.-Sent jet set 21st.
C. W.—Sent handkerchief 23d.
J. C. G.—Sent zephyrs and pattern 25th.
T. U. W.—We decidedly disapprove of boyish mar-
riages.
Florence.—We cannot tell ydn the cause of the
eruption In your face; consult a doctor in preference
to purchasing the stuff you mention.
Subscriber.—Sugar, pastry, bread, butter, milk,
and potatoes are among the articles of diet persons
who are too stout are recommended to abstain from;
therefore partaking largely of them might serve you.
Cod-liver oil is considered fattening.
"The Opium Eater," accepted.
"True Until Death." no letter.
"Ultima Thule," no letter.
•'Hollyberries," declined.
"The Withered Rose," accepted. The author is
informed that the poems spoken of in note will be
published shortly.
Rose.—There is no need to give a reason for de-
clining the invitation. To well-bred people a simple
refusal Is sufficient
Florence.—Vinegar taken in excess is very bad.
It will destroy your digestion, and make you look
sallow.
Inquirer.—A red daisy represents beauty; a white
one, innocence.
Miss S. 8.—It you mean by flirting, listening to
every man who thinks he flatters you by paying you
attentions, then we should say it is decidedly wrong.
"Sixteen."—The author is informed that her MS.
was returned to her address—" Post office, Washing-
ton, D C." The Post-office Department sent It back
for the reason that you did not call for It.
Speller.—Noah Webster, the great American lexi.
cographer, died May, 27,1343.
196
QODET-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
-:tsl}i0its.
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 percentage for the
time and research required. Spring and autumn
bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes,
hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, mantil-
las, and mantelets will be chosen with a view to eco-
nomy as well as taste; and boxes or packages for-
warded by express to any part of the country. For
the last, distinct directions must be given.
No order will be attended to unless the money is
first received. Neitherthe Editor nor the Publisher
xctu be accountable for losses that may occur in re-
mitting.
DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE.
Fig. 1.—Walking dress of two shades of brown silk.
The back breadths are of the dark silk; the front is
shirred of the light silk, with a ruffle of the darker
across the bottom. Basque of the dark, with shirred
piece of the light on the front Brown chip hat,
trimmed with the two colors.
Fig. 2.—Dinner dress of light blue silk. The skirt
is trimmed with the same and a darker shade, and
garlands of flowers. Basque bodice, cut square in
the neck, with darker blue silk Inserted up the front.
Open sleeves, with puff of darker silk up the back of
arm.
Fig. 3. —Evening dress underskirt of pink silk,
trimmed with three plaited ruffles. Overskirt and
basque bodice, low In the neck, and short sleeves;
these are made of chambrey gauze striped, and are
trimmed with a scalloped ruffle of white crepe llsse
with a row of black thread lace over It The bertha
Is of the same. Hair pulled, with pink roses at one
side.
Fig. 4 —House dress. The underskirt of green silk,
the overskirt and basque of silk grenadine, trimmed
with a plaiting of the same and a band of green silk.
Silk pockets and cuffs.
Fig. 5.—Visiting dress of purple and lilac silk. The
underskirt of purple, trimmed with three ruffles.
The overskirt of the lilac, trimmed with bands of
purple with embroidery between. The basque cor-
responds with the trimming on overskirt White
chip bonnet, trimmed with the two shades of silk,
feathers and flowers.
DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET.
FmST SIDE.
Fig. 1.—Walking dress of graysllk, made with one
skirt, the front breadth being trimmed with kilt
plaiting around the bottom with puffs above, divided
by lace of the same color. Pouf in back, and sash
bows. Jacket bodice, with vest underneath. Chip
bonnet, trimmed with gray silk and pink roses.
Ktg.l—Walkingdress of brown camel's-halr. The
back breadths are trimmed with a plaited ruffle
around the edge, a shirred piece extending up the
back to the waist; the front breadths are trimmed
with one plaiting and band. Sash of two shades of
brown plaited camel's-halr, draped across the back
and fastened at left side. Basque bodice, trimmed
with fringe. Brown chip bonnet, trimmed with
feathers and silk.
Fig. 3.—Visiting dress of two shades of gray silk.
The underskirt is trimmed with one light and a dark
ruffle; puff of the dark up the back. Overskirt and
basque of the light, with trimming of the dark;
puffed sleeves. Gray chip bonnet, trimmed with
feathers and the two shades of silk.
Fig. 4.—Walking dress of black silk and grenadine.
The underskirt is trimmed with alternate plaitings
of silk and grenadine. The overskirt and basque
bodice are of grenadine, trimmed with bauds of silk.
Black chip hat trimmed with blue and black silk.
Fig. 5.—Carriage dress of lilac silk and grenadine.
The foundation of the dress Is of silk, the trimming
is of the grenadine. The plaitings and foldsin front,
the apron overskirt, and the three knife plaitings on
the back of skirt The basque is of the silk; the
sleevesof grenadine. Bonnet of lilac crape, trimmed
with crepe lisse and a feather.
Fig. 6.—Sash for evening wear, of blue silk and
white flowers.
Fig. 7.—Chatelaine with three chains. The fan is
placed In the centre, the smelling-bottle and the
watch ob either side. The chatelaine and the ap-
pendages are silver.
Fig. 8.-Dress for boy of three years, made with a
kilt skirt in the back, and the front a loose sacque.
It Is trimmed with braid and large buttons. This
style will answer for wool and wash goods.
Fig. 9.—Dress for little boy, made of striped cam-
el's-halr, with basque back and sacque front Kilt
skirt In back. The trimming Is silk, pointed across
the front and a plain band in the back.
Fig. 10.—Little girl's cfoak with cape, made of
white piqul, with a puff of thin muslin trimming it,
through which a colored ribbon Is run.
Fig. 11.—Jacket and pants for boy, made of casst-
mere, trimmed with silk braid.
F'B-12.—Ladles' morning cap, made of white mus-
lin, and trimmed with black velvet
Fig. 13.—Morning fan. This fan, which is intended
to be suspended from a chatelaine, and used as a
promenade fan, is made of black and red Russia
leather. The sticks are covered with similar leather,
ornamented' at the e'dge with a line of gold. The
edge of the top is likewise adorned with a line of
gold. The centre of the fan is moire of the same red
as the leather.
SBCOND BIDE.
Figs. 1 and 6.—Front and back view of fichu, made
of black silk, embroidered with silk and Jet The
front is like a jacket with vest outlined by the em-
broidery—the back is in the shape of a fichu with the
ends brought around and fastened at the right side.
It is trimmed all around with jet fringe.
Fig. 2.—Brown straw bonnet, trimmed with brown
silk and feathers; pink roses Inside the brim.
Fig. a—Bonnet of gray, trimmed with gray silk,
feathers, and colored wing.
Fig. 4.—Black tulle bonnet Black tulle, beaded
all over with the new Jet spangles. The crown is
soft, and Is surrounded with a garland of chrysan-
themums. A faille bow at the back. This style of
bonnet requires the hair to be short and wavy In
front
Fig. 5.—Straw bonnet The brim turns up slightly
In front, and beneath It there is a plait ng of white
crepe lisse. The top of the bonnet is covered with
violets and yellow field flowers, which fall as a trail.
Black lace bow at the back.
Fig. 7.—Sleeveless muslin basque, made of thin
muslin, and trimmed with lace and black velvet
This is worn over a silk dress.
CHILDRENS' DRESSES.
(See Engraving, Page 124.)
Fig. 1.—Littleboy'scostumein white Englishpiqvl;
short skirt Long Jacket sloped In the length, slashed
FASHIONS.
197
behind, large pocketsat the sides, sailor-collar, edged
with English embroidery, as Is also the skirt Scarf
sash in foulard, worn as low down as possible, and
loosely tied behind; the ends are bordered with em-
broidery.
Fig. 2.—Muslin frock (boy or girl). This style of
dress is known here as la robe anglaUe; It Is ex-
tremely pretty and becoming to young children, both
boys and girls. Our model Is In thick muslin and
Knzlish embroidery. Wide sash worn very low and
loosely tied behind; bows on the shoulders.
Fig. a—Little girl's costume (four years old) In
blue and white striped foulard. The skirt is bor-
dered with a small plaited flounce. Polonaise tunic
edged with same pll.vif, opeu behind, held by straps
and bows, through which is drawn the pout formed
by the back breadths of the skirt. Leghorn hat with
soft crown In blue silk, turned up on the left side,
held by a cluster of small roses.
CHITCHAT
ON FASHIONS FOB AUGUST.
As all of our fair belles are now on the wing to
seashore or mountain resorts, a few words upon
suitable travelling costumes will probably not be
amiss. Not but what hints upon travelling dresses
have befoie been given; but as our readers are con-
stantly being increased, we will notice the latest
fashions In these for the benefit of our new as well
as old subscribers.
Charming travelling dresses are made of beige ma-
terial, combining the two kinds, plain and checked,
in the following manner. The skirt is made of the
p'.ain material. It is trimmed with a deep gathered
flounce, edged with a band of comai/n-checked
beige, about the width of three Angers. The flounce
is headed with a broad bias of checked material,
drawn Into very One gathers. There are at least
five rows of gathers. The square tabller and Louis
XV. paletot are trimmed with a similar band of
gathered checked stuff. For travelling dresses,
there are also polonaises with redlngote revers and
two rows of buttons, very much like the cache-pous-
sllre of last year. Beige material is always chosen
in preference to any other for this particular use.
In fact. It is the most desirable goods for travelling
purposes, as It does not show dust, and is not easily
rumpled.
The Ulster or travelling cloak, Introduced this
spring for ladles, Is being copied by those who have
long redingotes left over from last season. Those of
gray wool or linen are most often altered Into Ul-
sters. The fronts may be left single or double-
breasted, according to fancy; a pointed hood or a
square collar, deep In the back. Is added; the skirt
is very slightly draped, and a loose belt of the ma-
terial Is worn buttoned in the back, or else buckled.
This Imitates the new garment very well.
Grenadine veils, which are the kind most gene-
rally used for travelling, are very long, and are ar-
ranged in the fashion adopted for tulle veils last
cummer. The middle of the veil Is passed smoothly
over the face, the ends are crossed behind the head,
then brought to the front, and tied under the chin.
Blue, cream color, and white are the most used.
Next comes morning dresses for country wear;
these have mostly been made of white or colored
wash goods, the colored ones being generally worn
over a solid colored skirt; they are made somewhat
In the polonaise form. One of gray linen Is trimmed
with deep bands of the same material, embroidered
In broderle Anglalse with white cotton. These
binds are headed with bias bands piped with white.
The trimming is disposed so as to form In front a
thrice repeated pointed tabller. The upper row
continues all around behind, simulating a deep
basque. A band of embroidery forms around the
neck, a ruff open en couer in front. The sleeves
have revers edged all around with the same band.
Another Is made of tern batiste. A bias band of
tcru and maroon checked percale heading a plait-
ing of tern forms the trimming. It surrounds the
neck, comes down the front, the plaitings meeting
each other, to the knees of the skirt, which it trims
all around. This arrangement o( the trimming
simulates an open skirt over an underskirt. The
waistband Is made of the checked percale. The
sleeves have round revers, trimmed to correspond
at the top. Cambrics, linen, and plqul are all
trimmed with what is called In Paris English em-
broidery, which is the very open work now so very
fashionable. Navy-blue linen Is de riguerer for
summer wear, just as black Cashmere for the winter
season. Every Parisian aud American lady has in
her wardrobe at least one navy-blue linen dress,
more or less trimmed. The most simple consist of a
skirt bordered with a deep plaiting, and a double-
breasted polonaise fastened with large mother-of-
pearl buttons. Other blue linen skirts are trimmed
with narrow flounces, each one ornamented with
three rows of fine white braid; the polonaise Is
trimmed with white braid, five or seven rows being
arranged all around it. Occasionally a tabller and
jacket take the place of the polonaise. In others
English embroidery is used for edging both flounces
aud polonaises, but the newest blue linens are em-
broidered both In the flounces, and to simulate a
plastron In front and at the back of the bodice. Irish
guipure, braiding, and lent cambric are also used
for ornamenting these popular blue costumes.
Hats are now very much worn; not hat bonnets
only, but actual hats. They are certainly much
more sensible for wearing during the warm summer
months than are the bonnets hanging partly down
the back, so far are they put off the head. High
crowns and coarse straws are still worn, though the
crowns are all slightly lower, and nearly all the
brims turn up, either In front or at the side; chip
and straw are the .favorite materials. The Mer-
chant shape is a good aud useful one, not very high
In the crown, but turned up just In front, bound
with black velvet, and having a ribbon bow and
rose. The Don Juan is a coarse straw, also turned
up In front, but more decidedly forming a sort of
coronet. The Venus Is even more becoming, worn
quite upon one side of the head, where It Is turned
up, and has the feather coming across the forehead.
The newest forms, such as the Gypsy, really do shade
the face, without having a broad brim, and heath
and ivy leaves are introduced upon them. A nov-
elty, too, is what Is called the Rutland Plaid, alter-
nate rows of brown and white, and a great deal of
fine straw is used. Indeed, It would be almost Im-
possible to devise more coquettish headgear than
the hats now worn.
We notice sets of collars, cuffs, neckties, and
pocket-handkerchiefs, all embroidered In dark blue,
Icru, ana similar neutral tints to match. Turn-
down linen collars, opening wide at the throat, are
the newest shape, and to wear with these bands of
velvet are Introduced to fasten closely around the
throat with a brooch in the form of a fly, or a long
spray of metallic flowers. Close-fitting black or sil-
ver bands are also worn. Various quaint devices
are used for studs, such as hooks and eyes, willow
pattern plates, screws, and pretty designs In enamel.
Ruffs for the throat proving such an expensive
fashion, long narrow collars and cuffs in finely-
worked muslin, headed by dainty quillings of lace.
193
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
are worn to some extent In their place. A very
tasteful little trine Is a sort of collarette of lace and
any colored ribbon, Intended to be worn with and
below linen collars. It describes a polut of lace in
front with a bow; there is another bow at the side,
and it ties with a bow in the back.
The neckties for out-door wear are particularly
new and becoming. They are made wide and full,
of muslin, net, or crlpe liase, and are tied In a sailor's
knot, the one end which slips through being much
shorter; and both are trimmed with three rows of
either white or black lace; the fulness of these ends
Is the becoming part of them.
On most full dress occasions muslin Helms are
worn, and we would specially recommend those
made in folds, edged with a double frill of lace, the
ends crossing and tying at the back; they give a very
dressy appearance at a small cost.
Caps continue to be as much worn, and we have
seen some remarkably pretty designs, two particu-
larly pleasing us. One a sort of half handkerchief of
muslin, edged with lace standing up high In front.
The other, of the same materials, with a cockscomb-
like plaiting at the back, which was new and stylish.
We would also particularly notice a few muslin
dresses and tunics seen. One, the pinafore polo-
naise, in clear muslin; it slips over the head, and has
a plastron of lace Inserted at the neck; without
quite fitting the figure, it is so transparent that It
displays it admirably. It forms a handsome lace-
trimmed tunic In front, and at the back Is grace-
fully draped, the ends crossing to the front and tying
at the side. For full dress occasions, either over
white or colored skirts, it would scarcely be possible
to select a more distinpitt dress. A white cambric
dres3 and skirt, covered with fine French embroid-
ery and real Valenciennes lace, described a double
tunic in front, with f raise of lace at intervals. And
lastly, a bodice and tunic of Valenciennes lace and
insertion, the basque of the bodice at the back being
made deep, with pockets at the side of the back
basques.
There Is no doubt that ladies' dresses are made
every month more and more close fitting, and the in-
genuity that was brought to bear only a few years
ago on expanding skirts, is now employed in con-
trivances to cause them to cling tightly to the figure.
Bands of elastic and strings of all lengths and widths
are now fastened Inside the skirt In order to reduce
its expansive tendency as much as possible. Sitting
down In a dress of the latest fashion is almost an im-
possibility, that Is, if sitting down means placing
yourself straight and in the centre of a chair, and
walking Is not always easy of accomplishment.
Perching sideways on the edge of a chair or sofa
seems the nearest approach to sitting in these days
of tightly tied back drapery; and yet, uncomfortable
as they are, the long, narrow trains confined with
elastic have a very graceful appearance.
Embroidery on dresses continues as popular as It
has been; this Is one of the few fashions that cannot
be made common by being duplicated in poor mate-
rials. The straw and mother-of-pearl on net are the
newest varieties of this work. The foundation is
'coarse net, either black or white, and two widths
of bordering are sold for a single dress. On the
wider border this Is for the skirt or tablier; a gar-
land of flowers is embroidered in straw, the velnlngs
of the leaves being put in with dark brown chenille;
the centres of the flowers and the buds are copied
with stars and leaves of mother-of-pearl, which are
particularly novel and pretty. The mother-of-pearl
Is thin, merely a flake, and each piece Is sown down
with a tiny crystal bead. The narrower border Is
for the bodice, and exhibits the same design In min.
iature dimensions. The straw glistens, and the pearl,
with Its iridescent hues, renders this embroidery
exceedingly handsome. Another style consists of
sprays of flowers worked in Icru tints of glossy silk
across a net foundation, and between the sprays
black passementerie, thickly studded with steel and
gold beads. The effect Is rich and handsome in the
extreme.
The fashion of covering bodices and tabliers with
rows of braid that follow the contours of the gar-
ment, and are also so close together that they almost
hide the foundation, is one that finds much favor.
Each row terminates with a loop of braid, and this
forms a pretty edging to the jacket, and finishes it
so well that it requires no additional trimming. This
style of ornamentation Is admirable when carried
out with Breton braid to match the beige or Cash-
mere which it trims. But Worth, the great Paris
dressmaker, makes demi-toilets of a more preten-
tious character, which are also eminent successes.
He uses navy blue Indian Cashmere and fine silver
braid: the cuirass bodice Is covered with so many
rows that the Cashmere Is scarcely discernible. A
large bow of navy blue silk Is added at the basque, and
there Is a very long tablier fastened below the waist
with two large blue silk bows. No less than three
tabliers are simulated upon this with silver braid
and white silk fringe. By the way, the long tabliers
reaching to the feet look very bare and unfinished
unless others are simulated on it with ruches, bands,
or fringe of some description. The cuirass has no
sleeves, consequently the tablier and bodice can be
worn over either a blue silk or a black silk skirt,
trimmed with plaiting*. The sleeves can be tacked
Into the cuirass according to the skirt worn at the
time. Navy blue braided with black is easier to
wear, but It Is less novel. Black braid is made of
Que mohair, but white braid is always silk. Brown
braid Is much used on brown dresses, and no color
is more convenient for dusty days.
Plaited waists have gained rapidly In favor since
the warm weather has become settled. Instead of
being formed entirely of plaits, even under the arms,
it is the fashion now to have but three, or at most
four, plaits in each back and front, turned towards
the middle and meeting there. This leaves the seam
on the shoulders, and the part of the waist beneath
the arm plain.and less bunglesome than when plaited
as formerly. A drawing string Is added in the back
to be concealed by the belt The plaits extend to the
end of the basque part, which is now quite long.
These waists are being made of silk, wool, grena-
dine, linen, and percale. Sometimes they are part
of costumes, sometimes they are designed to wear
with various skirts. One made of gray silk of light
quality lined with thinner white silk, has narrow
black thread lace laid down each plait This will be
worn in the house with black, gray, brown, or blue
dresses. The plaits should not extend beyond the
neck of the dress, as It Is difficult to make them meet
on the shoulders.
Ladles who object to fully shirred sleeves for street
suits, have a pretty roundness given to the sleeve by
making It long and drawing It up slightly by a thread
In each seam. The modiste adjusts the sleeve to the
arm by this thread, fastens It, and by this simple
means a very good effect is obtained.
The most stylish designs for the back of basques
have two side bodies, with one long side form seam
extending up to the shoulder, and the other going
Into the armhole. Small knife plaltings set on below
the waist finish the back of the basque. Sleeves are
almost tight and have several small knife plaltings
turned toward the hand.
Fashioh.
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK ADVERTISER.
CHENEY'S AMERICAN SILKS,
These Silks are made in the most approved manner, and are GUARANTEED to surpass in
WEIGHT, FINISH, and DURABILITY any that can be obtained at corresponding prices.
Ladies are especially requested to ask to see the full variety of these Silks before purchasing
any others, which are now offered at all the leading Dry Goods Stores throughout the country.
VIOLET TOILET WATER,
CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT.
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F
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C3 IV.'
SEPTEMBER.
Look at the Splendid Chromo Premium given to every
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VOL. XCI
No. 543
To Subscribers for 1875.
One copy, one year . . . . $3 00 copy to the person getting up the
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--~ - rit. ax A. A tempo.
its beau - ties fled - way. Bright assum - mer's
a reed mark'd for de - cay. Bright assum - mer's"
fair - - est ros - es, And s fleet - ing,
fair - - estros - es, And s fleet - ing,
And as fleet - ing, too,
And as fleet - ing, too,
:
th
ey
H
+
#
-
==
#
SLEEWELESS BASQUE.
MADE of Cashmere, braided on net: they are very stylish and fashionable worn over a silk dress.
220
GODEY'S
Jaftp loch anb $f agawtt
VOLUME XOI.-NO. 543.
PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1875.
ODDS AND ENDS.
FROM AN OLD JOURNAL OF MRS. MARSDEN'S.
BY MRS. HOPKTNSON.
CHAPTER I.
August 6an!" I said. "And is he
dead?"
She looked up radiant. "Why, you knew
them? Yes, they're both dead. If I'd gone
there, if I could have gone to them instead of to
Aunt Eliza's/1 'd been there this minute. I 'd
always have stayed there. It was pleasant,
and we had books and papers, and rode about;
and there was something to do and to see once
in a while. I was there once for four weeks."
"And now tell on; what is your name?"
"My name, really and truly, is Loi3 Morris.
My mother's name was Lois Hammond, and
my father was Deacon Josiah Morris. They
are both dead, and I was all there was, so I
was sent, when I was fourteen, to Aunt Eliza's
to live." Here she suddenly changed her
voice and manner to one theatrical and comi-
cally pompous. "But my-name on the bills il
Louise de Montmorenci, and I come straight
from Madame Ltngari."
"I see. You have been with some actors, is
It? Take your own time about telling me.
But you should not have run away. You
should have left them fairly."
She dropped her eyes. "I don't think I
could have left madame fairly. She needed
me, and wanted me to stay, and she knew
about—about—this person. She had been very
kind to me, but she wasn't the sort of woman
to look out for me. He wanted me to go away
with him from madame's. When he left me
Thursday, I watched my chance and got into
the Buffalo stage just as it started. I had
money enough to pay my fare, and I knew a
dressmaker here when the company came
through before. She told me some places to
look for work, and just as I passed by the
Buffalo House I saw nim on the corner. I
started on the run, and into the house; but lie
came after me. You know the rest."
"You poor hunted thing!" I said.
"Yes, but I feel safe, so safe now I I couldn't
bear to change my name, my own name I 'd
been baptized by, and said at first I wouldn't.
It seemed somehow to deny the family Bible—
and my father a deacon and all—but Madame
Lingari said "*Lois Morris' was out of the
question, and wouldn't run two nights, and
that all actors changed their names; so I finally
consented,, and I felt afterwards as if father
and mother would rather I had changed it, for
I don't suppose they approved of theatres."
By little and little I learned much from the
girl's artless communications. I knew enough
of the places and names she mentioned to be-
lieve she told the truth, and I had been too
much in the country par excellence (which
means a place where houses are specked about
on hills half a mile from each other) not to
guess at the oppressive loneliness that must
have hung over this young creature. At her
aunt's house, like many girls of her age, she
was kept at "chores," as they are called,
which word means all kinds of domestic duties;
but she was without society of her own age, or
that love of nature which might make such a
life endurable. I saw she was not only what
she represented herself to be, but more than
that, she was the genuine growth of a peculiar
social condition that obtains nowhere but in
the very small and sparse population of a New
England town.
She resumed her story. "Why, I was so
dreadful lonesome at Uncle Jonas's! If it
hadn't been for Shakspeare and Dante, I
should have been worse off, though. These
and Homer's Iliad were all the company I
had, and Uncle Jonas never read anything but
Scott'sBible ; nor Aunt Eliza, neither. Never '."
"That was odd, too, for a farmer to have
the best English, Greek, and Italian poets in
his library; and not a literary man, }'ou say?"
"Never opened a book but Scott's Bible;
i nor his wife, either. A peddler left the
books to pay for a sickness he had at Uncle
Jonas's. But it was those books that kept me
alive. And when a strolling company of actors
came to Barton, I was just wild to go there
and see them act Othello and the Forty
Thieves. Aunt Eliza wouldn't hear to it, nor
uncle. I don't think you can guess how dull
it was, there in Surry. There was nothing
going on for young folks, and I just eat my
own heart out for want of some pleasant com-
pany. I used to think it was worse than
Ugolino sometimes. Can you think how dull
a life this was for three or four years? Now
don't think it was strange if I did run away."
"Poor child!" I said, very sincerely.
"I wrote a few lines to leave on my table,
like Charlotte Temple, so they needn't think
I'd made away with myself, and said I was
ODDS AND ENDS.
225
tired living in Surry, and thought I might get
work as a tailoress, or to keep a district school,
and then I just set off and walked over the
hills to Barton. At last I got to the Phoenix
Hotel, and asked to see Madame Lingari; and
when I told'her I had walked seven miles to
see Othello played, she gave me a seat in the
l>est part of the hall, and afterwards insisted
on my having supper with the actors. She
said afterwards she saw both Desderaona and
Juliet in my face that first evening, and made
np her mind to persuade me to join thp troupe
If she could. I could repeat Juliet's part, and
Desdemona's, too, by heart, and it took very
little talk to make me join them. I thought
Madame Lingari a very good woman."
"Is she an Italian?"
"Oh, dear, not A Connecticut woman. But
she ran away with Lingari. lie did the danc-
ing and singing. I don't think now they are
either of them good, but they wero friendly to
me, and paid me every week what they thought
I earned. It wasn't any trouble to me to act, for
I had Miranda and Juliet at my tongue's end,
and was never so happy as when I was acting."
"Now tell me, who is this young man who
pursues you; is it one of the actors?"
Lois looked down and blushed. "Oh, no,
ma'am I But he kept along with us from Troy.
He came behind the scenes at Utica and Troy,
too, and when I came off the stage he said he
would be Ferdinand to my Miranda. I could
not bear the sight of htm. He was insulting
to me, and when I told Madame Lingari about
him she only laughed; so from that time I
looked out for a chance to leave them. I don't
know what I was afraid of."
"His manners were unsuitable?"
Lois blushed again very charmingly. "I'd
been well brought up, and I didn't like the free
and easy way of any of the actors; but this
young man, his name is Randolph, was a very
wild fellow, madaine said, and that I need not
think he would marry me, he would begin and
end with love-making. And so—lately I've
been in real terror for fear he would carry me
off, or something, like Clarissa Harlowe"-r-
"Oh,.don't trouble yourself about him 1 If I
had known how very little he was to be feared,
I would never have hidden you under my green
calash. Why, child, these are not the days of
Clarissa Harlowe; you need not be in the least
fear. These are days of law and policemen."
"Bnt you saw what a passion he was in, and
he was hunting and pursuing me!" said poor
Lois, looking quite ashamed now. "What
could two poor women do against him?"
"DoI I should ring for the hotel-keeper,
and have the young man taken away from my
room, which is my castle."
"And we needn't be a bit afraid?"
"Not a bit."
She drew a deep breath. "Oh, my! I 'm
too happy I"
vol. xci.—15
As thoughts go faster and further than the
most untiring of feminine tongues, so while
Lois added a hundred minute particulars to
her relation, I had kept up a parallel line of
wonder at the singular march of events that
had brought this young girl's life in juxtaposi-
tion with my own, and at a point where I might
indulge my interest in her. Her character had
a certain flavor of originality that was delight-
ful to me. It was just the relish that my life
wanted. A vacancy was ready to be filled.
But for a few moments I hesitated. This was
a parting of the ways. I might bid her good-by,
with five dollars to pay her fare to Surry; or I
might take her to my heart and say, "Be my
friend, my companion I let me be to you a
mother, and be you to me a daughter." Or,
suppose I drop her out of my own future.
Shall I feel her loss much, if at all. If she
were plain instead of pretty, for instance; if
she had right red hair and a snub nose; if her
eyes were not soft brown with long lashes; K
her figure were stocky instead of lithe; if—if
she had not the gentle charm of simplicity and
this odd sort of culture united.
My poor waif had so many charms, and was
in such evident dread of her old empty life at
Aunt Eliza's, that by the time she came to a
pause, I was ready to ask her, even from mere
compassion, if she would "like to go on with
me to Niagara as a companion?" This was
the way I compounded with my caution and
my impulses.
"Ohl I'm no company for anybody," she
innocently answered.
I coujd not very well define the word, which
has so far diverged from its original definition,
as to express the direct contrary of its proper
meaning.
"I call it companion by way of defining your
duties, which will be mostly looking after me,
and seeing that my umbrella and bandbox are
not left behind. Do you think you would like
that? Of course I shall pay your expenses,"
I added, carelessly.
Lois rose and went to the window. The
moon was riding high and clear, and the long
summer twilight was hardly ended. When she
turned to me again, her eyes were filled with
tears. "How good you are to me! if I can
do anything to pay my way till I get steady
work."
"You can go on with me to Boston, and by
and by we will see what can be found for you
to do. You were never at Niagara, of course?"
I inquired, by way of diverting her emotion.
"Oh, dear, no! though I lived only nine
miles away from it, on Ladd's Island, for five
years. Father talked sometimes of going, but
we never went. We used to think we would,
some time."
"I don't know as you will like it. But we
will try."
So we did try. And whether the Ideality of
226
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Lois confined itself to human varieties of cha-
racter, or whether custom took away the edge
of appetite for the picturesque, certain it was,
she was not impressed particularly with the
wondrous cataract. At the time of our visit
there was only one hotel near the American
fall, which we soon left for the Cataract House
on the Canadian side. Very few visitors were
on either side, and by walking a hundred steps
in any direction, one might be alone with na-
ture hi an aspect profoundly wonderful, how-
ever varied. And as no painting can represent
these aspects, so no description can convey
much towards an adequate idea of them. The
sound, and the continuity of the sound, is far
more impressive than the shape, color, or
amount of water; so that sometimes I thought
that a blind man would most distinctly feel its
sublimity; he might fancy, perhaps, both color
and form.
"It is very handsome," said Lois, after we
had watched the emerald infinitude pour stead-
ily over the brink of the Horseshoe, until the
temptation was almost irresistible to go over
with it.
"I think even your friend Shakspeare would
hardly find a word for it, Lois. Certainly,
handsome doesn't express it." Yet at times
beauty was the only true word to use, and no
phrases, no epithets added clearness to its
meaning. Not even "supernal," which I have
heard applied.
Looking at Lois's placid face on some of
these days, when air, light, color, sound, and
motion combined to fill the soul, I wondered at
her quiet indifference. Then having puzzled
a while, I said to myself, "It is like having a
very moderate musical sense—one to which
the raptures of Beethoven are only a tickling
of the ear-drum. She just hasn't a sense of
the picturesque." And I remembered that the
broad slopes of Surry and Waipole hills had
• never entered into any of her relations of her
country life, and yet the scenery on that part
of the Connecticut was both bold and striking,
and full of picturesque variety.
"You don't care much for scenery, Lois?"
"Scenery I No, I hate it. I mean the thea-
tre scenes I That wasn't what you meant. But
no, I don't think I mind," she answered.
CHAPTER II.
I see now that it was well I did not decide
on adopting Lois, though I lay awake many
hours of many nights considering the pros and
cons of such a proceeding. The more I saw of
her the more I liked her; but not for myself.
Her youth, her ignorance, the odd dispropor-
tion of her culture, made her society, after the
first few days occupied in discovery and inspec-
tion, really tiresome to me.
"Have you thought what you would like try-
ing to do, Lois?" I inquired. Those were the
old days when there were no stores for girls to
tend, nor telegraph offices, nor places in the
Treasury for women; none of the hundred and
one avenues which are opened to them in these
times. Lois might keep a district school in the
summer, and she might do sewing of some sort
in the winter. Housework did not pay so well
as either of the other branches of labor, though
it was quite as respectable. Somehow, I didn't
like to think of Juliet making pies or Desde-
mona sweeping the entries. But Juliet relieved
my mind at once.
"The one thing I can do best is to get a
'boiled dish'" [by which she meant an infinite
variety of vegetables, with a piece of salt pork
for seasoning], "and I do love children. If you
can find me a good place where I can do cook-
ing and housework, I shall like it."
Professor Blot himself could not have spoken
with more unction and glow on the methods
and arts of his profession, than my fair Mi-
randa.
She clasped her small, beautiful hands to-
gether, and rolled up her lovely brown eyes.
"Now, just let me make you one baked Indian
pudding I and let me show you how salt fish
ought to taste I I can really make fish-balls so
they'll melt in your mouth."
"Well, well, I will think about it."
Lois left me to think, but my thoughts were
not satisfactory. Nature had been so at odds
with circumstances in the making of Lois, that
it seemed hopeless to try to harmonize the two;
unless one would say she was essentially a
wild-flower, which would not bear nor endure
cultivation without loss. Single petaled, with
the delicate grace of the sweetbrier, she had
her own special charm; but put the eglantine
into the hot-house, double her petals, deepen
her color, she is another and not so fair a flower.
Fortunately events arranged themselves so as
to take Lois's destiny out of my embarrassed
hands, which was a great relief to a person so
puzzled and conscientious as myself.
The Sunday following our last conversation
was extremely wet and rainy, insomuch that
even a walk from Higli Street to Trinity
Church was not agreeable to me; but Lois
went bravely off by herself. On her return
she tapped at my door, but Continued on the
outside, though I said repeatedly "Come in I"
Then I opened the door.
"Why, what's the matter, child?" I asked.
Lois stood outside with her bonnet on, laugh-
ing in an hysteric fashion, and covering her
face with her two hands to hide her blushes.
"Come in, you goose I" I said, encouragingly.
And then the goose told me what had flut-
tered her wings so. A man whom I call in
these pages • Loammi Porter had come from
church with her, and then and there, under
the favoring influences of a wet umbrella, had
urged her to become his wife.
ODDS AND ENDS.
227
"What I a perfect stranger?"
"Dear! dear! I've known him this ever so
long, and he me, only we never spoke together
till yesterday."
"Known him? Not ranch, I think."
"Why, yes, I used to see him every Sunday
across thameeting-house, and ho always looked
right steady at me. I knew he liked me. But
it was accident yesterday. He used to team
from Surry to Boston constant. Now he wants
me to have him and go West."
There it was, all said in half a minute.
"And you, Lois—what will you do?"
She was quiet now, and had ceased blushing,
but had an earnest, womanly look on her face
I had not before seen.
"He says—he will be good to me, and—I
think—lean help him."
True to her New England instincts, the girl
had no demonstrations to make. If she was
to marry him, the rest was understood, and
her silence was eloquent.
"What is this Mr. Porter? and what has he
to offer you besides himself?" 1 asked, with
some impatience.
"Not much. He's done teaming, and has
got a chance out West. He told me to tell
you about it, and he wants to be married Wed-
nesday morning, and start right off for Cincin-
nater."
After a little more discussion of ways and
means, in all which Lois showed a thrifty
common sense beyond her years, we concluded
that Wednesday was a good day, and I said I
would be glad to see Mr. Loammi Porter at
tea.
Mr. Porter proved to be good looking, and
had good manners, with a "self-respecting
slowness, disinclined to win me at first sight."
He waited until Lois left us together, when,
in a few well-chosen words, he expressed his
grateful appreciation of my goodness to the
girl, whom, it seems, he had admired at meet-
ing-house distance for months, and had suffered
great anxiety on account of her strange and
sudden departure. Meeting her unexpectedly
in the street, he had lost no time in deciding
his own fate.
"I think, ma'am," he said, "nobody could
look at her without seeing she is the most in-
nocent"—
Here his voice faltered, but I replied, cor-
dially, as I felt about her, and told him I was
"sure she was a good girl, and would make
him a good wife."
"A good wife is from the Lord," he said,
simply; and this, too, was expressive.
I liked what lie said, and what he refrained
from saying. Mr. Porter not only looked
well, but his face had character and promise
in it. His blue eyes opened with a certain
strength, as if he saw what was before him in
the world, and was quite able to cope with and
struggle for either prizes or defeats. It was a
typical New England face, more at home with
nature than with cities, and without the keen,
harassed look one sees in the crowded streets,
yet capable and firm. I felt sure, looking at
him, that he would take excellent care of Lois,
and make his way somehow. He had, too, in
a certain quiet simplicity and absence of pre-
tense, "the making of a gentleman" in man-
ners, although he certainly ate with his knife
at that period of his manners.
He explained his worldly condition to me,
which was prosperous—not so much actually
as prospectively, and handed me, in conclusion,
several written testimonials of his good charac-
ter, with which he was provided.
There was short time for preparation; suffi-
cient, however, for me to give the girl a taste-
ful and suitable outfit, and I had great pleasure
in having her married by my own bishop, and
in giving her away. As she stood before the
altar in her neat travelling dress, clad with
"shamefacedness and sobriety," and with her
soft, confiding eyes fixed on the bridegroom,
she made a lovely picture; and when I glanced
at Loammi, I seemed to see in his good face an
assurance that Lois had chosen a better part
than if she had accomplished even a milliner's
trade. At all events, her destiny was out of
my hands, and after seeing them into the
stage-coach, and after a few tears on both
sides, I took a good nap, drew a long breath,
and experienced a sense of real relief. I ought
to add that I hadn't been asked for a solitary
contribution since my return, and my heart
•was light in proportion.
A very commonplace ending, if this were
indeed the end. But to Lois it proved to be
only the beginning. She had made her first
start in life, got fairly out of Surry, and the
world was before her. The married' pair soon'
afterwards left Cincinnati, and went farther
back to Illinois, and then to Missouri. From
there Lois wrote me several letters, with ac-
counts of their Western life, with its curious
mixture of social opportunities with general
privations. I could see that Lois had accumu-
lated a fund of broader ideas, which she ex-
pressed simply and easily. They saw a groat
many Eastern people. They counted Wash-
ington Irving among their friends, and he had
stopped at their house a week on his way from
Astoria; and the names of Daniel Webster
and Henry Clay were household words. I
could very well understand that Lois would
make her table and family circle most accepta-
ble and charming in those remote regions, so
that, putting this and that together, I was not
much surprised when I received a letter, ten
years after her marriage, which I will tran-
scribe as a specimen of her epistolary ability.
Astor House,
New York, April nth, 183—
My Dear Friend: We have been in tins
city for the last ten days, making the necessary
223
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
preparations for going to Europe, and always
till now hoping that there would be time for a
day or two in Boston. I regret Inexpressibly
that we must give up our little visit. How I
wish I could show you my five children 1—my
two Hoosiers and my three Suckers. But the
time will come. I suppose you may have
heard that my husband is appointed Minister
to Spain in place of Mr. ;so now you
may expect to hear all about the Alhambra,
and the Escurial, and such things, and I will
certainly make a point of looking up all the
scenes immortalized by Don Quixote. We are
to go by way of England and France, and my
next letter will give you my impressions of
European courts. You cannot be more sur-
prised than I am at this appointment of my
husband's. It was very sudden. 1 feel half
the time like the "little woman who went to
market, eggs for to sell "and wonderingly ask
myself "If I be 1?" Here we go up, up, up!
When we come down, may it be on something
as fresh and charming as would be the rocks
of New England to your always affectionate
friend Lois M. Pobter.
My friend was as good as her word, and her
descriptions of high life at what was at that
time the most ceremonious court in Europe,
were full of a racy interest that belonged only
to republican eyes. At home, as the wife of a
prominent man and Senator in Congress, Mrs.
Porter had taken her place easily in Washing-
ton society; and if there had been any want of
finish in hex speech or manner, she had had
sufficient countenance among the numerous
shortcomings about her in the democratic
capital.
"How I should get along among kings and
queens," she wrote, "I did not know; but we
did wonderfully well, considering. At the
English Court we entrenched ourselves in
official dignity, and put on the typical North
American apathy, both of which cover a mul-
titude of sins; and in foreign court assemblies,
any errors of etiquette are easily pardoned on
the ground of unfamiliarity with the language;
and then not much is expected of republics,
you know."
Some of my Boston friends who visited Spain
at this period told me how proud they were,
"on the whole," of our representation at the
Spanish Court. Any occasional errors or
lapses of grammar in which Loammi indulged
were pardoned as "Americanisms," and Mrs.
Porter's fair beauty made a great impression.
Lois had evidently taken on all the dignities
and refinements of her position with the same
readiness as she had trod the boards as Desde-
mona; indeed, she probably felt far more at
her ease among the Dons and Infantas than
she would have felt in some circles at home.
The brilliant Spanish career of Mr. and Mrs.
Porter was terminated in a year or two by a
change of dynasty at Washington. There was
an unprecedented shuffle of the political cards
on the accession of President Jackson, who set
his successors the example of taking good care
of ona's friends first of all. Consequent on
this sudden recall, Lois, with her deposed
spouse and children five, drove np one fine
morning to my door on High Street.
I never should have known her figure, which
had changed in a little more than ten years to
an amplitude and even height that altered her
whole style of movement and presence; so
much so that the adjective "majestic" was
proper to use in speaking of her. Her face
had changed very little, however, and her
aspect was joyous and serene like her old self.
As to Mr. Porter, I must acknowledge my-
self disappointed in him. He had grown, with
years and dignities (shall I say it?) pompous.
I felt rather like calling bim Don Porter, and
found myself inclined to snub him at every op-
portunity. Why will not people develop them-
selves harmoniously and gracefully? So he
had done in some ways and in some measure.
He handled his fork to admiration, and took
you into dinner with a grace beyond the reach
of art. But he would lay his arms on the arms
of his chair, and spread out his palms as if he
were the Pope, and "say an undisputed thing in
such a solemn way," that it was difficult to do
justice to the really good sense underlying so
much manner. Slow of speech, he had always
been, and still continued to be, and he was a
good listener, and bowed, and acceded contin-
ually.
It was amusing to see Lois's profound admira-
tion of this husband, and his gentle toleration of
her. Because she did not happen to know some
of the things he did, she had at once jumped
to the conclusion that he was vastly her intel-
■ lectual superior, and following the feminine
instinct of blind worship, she set up her house-
hold god and fell down before it. He, like
Adam, smiled superior, and took her at her
own valuation, though any mole might see that
she was a queen in nature's own right, while
in him "the toe of the peasant came quite too
near the heel of the courtier." While Lois
prattled charmingly by the hour about Spanish
etiquette, the soiled cushions in the palaces,
and the worn finery, Mr. Porter only said
"Yes," and again "Yes I" in a sharp, incisive
why, which I came to think must be statesman-
like. Truly, to say "yes" often enough, and
in the right place, is immensely encouraging
and suggestive ; it is a very easy and certain
mode of making one's self agreeable, and it is
an economical outlay, considering the results.
Still, in talking with Mr. Porter for any length
of time after my own vanity was once satis-
fied, I found it a losing trade. I guessed that
wondrous monosyllable must have been the
step-ladder by which he had mounted to Con-
gress, it meant so very much, and implied so
very much more. No matter. Lois couldn't
see over him, so he was as good as infinite to her.
■When their visit was ended, and in the last
minutes before the stage drove up for passen-
gers, and everything crowded for utterance,
ODDS AND ENDS.
229
"Who do you think I saw in Madrid?" said
Lois to me.
"Not Don Quixote?"
"No. But do guess! Why, it's exactly
like a novel. You won't? Why, that very
fellow that frightened us so years ago I I'd
forgotten all about him; and wasn't it queer
enough he should remember me? Well, you
know, it was this way: the people who want
to be presented at court have to apply to
the minister, and so it happened to be Mr.
Porter to whom Captain Randolph applied
to be presented to the royal pair. Well, you
see, I hadn't noticed him, and It was just as I
had backed down from making my courtesy to
their majesties (I 'd seen their majesties so
many times, it didn't flutter me any), and oh!
you should have seen my court-train that day,
it was ever so—well, I got back and out on one
side without stepping on myself, which is quite
a skilful performance, when I caught sight of
the 'young villain-lord!' Luckily, he was just
being presented, so I had time to recover from
my first impulse, which, 1 do assure you, was
to run. Thanks to my training oh the boards,
I got command of my face in a minute, so that
when my husband introduced 'Captain Ran-
dolph of the TJ. S. Navy' to me, 1 received him
with the marble calmness of Hermione her-
self."
"And he! didn't he recognize ycu?"
"Instantly; or so I thought at first, for he
started and colored deeply. Then he looked
keenly at me, then doubtfully; oh, it was de-
lightful to see him so puzzled I But when I
turned to a Spanish nobleman near me and
made some little remark in that language—
though it was Spanish, he remembered the
voice."
"And then?"
"Then he stood back and watched me, and
■when I passed by him on the arm of the Eng-
lish ambassador, taking precedence, as we had
a right to do, you know, of all the nobility,
what do you think that impudence did? I
could have boxed his ears. But I never no-
ticed him more than if he hadn't spoken. He
whispered right in my ear as I passed him,
'Louise de Montmoreiici!' Did you ever?"
Now in these halcyon days of which I write,
railroads were not, and stage-coaches waited
the pleasure of passengers. Even after all the
baggage was strapped on behind and on the
top, the drivers, being a pacific race, would
wait the pleasure of a good load for five or
even ten minutes. When the driver came in
for the last bandboxes and bundles, we re-
warded him prospectively for his patience (for
in those days temperance societies also were
not), and Lois finished her story while the
Hooslers and Suckers and the ex-senator and
minister (whoso name was not really Porter,
but begun with a P) waited with charming
toleration for the story to end.
"Then I 'm sure you betrayed yourself," said
I, and thought of Mr. Porter waiting patiently
on the front seat. ,
"Now, just think of that! Louise Montmo-
rencif Ugh I Didn't my heart flutter I You
see, I didn't care a pin about him, but I did
care about it's being known that 1 had been
one of a company of strolling players. That
wouldn't do any way. And Loammi and I
had settled long ago that if the time ever came
—well, no matter. You remember what you
told me the morning I was married? You
don't? Then I do. You've done more than
you think for me, first and last. This is what
you said, 'Tell your husband all about your
theatrical life. Don't leave him to find out by
accident what It would be much safer and bet-
ter for you to tell him now.' So I told Loam-
mi every stitch of that story, first and last,
before we went to church that morning. He
liked me just as well and better for telling him.
Now this was the good of It, that when I whis-
pered three words to Loammi, he was master
of the situation. He remembered the whole
thing as soon as I spoke. He saw the man,
and he made up his mind. That is to say, he
wouldn't be taken unawares. I never told you
much about that creature. I was ashamed; I
mean, that I could ever have thought of liking
him any. But he was such a beauty, of one
sort, you know—bad sort—and he insisted on
it I should marry him, and that people who
loved one another were truly married; and oh,
so much about affinities and elective impulses.
I do believe if I hadn't been brought up in my
good father's house and had the Bible by heart,
he might have imposed upon me. But, you
know, we can say, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'
in our own minds, and we can up like Lot and
flee from the wicked city. Now Mr. Porter
didn't avoid him at all. He let him talk. But
I kept away always, and was full of other
things whenever he looked my way. That of
itself was mortifying enough, for he thought
himself irresistible to all ladies—and he was,
rather."
"My dear!" called the senator, from the
coach, in a perfectly gentle tone.
"Yes, dear, in a moment," responded the
obedient wife, and went on with her story.
"At last, once he asked my husband 'Where
he found hit beautiful wife, and if she were
English?' wasn't that artful of him? Loam-
mi answered him very composedly, that he
found me at Trinity Church, Summer Street,
Boston. 'Is it possible?' says my young man. .
'And why not, sir?' says my husband; 'the
Marsdens all attend Trinity Church. We were
married by Bishop Eastburn.'
'"Oh! then she was a Miss Marsden?" he
exclaimed, In profound, wonder staring over
straight at me,'I could have sworn!—and—has
she always lived in Boston, Sir?'
"'By no means 1' said my husband, with the
2:;.)
GODEY'iS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
greatest coolness and inward laughter, 'we
have lived much in St. Louis, and of late at
Washington.'
"He made no answer to this, except in solil-
oquy. 'She is taller and fuller, which might
well be,' says he, in a sort of mutter, 'but still
the likeness is wonderful—wonderful 1'
"My husband said he really pitied the crea-
ture, he looked as one might seeing a ghost.
So, taking his arm, he said :—
"'You don't seem quite well; shall we take
a turn on the balcony?' and in that way took
him out of my sight. You may depend I was
glad I had followed your advice and told Loam-
mi everything, and he managed so well, you
see. Why, there was enough in that creature's
eyes nud artfulness to fill a three-volume novel
of difficulties. I could see myself trying to an-
swer Loanimi's inquiries; that is, you know,
if I hadn't told him everything."
"My dear," said the ex-senator, again gently
calling from the coach, "we are waiting for
you."
"Yes, dear," she answered. "I forgot to
say that I did have an English talk with him.
lie was bent on speaking English to me. But
I got along very nicely. I kept on the subject
of Spanish manners and ways of doing. There
I had the advantage of him, you see, for he was
new, and I kept tucking in Spanish words and
phrases. I think I bewildered the handsome
scamp! Luckily he was ordered off soon, and
I got rid of him, and forever, I do hope!" she
added, with sincere fervor, "he is a toad 1"
Lois was a good woman and a faithful wife,
with no shadow of German or French sentiment
about her. I kissed her sincere lips heartily.
"My off-leader is getting oneasy," said the
patient driver, seeing that Lois went on with
her talking.
"Such accidents don't happen often, and I
shall not be likely to meet him again. Jackson
will take care not to send my husband to any-
foreign courts. Bless your soul I we shall sink
Into oblivion for the next ten^ears."
Saying this, the large, fair woman took my
hands in hers and looked steadily at me while
the brown eyes filled with tears. Should we
ever meet more on earth?
"Lois, my little Lois! my little country run-
away! my Surry sweetbrierl Is it" really you
that has been talking with sitters on thrones,
and walking on palace floors with the mighty
ones of the earth? Or is it all a dream?"
"Only here could such dreams be realized,"
she said; "but after all, men and women are
amazingly alike, whether in hut or hall"—
"My dear!" said Mr. Porter, gently again.
"How I 7iave kept you standing all this
time I" said the considerate Lois, as she gave
me a parting kiss, and the off-leader stopped
prancing.
TO CHEERFULNESS.
BT ALBERT F. BKIDOES.
Thoc gentle nymph, relentless foe
To all the Ills that mortals know
Beneath the starry skies,
Where may I meet thy mirthful face.
And find well pleased thy dwelling-place,
Thy earthly paradise?
I seek to drown within the bowl
The nobler passions of my soul,
To win thy wreath of gold;
Oblivious in the ruddy wine,
I think my thorny chaplet thine.
Deception grows so bold.
Enwrapped In purple robes of state.
Upon me smiles propitious fate
And fame is mine at last;
In vain the fiery meteors gleam,
My life Is dark, and not one beam
Illumes Its sombre cast.
I stand begirt with driven snow.
Yet mild the breezes 'round me blow,
And silvery starlight falls;
In vain my search; thou art not here
Amid this granite; lone and drear,
The tee-king's barren balls.
I seek thee In the quiet dell.
Where sweet Contentment loves to dwell.
And, lo! thy shrine appears -,
Plain, unadorned, before iny gaze.
Like those bedewed, In olden days,
With erring Druid's tears—
Eemoved afar from scenes of strife.
The turmoil and the war of life.
Thy peaceful haunts extend;
The blushing rose, the breath of spring.
And sweetest songs that warblers sing
Around thy altar blend.
The elfin spirits of the dark,
Ere yet Is heard the Joyous lark.
And matin sunbeams shine,
Eusli gleeful from their downy cells.
Within the flowers' inverted bells.
And dance around thy shrine.
Than lovers of the giddy throng,
More blest are they who hear thy song.
And chase thy footsteps light;
Their life has more of shine than shade.
Wears fewer wreaths of cypress made.
Knows more of pure delight.
False Pleasure.—Pleasure, which cannot
be obtained but by unseasonable or unsuitable
expense, must always end in pain; and plea-
sure which must be enjoyed at the expense of
another's pain, can never be such as a worthy
mind can fully delight in.—Johnson.
Do Good.—If there be a pleasure on earth
which angels cannot enjoy, and which they
might envy man the possession of, it Is the
power of relieving distress. If there be a pain
which devils might pity man for enduring, it is
the deathbed reflection that we have possessed
the power of doing good, but that we abused
aud perverted it to purpdses of ill.—Volton.
232
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cated in a school of which you and I know
nothing—the school of love and quiet happi-
ness."
"Tou have had three years to study her cha-
racter, I as many months. Tell me wherein I
am so mistaken. She impressed me as a little
goose."
"If we are to work together, you must under-
stand Iola better. She is a little saint. I mean
exactly what I say. Iola is the very embodi-
ment of innocence and religious devotion. Her
unquestioning trust and faith in human nature
are things to marvel at In these hard days. She
never seems to realize the possibility of any
one wishing to harm or deceive her."
"H'm I I cannot see the difficulties In deal-
ing with such a nature."
"But she is betrothed, and the one point of
true strength in this pliable disposition is her
love."
"But you wrote me that her lover was
abroad."
"He is in Spain, acting as secretary to his
uncle, who has a diplomatic mission. It is two
years since he left us; but he will return dur-
ing the next year. The wedding will not take
place, however, until Iola is of age, as God-
frey's uncle desires his nephew to make a place
for himself in the world, before he marries an
heiress."
"H'm I Lover absent I Girl trustful I Weill"
"Tou must leave to me the first task, that of
gradually undermining her faith In Godfrey.
In the mean time I am Instructed by Aunt Good-
win and Iola to beg you will remain our guest
until my marriage I" Claudine's lip quivered,
but she added, bravely: "Iola will be glad to
hear that event is postponed, as I am the only
young companion she has ever had, and she
loves me."
"Ah! that is fortunate."
"But remember," Claudine said, earnestly,
"if I am to aid you, you must trust all to me.
Make yourself a place in Iola's heart if you
can, but do not attempt to disturb her present
faith in Godfrey, or undermine him by any hint
or word. Leave all that to me."
"You break this present arrangement, and
I will do the rest. You are sure I am Invited
to remain here?"
"Cordially, urgently invited! Make your
mind easy on that score. I wish mine could
rest:"
"Bah! I am not an ogre! I shall not ill-
treat my wife I"
"Perhaps not. Come, we may as well have
the greeting over."
Unaware of the scheme in preparation against
her life's happiness, Iola Goodwin sat in her
pleasant sitting-room, busied with a piece of
dainty embroidery, and singing in a sweet, clear
voice, as she passed the glittering silks in and
out of a rich velvet ground.
Beside her, often looking lovingly upon the
sweet, fair face, was her great aunt, who had
filled a mother's place to the heiress for fifteen
years. She was a gentle, loving old lady, who
had just the faintest echo of a brogue in her
low, sweet voice, suggestive of a childhood
spent in Erin's green isle. She knitted busily
as Iola sewed, a scarf of vivid crimson length-
ening under her quick fingers, as the Ivory
needles flashed to and fro.
"Iola," she said, after a long silence, "did
you know Horace had come?"
"I knew it was past the time for the carriage
to return from the statjon."
"It came some time ago. I sent Claudine to
meet her brother in the library, for they will
have many words to speak at the first meeting
that they will enjoy staying alone together."
"I suppose, now, Claudine will leave us.
She has been very impatient for her brother's
return."
'•No wonder. It is but natural she should
like a home of her own better than a-life of de-
pendence here."
"Now, Aunt Margaret, can she feel herself
dependent. Is she not one of ourselves?"
"Yes, dear; yes! I hope she will be happy,
though I do not like her. Those great black
eyes of hers fairly make me shiver."
"Hush! They are coming!" said Iola, ris-
ing to welcome the new-comer, which she did
cordially, saying :—
"You are very welcome, cousin. We shall
not allow you to play truant soon again."
The young man bowed with courtly grace
over the little hand extended to him, replying
in words of compliment.
"I am country-bred, and your cousin," said
Iola, smiling, "so you mayspare ceremony and
compliment. And now, Claudine," she said,
caressing the tall, stately girl, "we must use
our needles for wedding finery for you."
Claudine's face grew ashy white, but she
said, in a steady voice: "My brother brings
me news that must delay my marriage, Iola."
"now can I be sorry, if I may stil! keep you
here," whispered the young girl, caressing still
the hand of her cousin. Perhaps you will stay
till Godfrey comes."
"I think you will fftid I must, If you will
have me," Claudine said.
"See if we will turn you out. Cousin Horace,
we look to you for such sketches of European
travel, as can only come from the lips of tra-
vellers."
"My experiences are heartily at your ser-
vice."
The conversation was kept up briskly, Claud-
ine engrossing the old lady's attention as far
as possible, and allowing Horace to devote
himself to Iola.
The gentleman, pacing the garden after din-
ner, Indulging in a solitary cigar, thought:
"Claudine is right, Iola is no fool. How ex-
quisitely lovely she is, with her large bine
THE LOVE THAT WAS LIFE.
233
eyes and delicate complexion. Her golden
hair is like a halo, for the saint Clandine says
she is. She Is well read, too, though so unaf-
fected. I wonder how such a clear mind can
be so utterly confiding 1 I don't admire the old
lady for a dragon; but suppose there is no help
for it."
The life of the cousins for the next few
months was quiet and uneventful; but it was
wonderful to see how Horace brightened it.
He arranged with Iola's guardian for the pur-
chase of three saddle horses, and taught his
cousin to ride. Claudine, a daring horsewo-
man would dash off by herself, trying by dar-
ing riding to stifle some of her own mental
misery, while Horace guided Iola's horse, en-
couraged her timidity, and made each excur-
sion a new delight.
He sang well, and Iola was a worshipper of
music, and a good performer; so they learned
duets, Claudine being suddenly hoarse when-
ever a trio was suggested, leaving Horace's
powerful baritone to sustain the sweet, bird-
like notes of his fair cousin. He interested
himself in the garden, the fernery, aviary,
aquarium, and thousand feminine pursuits that
vary the monotony of country life.
"And Iola treats me as if I was her grand-
mother I" he told Claudine, in a fit of confiden-
tial indignation; "lets me kiss her as if I were
her brother."
"Patience," was the reply. "Do you not
see that she is pale and sad, her eyes often
heavy with tears?"
"I see it; but she never speaks of sorrow."
"It is two months since she heard from
Godfrey."
Two months 1 Could they guess, these cruel
conspirators, the depth of pain in that gentle,
loving heart? Claudine could have told of
sleepless nights passed in weeping and prayer,
of quick, indignant silencing of her faint hints
of inconstancy, and of still unshaken faith, in
the midst of pain. No doubt as yet prevented
Iola's caresses given to her lover's picture, the
pressure of her soft lips upon her betrothal
ring.
"Now," Claudine said, "you must leave us
for a week or two. Let Iola realize how much
you contribute to her pleasure. I have a com-
mission for you in the city. Come near, I must
speak low."
It was not a bad idea of Claudine's, to sepa-
rate the cousins for a time, if Iola had ever
regarded Horace in the light of a lover. The
sweet little saint missed her companion sadly
during his absence, but it was as she would
have missed a brother. Her loyal heart never
wavered a moment from its allegiance to God-
frey. Claudine, watching with keen interest,
was forced to acknowledge that so far Horace
had made no progress in superseding Godfrey
in Iola's heart.
"Patience," was her word, till Horace began
to hate it.
"I have been back two weeks, and you do
nothing!" he said to her, angrily. "Are you
aware that I am almost penniless?"
"You have no expense here."
"And how long do you suppose a man of
my tastes can vegetate here?"
"Horace," Claudine pleaded, "let the child
dream a little longer. She loves Godfrey so
dearly!"
"Edgar may tire of waiting as well as my-
self."
The sting roused Claudine, as her brother
wished.
"To-morrow, then," she said. "Go up to
the city to-morrow, and put in the first notice.
If that will not move her, we will insert the
other."
"Is that all?"
"I will set the clock back in our room, so
that the papers may be in the breakfast-room
when we come down. Be sure you are there.
A fit of manly indignation, and then words of
comfort; but, as you wish to succeed, no hint
of your own love. Let her have a brother to
protect and console her."
The next morning breakfast waited for Iola
and Claudine. Miss Goodwin fussed over the
cooling coffee, the unusual delay, and while
she waited the morning mail and papers came
in. Horace carelessly opened one, and as
carelessly tossed it down upon Iola's plate, as
the door opened to admit the girls.
"Why, our clock must be wrong," Claudine
said, as she pointed to the one in the breakfast-
room. "Come, Iola!"
She seated herself as she spoke, and the oth-
ers drew up their chairs. Miss Goodwin, busy
with cups and saucers, noticed nothing till a
piercing cry from Iola brought all the others
to their feet. With her face as white as her
wrapper, her blue eyes unnaturally dilated,
her lips parted, she was staring at the newspa-
per upon her plate.
"What is it? Iola, darling, what is it?"
Claudine asked.
Only the trembling hand pointing to the
paper for answer. Horace took up the printed
sheet.
"What is it?" Miss Goodwin cried, putting
her arms around the slender, swaying figure.
"Only that Godfrey Marston is a villain!"
said Horace, in a loud, indignant voice. "Here
is an announcement of his marriage with a
Spanish lady."
"False!"
The word burst from Iola's white lips with
a moaning, shuddering cry, and then she fell
to the ground fainting.
"Godfrey false!" cried the old lady. "God-
frey! Then there is no true man living.
There is some mistake. He cannot be false 1"
"HushI" Claudine whispered. "She is re-
234
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
viving. Iola, dearest, are you better? Get
some wine, Aunt Margaret; she cannotspeak."
"Godfrey has forgotten me 1" the poor child
moaned, clinging to her false comforter.
"It shall be my task to punish the traitor,"
said Horace, sternly.
"No, no; I wish for no punishment," was
the quick reply. "Claudine, let me go to my
own room."
"Yes, darling, yes. Horace, will you help
Iola? She cannot stand alone."
Tenderly the cousins led her to her room,
Horace speaking but few words, but apparently
smothering his own devouring indignation for
Iola's sake. Claudine remained with the suf-
fering girl, sympathizing gently, suffering tor-
tures of remorse at the deep agony her own
cruel plot was inflicting. •
There was no voice to speak real comfort as
the days dragged along. Miss Goodwin was
alternately indignant and despairing, Claudine
pitiful, and Horace gently attentive. Scornful
words for the recreant lover, a burning desire
to avenge Iola's wrongs, were replaced by
such kindly acts of brotherly thoughtfuluess
as roused the gentle girl's deepest gratitude.
Growing paler day by day, Iola made but
little moan over the misery consuming her
heart, but it was evident she suffered intensely.
Alone, she would turn her betrothal ring sadly
upon her wasting finger, and drop burning
tears upon its glittering diamonds. But sud-
denly, to the chagrin of the conspirators, she
picked up a little courage, and declared her
conviction that there was some error in the
paragraph. She brightened visibly under this
hope, and wrote to Spain, trusting her letter
as usual to Claudine, for the mail-bag. But
upon this hope fell a crushing blow. The
newspaper, two months after announcing God-
frey's marriage, announced his death in Spain.
"She will never marry while that fellow
lives," Horace muttered, as he paid a heavy
bribe to one of the compositors in the newspa-
per office, "and we might as well be hanged
for a sheep as a lamb."
"Dead I dead! False and dead!"
These were the piteous words Iola moaned
hour after hour, as she sat in her own room
turning her ring, and looking at the miniature
of Godfrey.
"If he had been true, I could bear it. But
he was false, and he is dead," she told Claudine,
as the latter tried in vain to rouse her. She
faded away daily, under Claudine's tender
care and her aunt's faithful nursing.
"A pretty mess you have made!" Horace
said, angrily, to his sister. "You have killed
her with your beautiful plot."
"You do not think she will die?"
"Bah! Hearts do not break so easily. But
she will mope and pine till that fellow comes
home to claim her. Die, indeed! No such
good luck."
"Good, luck! You caunot marry a dead
woman."
"But Iola is not of age, and we are heirs at
law. If she dies, we divide her fortune, and 1
escape the addition of a sickly sentimental
wife."
"Horace, she must not die! I cannot take
murder on my soul. If she is dying, I must
tell her all!" cried Claudiue, white and trem-
bling.
"Do you want to be turned out of the house
a beggar?" was the fierce retort.
"You are a fiend!" she said, shuddering.
"I never meant to kill her. Let me go! You
hurt my arm, holding me."
But Horace held her fast till he had quieted
her by specious argument and adroit allusions
to Edgar, till she almost believed Iola's death
was desirable, admitting no possibility of un-
doing their diabolical work.
It seemed, as the days wore wearily away,
as if the death of the gentle girl would really
follow the blow upon the tender, loving heart.
Her love had been stronger than her life.
When it was taken from her, she drooped and
faded, eating but little, sleeping less. No
tonic, no opiate the doctor prescribed, seemed
to help her, for the medical faculty have not
yet found the cure for a broken heart. Aunt
Margaret sighed and wept, mourning over the
inconstancy of man.
The winter wore away, and spring opened.
It was an accepted fact in the household that
Iola would not live many weeks more. All
the long winter months she had borne her sor-
row, but she was a mere shadow of her former
self, and resolutely refused to try change of
.scene, seeming to court death as the fitting
end of her heavy sorrow.
Early in April Miss Goodwin was crossing
the garden, when a shadow fell upon the path
before her, and, looking up, she saw a tall,
heavily-bearded man approaching her. With
a cry of terror, Aunt Margaret sank on her
knees on the garden walk, crying out:—
"Oh, oh, she is dead! Iola is dead. You
have come for my darling!"
"Iola dead 1" the stranger cried, reeling
back as if from a physical blow.
"You are alive!" shrieked the old lady.
"Alive? Of course I am alive 1 What is
the matter? Are you insane?"
"We thought you were dead I" She strug-
gled to her feet as she spoke, her limbs still
trembling, her face ghastly. "I thought it
was your spirit come for Iola."
"Then Iola is not dead I"
"Not yet," was the sad answer, "but very
ill, believing you false and dead."
"False!" was the fierce ejaculation. "Who
dared say I was false?"
"Your marriage was in the newspaper, and
so was your death."
"My marriage! My death!"
THE LOVE THAT WAS LIFE.
235
"And you have not written a line for a
year."
"I have written by every mail, but I have
had no letters since last summer. It was im-
possible for me to leave Spain until this spring,
but as soon as I could do so I returned for
some explanation of Iola's strange silence."
"Come into the summer house. It will not
do for Iola to see you suddenly."
A long conversation followed, and, by a sin-
gular coincidence, another, quite as momen-
tous, was in progress at the same time.
Stretched upon a low couch, her face pale
and wasted, her thin hands loosely folded
upon her white dress, Iola was looking sadly
from the window beside her at the spring sun-
shine. In a deep cushioned arm-chair by her
side Claudine sat, restlessly knotting the silken
cord of her morning dress. Her face had
wasted, too, in the past few weeks, of misera-
ble remorse, and her eyes were sunken and
hollow.
"Claudine," Iola said, in a low, faint voice,
"Is it not cruel to think Godfrey ceased to
love me before he died? If he had been true,
I could hope to meet him in another world.
Now"— Here the tears fell, and the sweet,
faint voice ceased.
"Iola," Claudine cried, in a sudden agony
of terror, "you must not die I"
"I shall soon leave you, cousin. Every day
I grow weaker. You ftill have my home soon
for your own, Claudine. May you be happier
here than I have been. Think of me some-
times when Edgar comes here and you are
happy together.
"Iola, no 1" cried the miserable girl, "I can-
not let you die so I Only say you will forgive
me"—
"For what?"
The invalid was sitting up, eager, erect, her
eyes dilated, her whole form trembling.
"We have deceived you. Horace wished to
win you for his wife."
"Deceived me? Godfrey!"
"Is not dead."
"Nor false?"
"Nor false."
Iola fell back upon her pillow, gasping for
her very breath ; so white that Claudine feared
the sudden shock of joy would complete the
cruel work she would have given her own life
to undo. "Iola," she cried, kneeling beside
her, "you must live now I"
Then she brought wine, and when the inva-
lid was calmer she told her the whole wicked
conspiracy, not softening one iota of her own
conduct, or the motive that actuated her.
"But Godfrey has not written," Iola said.
"I have all his letters, all yours. It was
very easy to rob the mail-bag."
"Give them to me."
In a few minutes they were in her bands,
every seal unbroken.
"O Claudine I" Iola sobbed, kissing the pre-
cious package, "how could you keep these?
You, who love Edgar so truly."
Pale and silent, Claudine bad no excuse to
offer.
"Where is Horace?" Iola asked, toying
with the ribbon binding her recovered treas-
ures.
"He went to the city last week."
"When will he return?"
"I cannot tell," said Claudine.
She shuddered as she spoke, recalling her
brother's parting words, "I guess I '11 stay till
after the funeral."
"I can hardly forgive him," Iola whispered.
"Leave me now, Claudine, to read my let-
ters."
Claudine stole away, to sob her own bitter
penitence out in her own room. Even yet she
feared she must carry the heart of a murderess,
for Iola's excitement was as alarming, as the
deep apathy that had preceded it. But Iola
had read the loving anxious letters; some full
of tender reproaches for her silence, more full
of fears for her health and happiness, nearly
through, when Miss Goodwin, pale and ner-
vous, entered the room. The very last of the
precious epistles, announcing Godfrey's speedy
coming, was in Iola's hand, as she raised her
soft blue eyes to her aunt's face. The change
there struck the old lady.
"Darling," she said, "you are better?"
"Much, much better."
"Can you bear good news? the best of
news?"
"I have heard it."
"That Godfrey is here?"
"Here? Godfrey here?" And with the
words quivering on her lips, she was clasped
In her lover's arms.
They had recovered from the first excite-
ment, and were quietly talking, when Claudine
entered with slow steps and bowed head.
"Claudine, wish me joy! Godfrey is here!"
Iola cried.
But the wretched girl only sank sobbing at
her cousin's feet, crying, "Say you forgive
me, and I will go where you will never see my
face again."
Gently Iola raised her. "Fully and freely
I forgive you," she said. "I know you have
repented, and as far as you could you atoned
for the past. Let us be friends still, cousin."
The pale, sad face was lifted humbly to
Godfrey.
"Can you, too, forgive me?" Claudine asked.
The strong man looked at the pallid, wasted
face of the woman he loved, and hesitated.
"For my sake," a sweet voice whispered,
and he held out his hand, saying, in a hoarse,
broken voice:—
"I will try to forget, Claudine.
When summer came Iola became a happy
bride, but neither Claudine nor Horace were
236
OODBY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
at the wedding. Horace in Europe was fol-
lowing fast in his father's footsteps, while
Claudine sailed for California after a quiet
wedding, hoping in that land of promise Edgar
may win the fortune she could not bring to him.
MIND TOUR OWN BUSINESS.
Mind you own business, and let other people
do the same. What is their business is none
of yours, unless they themselves make it so.
If people ask you for advice, give it, willingly
and conscientiously, just as you would act
yourself if their case was yours. This is doing
as you would be done by. But wait till you are
asked; don't go thrusting your opinion on the
shoulders of others unless you are invited to
do so; if you do you will only be called a
"meddlesome Matty," and get no thanks for
your trouble, no matter how good your inten-
tions may be. People generally like to do as
they think best, not as others would have them
do—unless you happen to have the same mind
as themselves, when they will probably think
you have more sense than those who differ
from them. Attend to your own concerns as
much as possible yourself, this will teach you
to be self-reliant, and will be a great advantage
to you. It is all very well, if you can afford
it, to get others to do for you what is disagree-
able for you to do yourself; but no one is their
own master so long as they are dependent on
others. Mind your own business in regard to
your opinions. How foolish to get angry and
be forever quarrelling because others do not
think as you do; everybody has as much right
to their opinions as you have to yours, and,
no doubt, the same desire to maintain them.
When you have once stated your opinion re-
tain it as such unless you have good reason to
change your mind; but because your opinion
is different from that of others, it is no reason
that you should go thrusting it into every one's
face who you know is opposed to you, this will
do no good and may do much harm ;• difference
of opinion often creates a coolness of feeling
between the best of friends. Therefore mind
your own business and attend to your own
concerns, and be willing that others should do
the same; a prying, meddlesome disposition is
a bad trait in any one's character, and will
bring you into more trouble than you will find
it easy to get out of. M. L. R.
A BEAUTIFUL SENTIMENT.
Life bears us on like a stream of a mighty
river. Our boat at first glides down the narrow
channel through the playful murmurs of the
little brook and the winding of the grassy bor-
ders. The trees shed their blossoms over our
young heads; the flowers on the brink seem to
offer themselves to our young hands; we are
happy in hope, and grasp eagerly at the beau-
ties around us; but the stream hurries on, and
stili our hands are empty. Our course in youth
and manhood is along a deeper and wider flood,
amid objects more striking and magnificent
We are animated at the moving picture of en-
joyment and industry passing around us—are
excited at some short-lived disappointment.
The stream bears us on, and our Joys and griefs
are left behind us. We may be shipwrecked
—we cannot be delayed; whether rough or
smooth, the river hastens to its home till the
roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the toss-
ing of waves beneath our feet, and the land
lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted
up around us, and we take our leaye of earth
aird its inhabitants, until of our further voy-
age there is no witness save the Infinite and
Eternal.
LIFE LEAVES.
BY DAKD BEST.
This Is a little violet leaf,
Pale and yellowed with time,
The first that was seen in its tender green
In the spring of my boyhood's prime.
Oh, how oft I '<1 sigh and look
O'er the old worn spelling book.
And ease the pain of my wearied brain
By a glance at the violet nook!
I almost think I can see the door
Of the little sohoolhouse and Its sanded floor;
Ah, me! my belief Is that Time, the old thief,
Stole all else from me, save this violet leaf.
How dry, and withered, and old,
And covered with dusty mould,
Is this leaf which she. In her innocence free,
Placed in my hand, and said, "Behold,
The forget-me-not flowers, born In the bright hours.
Have dropped all their pale blooms In faint azure
showers;
Take this, with a kiss—and me 1"
This is the first tiny leaflet which fame
Dropt on my manhood's brow;
The shining light of laurel leaves
Is not so dear to me now.
If she has flown, and I am alone,
What matter to me if they carve in stone
A tribute she cannot see?
What matter If my name be known
If she cannot bear It with me?
It seems so long ago,
Though It was but yesterday.
When with steps trembling and slow
I came to where she lay.
From her cold, clasped hands I loosened a spray
Of immortelles, and now to-day
I sit alone and watch and pray.
Dust goes back to dnst again,
Earth returns to earth;
Just a breath-blown pile of ashes
Show the life-leaves on the hearth.
In prosperity it is the easiest of all things to
find a friend; in adversity it is of all things the
most difficult.
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER VALLEY HOME.
237
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER
VALLEY HOME.
LETTER II.
July lath.
Dear Mb. Godey: A month has passed
rapidly away since I wrote you. In about
three weeks I am expecting Mr. Lemoine, as
he wrote Nat he would reach us on the 8th of
August. Nat will take our old family carriage
across the mountain and meet him at the rail-
road station. All our young cousins, male
and female, are much interested in him in ad-
vance. Aunt Hitty tells them that she knows
they will like him; that she always liked best
to talk with " them furreners," as they wouldn't
notice her little slips of grammar, or her South-
ern phrases, nearly so quickly as would our
educated Americans. As for M. Lemoine, he
has always treated her with sucli delicate
attention, and so much deference, that she is
entirely in love with him. She said the other
day to Cousin Em :—
"I tell you what it is, Emmy, Mr. Lemoine's
a true gentleman. You '11 never see him stop
and stare at an old woman or a poorly-dressed
girl, with his eyeglasses up to make 'em feel sure
that he is lookin' at 'em, as I 've seen a-many
a fop in Washin'ton do, an' then turn an' make
some remark about 'em like this: 'What an
unsophisticated creatuah 1 Wonder when she
was let out of her cage?' I've heard 'em say
these very words at a reception about an awk-
wardly-dressed girl from the couutry, who
most likely had a great deal more sense than
the monkey-faced addle-pates that made fun
of her. No, Mr. Lemoine ain't one o' this
kind, I tell you. I never saw him treat any
woman with anything but respect; an' I often
noticed that, if there was a young girl at a re-
ception or party that seemed to be neglected,
he was sure to offer her a seat, pick up her
fan, and show her in every possible way that
he respected her, because she was a woman.
Nat says he's like the poet Shelley, who always
at a ball would select the most neglected girl
in the room to dance with; not because he en-
joyed it most, but to show that every woman
ought to be treated well by the gentlemen.
"One day, when Nat an' me was on Seventh
Street, we saw an old woman that had a fruit
stand, an' some boys in their play had jostled
it and throwed it over, scatterin' the fruit in
all directions. Instead o' stoppin', as they
ought to a-done, an' help her pick it up, they
all run off, laugbin' at the poor old thing.
Just then M. Lemoine come along, dressed
like he had come out of a bandbox, an' what
does he do but stop an' fix up her stand for
her, an' then never stop helpin' her till the
last orange an' apple was picked up. This
ain't any great thing to do, but it shows the
nature of the man, for he was a stranger, an'
had no idea that any of his friends was near."
And this is the way she sounds his praises
to all; so they have gotten over their dread of
him as a fastidious foreigner. The girls are
planning quilting parties, huckleberry pick-
ings, apple-butter boilings, nuttings, and grape-
huntings, without number, all of which will be
pleasant for him, because they will be novel-
ties; while the boys have so many hunting
and fishing parties in preparation, that I begin
to fear that I will not see him half as much as
1 would like.
Meanwhile, we have had rustic seats placed
near our grotto and mossy spring; a swing
has been hung under the "Old Oak by the
River;" and a rustic bridge made across the
stream to the grove—a beautiful island of ma-
ple trees, where church is held in summer.
All are imitating Lucy in planting vines every-
where, and I have a real English ivy started
up the old oak tree. We have white day-lilies
planted in the wet earth below the spring, and
the beautiful ground ivy is running over the
rocks above, and dropping, in lovely sheets of
green, to the very edge of the water. The
little cedar pavilion over the spring is almost
covered with the wild grapevine planted there
two years ago, while a beautiful honeysuckle
bower is arranged by the brook, a short dis-
tance below. Our old porch has been painted
anew, and is almost entirely shaded by the
fragrant woodbine; the old lilac clumps and
damask roses in the yard have been nicely
trimmed; and the bird-boxes father had placed
in the trees last winter are alive with feathered
inhabitants. Father seems to take a new pride
in these things since Nat and Lucy came. Even
the old rock wall or cliff back of the garden
has received its share of attention. I don't
suppose, Mr. Godey, that you ever saw any-
thing like it; but in the mountain regions of
Virginia such sights are not rare. Great walls
of rock arise perpendicularly, often to a height
of two or three hundred feet; many of them
assuming fantastic forms, as of Gothic archi-
tecture, old castles, etc. This one goes up
perpendicularly to a great height, the project-
ing ledges being richly wreathed with ferns, as
it faces the north, and is not much affected by
the sun. But, though I love the ferns very
much, the American ivy is my especial delight,
as it grows upon this rock. More than half of
the north-east face of the cliff is entirely cov-
ered with the ivy, giving it exactly the appear-
ance at this season of an old ivy-covered castle
or abbey, such as we read of in English novels.
The old abbey where Amanda Fitzallan found
the deed entitling her to her rights was, in my
childhood, my ideal for this rock; but since I
have read more, I call it my "Melrose Abbey,"
and often go out by moonlight and recite
Scott's famous lines upon that ruin. But our
beautiful valley, from one end of it to the
other, is full of poetical suggestions.
For myself personally I have made very
238
GODET'S LADVS BOOK AJTD MAGAZINE.
little preparation for our visitor. I have a
broad sun-liat, covered with white tarlatan,
and trimmed with blue ribbon; a white linen
parasol, with blue bows, and plenty of white
muslin dresses, with a handsome blue grena-
dine overdress for state occasions. I also have
pink ribbons and pink cambric overdress for a
change. But, although I am a brunette, and
always look better in the evening with pink,
and scarlet, and corn-color, yet in the summer
nnd out of doors I always feel as if the blue with
my white is the most becoming. I know that
pink and green are lovely in the wild-roses
and other blossoms, yet the dear little hous-
tonia, forget-me-nots, and violets seem super-
latively lovely, with their tender, modest blue
eyes looking up from their nooks of green. I
remember how M. Lemoine always admires
white dresses, and I like them best myself in
summer, because they are always pure and
fresh; so I trouble not about outward things.
I read all I can, and endeavor to keep my
French as bright as possible.
The fragrant June apples are just ripe, for
in our cool climate they do not ripen till the
first or middle of July. We have had straw-
berries in plenty, but they are gone now, while
the cherries and raspberries take their place;
and mother always keeps, the year round,
plenty of delicious preserves in peaches, plums,
quinces, and other fruit, besides canned fruits
without end. Here we always use the richest
cream with our preserves and pies. In the
city it seemed strange to have pie without
cream; but no one there thinks of it, except in
ices and coffee.
Uncle Jerry has newly seated my saddle
with lovely blue plush, and Cousin Nat sur-
prised me with the prettiest silver-mounted
bridle, with blue reins. (lie's always doing
something of this sort, the dear old fellow!)
These, with the pretty riding-habit of navy-
blue I had made last summer after I left
school, make as pretty an outfit as any girl
need desire.
Last Sunday was our regular "meetin'-day"
in the grove. Abram Htirmer was over from
the Cove, and was especially attentive to me,
making what Arethuse calls "a dead set,"
yet without saying a word through which I
could find a pretext for dismissing him. I was
obliged to allow him to walk home with nje,
where, as soon as he was seated, I slipped
away to my room, and remained till dinner
was announced. I went down, sincerely hoping
that he was gone, but mother is so kind she
felt obliged to invite him to take dinner with
us. I pleaded a headache, ate very little, and,
excusing myself, again sought my dear old
room. At last he arose and spoke to mother.
"'Pears to me Miss Allie ain't over-friendly
with her old neighbors. I reckon I '11 go.
Good-by!" and so I was rid of him for the
time.
But on Thursday there was a "basket-meet-
ln' " down at Thomson's Creek. All our peo-
ple were going; so, of course, I accompanied
tliein. The new minister was to preach, and
several were to be baptized. 1 remained as
near to mother as possible all day; yet, be-
tween morning and evening "preachin' ", here
came Abe Ilarmer again.
"Got red o' the headache yit, Miss Allle?"
he asked.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Harmer I" I replied; "I have
not had it since Sunday, but I feel as if it were
just coming on again. I reckon it comes from
the heat; it's a very warm day."
"Think so?" he said, inquiringly. "I
thought it was raal comfortable-like. Don't
you want to walk up to the spring?"
"No; you must excuse me to-day, I think.
I know I would have a bad headache if I
should walk."
And so I once again got free from his nn-
pleasant attentions. He is too "green" to see
that his presence is disagreeable. But his
people are good, and honest, and respectable
enough in their way, and it hurts me to have
them think I feel better than my neighbors,
even though I do feel superior in many respects.
Uneducated people cannot comprehend the
difference. There is not the slightest conge-
niality in any way, and I cannot understand
why Abram does not seek companionship else-
where.
But all this that worries me so amuses Nat
prodigiously. He overheard Abe telling some-
body that "it was qnare Miss Allie always
had the headache when he was around; he
sometimes thought she had got 'stuck-up' by
bein' in the city last winter, though she always
spoke so kindly to him that he could hardly
think so."
Nat now calls me " Miss Stuck-up," and says
"I might do much worse than to marry Abe
Harmer."
Then I retort by wishing he had married
Arethusa; which always quells him.
I had a letter yesterday from Anna Perkins,
in Washington. She says it is dreadfully hot
there; that there have been many cases of sun-
stroke, and that the little children are dying
very rapidly. How I do wish that all the little
creatures had homes in our valley. It seems
hard that with so much of the pure mountain
air near them, they must suffer and die for the
lack of it. Yet more than nine-tenths of them
are obliged to stay, for lack of necessary means.
The men are mechanics or clerks, and their
money stops when their labor ceases; so that it
is simply impossible for them to leave the city.
Then there are thousands of gentlemen of
business who remain and toil all the summer
long in the heated, oven-like city, that their
wives and daughters may have means to breathe
the fresh air of mountain and sea-shore; to
dress richly, dance, flirt, and have a good time
240
GODEY-8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
are covered with eternal snows, and whose
verdure is confined altogether to pines. and
aspen trees; while our rich, green hills have
none to sing their praises. We have woods
and vales beautiful as Arcadia; lovely as the
garden of Eden; any of which would make
more pleasing pictures than the snow-clad
Rocky Mountains, or the frowning Sierras of
the far West. But these are near the homes of
our writers, artists, and mvttns; and weall know
that whatever is farthest away and most diffi-
cult to reach, Is ever most highly prized; as
poor Abe llarmcr doubtless thinks, if he could
only express himself. He recently told one
of my numerous cousins that he "was sure
Allie 'd 'a' married him if she 'd never 'a' met
that slick furrener."
Well, well, we do weary of what we have al-
ways Known. I do not lose my love of home,
or of the scenes of my youth; but I do grow
tired of some of their ignorant inhabitants; at
least when they prove so very obtrusive. I
intended telling of the Dunkard camp-meet-
ing; how they take their babies and cradles
with them, and all sleep in the great loft of
the "meetin'-house ;" how the women and lit-
tle girls all wear caps—not "Martha Washing-
ton" ones, but a kind of Quaker cap; how they
take their babies into meeting and feed them
during the sermon ; how they have a kitchen
attached to the church, and cook and eat and
invite all visitors to dine with them—excepting
always the "lamb soup," which is their sacra-
ment; how they baptize with the face fore-
most, giving three separate dips, in the "name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost;"
and how the young men and women go about
with locked hands, or arms around each other,
through the groves, as innocently as if they
were in the garden of Eden.
Annie Perkins and her mother go to Rock
Enon Springs to-day, to remain during the
season. Tours, Alice.
CHANGE.
We see the results of change upon every
side; it buries our choicest treasures, and de-
faces but to revive in a new and radiant form.
All material things have fallen in the wreck
of time's well-ordered transformation. We
perchance may see from day to day some hid-
den way in life from which we may gather
gold and wisdom ; ways which time and change
have wrought for life's needs. Every object
which meets our sight or touch has graced a
thousand forms. Progress is the order of our
being, and is but a growth under the law of
innovation. The world of change is daily lay-
ing golden treasures at our feet, creating new
designs, transforming and adjusting every-
thing in nature to meet the wants of our being;
bringing spring, with its buds and bloom;
summer, with its golden grain; autumn, with
Its tinted, scattered foliage; and lastly, stern
winter, with her garlands of unsullied snows
covering the products of the year. Change is
peopling the realm of thought and action with
new and varied life, bringing every material
form and spiritual power to act in harmony
with the law of progress and development
Our greatest gifts are products from the cor-
roding touch of time and change, and in all
the ways of life our footsteps are passing
through a state of never-ending transforma-
tions, which, if the heart be pure, polish the
outer man, elevate the character, build up the
intellect, giving him such a comprehensive and
acute discernment as will place him well up in
the ranks of the moral and literary society of
the world. A. E. Colby.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF PROVIDENCE.
A little error of the eye, a misguidance of
the hand, a slip of the foot, a starting of a
horse, a sudden mist, or a great shower, or a
word undesignedly cast forth in an army, has
turned the stream of victory from one side to
another, and thereby disposed of empires and
whole nations. No prince ever returns safe
out of a battle but may well remember how
many blows and bullets have gone by him that
might easily have gone through him; and by
what little odd unforeseen chances death has
been turned aside, which seemed in a full,
ready, and direct career to have been posting
to him. All which passages, if we do not ac-
knowledge to have been guided to their re-
spective ends and effects by the conduct of a
superior and a Divine hand, we do by the same
assertion cashier all providence, strip the Al-
mighty of his noblest prerogative, and make
God, not the Governor, but the mere Spectator
of the world.— Doctor South.
THE LOVER'S MADRIGAL.
BT SYLVIA 8TBIL.
The wild rose now blooms on the prairie, Nell Neal,
And the lark warbles sweetly to thee;
AU the hours I do dream of my fairy Nell Neal,
Then, dearest, come wander with me;
And we'll cut the bright flowers among the deep
grass
That abound on the prairie, Nell Neal,
And the lingering sunset too quickly will pass
While my love unto thee I reveaL
We will pick the ripe strawberries as we go, Nell
Neal,
Ere the dew-drops surprise with their kiss,
For their sweet lips outvie their red glow, Nell Neal,
And earth seems an Eden of bliss.
And we will look back through a vista of years
To this day a memento, Nell Neal,
And together we '11 share all our hopes, our fears.
Whilst love proves all sorrow unreal.
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
241
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
BT JUDITH K. DE RUYTBR.
I.
"Tabitha!"
"Well, Kate!"
"You are wanted below stairs. A messen-
ger has arrived from your uncle's."
Tabitha descended the ricketty stairway in
some perturbation. She was a young, fair-
haired girl, with a timid, quiet way with her.
Kate, who had called her, stood awaiting her
descent; a tall, angular woman, with the
marks of a toilsome, weary life in her listless
air and careless ways. Kate was troubled,
and wondered who should send for Tabitha
from her uncle's at such a time.
By the poor dilapidated doorway stood the
messenger, a man whom Tabitha had never
seen before, invested with the imperturbable,
important air common to members of his call-
ing. Tabitha gazed upon him with awe, a
tremor about her lips, and almost tears in her
eyes..
"Did you wish to see me? Has anything
happened at uncle's?"
"Yes, miss, I am sorry to say that there has
been some trouble at home."
"Trouble?" from Kate Bevis, anxiously.
"Mother?" queried Tabitha, in alarm.
"Yes, miss; your mother has been took
with one of her attacks, and"— twirling his
hat about awkwardly in his hands.
"And—is—no, mother is not dead?"
"Yes, miss."
A shriek of mortal agony rent the air, and
Kate stepped forward and caught Tabitha in
her arras.
"You were too quick with the news I" she
said, sternly.
The man fumbled still with his hat, but in
the strange confusion of doors opening and
shutting, and people descending the stairway,
he was forgotten.
"Poor child! what is it?" asked many femi-
nine voices; and an eager array of women,
aroused from their millinering and dressmak-
ing, patted Tabitha, almost wept over her, and
ended by running for her hat and cloak, that
she might be taken home. "Her mother I"
they said, shaking their heads pitifully. "A
sad life ended, but she don't see it that way."
"Of course she don't, Jane Fairnie!" said
Tabitha's most intimate friend, a pretty, dark-
haired thing, with an attempt at style in her
modestly made gown, and carefully piled-up
chignon. "And I 'd like to know if you would
see it that way either, if it was you. Poor
Tabitha's mother was all she had in the world,
and now she's no one but a gumpy old uncle."
"Well, Lisette, who pities her more than I?
Here's her bonnet, poor thing! and here's her
vol. xcf.—16
cloak. Run and put them on her, and I '11 see
her homo myself, if madame will let me."
Jane Fairnie, madame permitting, saw Ta-
bitha home, covering her tear-stained face
with a thick green veil, and, upon arriving at
the plain wooden house painted brown where
Tabitha's uncle dwelt, they ascended the steps
thereto, and soon stood within the meagre
hall-way. Here Tabitha's uncle met them,
and he hnd pursed his mouth into an expres-
sion of sadness, and had tears in his foxy eyes.
He rubbed his hands together reflectingly.
"All is over," he said. "We must be re-
signed."
Tabitha fled past him hurriedly, up the stairs,
into her mother's room.
"Mother!" she moaned, piteously.
No reply; only a cold, dark face on the old-
fashioned four-poster bedstead, hands folded
peacefully, and a poor black dress floating
about the attenuated form.
"DeadI Gone, mother, gone away for-
ever!"'
Some one stirred within the room, but Tabi-
tha never noticed, and slowly steps receded
across the carpet, out from the room, in which
was such a mixture of poverty and wealth,
Into the hall, and down the stairway; but the
young doctor, who had attended poor Mrs.
Floriac in her last sudden illness, never forgot
the sweet, girlish face he had that moment
seen in the chamber of death, and it seemed to
him the saddest, sweetest countenance he had
ever beheld.
Jane Fairnie still lingered to talk of Mrs.
Floriac's sudden taking away, and, as the doc-
tor came down stairs, she said :—
"Was it so very unexpected, sir?"
Tabitha's uncle had left her a moment ago,
and as the doctor stopped it occurred to Jane
Fairnie that he was a very handsome man, but
young, and consequently much upset by per-
haps one of his first death-bed scenes.
"Very sudden, indeed; a severe hemorrhage,
which resulted in instant death. Mrs. Floriac
bore it well."
"A lovely woman, but very unfortunate.
Between you and me, sir, it is a blessing that
her life is ended."
"She suffered a great deal."
"Both in body, and mind. You know her
history?"
"I am not acquainted with it."
"She ain't like none of us; she ain't, you
know, sir, common folks, I mean. She mar-
ried into a good family, and come of a good
family herself; but her husband deserted her,
and she was left all alone without no money;
so she tried to support herself, but her health
gave out, so that she had to come and live
with her brother; and," lowering her voice,
"he's sunk awful low from what he was,
what with gambling and all that, and now
he's poor as poor can be, and I don't see how
242
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
he keeps this roof over his head, nor where the
money to bury her up stairs is to come from,
unless madame advances Tabitha's salary."
"Tabitha?"
"That's Mrs. Floriac's daughter, who's
just gone up stairs. She works at our place,
Madame Flannegan's, the dressmaker and
milliner, you know, and we think a sight of
her, poor thing! though we understand she
ain't none of us."
The young doctor listens gravely. Surely a
handsome, refined countenance, which he pos-
sesses, full of intellect and power, one which
will make its mark in the world, and stamp its
impression indelibly upon the time in which it
works and lives. He is dark, tall, thin, and
with a smooth face, whereon the lines show
well, and the firm, forcible mouth, and some-
what determined-chin, speak worlds for hiin.
A man to love a tender, confiding woman, and
take her kindly to his heart of hearts, never
forsaking her, to make her life a dream of joy,
and witli his manliness shield her from all
harm—such is young Hubert Cotterill, as he
stands there talking of the girl he has just
seen, and seen for the first time, and who has
made such a deep impression upon him. He
hears even now her heart-breaking sobs, and
as he says good-by to Jane Fairnie, and passes
out of the front door, his heart is sad within
him, and his eyes are full of tears.
Outside it is a fair spring day, and pleasant
skies shine down upon the shabby-genteel
street wherein lives Tabitha's uncle, as well
as upon the fashionable thoroughfare in which
may be found Doctor Cotterill's office. The
two, strange to say, are not far distant the one
from the other. In large cities poverty and
riches embrace one another, so to speak. Doc-
tor Cotterill is of good family, and is sure in
time to command a prosperous business, but
at present he is obliged to take up witli such
patients as he can get. Is it fate which haa
brought him to Finch Street?
IL
Finch Street still, and another fair spring
day, the house where Tabitha's uncle dwells,
open to the air, and flowers upon the window-
sill of the room where Mrs. Floriac died. A
sad, sweet face'peering out at Doctor Cotterill
from the shabby parlor down stairs, wondering
vaguely who has come to call.
"I am the doctor—Doctor Cotterill," twirl-
ing his hat nervously in his hands.
"Oh 1" from Tabitha; "and you came to"—
"To inquire how you all are."
"Uncle and I are quite well. We are get-
ting ready to move away," showing Doctor
Cotterill into the parlor with strange grace.
"To move away? Where are you going 1"
"I do not know."
Doctor Cotterill thinks this is very odd, and
wonders what kind of girl it is who does not
know, or apparently care, what is to become
of her. Fancy any of his young lady friends
placed in such a predicament I
"Poverty is hard to bear," he thinks, but
says, "You are not to move from the city?"
"I do not care. Any change would please
me; but I should regret leaving Madame Flan-
negan's. Work is hard to get, and the girls
there are very kind."
"Perhaps you have relatives, Miss Floriac,
to whom you can apply? Your name is a good
name."
"I should rather die than apply to my
father's family!"
Hubert Cotterill had thought he was address-
iug a girl, but in that moment he saw his mis-
take. . Miss Floriac was a woman, owning her
womanhood by right of sorrow and tears, and
wearing it regally. As she stood, leaning one
hand upon the window-ledge, the other clutch-
ing at her black dress fiercely, the young doc-
tor felt like taking her then and there into the
peace and comfort of his own fortunate life;
but, alas! there had been decreed for Tabitha
fierce struggles, both with her own heart' and
an unkind fate.
"Well, what are you to do?"
"I do not know, I am sure. Uncle thinks
he can get a place at one of the theatres. We
are all theatrically inclined in our family."
"But you cannot go upon the stage?"
"No, I am not strong enough, I know; but
I must work. They say work makes one for-
get, and that would be such a boon." The
head, covered with golden curls, is drooped,
and tears, bitter indeed, course their way down
the fair young cheeks. "You must pardon
me, sir; but mamma, if you knew her, was so
sweet and good! and her life was so sad! My
uncle, if you will not tell It, is not living under
his own name. My mother was a De Coftois.
We are of French descent."
Doctor Cotterill started perceptibly. "A
De Coftois!" he said. "Then you are entitled
to the best society in the land, and I find you
living obscurely, and working at an Irish-
Frenchwoman's for your daily bread!"
"Oh, sir! but if we have done nothing
wrong; If mamma and I have been innocent,
though unfortunate, you cannot blame ns.
There are none of my mother's relatives living
who would care to hear from me. Mamma's
marriage dissatisfied both families; one on ac-
count of her want of dowry, and the other on
account of my father's dissipated habits. So I
would not lay claim to the protection of either,
except in the person of my uncle Ben, with
whom I now live."
"But I know the De Coftois. There is old
Madame de Coftois, or Madame Am<51ie, ns
they call her, who, I am sure, would gladly
welcome a young, protectorless girl to her
home."
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
243
"Protectorlcss?" queried Tabitha, proudly.
"I have my uncle, sir, and Kate has promised
to follow me wherever I go."
"Kate?"
"Kate Bevis, one of Madame Flannegan's
hands. She has linked her fate with mine,
and rove where I may, has promised to work
for me, though we must work for one another,
and always to keep by my side, come what
will."
Doctor Cotterill regards Tabitha in more
and more amazement. She, a De Coftois,
claiming friendship with one of Madame Flan-
negan's workwomen.
"I see, sir, you are surprised; but if you
only knew what Kate and all the girls have
done for me I With their own hands they
laid my mother out, and out of their slender
purses they paid the funeral expenses and
the doctor's"— Tabitha stopped abruptly.
"Xo, sir; you must pardon me. They told
me of your generous refusal to accept money.
The money they paid was lent to me, and the
money due you, sir, I am still going to owe to
you."
The young doctor flushed painfully, and ap-
peared to be much embarrassed. Tabitha also
was for the moment somewhat confused. Just
then, though neither noticed it, an old, aristo-
cratic lady was making her way up the steps
of the brown house on Finch Street, and peer-
ing at its tumble-down architecture. Strangely,
an old lady, with fierce black eyes, and an in-
domitable pride stamped upon every lineament
of her face. Doubtless Finch Street was a new
neighborhood to her, that she regarded it with
such a piercing gaze. Such, indeed, was the
case, and Madame de Coftois, or "Madame
Am£lie," as she was called, was at that mo-
ment congratulating herself upon the fact.
She rang at the door, a rambling, broken ring,
as though all the bones in a skeleton were be-
ing pulled simultaneously by a string. Mr.
Benjamin de Coftois, at present going under
the pseudonym of Mr. Benjamin Briggs, was
passing up the steps at the moment, and, lift-
ing his hat politely, he unfastened the door for
old Madame Amelie, and motioned for her to
precede him into the house.
"To what do I owe the honor of this call,
madame?" he asked, his foxy eyes looking out
Ticiously.
"Your brother sent me, Mr. Benjamin de
Coftois. 1 come not to see you, but my hus-
band's niece, Miss Tabitha Floriac." The old
lady's tones were tremulous with age, yet these
words were spoken with quiet distinctness and
de termination.
"You should have come before I Now, mad-
ame, It is late in the day. We buried my sister
two weeks ago."
"I know all that; yet I also know that it is
liptter late than never. Come, Benjamin de
Coftois, it is to your advantage to treat me
civilly, for X am here to relieve you of a
burden."
The two stood in the hall-way. "There is
some one in the parlor, and it is as well that
you do not see Tabitha as yet. Pray, come
with me up stairs," said Benjamin de Coftois,
as he led the way to the very room where Mrs.
Floriac had breathed her last. Madame Aroe-
lie entered this latter with surprise. It was
not so poverty-stricken in appearance as she
had expected, and it is probable that she recog-
nized in it some cherished baubles of her dead
sister-in-law's youthful days. Indeed, strange
memories were stirred in her breast, memories
in which she saw herself a girlish, timid bride,
with no one to welcome her cordially intoher
husband's family save her husband's youthful,
pretty sister, and, gazing around at the odd
room, tears came into her eyes. "Here she
spent her last days 1 Here she died I" said her
brother's voice, as he shaded his face with his
hands in real, not feigned grief, this time.
"And those flowers on the window-sill! Vio-
lets, spring violets! I remember she wore
them in her hair the first night I came to the
De Coftois Grange. Who gave them her in her
last days? Oh, I am glad poor Jessie had that
one solace!"
"ner daughter, madame, with the money
earned at Mine. Flannegan's, the dressmaker's,
bought her mother that present the day before
she died."
"What! one of the De Coftois an apprentice
at a mantuamaker's I Impossible I"
Benjamin de Coftois shrugged his shoulders,
as much as to say, "Have your own thoughts,
Madame Amulie, the fact remains! And now
to business," he added, aloud. "You have
come upon some special errand, I see. What
is that errand?"
"My husband sends me for Tabitha. We
have no family, and are longing for some
bright, young presence in the house. You
know we live out at the old grange now. My
husband bought it in, and has repaired it, and
modernized it somewhat as well."
"You are reported rich, Madame Amelie,"
scraping his hands together reflectively.
Madame Amelie smiled faintly. "We are
able to keep Tabitha in good style."
Benjamin de Coftois coughed, then walked
up and down the room slowly. He had heard
rumors lately, rumors that his brother's firm
was in a somewhat unsteady position. Could
money be made out of a failing man?
"Well, you consent?" asked Madame Arao-
lie, eagerly. "I long to seo Tabitha. Is she
like her mother? Is sho pretty?"
"She is like Mrs. Floriac, but much prettier."
"Ah! then she is a beauty! How I shall
love her! Has she received a good education?"
"Her mother's life has been migratory, but
Mrs. Floriac taught her daughter incessantly."
"That is good! Jessie was exceedingly in-
244
GODET-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
telligcnt herself. Hem! Has Tabltha any
lover?" •
"No, madame; none."
"But I heard a man's voice In the parlor."
"It was the doctor's; the one who attended
her mother in her last illness."
"You are sure that he is not a lover?"
"This is the first time the two have met."
"That is well I very well! And I can have
Miss Floriac?" The old lady stood tapping
her eye-glasses impatiently upon the window-
sill, whilst Benjamin de Coftois gazed off ab-
sently.
"Yes," stroking his chin, meditatively.
"She is yours."
Madame Amelie's eyes fairly danced in her
head. "When can yon get her ready to come
with me?" ,
"To-morrow."
So Tabitha's fato was sealed, and the dark,
wretched past was shut away forever by the
gates of the present, which promised much for
her happy future.
Finch Street lost its cheeriest sun-ray, but
De Coftois Grange gained in additional beauty
and light
Tabitha went to live with Madame Amelie,
taking with her one only reminder of the days
when Fate had been cruel to her, in the person
of Kate Bevis, htr companion and maid.
III.
Madame AmeVie's home was off upon the
turnpike just out of town, and a queer, origi-
nal place it was, too. It appeared to be all in-
finitesimally divided windows, and odd little
turrets and projections. From time to time,
De Coftois Grange had been added to, and it
now presented a most straggling, though not
unpicturesque appearance. There were all
styles of architecture abounding in its con-
struction, from sternest Grecian to the ancient
Gothic, and over it all clambered and straggled
wistaria, roses, and clematis. In the carefully
laid-out garden-beds there grew a wealth of
lovely flowers, the hues of which set off to per-
fection the numerous groups of statuary, for
which Mr. Charles de Coftois, Madame Am6-
lie's husband, had a most insatiable penchant.
Floras, odd-looking beef-eaters, cupids, satyrs,
were to be met with upon every side, and the
garden was fairly peopled with mute, marble
creatures, who stared at one another, and won-
dered how Fate had thrown them in such plea-
sant places. Interiorly, De Coftois Grange
presented a never-failing surprise to its ex-
plorer. One came npon the most unexpected
apartments, and could not ascend a staircase
but half-way up a door opened, and there was
a most comfortable room- disclosed to view.
Madame Amelie had indulged her French taste
for effect in the garnishing of every apartment,
and the result was a perfect arrangement of
every minor detail, insomuch that the house
presented a complete artistic picture. No spot,
however, was so prettily arranged as madame'a
tea-room, as she called it, where everything
was Japanese, even to the tea-service and flow-
er-pots. In this spot Madame Amelie loved to
linger after her late dinner, and sip tea and
gaze off at the sunset dreamily.
It was summer now, and the roses were in
full bloom, shedding their fragrance upon the
soft, evening air. Madame Amelie. was in the
tea-room, and seated by her side was the slight,
graceful figure of her niece Tabitha. Mme.
Amelie's dress was a lavender muslin, and she
had lavender ribbons in her cap, which in her
constituted the mourning worn in remem-
brance of poor Tabitha's mother. Tabitha was
attired in a dark muslin with a black ribbon
sash, and carelessly placed among her golden
curls was a Jet dagger, which contrasted well
with the hue of her sunny hair. Her face was
very sad, for she could not forget her late loss,
yet this intense sadness was exceedingly be-
coming to her. There had been a guest at the
De Coftois dinner that evening, and he was
now lingering with his host over the De Cof-
tois wines.
"How do you like Mr. Meriones, Tabitha?"
asked Madame Amelie, pausing with her India
China teacup suspended in her hand, and look-
ing at her niece somewhat searchingly.
"Oh! He is very pleasant, aunt. I did not
say much to him, you know, nor he to me."
"It was not necessary, my dear. He had
your uncle to talk to; yet, upon the whole, do
you not think him a charming man? He is so
settled in his opinions; not at all like the very
young men one meets in society nowadays.
Besides, he has suffered, which adds an inte-
rest to him." Madame Amelie coughed, re-
flectively, and looked up quickly to see the
effect of her words. She understood young
girl nature well, and especially the nature of
the young girl before her.
"Suffered?" asked Tabitha, a deep interest
showing itself In her blue eyes. "How has he
suffered?"
"ne is, as you know, a Cuban, and he once
loved a young Cuban girl devotedly. She was
above him in position, and her parents for-
bade the marriage. They took their daughter
abroad, so that she might forget; but she never
forgot, and one day drowned herself out of
despair."
Tabitha had listened deeply interested, her
tea pushed away from her, and her hands
crossed upon her lap.
"Poor girl!"
"Foolish girl, my dear Tabitha," said her
aunt, sternly. "She showed a vast disrespect
for the will of her parents. A disobedient
child will make a bad wife, and Mr. Meriones,
though he is unaware of the fact, escaped a
great infliction by the death of his fiaiuee."
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
245
"How can you say so, aunt?" said Tabitha,
with unusual boldness. "1 am sure that she
was faithful, faithful till death."
Just then two figures sauntered into the tea-
room.
The young lady is agitated. "Faithful till
death?" said the low, musical voice of Mr.
Meriones, close by Tabitha's ear. "You are
young to know the meaning of those sad, sweet
words."
Mr. Charles de Coftois and his guest were
the very antipodes of one another. The former
was light, stout, and jolly in his manners, whilst
Mr. Meriones was dark, thin, and with the most
melancholy air possible. As he gazed at Ta-
bitha now, his deep, expressive eyes seemed to
pierce her soul. Involuntarily she started, and
felt a strange repugnance steal over her for her
uncle.'s guest.
"Tabitha is not speaking of her own experi-
ence," put in Madame Ami-lie, as she iudo-
lently waved her odd, Japanese fan in front
of her. "She is a mere child, and, therefore,
knows nothing whatever of the subject under
discussion."
Mr. Meriones had seated himself by the lovely
yonng girl, who interested him deeply, and be-
gan to talk with her, and draw her out. Mad-
ame and her husband meanwhile wandered,
arm in arm, up and down the terrace in front
of the French windows. How could Tabitha
guess that this meeting had been purposely
brought about? She knew that Mr. Meriones
was charmed with her, for her womanly tact
told her as much; but she could not like him,
although she was very pleasant to him.
"You are one to bo faithful till death," mur-
mured the voice of Mr. Meroines. "Fortunate
he who wins your love." He sighed, deeply,
and Tabitha flushed beneath his regard.
"I am sure I know nothing about it."
"Oh, happy mortal I Your romance is all to
come!"
The summer evening passed away pleasantly
enough, for Mr. Meriones fully understood the
art of being entertaining, and he had fixed his
affections upon this pretty niece of Charles de
Coftois the first moment he had seen her, and
Tabitha listened to his wonderful accounts of
the southern land, from whence he came, with
her blue eyes all alight with interest; and her
hands clasped before her in a way she had of
doing when at all engrossed in anything.
Meanwhile, Madame Ann-lie and her hus-
band talked quietly together upon the terrace
in so low a voice that no one lingering near
could hear them.
"My dear Charles, if this man will only help
yon, I am sure your firm can pull through this
time, can it not?"
"Certainly; but if he will only help me.
There lies the difficult point of the matter.
The only way to do is to entertain him in our
best style, putting every effort forward, which
we can. Tabitha is exceedingly fresh and
pretty, and 1 saw at once that he admired her
greatly. She is young, impressionable, and he
is assuredly a most fascinating man, one who
would, beside his great wealth, make her an
excellent husband. It is our duty," said Mr.
Charles de Coftois, pompously, "to provide for
the future of our dead sister's child."
"To be sure!" murmured Madame Amelie.
"There are no younger men around to inter-
fere with the result we propose to accomplish,
and, as expedition is of immense consequence,
I shall be as expeditious as possible. It is, as
you say, our bounden duty to care for the wel-
fare of Jessie's only child. I shall certainly do
my duty in this respect."
"We must invite Mr. Meriones here soon
again."
"Unfortunately, Tabitha and her maid are
going in town to spend a week at your Cousin
Simon's; but we can curtail the visit, per-
haps."
"Do as yon think best."
The sunset tints were fading in the western
sky, and the long stretch of garden below the
terrace began to look vague and shadowy.
Darkness was creeping over the mass of fra-
grant flowers, which lifted their heads upward
with such a wreath of beauty. Their scent
came in on the evening air, fragrant and deli-
cious. Soon lights gleamed in the tea-room,
where Tabitha and Mr. Meriones sat talking
together. Looking iu at them, they made a
pretty picture —Tabitha, with her fair face
alight; and Mr. Meriones, with his dark one
bent toward her with interest.
A light muslin dress rustled, and a Japanese
fan waved to and fro. Then it tapped Tabitha
carelessly upon the shoulder. She was just
saying, in reply to a question put to her by
Mr. Meriones, "I am going away for a week, to
visit some cousins whom I have never seen,"
when Madame Ann-lie smiled down upon her
placidly.
"You cannot be spared for so long a time,
my darling. Your uncle says you must return
in three days."
Already Tabitha was most submissive to her
aunt's will. She was deeply grateful to her
for all she had done, and labored truly to be a
comfort to her. In the future there were to
be stern trials of her strength, though Tabitha
could not see the dark clouds then.
"As you wish, my dear aunt," said her quiet
voice.
Mr. Meriones noted her submission, and it
pleased him. Madame Amelie saw all this
with her piercing eyes, standing there smiling
blandly. She was a very clever woman, cer-
tainly, and was playing her cards well. Would
she win the game? The future will tell.
246
OODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AXD MA0AZIX3.
IV.
"WEhave met before, "said Tabitha, bowing
gracefully, yet flushing deeply as she spoke.
The scene was in Simon de Coftois' drawing-
room, where it was the afternoon of another
warm day, and tho party gathered therein
were awaiting the descent of a conclave of
doctors, who had been to visit young George
de Coftois, and were to stop and see the ladies
In the drawing-room on their way down stairs.
Doctor Cotterill was among the number. The
same student-like face, with Its powerful look;
the same dark, mellow eyes, which so vividly
recalled Finch Street to Tabitha's mind. Doc-
tor Cotterill bowed gravely, stretched forth his
hand in greeting, and sat down by Tabitha's
side.
"Yes, and I am glad we meet again, Miss
Floriac," he said.
How glad, she could not know! A slight
pause upon his part, during which he looked
at Tabitha with eager, hungry eyes. Had he
ever been in love before? He had fancied
himself so, but never until this moment had
he really felt the feeling. Now it was a sort
of worship-idolatry, to which he submitted
himself. They had met once more, and once
more he could speak to this girl, whose life
had been so strange In its trials and tempta-
tions, so filled with sorrow and despair.
"Do you like De Coftois Grange?"
"Oh, so much I" said Tabitha, looking up
quickly. "They are very kind to me, uncle
and aunt."
"You have, indeed, found a pleasant home."
There was a strange accent in these words,
which Tabitha could not understand. Poverty
stood between them now. Oh, if only this
fair, sweet flower could have bloomed a little
longer in Finch Street, to have been trans-
planted by his care to fairer regions of light 1
"Yes, Fate has been kind to me."
Thus Tabitha and young Doctor Cotterill
met once again, and it happened that the three
days which Miss Floriac spent at her cousin's
were days in which she grew to know young
Doctor Cotterill well, and which stamped
themselves indelibly, for good or evil, upon
the whole future existence of these two. They
learnt in them the lesson which must come to
us all as we pass through the world, even to
those of us who are the most prosaic and com-
monplace in our ways. Sometimes joy comes
witli the gift, yet oftener sternest disappoint-
ment, sometimes despair. The pleasant after-
noon at Simon de Coftois' was the beginning,
or rather renewal, of this romance; and when
once again Tabitha reached De Coftois Grange,
the young doctor's image rose before her, kind,
protecting, a true knight of chivalry, in whom
were centred all the manly attributes of a hero.
"You enjoyed yourself at Cousin Simon's?"
asked Madame Amelie, as Tabitha and Kate
descended from the carriage at the door of De
Coftois Grange.
"Very, very much," replied Tabitha, smiling
pleasantly at the remembrance.
"Did you see any people there? Simon is
fond of company."
"We saw—oh, yes, some people! though 1
fancy fewer than are usually there, on account
of me, you know."
"Whom did you see?"
"Some sweet young girls, and some doctors,
friends of Cousin George."
"AhI young doctors, eh?"
"Yes, and among them Doctor Cotterill,
you know, aunt, who attended mamma during
her last illness."
"To be sure. So he was there, too? Well,
go now, my dearest Tabitha, and prepare
yourself for dinner. Mr. Meriones will be
here."
Kate Bevis stood regarding Madame Amelie
strangely. This woman had seen much of the
world, and was clever and shrewd. She hail
always mistrusted Tabitha's aunt, and had
never liked her. She now mistrusted her more
than ever, and saw that she was In some way
plotting mischief.
"You are to wear white muslin to-night,
Tabitha. I have had the dress laid out upon
your bed."
Kate Bevis wondered still more at Madame
Amfilie's strange interest iu her niece's appear-
ance; but that evening, when she caught sight
of Mr. Meriones walking in the garden with
her young mistress, she shrewdly guessed that
Madame Amelie wished to marry off her niece
to the rich young Cuban, yet kept matters
discreetly to herself, and resolved to await
events.
That evening was only one of many In which
the rich Cuban met pretty-Tabitha Floriac;
yet, as Fate willed it, Cousin Simon's family
sent often for Tabitha, and her aunt, hoping
no harm would come, allowed her niece to visit
the city frequently. So Doctor Cotterrill met
Miss.Floriac; and learnt, as day followed day,
to like her more and more.
Meanwhile, Mr. Charles de Coftois' firm was
in imminent danger of failure. He was a sugar
merchant, and in some way had intimate busi-
ness relations with Mr. Meriones. Indeed,
the latter could alone help him out of his diffi-
culties. When, therefore, Manuel Meriones
sued for the hand of Miss Tabitha Floriac, Mr.
Charles de Coftois at once gave his consent to
the union, without consulting his niece, and
left it to Madame Amelie to inform the latter
of the honor which had been conferred upon
her. Of course, Tabitha could'not refuse to
marry so fascinating, eligible a man. There
was ho prior attachment, and the girl must
care for this handsome Cuban, with his roman-
tic history, if she were in her nature like other
girls.
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
247
A bright morning when Madame Amelie
took her work down to the summer-house,
where Tabitha already sat. The sun shone
upon the lily pond, whose limpid waters glis-
tened near by. The marble statuary gleamed
from among the gay-hued plants, and the air
was redolent of sweetest perfume.
"This is like Mr. Meriones' own fair land,"
said Madame Amelie, as her face appeared
smilingly at the door of the pagoda-shaped
summer-house.
Tabitha looked up from her lace frames and
smiled.
"It must be a lovely country In which he
lives?"
"Beautiful, my dear Tabitha," replied her
aunt, seating herself comfortably by the side
of her niece. "He owns a vast extent of land,
and has built upon It a positive castle."
Stitch, stitch went Madame Amelie's hands
in and out the delicate muslin she was sewing,
and the rings upon her fingers sparkled as
they moved here and there.
"Should you like to go to Cuba, dear child?"
"Oh, yes! if it be so lovely a land."
"But suppose, Tabitha, that you could be
almost a princess there, wear beautiful clothes,
and live in a palace?"
Tabitha looked up quickly, a slight suspicion
in her gaze.
"Dear aunt," she said, "I feel a princess
here, you are all so good to me."
"But your uncle and I may not live always,
and the day will come when you need a pro-
tector. In fact, my dear child, I must speak
plainly to you. Mr. Meriones wishes to marry
you."
Tabitha's lace frames dropped to the ground,
and her face flushed deeply. Madame Amelie
approached her and took her hand tenderly.
"You must like Mr. Meriones, Tabitha I
He is so noble, so true, so kind and brave I I
do not fear to place your fate in his hands."
Still no word from Tabitha.
"Do you not care for him, my darling?"
"No, aunt, I do not love Mr. Meriones."
"But love will come in time, will it not?
Tou are so young yet that you scarcely com-
prehend the meaning of the word. Surely,"
patting Tabitha's pretty hand tenderly, "sure-
ly, the day will come when you must care for
so devoted a suitor."
"No, aunt, I could never love Mr. Meriones."
"But, Tabitha, let me speak frankly with
you. Your uncle and I are devotedly attached
to you. We have taken you to our heart of
hearts. We are also deeply interested in Mr.
Meriones, and esteem him greatly. In fine,
Tabitha," and here Madame Amfilie coughed
in an embarrassed way, "Mr. Meriones has put
your uncle under deep obligations to him.
Mr. de Coftois' firm is trembling in a financial
panic. At any moment we may lose every-
thing—this house, which has been In the family
for years; these grounds, which I love so well.
All depends upon you, Tabitha. Do you un-
derstand me?"
Finch Street rose before Tabitha in that mo-
ment. Why had she ever left it? In Finch
Street she had been free, her own mistress;
yet now— She gazed up timidly at Madame
Amelie. How did she know that Doctor Cot-
terill cared for her? He had never said so;
and, indeed, at times had seemed distant and
cold. Madame Amelie was weeping; bitter
tears, too, which shook her frame quiveringly.
It came to Tabitha then how much she owed
to her aunt. Should she accept the chance to
pay the debt? or should she listen to the
promptings of a voice which would not be
still?
f'Aunt," began Tabitha, "1 owe everything
to you. You have taken me from poverty to
riches. I am not ungrateful."
"Must the old house go, Tabitha? and must
we all become beggars?"
Tabitha stroked her aunt gently. "You
will give me time to answer you, aunt?"
"Yes, a day or so; no longer, Tabitha, for
every moment has its weight."
Tabitha kissed her aunt gently. "Then,"
she said, a sad light in her blue eyes, "please
weep no more. I am going to try bravely to
give you the answer you wish."
The summer morning seemed clouded to
Tabitha, though the sun still shone, the birds
sang, and the soft breeze sighed through the
leaves of the rose-bushes, which trailed over
the summer-house. Madame Amelie smiled
feebly through her tears.
"Tou are a dear, good child," she said;
"and I knew you would prove a blessing to
me." Already Madame Amelie saw success
in her plans, and rejoiced greatly in her keen,
shrewd heart.
"You will let me go in to Kate Bevis, aunt?"
asked a tremulous voice.
Madame Amelie nodded her head, and Tabi-
tha, picking up her lace frames, left the sum-
mer-house, and wandered through the flowering
pathways to De Coftois Grange.
Manuel Meriones had won the day 1 This
fair flower was all his own, and once more life
looked brightly to him, and the memory of his
old love faded away, to be replaced by the re-
membrance of this new-found affection, which
was his. Day by day saw him at De Coftois
Grange, loading Tabitha with costly presents,
winning smiles from Madame Amelie, and
basking in the sunny presence of her he loved.
Yet how sad the sweet face grew, and how
pale and spirituelle it was I The smiles, when
they came, which was seldom, were weary
ones, and it seemed as though Tabitha were
248
QODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
fading away into another world, slowly, surely.
Did no one see this? No one, it seemed, but
Kate Bevis, who watched her darling tenderly.
How could she save one whom she loved so
dearly? Poor Doctor Cotterill had seen Kate,
and had told her that one interview he must
have with Tabitha-before they led her, a silent
martyr, to' her doom. Kate had longed to tell
him ail she knew of the sad story, yet had said
no word. Meanwhile, she pondered deeply,
and studied Mr. Manuel Meriones' character
with such strange persistency that he some-
times gave her an odd, perplexed look, as
though her regard fretted him. Her chances
of observation were not many; yet, such as
they were, she made good use of them. She
never entered the room upon small errands
for her mistress but she also kept her eyes well
open in regard to the dark, handsome man by
her mistress' side.
What was he like? His face was often full
of sorrowful shadows, as though somewhere or
other in the dim past there had been fierce
struggles in his life. If he had felt the sting
and stab of grief, could he then feel for oth-
ers? Kate Bevis questioned herself thus inces-
santly. She loved her young, sweet mistress,
and would have died for her; but she saw her
pale, care-worn, fading away, and It seemed
as though her hands were tied.
The wedding-day had almost dawned. Mad-
ame Amfilie had prepared the bride's trousseau,
and thoexquisite French embroideries, melange
of silks and satins, lay In the guest-chamber, a
most bewildering sight to behold. The young
bride and groom were to go South at once, and
live in Mr. Merione's rich, castle-like home.
Fate smiled upon Tabitha in a worldly sense,
but her heart was breaking. Madame Amelia
could not be totally blind to all this; yet she
said, "All engaged girls grow pale and thin.
We must expect it."
In Kate Bevis' mind there came the promise
she had pledged to Doctor Cotterill, and one
evening she told Tabitha that he would be
down by the lily-pond to say a few words to
her. Was she right in doing so? and was Ta-
bitha right in yielding to the request of one in
whom she could own no further interest? She
dare not question herself, but found herself by
the lily-pond that night, pacing there restlessly.
"Tabitha!"
"Doctor Cotterill I"
"You must have known I loved you. My
darling, why have you rendered me wretched?"
"You did not speak. How could I tell?
And then I owe everything to my aunt, and
my uncle's firm was failing. Mr. Meriones
alone could save it. Do you blame me, know-
ing as I did that all depended upon me, and
that I was so deeply Indebted to my aunt?"
"O Tabitha I You did not think of me then,
and of the life-long anguish you were causing
me! Tell me, my darling, do you love me?"
The moonlight shone upon the pale, spirit-
uelle face of Tabitha, raised sadly toward that
of Doctor Cotterill.
"You know that I do," said the calm, sad
voice.
"Then it is not too late yet. You can still
be my very own. It is a sin you are commit-
ting, Tabitha."
She shook her head sadly. "There is a
mystery In it somewhere," she said, like one
groping vainly in the dark.
"It must not, cannot be. You are mine;
my very own. O my darling I at the last mo-
ment say you relent."
"Miss Tabitha, you are wanted I" called the
voice of Kate Bevis.
"One word. I promise you that I will try
my utmost to do what is right. To-morrow
night I shall send you word of my decision."
Tabitha left the lily-pond, and wandered
home through the tangled pathways of the
garden up to the Grange. Her white dress
fluttered, spectre-like, in and out among the
flower-beds, and some one watching her thought
her a fair, distant spirit, sent from some far-off
realm of dreams, yet not for him. Sadly he
shook his head, and then and there went forth
from a bright Paradise he had made for him-
self, and in which he had for one moment for-
gotten that his fate was to be sorrow, as surely
as "the sparks fly upward." It was not Doc-
tor Cotterill who thus watched Tabitha, though
his eyes followed her with adoration. It was
Manuel Meriones, gazing steadily from the
pathway where he had stood but a moment
before with Kate Bevis. This woman had
opened his blinded eyes, and had made plain
to him what he would not see. So Tabitha did
not love him; and he, he loved her blindly,
madly, with all the fervor of his Southern
spirit. Whatcouldhedonow?andhowacquit
himself in his present predicament? Marry a
woman who did not care for him? Blindly
fall into the trap that the wary Madame Ann'lie
had set for him? Never! AH his reserve of
pride rose up in rebellion at the thought. Who
was the man that could step between him and
the woman whom he loved? Doctor Cotterill
passed that way, and Manuel Meriones, seeing
him coming, stepped aside into the shrubbery,
and watched the dark, handsome face of his
manly young rival.
"He is almost a boy, and I"— Years had
passed over his head, and had calmed and
stilled his fierce feelings, and set at rest the
turbid, troubled waters of his life. "The fu-
ture of this boy is in my hands. Shall I forget
how, in the long ago, my future lay in hands
which were cruel? Shall I forget how my life
was warped and rendered wretched? And
yet how can I relinquish Tabitha, whom I
love as my life?" The eyes of Manuel Meri-
ones were filled with sadness; yet in that mo-
ment, had Tabitha seen them, she would have
HOMES.
249
loved the man most surely. "One last look!"
lie said, fiercely, and he walked toward De
Coftois Grange slowly.
There, at the table in the tea-room, sat
Madame Amelie, sewing upon some fleecy,
bride-like stuff, with a smile upon her face.
Near her sat Tabitha, restlessly tapping her
dainty foot upon the ground, and with her
hands lying idly in her lap. The golden curls
fluttered about her flushed face, and the eyes
he loved so well seemed filled with unshed
tears.
"My dear Tabitha, the night air is bad for
yon. Why did you run off into the garden
that way?"
"I was so warm, aunt, and restless; very
restless, indeed."
"Sad, my own darling; sad, too, at the
thought of leaving me?"
"O aunt!" exclaimed Tabitha, as she arose
and knelt at her aunt's knees. "How much
you have done for me 1 How good you have
been to me I Indeed, Indeed, I am deeply
grateful to you!"
"My dear child I" said Madame Am61ie,
patting aside her work, and smoothing the
bowed head of her niece gently. '"You are
good and grateful to me I"
"O aunt, believe me, I can never forget all
you have done for me!"
Manuel Meriones drew away. He had seen
Tabitha for the last time I
The wedding trousseau was locked up in
Madame Amelie'sguest-chamber, and Madame
Amelie's pretty niece no longer wandered
aboutthe strange house. Here and there were
traces of her dainty presence in soft, fleecy bits
of fancy work; yet the fair, beautiful girl was
gone. Madame Aim-lie's bright schemes and
visions had melted away. Her niece had be-
come the wife of a poor, struggling doctor,
and Manuel Meriones had returned alone to
liis home in Cuba. The morning after Tabi-
tha's flight, tills note reached De Coftois
Grange :—
August 8th, 18—.
Madame de Coftois: You will perhaps be
surprised to learn that I aided your niece In
her flight, and that I brought together two
noble, loving hearts, though my own was
strangely torn by the struggle. Yesterday I
informed your niece that I had no intention of
marrying her, and that 1 knew she loved
young Cotterill. I begged of her to marry
hiui, and put all obstacles out of her path.
Therefore, place all blame upon my shoulders.
I have suffered too much in my life to wish
others to suffer as well. I understand, mariame,
why you so earnestly wished my alliance
with your niece. The money loaned to your
husband has been paid, with interest, and I
have the happiness to wish you all prosperity
in the future from the possession of the ample
means he has always.been able to shower
upon you. When this note reaches you, I
shall be miles away; yet, before I leave your
land, must express to you my sincere gratitude
for your kind hospitality to the stranger. You
were always most good to me.
And your niece once again. Madame, you
were young once, and in love. The days are
not so far distant but that you remember them
still. Then forgive two lovers whose sole un-
happiness will arise from your coldness and
want of leniency. Pray, tell your husband
that I say adieu to him regretfully, and that I
shall think of him often in my own land.
Your obedient servant,
Manuel Meriones.
Madame Amelie was weeping.
"A most noble manl" she said. "These
are the hearts girls throw away so ruthlessly;
and for what? For two dark eyes which flash
and sparkle, for an empty purse, and a life of
drudgery."
Yet this strange woman, after all, was not
so angry with her niece as might be supposed,
and she went to see Mrs. Doctor Cotterill
shortly afterward, and thought she appeared
more happy than she expected to find her.
To be sure, her drawing-room was not fur-
nished in buhl and margueterie; but it was a
cheerful, home-like spot, nevertheless.
"Whose picture have we here?" asked Mad-
ame Amelie, as she took up a photograph from
the prettily-draped console of the mirror.
"A picture of one of our best friends," mur-
mured Tabitha, blushing deeply.
"You speak very truly," replied Madame
Amelie, as she met the pictured gaze of two
sad, dark eyes—the eyes of Manuel Meriones.
"He said ho should always be our friend."
A promise, by the by, never forgotten by the
noble man, who, in his Southern home, yet
found the secret means to advance Tabitha's
husband, and who is remembered in the prayers
of two whose love yet lives as truly as in the
days when their romance first began in Finch
Street.
HOMES.
The clustering meanings that gather about
our dear Saxon word home, are numerous. It
suggests to us a temple of love and truth, of
peace, consolation, and rest. The centre of
joy and harmony, of all that is beautiful and
desirable ; and so we come to regard heaven as
a home, differing from our earthly ones only
in its perfection.
Of every reality in the world we can In our
minds form an Ideal, of none a more beautiful
than of a home. There, should be all that
tends to cultivate and refine the taste. Books,
to invite one to scan their contents; music, to
soothe and cheer; well-chosen pictures, an ar-
tistic and harmonious blending of colors, which
quickens the sense of the beautiful ; plants,
since in each swelling bud and blossoming
250
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
flower lessons of love and trust may be found.
Beyond all, there should be intellectual cul-
ture, without which no home can be of great
value or benefit to the many.
This is our ideal home, but, sad to say, an
ideal too seldom realized. "Every home is a
happy one until you see beneath the roof,"
said Grace Greenwood in the olden time, and
grievous it is that the peaceful-looking roofs
so frequently cover disharmonies and indiffer-
ence, or gathering storms. In these uncongenial
abodes, each member of the household has his
or her opinion on every subject, if they are
strong characters. Each one tenaciously advo-
cates his side of the question; bitter, grieving
words ensue, anger and coldness creep into the
hearts, till homo becomes dreaded, and only a
meeting place for food and lodging, where
wearily drag the hours and days. So impor-
tant are the seemingly little things in a home-
life, so many are the causes which produce
these sad results, that it is difficult to know on
which to descant, or how to make the weight
of their Importance felt.
Our homes should be the strongholds of our
country, since in their influence are the minds
of our future citizens and statesmen formed,
and girls are nurtured who will raise up other
homes fashioned after the models of those they
have known.
Every vocation in life requires years of pre-
paration. A life work demands a life study.
But a woman whose mission and whose work
it is to make the home, too often enters upon
her duties wholly unfitted and unprepared,
having given no thought to the "weight her In-
fluence will have there. She neglects her mind,
forgetting that the impetus to improvement
and culture must emanate from her. She neg-
lects her body, forgetful that good health alone
begets good temper. She neglects her man-
ners, forgetting that hers will leave their im-
press upon every inmate, while she overlooks
no fault in others. She descends to idle gos-
sip, too little mindful of the glory of a woman's
home life, and forgetting that, as in old Rome
the Lares made the home, so she now is the
presiding and conferring deity.
The training of boys also is rarely that which
will fit them to be loving and thoughtful. If
mothers would realize this, and educate their
sons for husbands, and to be gentle men indeed,
half the sorrow of home life would be avoided.
Were boys taught to be courteous, kind, and
attentive to their sisters, and were they made
to realize that they have a duty to fulfil in the
home, we need no longer say as now, that hus-
bands are also greatly responsible for the too
universal wretchedness.
They too often address to their wives sharp,
discourteous words, "Which they forget and
we remember," a young wife sadly said to me
the other day. Fully absorbed in their own
pursuits, oblivious to the trials and needs of
their wives, they offer no word of cheer to
those who have labored wearily in dull monot-
ony all day. They give no aid in the educa-
tion of children, but deem their sole duty lies
in providing pecuniary support; failing to
read in the careworn, patient face, from which
the girl-bloom has too soon faded, silent plead-
ing for a little thoughtful tenderness, a little
loving aid. True, they love their wives devot-
edly, but love, without the nameless little ten-
der acts which it should engender, is as the
flower bereft of its perfume; and alas I too
often such love drives away devotion from the
grieved heart, while cold duty takes its place.
All must realize this need of our country, all
must grieve over the wrecked lives and hopes
of many households; but to women the sorrow
must be keenest, for the fault in greatest de-
gree is theirs, theirs alone the power to rectify
it. Let them not seek reform in politics, nor
renown on the rostrum; let them not find their
work in an attempt to alter the destinies of
their lives; for in essaying so to do, they only
reap sorrow, disappointment, and an unloved
old age. Bather let them make it their glory
so to fill their appointed place, that from their
abodes may emanate and descend influences
that for revolving years shall bless other house-
holds.
As our language is the only one which con-
tains the word home, would our country were
the one where the homes exhibit the noblest
possibilities that the word can suggest.
THE BIRD'S ANSWER.
BT ALICE OLITEB.
Oh, you tiny little songster.
Skipping o'er earth's emerald green,
I cant sketch you—no, I 've tried it.
Though I '11 miss you in the scene.
If you would but rest a moment
In your dancing, prancing race,
I would dearly love to paint you,
Perched upon that window-case.
Flitting, hopping; hopping, flitting.
Don't your little wings e'er tire.
Don't your wee throat ever weary
After chanting lyre on lyre T
Ah, at last you seem to hear me, ,
Besting there on yonder tree;
With your little head uplifted.
You seem saying unto me:
"God is patient, though he wants us.
In the scene above the sky;
To perfect that wondrous picture,
Framed in love and hung on high."
Where passion ends repentance begins.
Nothing is troublesome that we do wil-
lingly.
It is better to be laughed at for not being
married, than to be unable to laugh because
you are.
A BIT OF SUMMER LIFE AT THE MOUNTAINS.
251
A BIT OP SUMMER LIFE AT
THE MOUNTAINS.
BT M. P. B.
MABEL'S JOURNAL.
It is decided that I am to join a party of our
friends in their visit to the mountains. And
before I sleep I must come to my faithful
friend, to pour out my joy that this terrible
monotony of my life is at last to be broken up.
How ungrateful my good mother would think
me, could she know that I have such feelings I
"With all your blessings," people say, "how
bappy you must be!" and all the while I am
chafing at the quiet humdrum life—all things
moving so methodically; my very soul is weary
of the sameness. I sometimes think if my gay
French cavalier should come a-wooing now, I
wouldn't so hastily give him his conge—as I did
a year ago. Ah, me I one's spirit grows so
hungry for something to give life a charm, one
might easily make a blunder that would cost
years of pain. I even allowed that stupid
Harry Morton to devote himself to me last
week at Mrs. Carney's, from the same careless
feeling that I'd let myself drift along where fate
carried me, since any change in life would be
better than living longer as I have been doing.
And now—I blush that I had so litttle self-re-
spect as to receive such a man's attentions
with complacency. What will this restless
mind bring me to do next?—mother absorbed
in Kate and Will, and baby Tom, and nobody
understanding that my craving spirit must
have change from this everlasting sewing, eat-
ing, sleeping—doing little things of no conse-
quence to anybody, or I shall do something
desperate. Mother says, "When you have
seen as much care and trouble as I have, you
will be glad of a quiet life." But that's just
it—I han'n't seen anything of life, and 1 want
to see for myself.
Good old nurse Cramer told mamma I looked
"misserble," and I believe her fears for me
influenced mamma to listen to auntie's invita-
tion, and now to-morrow we are off. Isn't this
fine?
July 16fA.—Here we are in this picturesque
mountain village; and I "ve been in an ecstasy
ever since we got a glimpse of its charms.
We are in a private boarding-house—auntie,
Madge, and I—an old farm-house built years
ago, with odd little nooks and crannies above
and below, shaded with a broad rustic piazza,
and grand old trees. From every window the
views are most beautiful. Broad, green mea-
dows, dotted here and there with magnificent
elms and maples, slope down to the water;
the farmers are mowing the heavy grass, giv-
ing life to the scene. Further on is the lake,
sparkling in the sun, its many islands adding
to its beauty; and still beyond, the mountains,
covered with heavy forests—God's "everlast-
ing hills." How grandly they rise in their
stern, calm majesty, and how beautifully the
floating clouds above them shadow their steep
peaks! Involuntarily my heart rises in praise
to the Giver of all this beauty, and here it seems
a joy only to live.
To-morrow the Thornes will join us, and
then we shall explore and climb some of the
mountains during our summer's stay.
July 30tt.—My dear journal, I can come to
you and say freely what I please, and no one
will be the wiser. Such a comfort! We are
enjoying ourselves in good earnest — Julia
Thome and Will, and Will's two friends, Guy
Esterbrook, an artist, and Rob Cook, his cou-
sin, with Madge and myself, form as merry a
party as one need desire, and the days fly too
fast.
Julia and Mr. Cook are quite absorbed in
each other. Madge and Will Thome are al-
ways quarrelling, and always together for all
that, and so perforce I am left to entertain the
artist. I can't decide whether I like him or
not. Handsome he certainly is, but such con-
ceit! I believe he thinks he could have any
woman for the asking—vain fellow! And yet
I do believe it is half the fault of foolish women
that men think this. They are only too ready,
many of them, to show these lords of creation
that they consider them irresistible, till of course
men must believe them, and think every wo-
man is in love with them. I think my lord,
Guy, will find one maiden at least who can re-
sist his masculine perfections, and dare to keep
her own opinions. To-day he asked me to ac-
company him when he went to sketch, saying,
"though he couldn't be very entertaining while
sketching, the walk was pleasant, and the view
would enchant me," evidently thinking the
charm of his presence was so great, the silent
two hours would be a joy to me; but I begged
to be excused, preferring croquet to silent rap-
ture over him and the view. I'm afraid he
didn't find the view so enchanting after all,
for in an hour he joined us at croquet, and, to
Will's annoyance, played the devoted to Madge
the rest of the day — hoping to pique me, or
tease Will—I wonder which I I think he suc-
ceeded in the last, and with all his thirty years,
I believe he is boy enough to enjoy making
this mischief. I confess this simple-hearted,
boyish fun half charms away, for me, his too
evident good opinion of himself, and that he
is a man of rare ability we all acknowledge.
GUY'S JOURNAL.
To-day, following out a resolution formed
some weeks ago, I started with my cousin and
friend for H . We reached this place this
noon, and soon joined my friend's family at
their summer home, an old-fashioned farm-
250
G O DE Y'S LA. D Y'S BOOK A WD MAGAZINE.
flower lessons of love and trust may be found.
Beyond all, there should be intellectual cul-
ture, without which no home can be of great
value or benefit to the many.
This is our ideal home, but, sad to say, an
ideal too seldom realized. “Every home is a
happy one until you see beneath the roof,”
said Grace Greenwood in the olden time, and
grievous it is that the peaceful-looking roofs
so frequently cover disharmonies and indiffer-
ence, or gatheringstorms. In these uncongenial
abodes, each member of the household has his
or her opinion on every subject, if they are
strong characters. Each one tenaciously advo-
cates his side of the question; bitter, grieving
words ensue, anger and coldness creep into the
hearts, till home becomes dreaded, and only a
meeting place for food and lodging, where
wearily drag the hours and days. So impor-
tant are the seemingly little things in a home-
life, so many are the causes which produce
these sad results, that it is difficult to know on
which to descant, or how to make the weight
of their importance felt.
Our homes should be the strongholds of our
country, since in their influence are the minds
of our future citizens and statesmen formed,
and girls are nurtured who will raise up other
homes fashioned after the models of those they
have known.
Every vocation in life requires years of pre-
paration. A life work demands a life study.
But a woman whose mission and whose work
it is to make the home, too often enters upon
her duties wholly unfitted and unprepared,
having given no thought to the weight her in-
fluence will have there. She neglects her mind,
forgetting that the impetus to improvement
and culture must emanate from her. She neg-
lects her body, forgetful that good health alone
begets good temper. She neglects her man-
ners, forgetting that hers will leave their im-
press upon every inmate, while she overlooks
no fault in others. She descends to idle gos-
sip, too little mindful of the glory of a woman's
home life, and forgetting that, as in old Rome
the Lares made the home, so she now is the
presiding and conferring deity.
The training of boys also is rarely that which
will fit them to be loving and thoughtful. If
mothers would realize this, and educate their
sons for husbands, and to be gentle men inde
half the sorrow of home life would be avoid
Were boys taught to be courteous, kind
attentive to their sisters, and were they
to realize that they have a duty to fulf
home, we need no longer say as now,
bands are also greatly responsible
universal wretchedness.
They too often address to their
discourteous words, “Which th
we remember,” a young wife st
the other day. Fully absorbe
pursuits, oblivious to the trials
their wives, they offer no word of cheer to
those who have labored wearily in dull monot-
ony all day. They give no aid in the educa-
tion of children, but deem their sole duty lies
in providing pecuniary support; failing to
read in the careworn, patient face, from which
the girl-bloom has too soon faded, silent plead-
ing for a little thoughtful tenderness, a little
loving aid. True, they love their wives devot-
edly, but love, without the nameless little ten-
der acts which it should engender, is as the
flower bereft of its perfume; and alas ! too
often such love drives away devotion from the
grieved heart, while cold duty takes its place.
All must realize this need of our country, all
must grieve over the wrecked lives and hopes
of many households; but to women the sorrow
must be keenest, for the fault in greatest de-
gree is theirs, theirs alone the power to rectify
it. Let them not seek reform in politics, nor
renown on the rostrum ; let them not find their
work in an attempt to alter the destinies of
their lives; for in essaying so to do, they only
reap sorrow, disappointment, and an unloved
old age. Rather let them make it their glory
so to fill their appointed place, that from their
abodes may emanate and descend influences
that for revolving years shall bless other house-
holds.
As our language is the only one which con-
tains the word home, would our country were
the one where the homes exhibit the noblest
possibilities that the word can suggest.
-º-º-º-
THE BIRD'S ANSWER.
BY ALICE OLIVER,
OH, you tiny little songster,
Skipping o'er earth's emerald green,
I can't sketch you—no, I’ve tried it,
Though I'll miss you in the scene,
If you would but rest a moment
In your dancing, prancing race,
Tould dearly love to paint you, -
Ched upon that window-case. iſ a
hopping; hopping, flittin *- |
your little wings efer tire, & *
* Wee throat ever weary -
chanting lyre on lyre?
ºast you seem to hear me,, -
sting there on yonder tree.'"
ºyour little head uplifted." -
ou seem saying unto me:
God is patient, though -
In the scene abº. º ºº:
To perfect that wond rous
Framed in love and hung on hi h.”
HºwTºº- -
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*ing that I'i era === * * * – is - eeria.-- r bir ºut, sº * those
“s ºf errº-frºze =r-a- - - - * ** * * ºr *
== me anemy targe i = --- - – - i. … º.º. have a:y enter-
*ter than iving ºncerns are -- - - ... • *-ºn ºf Amyº 9 could
And I himsiliar I am s - - - - - , , *** **wurs Shelor's
* * * * * * *r = -- ..." -- "I" are mºtov ready. ire con-
- sº - - -
* *mpareneſ what ºn is º.º. ..." tº ºf ºrate The rich
and ringine win ºr—mmer ** = -- *tien. Irregistibi, till of cours st tread ;
*** will matrººm.º.º. º. ºf ºl.” and link ever, we lly from
inderstanding that my raving ºr * * *m. I think myº heir folds
ºn tº Fºr mºr r- ºr -, y
**hange frºm this evertistings " " ºr mutiºn at least wh g sea-coal
iig, sleepi - - sºmº, ºr as is fººtºº tº ean tº -
*ping-ining ite-hings ºf salº -º- ºr º- and darewker exquisite
Tuence to anybºdy ºr I shall to ‘omeºmºr * * *-day he asked meteºr. arble and
ºperate Mºther says: “when ºne I- *mºnºr -- ºr **ent to sketch, sari *
- - 18. Inas-
are in this
lºng- *ºtºmº -
***7entertaining whº
ning ith choicest
ºterº tº
º tº: and thrrºr in his gilded
ºrm tº as mºre was y thinking tº song through
* * **, ºr º: le the stained
*** * referring * ſ º lotrope and jas-
Tº ºr run and the view. I silºn atory, filling the
tiºn" fºr he ºr st * tº affa. * ove my room with
:: **** whº tº afra, its; there are quiet
**** Playedthegemº - = i my happiest hours
the ºr ºf the *y-hºnºr t * * * isy chair, wrapped in
***–1 windºº º º feet encased in velvet
brightest hues, a jaunty
gold upon my head, and
teerschaum, with grotesque
i amber stem, from which I
..al whiff to soothe me. Beside
all marble stand holds the ex-
tte of Innocence; the head half
eyes cast down, one hand touching
* === *..."--- le folds of drapery, the other clasping
* * * * * ulem—a rose. Before this statuette is
* * * u, every morning, a pure and delicate Bo-
* *- : "" aian vase holding a single white rose, a daily
ºº27- fering at the shrine of my marble figure, which
252
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
house, now a summer boarding-house. The
scenery here is enchanting, and I promise my-
self many fine sketches. In-doors is equally
attractive. Will has a pretty sister engaged to
Bob, and there are two other young ladies In
the family party. One, as dainty a bit of wo-
manhood as one often sees; I wonder if she
will prove as attractive on nearer acquaintance
as first view promises. Heigh-ho I I 'm too
sleepy to write more, and will off to my slum-
bers—perhaps to dream of the little damsel.
August lit.—How time flies, and how little
I 've accomplished since I came here. I must
persuade Hob to go away with me to sketch,
to some place where, knowing no one, I can
improve my time better. It is absurd, but I
really believe it is time to put myself beyond
the fascinations of pretty Miss Mabel.
Young girls are generally so full of airs and
graces, and so ready to meet us more than half
way in our attentions, I am rather shy of the
fair creatures. But this young maiden is an
anomally. Sweet and fair as a rose, ready to
enjoy anything that comes—walks, boating,
croquet, or quiet reading—merry and playful
as a kitten, and yet shy and coy as any child
of any nearer intimacy. Beally, it is refresh-
ing to meet such a girl, with whom one can be
at ease, not afraid of having every attention
taken for more than is intended. Well, I'll
try absence awhile, and see If the fascinations
hold out
MABEL'S JOTJBNAL.
August 2ith.— Let me confess, my silent
friend, that I, for one, shall be glad to see our
gallant back again. Three weeks ago Mr. Cook
and Mr. Esterbrook left us on a sketching tour,
and only Will remained to escort us in our
wanderings. Julie and I have busied oursel ves
in gathering and pressing ferns—no small la-
bor—and the delicate maiden's hair. We have
sketched, read aloud, taken lovely rides to all
kinds of romantic places, and made some
pleasant acquaintances; but, after all, we have
missed our two friends, who return to-morrow.
Julie, being engaged, is expected to be elated
at prospect of Bob's return. Ah! my journal
—shall I confess it?—with all his lordly ways
and grand independence, I sha'n't be sorry to
see Mr. Esterbrook again; he has now a place
in the esteem of all, I find.
September 1st.—Again, while I have a few
moments' leisure, I will confide in you, my
safe old friend, what I couldn't trust to any
other. Such a happy, happy girl am I! And
oh, how lovely the world is this fair summer's
day! Shall I tell you the secret of it?—the
beautiful secret, that glorifies all things, and
makes my future bright with happiness? Ho
ennui now; no wondering how the time will
pass. The days and weeks seem all too short,
for I shall not be alone, please God I but my
life and Guy's—1 may call him that to myself
now, and by and by to him, perhaps—will
flow on together, till crowned by that other,
better life beyond. How sudden it all was I
I had taken my book and climbed one of
the hills near the house, to read and while
away the time till tea, not expecting our
friends till then; and, as the purple light
on the distant hills, and the dreamy quiet-
ness of the atmosphere began to warn me
that the day was almost done, I prepared to
return, when a voice startled me, saying,
"Don't go yet, Miss Mabel; I've just found
you out," and, to my amazement, there stood
Mr. Esterbrook. The two gentlemen had
come by a private carriage, and so surprised
us. Mr. Cook, of course, had devoted himself
to his fiancee, and Mr. Esterbrook, learning
from Julie where I was to be found, had fol-
lowed me. I think my tell-tale face, which I
never can control, betrayed to him how wel-
come he was, and after that I could not seem
indifferent, but only glad and gay at his eager
greeting and merry account of his adventures
since he left us. Suddenly some falling drops
startled me, and, to my astonishment, a thun-
der storm was close upon us. It was useless
to start for home, a half-hour's walk. We
could only hasten to an old shed, once used as
a sugar-house, and there wait ,till the shower
was over. It came on fast and furious. Peal
after peal of thunder reverberated among the
hills, and the lightning dazzled us with its
constant dashing, till we grew silent with awe.
How diminutive we seemed in the midst of
this display of infinite power! In spite of my-
self, I shook with nervous fear, and when, fol-
lowing quick the purple flash, there came such
a crashing, deafening sound as I never heard
before, I forgot all else but my supreme terror,
and clung to my companion, who stood, pale
and silent, near me.
Quickly putting his arm around me, "My dar-
ling! my poor little girl!" he said, "don'ttrem-
ble so; the worst Is over." And as, abashed,
I tried to draw myself away, he added, "See 1
the sun is shining below us. But don't move
yet; you are pale as a snow-wreath. Tell me
that you are not angry that I have learned to
love you, dear child. You must blame the
storm, not me, If I have spoken too impul-
sively."
What could I do—I such a trembling, fright-
ened girl; he so grand, and firm, and splendid
—but cling to him, and let him see that all my
heart was his? And then in the golden twi-
light we went home; tho storm had passed
over, the woods and fields were fragrant after
the refreshing rain, the rainbow spanned the
sky, fair token of God's promise, and it seemed
to my happy henrt a promise to me also of a
glad, rich life which had just now begun.
IF I EAD KNOWN.
253
GUY'S JOURNAL.
September 1st—Back again after three weeks'
absence and constant work. I filled uiy port-
folio with sketches enough to keep me busy
for some months, and now for two weeks' rest
and enjoyment, which I may conscientiously
take. I 'm writing these few hasty lines while
my landlady gets us a lunch after our long
ride, and then I 'in off to hunt up Miss Mabel,
who Is reading in some favorite spot on the
hill yonder, so Julie tells me. I wonder if the
little witch will be half as glad to see me as I
shall be to see her?
Evening.—She is mine, the dainty darling!
and I feel too glad to sleep. I had scarcely
joined her on the hillside, when a tremendous
tempest drove us into an old shed for shelter.
The poor child was so terrified I think she was
scarcely conscious of anything for a time, till
she suddenly became conscious that she was
in my arms, and, taken by surprise, she couldn't
prevent my seeing that the pure, noble heart,
which I know can love so well, had given its
love to me. My darling! What man is wor-
thy of such an iunocent child's heart? A
child in purity and simplicity, but a woman,
too, in strength and dignity of character. God
grant me power to keep my earnest purpose to
make her life as smooth and happy as it is in
human power to do 1
MABEL'S JOURNAL.
September Uth.—Our summer sojourn is over.
Our trunks are packed, and with a few parting
words to my silent journal I shall go to sleep.
At an early hour to-morrow we start for home.
To be my home, however, only for a few short
months. My dear old home 1 Now that this
new hope has come into my life, which changes
all things, I appreciate more truly what that
home has been, and I go back with the resolu-
tion to fill my place there more lovingly and
wisely than I have done.
How much this summer has given me! Ah,
so many good resolutions 1 've made 1 Such a
good wife I mean to be. Some time, perhaps,
this little book may show that the fair, sweet
promise of the future is fulfilled. God grant it 1
GUY'S JOURNAL.
September lilh.— To-morrow we start for
home. Playtime is over, and now to work
again. My darling's bright face will be my
day-star, my incentive to constant exertion to
win fame and wealth. My summer has received
its crown of glory; let the winter come, I am
ready for it.
IF I HAD KNOWN.
BT LE DEAN.
The heart may give most useful lessons to
the head.
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which It would fling
Aside forever. Childe Habold.
Puke, white, soft as ermine is the robe Dame
Nature wears to-day, and countless jewels flash
back their radiance from her fleecy drapery as
the bright sunbeams dart here and there, leav-
ing their glowing impress. The air is crisp
and bracing; it makes the blood glow in the
veins, and paints the cheek with richest car-
mine. • In the distance I hear the jingle of
merry bells and the glad shout of village ur-
chins, as they halt in their march to school,
to rolic and toss in the beautiful snow. So
quickly memory carries me back to the dear
old days of childhood, that my heart thrills
with the same joy, and I half rise to join in the
sport, forgetting that I am not a boy. A boy?
Alas, no; but a man, past the bloom of youth,
past the days of dawning manhood, and al-
ready entering into the gloom of decay and
death. Heaving a sigh, 1 turn wearily in my
easy chair and fling back a thought to those
departed days.
This, my room, is a charming nook; enter-
ing, you would doubtless exclaim, "Who could
not be happy here?" It is no "bachelor's
den," and yet I am a bachelor, with dire con-
fusion greeting you at every turn. The rich
Wilton carpet holds softly the daintiest tread;
bright crimson hangings fall gracefully from
the heavy gilt cornices, and hide in their folds
the gleaming light from the sparkling sea-coal
in the open grate. Antique vases, exquisite
bits of sculpture, statuettes in marble and
bronze, are tastefully grouped; and paintings,
costly and beautiful, adorn the walls. A mas-
sive walnut book-case is filled with choicest
gems in poetry and prose; there in his gilded
cage my pet canary trills his glad song through
the long days, and pushing aside the stained
glass doors, sweet odors of heliotrope and jas-
mine steal in from the conservatory, filling the
air with richest perfume. I love my room with
all its beautiful adornments; there are quiet
and comfort here. I spend my happiest hours
dreaming away in this easy chair, wrapped in
my Persian robe, with feet encased in velvet
slippers embroidered in brightest hues, a jaunty
cap of crimson and gold upon my head, and
the indispensable meerschaum, with grotesque
bowl of ivory, and amber stem, from which I
take an occasional whiff to soothe me. Beside
my chair a small marble stand holds the ex-
quisite statuette of Innocence; the head half
turned and eyes cast down, one hand touching
lightly the folds of drapery, the other clasping
her emblem—a rose. Before this statuette is
placed, every morning, a pure and delicate Bo-
hemian vase holding a single white rose, a daily
offering at the shri ne of my marble figure, which
254
OOBEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
I love with a passionate devotion only second
to that accorded to the pure, sweet face in its
oval frame of blue and gold upon the mantle.
There, let me close my eyes to shut out the
bright vision, and shut up In my heart its pain
and longing. I am weak to-day in body and
spirit; this hacking cough makes me a very
child in helplessness. There is a strange spell
upon me; I 'm tempted, strongly tempted to
record in my little green diary a story of the
past which I had thought to hide with me in
the grave. Memory has been very busy this
morning. Just now I heard voices on the lawn—
Maggie, whom I call niece, and her little* play-
mate, the minister's son.
"O Willie! play yon are the minister called
away to see some sick body, and now you are
just starting in your sleigh."
"All right, Maggie, and you will be my lit-
tle wife; you '11 be glad to see me when I get
back, and come to meet me, saying, 'welcome,
dear!' like mamma does."
"Yes, or you might be Uncle Ralph going
for a drive."
"No, we can't play that, because yonr Uncle
Ralph has no wife to say welcome, dear."
A deep groan breaks from me; great beads
of clammy sweat stand thick on my brow; the
children's voices are lost on the air, but their
innocent words are burned Into my soul, as
with a hot iron. Reaching out, I grasp the
green book, and opening, write :—
Forty years ago I began the mystery of life
in the far southwest. The stages of babyhood,
boyhood, youth, were passed in the usual fash-
ion, nothing eventful occurring to mark the
gliding years. I loved all boyish sports, and
early learned to climb a hay-stack, swing in
the apple-boughs, trot a horse, bait a hook, and
paddle my own canoe. I was a trifle rough in
play, but always the champion of my weaker
mates. In this the feminine element tender-
ness was strongly evinced; by suffering I was
easily moved to tears, yet possessed all a boy's
feeling of shame at such weakness. Thougli
full of courage, I was painfully diffident, and
singularly reticent, never unburdening my
heart, or confiding to any one my boyish trou-
bles. Inheriting my father's roving disposition
and love of change, I left home at an early
age and established myself in business In one
of the Northern cities. But as this experience
which presses so heavily upon my heart, has
to do with the years that lie nearest the pre-
sent, I pass silently over the season of strug-
gle and anxiety, of hope and disappointment
whicli every man feels in beginning the great
life battle, and give myself up to the memories
that cluster about my life at Boscobel, the old
homestead of the Ross family. I cannot here
detail, nor is It necessary, all the circumstances
which led to my establishment there as a mem-
ber of the household band. 1 had no claim of
friendship to urge, for our acquaintance was
but just begun, yet from the beginning their
house was home to me, in its best sense; now,
looking back, I bless the good Father for lead-
ing me to that haven of rest and peace, where
the purest, gladdest hours of my troubled life
were spent.
May Ross, or Madcap, as we styled her, was
an only daughter, full of frolic and fun; bub-
bling over with mischief and merry as a cricket
—the mother's darling and father's pride, she
was tender, loving, affectionately wilful, with
a face bright as a sunbeam, eyes of softest
azure, and hair of golden hue.
Rebekah Lefflngwell, her cousin and adopted
sister, was wholly different In character and
person; but their ardent love for each other
was to them a strong bond of union, and a joy
forever. Ree—for thus they abbreviated the
good Bible name Rebekah—was small in stat-
ure, quiet and dignified in manner, with a cer-
tain easy grace that was purely the gift of
nature. Her face was plain, yet strongly-
marked; the mouth showed firmness combined
with tenderness; truth and innocence looked
out of the blue eyes' liquid depths, and the
broad, fair brow betokened Intellect largely
developed ; brown as a nut the hair that rip-
pled away in shining waves from the smooth,
white forehead. Plain, did I say? To others
it might be; to me, hers was the face of an
angel. First Ree was my friend, but as the.
months grew into years, her heart grew into
mine, and she became my adopted sister, too.
She asked me once: "Ralph, do you know
what It means to take me for your sister; I
shall have the right to lecture and scold you
just when I please; are you willing?" "Yes,"
I answered, and the compact was sealed. So,
naturally and peacefully the days glided by.
I unburdened my heart to her as to no one
else, and she poured out her soul's best lan-
guage to me, saying often, "I thank God for
such a precious brother; it seems I 've known
and loved you always." A great sorrow had
come into her young life, she had been chas-
tened through suffering; sometimes the old
memories would tug at her heart-strings and
the old grief sweep over her, bowing her soul
as the storm bows the forest oak, then she
would come and nestle upon my shoulder, say-
ing: "Comfort me, my brother, for my heart
is breaking." I remember how surprise and
sympathy were mingled when I witnessed for
the first time this unusual demonstration of
feeling. She had always seemed so self-con-
tained, so reliant, so strong and self-sufficient;
but I learned that sorrow and trial had disci-
plined her life, and changed the tender, cling-
ing vine into a sturdy tree, deep rooted. To
me she was the incarnation of purity, goodness,
truth, sincerity — of every virtue and every
grace, and I yielded her the pure, unchanging
love of an own brother. Ree was a sountl
IF I HAD KN0W2T.
255
thinker, with good reasoning powers, and capi-
tal in argument. We often clashed swords,
because each argued with a conviction of right.
Sometimes I would turn away vexed, hut so
sweetly she would come and place her hand in
mine, saying: "Don't be angry with me, Ralph,
because I cannot think with you," that in a
moment the feeling would pass. One day she
sat at the window weaving her dainty fingers
in and out of some blight worsted web, seem-
ingly in deep thought; suddenly she roused.
"Ralph, what is your definition of happi-
ness?"
"Oh, I don't know," I carelessly answered,
looking up from my paper; "having a good
time In life, I suppose—plenty of money, plenty
of friends, travel, amusements, etc. Won't
that do? You know wealth alway9 brings
friends; give me money, and I'll have all the
friends I need."
I saw her lip curl contemptuously, as she
asked, "Can friendship be bought? and if so,
would you prize it?"
I grew perverse, and answered, "Yes; why
not?"
"Because the holiest, purest feelings of the
soul are not articles of trade; they cannot be
doled out for dollars and cents. Thank God,
there are men and women in the world who
are quick to discern true nobility of character,
and do it reverence. I meet a man who is rich
in knowledge, in wisdom, in affection; possess-
ing all the attributes of a kindly soul; I admire
and revere him. He loves the beautiful in na-
ture and art; he is filled with his aspirations,
with an earnest purpose to seek out the true,
good, and beautiful in life; he comes to me,
saying—
"' Let us be friends together,
Faithful and true;
'Mid life's tempestuous weather.
Sunshine breaks through:
For a friendly voice to me,
Pleasant and warm,
Cheers me in sadness.
Fills me with gladness.
When darkens the storm —
and my heart responds 'Amen.' The wise
King Solomon says, 'A friend loveth at all
times.' In joy and sorrow, in prosperity and
adversity — whatever befal, true friendship
changeth not; its foundation is simple confid-
ing trust, and there is nothing more beautiful
in all the world. Can all this be bought? If
I thought you believed it, I should feel for'you
supreme contempt." Her cheeks glowed like
fire as she ceased her passionate strain; then
rising she came close beside my chair, and
pressing her little warm palm to my cheek,
said: "Ralph, dear, I would fold you close in
ray sister-love that no unkind word, no evil
act, should cause you pain. I would guard
you against the tongue of slander, and cover
every fault with the mantle of charity; would
shield you from temptation, weep with you in
sorrow, and be glad in your joy. I think this
is what friendship means."
I snatched her in my arms and pressed a kiss
upon her brow, whispering "Precious little
sister!"
Ah! well I know now, there was no danger
she would not have dared for me, no trouble
she would not have borne for my sake, for hers
was a grandly heroic and self-sacrificing spirit.
Ree had one source of pleasure, one fountain
of Joy, to which I would not draw near, and
this was to her continual pain. She had tasted
the "water of life" and found there was heal-
ing in the stream; I rested on the margin
watching its limpid waves, but would not
plunge and be made whole. How often I 've
looked up suddenly to find her gazing into my
face with such yearning tenderness, such in-
effable pity, such a sad and wistfut longing in
her eyes, and needed not the whispered words
to tell of what she was thinking—"O Ralph,
dear, open your heart to receive the Saviour's
message of love." Alas! sometimes I repulsed
her proudly, coldly, but she was long-suffering
and forgave ere I asked forgiveness.
General society possessed no charm for me,
and I never mingled In its giddy round of plea-
sure; simple home amusements and entertain-
ments were far sweeter to me, and I gave my-
self to them with the abandon of a very boy.
For culture, and enjoyment as well, we, with
some young friends of the immediate neighbor-
hood, formed ourselves into a literary society,
meeting once a week for reading, comment,
and discussion.
I often think the wisdom of God Is not more
clearly shown than by veiling the future from
our sight. We press along the life-path, pluck-
ing a flowes here, pressing there a thorn to our
palm, chasing a sunbeam, and crying out when
it eludes our grasp; but what if the thick
brush, and dewy, spreading leaves were pushed
from the way, how with horror we would
recoil from the serpents that drag their slimy
length in and out, and the thousand hideous
creeping things about our feet. Would we
avoid them? Keep to the path, and let the
blossoms in the hedges alone.
Into our little circle Miss Geraldine Harring-
ton was introduced; the daughter of an ex-
member of Congress, who lived in a neighboring
county. She had come to make a visit of
indefinite length to one of her friends near
Boscobel. To the girls—May and Ree—she
was not a stranger; but I looked upon her
beauty for the first time, listened to the music
of her voice, thrilled with the glad chime of
her merry, ringing laugh, and was captivated,
enchanted. She, ever ready for fresh con-
quests, stooped to conquer; she offered me the
most delicate flattery, appealed to my judg-
ment, consulted my taste, dressed to please
my fancy, playfully submitted to my dictation,
coquetted charmingly. I have been slow to
, K 4
256
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
acknowledge, but truth compels, that men are
essentially weak, anil susceptible to flattery;
this may be a reason for the great proportion
of unhappy marriages; their vanity is fed and
entangled beyond all hope of extrication; they
see before them only a loveless life.
Matters progressed; I was the constant com-
panion of Miss Harrington, every day planning
something new for her entertainment. After
a time the others were forgotten, and we two
alone went for a long drive, or an afternoon
ramble in the deep cool woods that hedged
Boscobel like a thick wall. At first Ree teased
me in a slightly sarcastic manner; then, per-
ceiving how nettled I was, she grew serious.
"Ralph, I must help to open your eyes, even
though it cause you pain. How can you be so
blind to Ueraldine Harrington's true charac-
ter? Light, frivolous, with no womanly aspi-
rations, incapable of a deep, tender love, such
as alone will satisfy you; she only desires to
be settled in life, and your name and title
promise her a better prospect than any one
else that offers. Oh I 1 beseech you, study her
character well before you commit your heart
to her lfteping."
For the first time, I was roused to anger;
my face clouded with suppressed wrath as I
turned upon her, and in fierce tones ex-
claimed :—
"How dare you thus malign my truest and
best friend? How dare you meddle with the
most sacred feelings of my heart, and strive
to injure one who is possessed of all the attri-
butes that adorn the character of a true and
noble woman?" Then, losing all self-control,
I poured forth a torrent of harsh and bitter
invectives too wild to repeat. Never, never
shall I forget the look of intense pain, as,
turning from me without replying to the
shameful strain, she said:—
"Forgive me, Ralph! I could not see the
net-work of ruin weaving about you, and make
no effort to break its meshes. Duty impelled
me as a true friend and sister to give this
warning, but I promise you never to offend
again." Prophetic words, full of solemn mean-
ing.
The next day she was indisposed, and did
not leave her room. My conscience lashed
me sorely, for I knew her sensitive nature had
been wounded and crushed by my harshness,
but pride and anger held me from making
the acknowledgment. Then followed •another
weary day; I longed for my little sister's
voice, and the touch of her lips upon my fore-
head. At dinner the maid brought "a mes-
sage from Miss Ree; she is better, and will
join the family at tea." I could not endure to
look into her face again without some word of
apology; so, seizing a pencil, I wrote hastily:—
"Ree, darling, I cannot see you, and feel
that I so richly merit your displeasure and
contempt. Forget the harsh words spoken,
and love me as of yore. Let this emblem of
your innocence be also the token of your for-
giveness."
Plucking a pure white rose from her favorite
bush, Isentit with the pencil led line to her room.
The hours passed by on leaden wings until the
eventime, when she came to us in the library,
her sweet face colorless as marble, her step
weak and trembling. My heart gave a great
bound as I saw the white rose gleaming in the
waves of her shining hair, and listened to the
whispered "God bless you I" as she slipped
Into my hand a tiny sprig of cedar. Oh, the
message of peace it brought I Unchanging
friendship I Precious little Ree was my sister
still. There was no opportunity for a private
word during the evening, and the early morn-
ing hour brought a telegram for Ree, which
hastened her away to the sick-bed of an old
schoolmate, so that I did not see her even to
say good-by.
And now Miss Oeraldine's charms seemed to
fade. Her circle of friends was more extended,
and the smiles and sweet words, the shy co-
quettish glances, once all my own, were just
as freely bestowed on others who would yield
the attention she demanded. The scales had
fallen from my eyes; I was no longer blind,
and Ree should hear from my own lips the
frank confession of my mistaken admiration,
so painfully misplaced.
Now my brain feels; there 's a strange fire
in my veins, and yet the blood seems frozen;
hot tears gush from my eyes, and scald my
cheek; they fall in great blistering drops upon
my paper. I gasp for breath, and cry out in
my anguish, "God help mo I"
now shall I tell that, after one short week
of separation, Ree came back to us—a corpse!
Oh, agony worse than death I grief beyond all
language to express; wild despair that mocked
all consolation-; a strong man's soul shattered
by the thunderbolt; all life and hope crushed
out, and the world enveloped in the blackness
of darkness—no mortal tongue can speak it
all. Ree, ray darling, my angel, my inspiration,
my one and only precious love! Yes, I knew it
now, too late; knew that in the very depth and
centre of my being 1 loved her with passionate
devotion, with all the intensity of my ardent
nature—loved her "to the depth and breadth
and height my soul could reach." How could
I live without her? I recalled all her tender,
loving words; her precious, helpful counsel
and reproof; her forgetfulness of self, and her
watchful care of me; consulting in every pos-
sible way my comfort and pleasure, until my
soul grew sick with its piercing anguish. Once
she had spoken of the growth and development
of love from childhood to mature years; how
beautiful for souls thus to be wedded, and
grow day by day into each other's life.
"Commonplace, Ree, dear; commonplace,"
I replied; but now 1 know that thus her sweet
IF I HAD KNOWN.
237
affections twined about my own.soul; she was I
the light and joy of my life. Was it common-
place?
The shock of my darling's death proved too
great for my nervous system, and for long
weary weeks life hung by a single thread. Tlie
wail of anguish never ceased, even in my wild-
est delirium.
"Kee, darling, come back to me; I am so
lonely, and the way is so dark without you.
Take my hand, dear, and hold it closo In
yours. I 'ra falling, Ree; save me; press
your sweet lips to mine, love, and let me hear
the music of your voice. Ree, Ree, I 'in say-
iug it now; 1 love you, love you. Can you
hear me, precious one? Did you guess it,
darling? You 're biding now among the stars;
I cannot find you. Come back, Ree, my guar-
dian angel; I cannot live without you."
So through the lonely vigils my faithful
watchers listened to my piteous moans and
despairing cries. After many months, I took
up the shattered wreck —my broken life;
but now it was only existence—aimless, hope-
less, loveless. One day May came to my room,
and kneeling beside my chair poured out her
soul in prayer to God, that he would lead me
into light and peace, help me to be submissive,
and in sincerity say, "Thy Will be donel"
Listening, my proud, rebellious heart was
stirred and melted. I cried out, "The Lord
gave, the Lord hatli taken away; blessed be
the name of the Lord;" "Father, Thy will be
done."
May rose exulting, and, clasping her arms
about my neck, exclaimed, "God be praised!
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy
Cometh in the morning;" and, placing a small
packet in my hand, she passed from the room.
I glanced down; a pang shot through my
heart; then a strange thrill of joy. This was
a message from the dead—a voice from the
spirit world. The packet lay in my hand, and
with it a sealed envelope, addressed, in a bold,
clear hand, "Ralph Wentworth. To be opened
when I 'm called by the angels." With trem-
bling fingers I unfolded the paper, and read
the following lines, bearing date the evening
Ree tiad warned me of Geraldine:—
"A KEGRET.
To my Darling Brother.
"Leave me I Alone with my sorrow
I 'd sit me to weep and mourn;
There Cometh no bright to-morrow
For my sad heart, bleeding and torn.
"What If the words I uttered
Were harsh, and better unsaid;
Who will tell my darling
Of the danger there is ahead?
"Ah! how many ships have sunk
On the reef Just hard by the shore.
For missing a voice and a gleam of ll^ht.
Coming near In the tempest's roar:
VOL. xci.—17
"And how many hearts have been crushed
At the moment when bliss seemed their own.
For missing a warning the eye could bring,
Coming near with some friendly tone!
"Who will be to my darling
The voice and the gleam of light, •
To guide his barque o'er the angry foam
To the haven so peaceful and bright T
"Who 7 Oh, heart of mine, awake!
Put away this dream of delight:
The eye of beauty, the voice of love.
Must dispel the darkness of night.
"Creep back, poor heart, In the shadow
Of the days of'long ago;'
Hide quickly thy pain, and chant this refrain,
'My darling, I love thee sol'"
Kee."
Lifting up my streaming eyes to Tleaven, I
cried, "Tell her, O Father! she walks with
the angels; tell her of my love; let my cry
come up and reach within the pearly gates and
beyond the jasper wall. She suffered here,
and I failed to comfort her; she pined for love,
for sympathy, and knew not this wealth of
affection which was all her own. O Father!
let some shining angel bear to my darling one
this message of love."
An hour later May found me in a half con-
scious state, with a painted picture in velvet
oval of blue and gold, the face of my darling
clasped close to my heart. This was all the
packet contained, but May bore in her hand
the beautiful statuette of Innocence, and placed
it beside me, saying :—
"This was Ree's pet ornament; you '11 keep
it now for her sake."
A score of years have passed away since this
baptism of grief, but the bloom of life lias
faded. Disease has fastened upon mo, and
the weary days of my pilgrimage are nearly
ended. May's home is my refuge until the
journey of life is over. Already I 'm sitting
in the shadows, and oft in the cventiine faint
whispers steal upon my ear as from a far-off
land. I seem to hear the angels singing, and
amid the throng one voice is softer, sweeter
than the rest. It is the voico of my darling,
who, crowned and radiant, waits to bid me
welcome on the golden shore, where God will
wipe all tears from our eyes, and "we shall
know even as we are known."
Self-Reliance.—The success of individuals
in life is greatly owing to their early learning
to depend upon their own resources. Money,
or the expectation of it by inheritance, has
ruined more men than the want of it ever did.
If you teach young men to rely upon their own
efforts, to be frugal and industrious, you fur-
nish them with a productive capital which no
man can ever wrest from them.
253
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
OUR SPELLING MATCH.
BT ONE THIRD.
There were just thirty of us, I hope you
know, every one more frightened than all the
rest, and I know I was the worst of the lot.
Our big church parlors were packed to suffoca-
tion with the elite of Camden, calmly conscious
of their own attainments in philology, and
speculating as to who might be the unfortunate
first to fall, and who would win the Unabridged
concentration of knowledge, wit, and wisdom
lying on the judge's table.
Thirty paler faces 1 never saw, not in hos-
pital ward or dentist's office. Two of us were
old soldiers, Will Balkman and my own self,
Tom Smith was a surgeon famous for his cool-
ness during the most difficult aud hazardous
operations, and various lawyers, a clergyman
or two, a pompous junior at Yale, And half-a-
dozen boys from Clark's military school, filled
up our side. The umpire, as obtrusively jolly
as a second in a duel, loading the pistols with
the agreeable consciousness that he isn't going
to stand and be fired at, politely Invited the
ladies to spell against the gentlemen, there
being fifteen on each side, and Tom Smith's
Aunt Hetty, principal of Camden high school,
persuaded fourteen deluded girls to vote with
her to that effect. How I hated that ancient
female from that time on, till—but never mind.
All I joined the class for in tile first place was
the chance it seemed to offer of making up a
long-standing quarrel with Rosie Smith, Tom's
pretty little sister; six months to a day since
she had been able to see me anywhere, and to-
night, although she returned my bow and salu-
tation, I dared not attempt anything further.
All because I would persist in going to Will
Balkman's champagne supper, for Miss Rosie
had taken it into her pretty head to be a tem-
perance reformer. For a week I had been
studying that intolerable spelling-book with
all my might and main, hoping by skilful man-
oeuvring to stand next to Kosie, and then per-
haps she would hesitate and I could prompt,
and so win her undying gratitude, and so forth
and so forth. A fine mess we made of R!
Rosie on one side of the room, between two gig-
gling schoolmates, and I on the other with that
smiling, conceited dunce of a Yalensian at my
right hand. How horribly still that room was!
I could hear watches ticking and the thumping
of my own frightened heart, "but naught be-
side," as Doctor Doane's clear tenor rang out
the first word, a beautiful beginning of sor-
row, "therapeutics." The student from Yale
gasped audibly, and I heard a remark very like
"thundering fool" behind me; but it was my
turn, unhappy wight! and somehow I con-
trived to stammer it through, with a strange
unearthly voice that seemed to be a compound
of snarl, snuffle, and whine. Pretty well for
the only bass in Camden church! "Matri-
mony, antimony, ipecacuanha," and a number
of other sickening doses followed in quick suc-
cession, and unto the solemn young Methodist
clergyman, who was to be married and start
for the White Mountains in less than a week,
came "journeys." "Jouruies," quoth he, with
the air of one who resents it that such an offen-
sively simple word should have fallen to his ac-
complished lot. A roar of applause followed;
that young Methodist cleric stared about him
and sat down, a sadder and a wiser man. First
down on our sidel I began to shake in my
number tens.
"' When we were at home we were in a bet-
ter place P Shakspeare, hein!" said Will to me.
"When we were in Andersonville we were in
as good a place," said I to Will. And just
then that dreadful doctor gave Rosie "onoma-
topoeia!" My heart was in my mouth, but she
didn't sit down; and that student from Yale,
the next round, put an a and two l's jnto
"melon," and Tom Smith, of all men on the
face of the earth, couldn't spell "pharmaco-
poeia," and sat down with a very red face anil
a muttered observation about Doctor Doane
and compound fractures, which I did not alto-
gether understand. He said afterwards that
lie thought it was a kind of cabbage, but he
knew he had never seen the word in his life,
and only guessed at the spelling; there were
plenty of letters in it, however.
After that, how they did pile np the agony!
Polysyllables flew back and forth like thistle-
down in autumn winds, and at nine o'clock,
when we stopped for five minutes, Miss Hetty
and my Rosie, flushed and frightened, opposed
seven sorrowful sinners on our side. The joy-
ful elite in the background laughed till they
cried, and applauded In the most nproarious
manner.
Said Mrs. A to Tom: "How could you miss
j on that simple word? I could have spelled
1 every word that has been given out myself."
She fibbed, and she- knew she fibbed; but
! savage Tom only replied: "I can only spell
j two English words at present, 'flabbergasted'
and 'skedaddle.'"
She retorted, sweetly; "I think you might
add to your list 'cantankerous.'" And Tom
retired.
Said Mrs. B to me: "Major Curtis, 1 thought
soldiers were never afraid; but you and Mr.
Balkman appeared to have an attack of stage-
fright when you first came out."
"The draught affected me," said Will, before
I could think of any sarcastic reply, with a
very strong emphasis on draught. Mrs. B di-
rected her attention to another part of the
house, and I suddenly called to mind her hus-
band's visit to Canada, before spelling classes
were thought of, to get away from another sort
of draft. Vicious young men?
Perhaps we were. I consider that Webster
OUR SPELLING MATCH.
2.r.9
is a sort of magnet, drawing out all the original
sin in masculine composition at very short no-
tice. Do you happen to remember the forcible
anathema in daily use in Eastern countries?
"May his face be turned upside down, and
jackasses dance on his grandmother's tomb-
stone 1" I thought of it as Doctor Doane re-
commenced his labors with "deleble," and
Miss Hetty, full of her own dignity and Impor-
tance, used i instead of e, and to the great as-
tonishment of all Camden, sat down and left
Rosie alone on her side.
"Walking encyclopaedia floored," muttered
Tom. He was not very fond of his Aunt
Hetty, and rather enjoyed having highly-edu-
cated companions in his misery.
Doctor Doane sweetly proposed to equalize
the tight, now that there was only one on that
side, by giving out his horrible polysyllabic
compounds straight around from one to an-
other. Just for the sake of opposition, and
not. at all because he really cared, Will ob-
jected that it might be fair to individuals, but
certainly was not so to the sides. Doctor
Doane repeated his suggestion sharply, the
umpire smiled assent thereto, and the elite ap-
plauded, but that they did by this time what-
ever happened, even when one wearied youth
had spelled "mosquito" with several aberra-
tions from the path of veracity, and finally
burst forth with "tkeeter! There!" Will said
nothing further, but looked extremely sulky,
and Rosie, looking over at him, in a sort of
half frightened way, said, quietly :—
"I would rather fight It out on this line; it
won't take all summer."
She flushed scarlet at the applause which
followed her spirited retort, but stood quietly-
waiting for her turn; and we seven were all—
every man Jack of us—willing to be beaten if
she won, though I confess we did not try- to
miss. In point of fact, it was not necessary
we should. Poor Will sat down on "porphyry,"
his very next word; and in the course of the
next five minutes, "rnnnion," "binocle," "Ig-
nitible," "kaleidoscope," and of all unearthly
jaw-breakers, "idiosyncratic" finished up the
other five sufferers, and Rosie and I had the
floor to ourselves.
"Now," I thought, "if I can only win, and
give her that abominable cart-load of Choctaw,
It will be the end of this fuss, anyhow," for
you must know that I had abandoned cigars
and champagne weeks before, and was ready
to do anything on the face of the earth (but
trying another spelling match) that would in-
duce Rosie to wear my diamonds again, and
come to live in a stone cottage I had recently
found occasion to buy.
"Go In and win, old boy," growled disgusted
Tom. "Wonder who that young one thinks
she is? Once I get safe out of this, she '11 stay
in school nights, I know."
Five, ten, twenty minutes, half an hour, and
still we stood, spelling away just like a row of
tow-heads in a country " schnle." Rosie looked
tired and white, but her voice was clear and
steady, and, although with every word given out
I resolved to miss on the next one and release
her, somehow I couldn't make up my mind to
do it; this word was too tempting, and I would
wait for the next one. The audience were
thoroughly roused by this time; after every
difficult compound, canes and umbrellas rattled
on the floor, and small boys cried "Hooray!"
I would rather have heard again the firing
above the clouds on Lookout Mountain; It was
peace and quietness in comparison. And just
as 1 savagely thought this, Doctor Doane
straightened up, turned solemnly towards me,
and said, "deem." I spelled it accordingly.
"No," the tenth of a dollar; so I spelled
"dime." I sat down, wondering what that
unearthly concoction of consonants could be.
"Disme," said Rosie, half faltering, and the
game was up. Doctor Doane, with a most
flowery and flourishing speech, handed over to
her that distressing combination known as the
latest edition of the "Unabridged," the same
that I had fondly hoped to tender for her ac-
ceptance. Doctor Doane was a widower, and
if there Is one thing I hate above another, it is
a widower. He did not intend to be one much
longer, either, and Miss Rosie had ridden in
his sleigh countless times since the last holi-
days, which accounts for my righteous indig-
nation in part.
And I, Major Curtis, formerly of the regular
array, six feet high in my socks, had been
beaten in common English spelling by a six-
teen-year-old girl not five feet two, and in the
junior class at thatl
I walked Into the dressing-room, where an
excited crowd, foremost among them Doctor
Doane, were warmly congratulating Rosie;
took my hat and coat, and started to leave,
considering discretion the better part of valor.
Half way out, a sudden thought that it was
hardly generous to leave without a word for
the other side, beset me, and 1 went back to
where Rosie stood buttoning her glove with
trembling fingers. How like a thundercloud
Doctor Doane looked at me I Rosie started
guiltily, and accepted my somewhat lamely
tendered compliments with a very hesitating
grace of manner; but, to my great amazement,
she did not decline my escort home, in spite of
Doctor Doane's offer of his carriage; and, af-
ter I had arranged to leave the Great Immortal
in safe keeping, until a cart and four stout
horses should be sent after him, we went out
into the rainy night together, her small band
lying on my arm as it had not done for six
long, dreary months. It rained and blew, and
"the blackness of darkness" was all about us;
but I saw rainbows around every gas-lamp,
and the stars seemed to be shining in a cloud-
less sky, for Rosie and I were uuder the same
A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE.
261
distinctly exemplified the style of the middle
ages. Its little turrets, watchmen spying in-
quiringly over the country, its port-holes, indi-
cative of brave resistance, of danger to the
intruder; its mullioned windows, its massive
walls, snch as in our modern times nobody
would dream of building, proved Its antiquity.
A page of history tor the scholar, the artist,
the poet I What scenes of feud and strife had
not the old weather-beaten and not the less
glorious tower witnessed? Oh, that its stones
could have spoken to tell their secrets I The
other part of the castle had been somewhat
altered to make it more comfortable as a resi-
dence, without changing, however, its feudal
character. I asked Anna whether the tower
was habitable.
"Yes, indeed; and if you desire you can
have as comfortable a room there as in any
part of the castle. My husband has had it re-
paired, and you will be astonished to see how
tastefully he furnished his hermitage, for lie
likes to take up his abode there occasionally,
when he prefers being by himself."
I eagerly accepted Anna's offer, for nothing
could have pleased me better. We crossed
now the bridge which replaced the old draw-
bridge of the moat, passed through the massive
vaulted gateway, and entered a large paved
yard, where Baron von Polenz welcomed me
courteously.
. My curiosity to see him had been greatly in-
creased by Anna's conversation. It was evi-
dent that she admired and loved her husband
with all her heart; still I detected some inde-
finable care or anxiety amidst her enthusiastic
praise and her expressions of regard for him,
which made me think that something stood in
the way of perfect happiness, some secret,
some "skeleton in the closet." I could not
imagine what this could be, nor had I time to
ponder upon it.
The baron was certainly very prepossessing
in countenance; moreover, he had an "air dis-
tingue," which not only betokened the gentle-
man, but betrayed a delicacy of feeling gene-
rally claimed more by women than men.
However, there was something peculiar, not
to say mysterious, about him, which I could
not at the time explain; it puzzled me, but I
had neither the wish nor the opportunity to
analyze my impressions.
Anna led me at once to the tower and left
me to my own meditations. I looked anxiously
around, and saw a place as quaint and original
as any young lady of romantic disposition could
desire. The room was an old-fashioned octa-
gon, furnished in the style of the time of Louis
the Fourteenth. Little nooks and corners,
tastefully used for flowers, busts of poets, and
bronzes made it a perfect gem. The open win-
dows gave different views of the noble park,
and a sweet perfume rose from the flowers in
the garden, which added to the charm of this
delightful retreat. I noticed several objects
which denoted the baron's habit to retire at
times to this sequestered spot, where you could
imagine the rest of the world far away from
you. The book-case filled with works on poli-
tical economy, geology, antiquities, etc., gave
a pretty good estimate of the bent of his stu-
dies. Some fine stuffed birds and guns led one
to believe that the sports of a huntsman were
not unknown to him. Opening a dooi I saw a
collection of old-fashioned swords, sabres, and
pistols, which were doubtless valuable to him
as weapons that had belonged to some of his
ancestors. I remarked another door which
opened on a narrow spiral staircase, but I was
obliged to postpone any other investigation
which I should have liked to make, for there
was but little time left to prepare for supper.
1 was not the only guest at Kothenfels.
Several gentlemen from Stuttgart were visit-
ors at the castle, among them Uustav Schwab,
the poet, Doctor W. Menzel, the historian, Pro-
fessor Koss, tutor of the Crown-Prince, now
King of Wurti'inberg, Herr von llulow, the
novelist, and Justinus Kerner, the philanthro-
pist and poet.
What pleasure to meet so many distinguished
men, to spend an evening with them! Truly,
it seemed as if all things combined to make my
visit to Anna delightful; and yet—the old pro-
verb is right: "Don't praise the day before the
evening!" Little do we know what is In store
for us when everything around us is fair and
bright.
The conversation at supper-time was very
animated, and when we took our seats on the
balcony overhanging a bluff In the rear of the
castle, with the river at our feet, the hills of
the Black Forest in the distance, and the land-
scape glowing in the last rays of the sun, every-
body was Inclined to be social.
The baron, who had travelled for several
years in Sweden and Norway, described the
snowy plains of Lapland, the rich mines of
Dalecarlia, the rugged coast of Norway, and
gave us some amusing incidents of the super-
stitions still prevalent among the peasantry.
The mischievous, thievish water sprites that
often take the best fish from the fisherman's
net play yet many a trick; so do the little gray
goblins of the mountains, who frequently help
the miner to find his way out of the shaft, or
blow out his lamp when he has displeased
them. They believe also In little Puck, who
wanders about to see what is going on, peeps
in at the windows, knows all that happens in
the family, rewards the good, and inspires with
a wholesome fear the wicked children.
Gustav Schwab here drew the attention of
the company towards a fleecy cloud that over-
hung the ravine at our feet. "Can anything
more fantastic he seen than this silvery mist
which remains almost motionless, and yet ap-
pears to change its shape continually? It re-
262
GODET-S LADT'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
minds me of the so-called 'phantom cloud,'
now and then visible in the Alps of Tyrol,
which the peasants regard us a sign of bad
omen; it is quite probable that our great poet
Goethe took his first idea of the 'Erl-kcenig'
from this superstitious belief, which gradually
lias become a tradition among the Tyrolese
peasantry."
Just at this moment, the moon, rising over
the hills, suddenly illuminated the cloud still
lingering above the ravine, and gave to it such
:ui appearance of vitality, that it required not
any great amount of imagination to see the
starry crown of the "Erl-kcenig," as well as
his long silvery beard and the white floating
garment sweeping along the mountain side and
dissolving itself before the dazzled, frightened
child.
The conversation now drifted entirely into
the realm of the supernatural. Professor Ross
and Doctor Menzel narrated several of Suabia's
legends connected with its picturesque ravines.
Justin us Kerner, in his enthusiastic way, al-
most lifted the veil which separates this world
from the world beyond the grave, and Herr
von Bulow selected, to close the evening's en-
tertainment, the tradition of the well-known
"White Lady," which may have sufficient in-
terest for my readers to be related here.
The "White Lady," ancestress of Frederick
William, the Grand Elector of the House of
Brandenberg, and, consequently, likewise of
the Emperor William IV., was a proud, pas-
sionate woman. When her husband, the mar-
grave, was called, like all other great vassals of
the German Empire, to take up arms against
the unruly Guelphs, who during the beginning
of the thirteenth century made war unavoid-
able, she would not allow him to go, and bit-
terly accused the emperor of tyranny and op-
pression.
When the margrave, faithful to his oath of
allegiance, tore himself away from his wife to
obey the call of his sovereign, her grief, aud
anger knew no bounds, and neither her chil-
dren nor her chaplain could comfort her.
When the news came that her husband had
been killed in battle, her rebellious heart ac-
cused not only the emperor, but God himself,
of injustice, and she broke out into blasphe-
mies which made all who heard them shudder.
She shut herself up, refused all nourishment,
and accomplished her design to leave this
world. Her children entreated her to repent,
her chaplain used all the power at his com-
mand to convince her of the dreadful doom she
was bringing on herself by her wickedness, but
she listened to neither prayer nor argument,
and died with a curse on her lips.
There is no rest for her in her grave; she
wanders in the palaae of her descendants,
never allowed to participate in their joys, but
foreseeing the coming evil and the death of
each member of the family. The intensity of
her sufferings, the agony she endures at such
times, make her visible just before some calam-
ity befalls the royal family. Whenever the
"White Lady" is seen in the palace, a super-
stitious dread seizes the household.
Such is the tradition; and if in our enlight-
ened century little is said or thought about the
"White Lady," her appearance was firmly be-
lieved in not further back than the reign of
Frederick the Great. The unfortunate Baron
von der Trenck, after his escape from the for-
tress of Glatz, where he had been imprisoned by
order of the king for the crime of having fallen
in love with the Princess Amelia, his sister,
disguised himself as the "White Lady" in or-
der to see her once more and bid her farewell
as the only way to enter her apartment and to
baffle the guards and spies of her royal brother.
He succeeded, but it was a dangerous experi-
ment, for when Frederick heard of the appari-
tion, and was likewise informed of the baron's
escape, he had his doubts about the genuine-
ness of his gloomy ancestress, and gave strict
orders to make her a prisoner should she ap-
pear again.
It was late in the evening, and the company
broke up to retire for the night. 1 confess I
did not feel quite so elated with the prospect
of occupying my romantic room in the tower
as previously to the conversation of which 1
have tried to give an idea. I felt like a coward,
but would make myself a heroine, the more
so, as 1 had been complimented by the baron
anil his guests on my courage.
Anna accompanied me to my room, and,
after chatting a little while, she was just going
to leave me, when she turned towards me and
said:—
"By the by, I forgot to tell you, that Maria,
my maid, who is to sleep in the little chamber
at the head of the stairs, in order that you may
not be all alone, will not be home for some
time. It happens that a wedding which she
had my permission to attend, took place to-
day, and as she has to walk a considerable dis-
tance, I doubt that she will be home before
midnight. Pray, leave the door of the gallery
open, for there is no other entrance to the
tower. We have no thieves in our country;
as for ghosts," she added, smilingly, "I have
never heard that they haunted this place.
Surely, you are not afraid?"
To speak the truth, I was not quite so sure
of that; on the contrary, when I thought of
the door of my room to remain open, or at least
unlocked, my courage received a slight shock,
and I hesitated, whether I should really offer
my comfort as a sacrifice on the altar of pride;
but when I looked around me and reasoned
within myself that Maria would come in half
an hour at the very latest, I smiled at ray folly,
and cheerfully bade good-night to Anna, assur-
ing her that I was not a little girl to be afraid
of ghosts.
A NIGHTS ADVENTURE.
263
When alone, I walked up to the window and
looked out. It was a lovely night. The moon
had risen high in the skies, and shed its soft
light over the park and the distant hills of the
Black Forest. The gravel walk looked bright
amidst the dark masses of the trees through
which the rays of the moon could only peer
aslant. The rippling of the fountain in a white
marble basin with a frolicksomo little Cupid in
the centre, splashing the water above his head,
sounded like music in the stillness of the night.
Every object around, near and far, could be so
distinctly seen, that I felt soothed, and my
self-possession returned. I made up my mind
to go to bed, and not to wait for Maria, for 1
felt rather tired of my journey and the differ-
ent emotions through which I had passed.
Suddenly I remembered the Httle spiral stair-
case, and was sorry that I had not examined it
during the day-time. I opened the door—all
was still. I closed it, but began to speculate
about it—where it led, and if there were any
more hidden recesses than those I had already
discovered. There was a large picture, a
masterpiece of a modern artist, representing
Othello, which was hung before a niche, as the
only place where it would have the right light.
I had investigated this recess in the afternoon
merely out of curiosity, and found it to be sim-
ply a small receptacle, used for a few books,
but now, with my imagination greatly excited,
I began to feel uneasy about this convenient
hiding place, and watched the picture nerv-
ously.
The large clock of the castle sttuck the hour
of midnight; its strokes vibrating in the quiet
of the night witli peculiar distinctness. I
counted them one by one—yes—twelve—it was
the hour so full of weight in legendary lore. If
anything were to happen, it would be now.
This idea was not very comforting. The ap-
parition of the "White Lady" doomed to wan-
der in the royal palace presented itself forci-
bly to my mind. I shuddered, pride alone kept
me from leaving the tower, thus to put an end
to the fancies that tortured my brain, and made
me determine not to allow my imagination to
run away with reason. This time, I not only
made up my mind to go to bed, hut did so. Of
course I did not intend to sleep until Maria had
come in and the door was locked, but it could
not possibly be more than a quarter of an hour
before she would return, and I eagerly listened
for the sound of her approaching footsteps.
The moonlight made every object in the room
distinctly visible; but conspicuous above all
was the life-sized Othello. The picture was
opposite my bed, and strangely fascinated me.
I could not take my eyes from it. The wild
look of the eyes, the gloomy frown of the
bushy eyebrows, added to the dagger glisten-
ing in his hand, impressed me so vividly In the
feverish state of my mind, that the tragedy of
Desdemona's death stood vividly before me.
What if a similar crime had been committed
in these very walls I Who was to hinder any
of those ruffian barons of the middle ages from
murdering his wife in a tit of rage or jealousy?
How could the criminal be detected in his own
stronghold of a castle? Surely there was no-
thing improbable in this supposition. The
arm of justice had not reached him In this
world, but in the next. Here my conjectures
were interrupted by light steps in the gallery.
Yes, there was no mistake about it; Maria was
coming. What a comfort! She walked on
tip-toe, no doubt thinking that I was asleep,
and that she could pass through my room
without my knowing at what late hour she had
returned. But I did not choose to give her
that satisfaction; on the contrary, I intended
to give her most unceremoniously my opinion
about her want of punctuality. In order to
leave her no doubt that I was wide awake, I
sat up in my bed, ready to begin my little
speech as soon as she entered the room. The
door opened slowly, cautiously.
"Maria," I began.
Good Heavens! It was not Maria. The
words died on my lips. It was a man, or the
phantom of a man. It was—yes, indeed—it
was the dreaded Othello! He wore a yellow
turban, and a red mantle was thrown over his
shoulders, hanging down to his feet. My
heart was beating as if it were going to break.
Horror stricken, I closed my eyes, but opened
them again to see what he was doing. He
advanced slowly, solemnly. I wished to rise
and to escape through the open door, but I
could not move; my members were as if para-
lyzed. With anguish such as I cannot describe,
1 followed his movements, expecting nothing
else than to be strangled, or murdered in some
other ghost fashion. To my great surprise,
and with immense relief, I saw liiin move in
another direction; but my satisfaction at this
proceeding did not last long, for I soon under-
stood but too well that he was only postponing
my doom in order to choose a weapon with
which to accomplish his murderous design.
Entering the little armory next to my room,
and leaving the door wide open, I could see
him carefully examine some daggers, but
finally select, as best suited to his murderous
purpose, what appeared to me a pistol which 1
had particularly noticed in the afternoon, on
account of its silver mounting, now glittering
in the moonlight. After thus having made
his choice, he turned suddenly around and
came towards me. The terror of death seized
me. I wished to Implore the monster, to beg
for my life; but I could not utter one word.
My eyes closed, my heart ceased to beat, no
sound reached me, and I was, as it were, dis-
connected with all matters on earth.
When consciousness returned, I was much
astonished and perplexed to see the sun shine
brightly, and Anna sitting at. my bedside. I
264
OODET'S LADV8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
tried to collect my thoughts, but could not un-
derstand what had happened since that dread-
ful night, which alone stood clear and distinct
in my memory. Anna appeared to read my
thoughts. With tears in her eyes, she put her
arms around my neck and kissed me most
affectionately.
"Oh, tell ine what has happened I" I said.
"Heaven be praised 1 You are better, out
of danger."
"Danger? Yes. 1 certainly did not expect
to see the sun shine again; but explain, pray
explain I"
"My dear friend," said Anna, "you cannot
thjnk how utterly wretched I have been during
these three days, watching at your bedside.
If you had not recovered, I should have been
unhappy for the rest of my life. You have so
constantly repeated the same things in your
delirium that I know all that has happened,
and nobody is to blame but myself. Can you,
will you forgive me?"
"What do you mean? What have I to for-
give? What wrong have you done me?" I
cried.
"I ought to have foreseen what has hap-
pened; I ought to have told you that"—
"Yes, if I had known that the tower was
haunted by this spectre—by Othello—no con-
sideration would have prevailed upon me to
sleep in the room where he murdered his
wife."
Anna looked at me with undisguised aston-
ishment and fear. Was I again delirious?
She took my hand and felt my pulse. The
fever had left me, but what was worse, some
fixed idea had taken possession of my brain.
What new and painful discovery for poor
Anna 1 Her silence made me impatient.
"If not Othello, who was the man who came
with a pistol to my bedside?"
"That man," said Anna, and her voice be-
trayed deep emotion, "that man was—was—
my husband I"
"Oh I who could ever have believed anything
so dreadful, so monstrous? What had I done
to offend him? But I think I see how it is.
Many things are now explained that puzzled
me. He has fits of insanity, and you came
just in time to save me, to prevent the atrocious
murder."
"Stop! stop!" cried Anna; "let mo explain;
it is not by any means as you think. The
baron is simply a somnambulist. I ought to
have confided to you the family secret, and
asked you to lock your door; but I felt reluc-
tant to speak to you about this strange disease.
Of course, I never thought it would lead to
anything like what has happened. When I
accompanied you last night, I entirely forgot
that we have full moon. How could 1 have
asked you to leave the door open for Maria,
had I not been pre-occupied by other thoughts,
knowing as I do the baron's predilection for
the tower? You see, I am alone to blame;
but I have been severely punished for my
carelessness these three long days and nights,
when you were raving so dreadfully that it
well nigh broke my heart to listen." I looked
so surprised, not to say stupefied, that Anna
continued: "You do not believe ine. Let uie
go on. When you did not appear at breakfast,
I came to see you as soon as my duties of host-
ess permitted. I found you delirious. You
spoke of pistols, murder, ghosts, and I natu-
rally believed that last night's conversation
had so strongly affected your imagination as
to produce a feverish condition of the brain,
when I suddenly perceived a yellow silk hand-
kerchief, which I at once recognized as my
husband's. This explained all. The baron
had entered your room in his wanderings, and
you had taken him, excited as your imagina-
tion was, for a ghost, a spectre."
"Alas! yes—Othello I"
Anna looked .amazed, and asked what I
meant. I told her how much I had been im-
pressed by the picture, and notwithstanding
her self-accusations and regrets, she could not
help laughing at the singular combinations of
my feverish imagination.
"But the red mantle which I saw dis-
tinctly?"
"The baron's dressing-gown."
"And the turban?"
"The yellow handkerchief I found on your
bed."
"How came he to have a pistol?"
"Ah! the pistol was a genuine pistol, but
not loaded. My husband has a passion for all
kinds of weapons. You have seen his collec-
tion, and, like other somnambulists, he visits
in his nocturnal wanderings the places he likes
most in his normal state. This little armory is
a favorite place of his, where he spends many
an hour."
I soon recovered, as all the fancies of my
imagination explained themselves in the most
simple and natural manner. Although many
years have, passed since my visit to Anna, ]
have not forgotten my first night's adventure
In the castle of Rothenfels. Baron von Polenz,
entirely cured of somnambulism, goes, never-
theless, by the name of "Othello," In the Inti-
mate correspondence which Anna and myself
have kept up, notwithstanding the distance
that separates us; but nobody has been initiated
up to this hour into tlio tragi-eomical event to
which he owes his dramatical name.
He who respects and holds his word sacred
himself will have it respected and trusted by
others.
Private credit is wealth; public honor Is
security. The feather that adorns the royal
I bird supports its flight. Strip him of his plu-
, mage, and you fix him to the earth.
LITERATURE AS AN OUTGROWTH OF HUMAN LIFE.
2C5
LITERATURE AS AN OUTGROWTH
OF HUA1AN LIFE.
We who tread "along the cool, sequestered
vale" of human existence, may be allowed to
take a pardonable, if not justifiable, interest
iu inquiring into the personal and private sur-
roundings of those who stand upon its heights.
It is but natural, after being edified, enter-
tained, or amused by the words of one whom
we have never beheld or known, that we
should desire some knowledge of the circum-
stances which have given birth, not only to an
immortal masterpiece, but to that which has
served as heartfelt enjoyment for the passing
hour. And, so far from this passion's being
shared merely by the curious and illiterate,
none have bestowed more labor and pains in
acquainting both themselves and the world
with apparently the most trifling minutiae in
the lives of the famous, than those who have
trod In their footsteps and emulated their
renown.
We may have faith in the creed of the poet's
"fine frenzy," the divine spark and sacred fire
which accompany and enkindle geuius; but
modern autobiography, as well as care and
research in the study of individual history,
cannot fail to subdue and modify such belief.
Literature, as a profession, lias enrolled sons
and daughters of such widely diverse parent-
age, life, circumstance, and character, that it
would be a task, indeed, to endeavor to classify
them systematically. Side by side with those
whom we know to be the possessors of inborn
greatness, stand others who, by the gigantic
exercise of personal exertion, have attained
greatness, and still others who, as has been
well said, have had "greatness thrust upon
them." The practicability of the nineteenth
century would inquire, if It dared, the why
and wherefore of the production of genius, and
it is certainly with no manner of scrupulosity
that it demands a reason of the aggression of
the multitudinous forms of literature which
appear from every nook and corner in the
present age. But as few authors have either
thought or cared to account for or specify the
motives, incidents, and events that have occa-
sioned their creation, in order to obtain the
desired knowledge, we must resort to the
biographical details of their lives and the inci-
dental evidences in their works.
With care and study we may trace to their
source and fountain-head the origin of the ma-
jority of literary works, and by so doing we
ootain a speaking commentary upon the work
under consideration. We find the influence of
circumstance to have been at work here, and
tn have made immense inroads upon the realm
"f literature. The productions which excite
our most ardent admiration are found to be
the effects of definite and definable causes, and
the outgrowth of dispositions, propensities, and
even weaknesses, which are common to man-
kind. Particularly do we find this to be the
case in tho departments of reason and philoso-
phy. In the recently published autobiography
of J. Stuart Mill, we have an instance of the
result of severe and sustained mental discipline
on one who declares himself to have been
"rather below than above par." The palm
which the world awarded him—the greatest
philosopher of the nineteenth century—being
the consequence of an amount of exertion suf-
ficient to bestow on its possessor the advantage
of a quarter of a century over his contempo-
raries. From his earliest years the career of a
philosopher was placed before him as an em-
bodiment of all that could make existence
worth enduring: every circumstance of his
life was moulded in this form, and shaped
itself according to this end. Was not such
an end a natural sequence of such a begin-
ning? Humboldt studied, travelled, wrote,
and thought for fifty years with one idea con-
stantly in view—that of bequeathing such a
work as the "Cosmos" to the world. And as
the common experience of mankind testifies to
the fact that we delight in that over which we
have labored, this in itself is sufficient to ex-
plain such a zeal and subsequent success.
Buffon, the world-renowned naturalist, wrote
his celebrated work entitled "Epoques de la
Natuw" eighteen times before publishing It. It
is not strange that hedefined genius as synony-
mous with patience. Other writers have called
it "intense purpose," and again others have
surnamed it "hard work," and upon examina-
tion we can scarcely meet with an instance of
literary fame which does not rest upon the
foundation of years spent in the labor of pro-
found thought.
Swift's works, without an exception, are an
expression of a degree of satire which seldom
falls to the lot of man, and which in this in-
stance was certainly the result of cultivation,
from the fact that at an early age he was
thrown upon the tender mercies of an unfeel-
ing world. The fame which Dryden and Pope
enjoyed was due to the satirical retorts which
previous ridicule drew forth. Scott made of
his literary fame a monument to his chivalric
sense of honor, for the majority of his works
were written as a means of discharging debt.
Harriet Martineau traces the origin of her po-
sition as an author to the infirmity of deafness
in childhood, which constrained her to lead a
studious and contemplative life. We owe to
the pleasant manners of an agreeable woman
the subject, and eventually the execution, of
Cowper'S "Task," as well as the diverting
history of "John Gilpin." No one .doubts
epistolary and journalistic forms of literature
to be the immediate outgrowth of human life.
The celebrated letters of Madame de Sevigne'
2CC
GODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAOAZINE.
and Lady Mary Wortly Montague originated'
in the commonplace necessity of absence from
relatives aud friends, and their charm is un-
doubtedly owing to their lack of affectation
aud simplicity of style. A sensitive and en-
thusiastic temperament, such as the world at-
taches to the name of poet, is especially alive
to the influence of circumstances; and while
poems are supposed to be the offspring of the
creative element alone, they are often, not ex-
cepting the greatest, the natural outgrowth of
human life. The world never listened to the
flow of more harmonious numbers than those
of Byron, and yet critics are one in acknowl-
edging that, though they possess a force and
originality altogether unique, they are stamped
with the reflection of his own life and cha-
racter.
But time and space forbid further enumera-
tion of particulars; we must endeavor to as-
certain the strength of this law when applied
to forms of literature in different epochs. In
the brilliant era of the Augustan age, when
Uoinan literature attained its zenith, we find
the chief forms of literature to have been the
epic, or historical poem, epistles, history, and
orations. Learning was then concentrated in
a select few, hence the prevailing tone is a
consciousness of dignity and authority. Their
writings are an exponent of the culminating
point in a nation's civilization. They are con-
cerned with the deeds of the past, rather than
with those of the present; and, though Many
of the more philosophical writings are fraught
with ennobling sentiments, the greater portion
have entertainment, rather than edification,
for their object. The earliest British literature
was the work of Anglo-Saxon monks, and
naturally their theme was that of theology.
The Norman conquest introduced the romance
into England, and from the songs of wandering
minstrels and troubadours not only the form
but the substance of lyric poetry arose. The
drama was introduced, in default of the inven-
tion of printing, as a means of conveying in-
struction and educating the great mass of the
people in the history of the Bible; its many
striking scenes aud narratives being acted at
first by the clergy themselves.
And in this way we might touch upon many
other forms of literature, as the drama in its
more modern signification, the novel, the ro-
mance in verse, which is scarcely a century
old; and last, but by no means least, the news-
paper and magazine. The style of literature
called for, and received welcomely to-day, pe-
, culiarly partakes of the character of the age.
There was a time when graceful words clothing
scanty ideas were received with pleasure, since
the illiterate mass looked upon unintelligibility
as an insignia of literary inl tiation. But to-day,
and in a country whose rulers are chosen from
among the gen* du peuple, away with all that
does not bear upon its face the mark of practi-
cability 1 Eloquence, not of style, but of sub-
ject, is demanded. It is said that the age of a
writer may be determined by his literary refe-
rences, so entirely are the writers of the past
century ignored by present authors, in favor
of the more questionable authority of their
contemporaries.
But is it anything more than entertaining
thus to ponder over the fact that literature is
an outgrowth of human life? It must be, for
"lives of great men all remind us we can make
our lives sublime." No matter if a foreordilla-
tion reach to the most minute fraction of human
existence, it could not offer one motive of prac-
tical benefit, or even of theoretical loveliness;
while the veriest jargon is not lost If it stir one
soul to personal exertion. And if a spirit of
impatience on the part of the gifted is mani-
fested now and then towards those who assume
the position of author prematurely, let it be
checked and controlled, since out of this appa-
rent rubbish may come words which will take
effect as no others could, and if not in books,
yet in lives may enrich aud ennoble posterity.
AFRAID.
by n. L. A.
'Deab mother, take me hi your arms,"
A little blue-eyed darling said,
"The shadows lie upon the walls
So darkly, and I am afraid.
I cannot see the sunshine now,
It hides behind the clouds, I guess;"
The mother took her In her arms,
And soothed the little one's distress.
•'O Father, help me! I'm atraid,
I dare not trust my life with him
Whom the red wine a slave has made:
Show me the way, my sight Is dim."
A holy light was In her eye,
A heaven-born fire was burning there;
He threw the tempting wine-cup by,
This was the answer to her prayer.
An aged pilgrim nearcd the grave.
His eye was dim. his cheek was pale.
His brow was shadowed, and he sighed,
"I dare not tread that shadowy vale,
I dare not stem the turbid waves
That he between my soul and bliss:
Bather than risk for that bright world
My life, I fain would stay In this."
But then the thoughts ot olden time
Came thronging o'er his troubled brain;
They who had died seemed with him still,
Alas I they ne'er might meet again.
"Thank God for death!" the old man cried
And In the shadows bravely trod;
"My dear ones I shall meet again.
And with my soul look upon God!"
Presence of Mind.—At all times presence
of mind is valuable. In time of repose it ena-
bles us to say and do whatever is most befitting
the occasion that presents itself; while in time
of trial it may protect, and iu danger preserve.
THE STORT OF AN ENGLISH GOVERNESS.
267
THE STORY OF AN ENGLISH
GOVERNESS.
BY CATHARINB EAKNSHAW.
Six years ago I was living at Gorham Park,
in the north of England. I always think of
that time as the happiest of all the times I have
known since I was obliged to become an in-
structor, that I might earn ray bread. It was
a most fortunate thing for me that the first
place in which 1 served was one which I learned
to love for the sake of those who lived there.
Mine has been the old story of an impoverished,
honorable family. My father, becoming a dis-
senter, was obliged to relinquish his clerical
duties in the Church of England; from a life
of easy comfort we came to one of reduced
means, though not that of harsh poverty.
Upon one of those days my father died; then
it was a necessity that I should become a gov-
erness. It is not upon my own life that I mean
to dwell; for I have it in my mind to tell you
of the family in which I first lived. I had been
engaged after having furnished satisfactory
references as to character and education. I
arrived one evening at the Park, and was
shown to the drawing-room, where the family
were assembled. There seemed something in
the very atmosphere of the house, as I entered
the outer door, that placed me at my ease. I
Instinctively knew that the people who dwelt
here were the aristocrats of nature, not of cir-
cumstances; nor was I undeceived when I
stood within the warmth and glow of the draw-
ing-room. The servant announced me as the
person who was to be the governess. At the
far end of the room were two ladies, the elder
one reclining, invalid fashion, on a lounge, and
the younger sitting on a low seat by her side.
The latter figure looked up at my appearance,
laid aside the book she had held, and came for-
ward. I sometimes think there is as much of
one's character in one's Walk as in the face; I
have often noticed that the two frequently cor-
respond. The proud pliancy of her movemen ts,
the graceful sweep of her drapery as she came
to me, impressed me so favorably that I had
expected to hear just such a voice as spoke to
me—harmonious, well-bred, with a something
that told of strength.
"Yon are Miss Gwynn?" she said, interro-
gatively.
I replied in the affirmative.
She held outlier hand and said: "Welcome
to Gorham Park. I am very glad you have
come; it is getting lonesome here; we have no
company, and have to fall back on our own re-
sources."
"That doesn't speak well for our powers,
Mabel," spoke a voice from the window.
I looked towards the recess. A young man
with a blonde moustache rose languidly and
stepped forward. Mabel Gorham turned, with
a half petulant movement, as nearly petulant
as her style would allow, and said :—
"If you would exert yourself, Harry, we
might find more amusement here. This Is my
brother, Miss Gwynn."
He bowed low to me, and murmured some-
thing which I did not try to hear. Mabel was
looking at him and smiling, In the way we
smile at a favorite child. He took his sister's
hand, kissed it, and said:—
"I shall not be at home, at breakfast, unfor-
tunately. At dinner I shall bless you with my
presence. Till then good-by. Good-by, ma
chere inert!" he bent toward the lady on^the
couch, and sauntered out at the door.
"Let me present you to my mother," Mabel
said; "my sister Ellen, who is to be your es-
pecial charge, you will not see till to-morrow
morning."
We approached the lounge, and in the pale
features of Mrs. Gorham, I saw why her daugh-
ter had a right to her aristocratic cast of coun-
tenance. My greeting was cordial and heart-
felt; it seemed that I had nothing to fear for
my sensitive pride. Mahel herself conducted
me to my room, and the good-night she wished
me made my dreams pleasanter than I had
hoped. The morning's sunlight showed the
waving tops of the trees in the park, the white
frost of a late autumn. I looked eagerly from
the window. The turrets of the old part of the
house fascinated me by their promise of remi-
niscences of generations gone by. The inhab-
ited part had been built within ten years, but
out of respect to the old, the family had left
the towers and tapestried chambers to stand
on in their grimness; sometimes, in case of
company, the rooms were cleared up and made
of use, but only when the guests were nume-
rous. Promising myself that I would take my
young charge for a guide, and explore the be-
witching vicinity opened to me, I turned from
the window and began dressing. So long did
I linger, looking at the strange appearance the
northern scenery had to my unaccustomed eyes
that the breakfast-bell rang, and almost simul-
taneously a hesitating knock sounded on my
door. Hastily finishing my toilet, I opened the
door and ushered in a little girl of eleven years.
She came in shyly, and tried to frame an apol-
ogy for coming, but her bashfulness overpow-
ered her. I hastened to banish her timidity.
I took her hand, and softly touching her hair,
fair and soft like her brother's, I said :—
"You are little Ellen Gorham, aren't you?"
1 liked the child from the first; she must have
felt my liking in my voice and in the hand that
still smoothed her hair. She came close to me
instantly, and said, in a tone singularly musi-
cal :—
"Yes; I am the child you are going to take
care of. I am very glad, too."
I smiled. "Glad that you are the child, or
that I am the governess?"
2C3
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
"Oh, both. I've had terrible times with my"
governesses before now; so that mamma has
cried about me, and Mabel has looked at me,
and brother Harry has laughed. Oh, dear, I
can't bear to think of it!" she replied, heavily.
This was pleasant information, certainly,
but I expected no such "times" in my inter-
course with her. I said: "X am almost sure
we shall like each other, any way. Don't you
think so?"
Ellen made a gesture of delight which would
have become her sister, and replied: "Yes,
certainly. I always know right away If I 'm
going to love anybody; but breakfast is wait-
ing, and we mustn't stay here talking."
She led the way to the breakfast-room, which
we entered by one door just as Mabel came in
at another. i
"Why, Ellen 1" exclaimed her sister, "have
you been so impolite as to go to Miss Gwynn's
room this morning?"
"I was so curious to see her, Mabel. I
dreamed last night she was just like Miss Har-
dinge, and I was so troubled about it that I
could hardly wait till morning before I found
out."
"Well, what did you discover?" Miss Gor-
ham asked, as we sat down at table.
Ellen laughed a low, intensely contented
laugh, and answered: "Can't you see your-
self? Sneisas different from Miss ilardinge
as you are."
We three were the only people at breakfast.
Mabel begged me to excuse her mother's ab-
sence, as she seldom came down as early as
breakfast "And, since my father's death,"
she continued, "Harry is never sure of being
here."
A slight shade came for an instant to her
face. I thought I had discovered the shadow
in the house, happy and pleasant as it was in
the main. There was something in connection
with the young heir of the place that disquieted
his sister; I thought of it as I ate my break-
fast in silence; for after the first few sen-
tences Mabel became silent, and, most of the
time, instead of eating, she sat looking thought-
fully into her coffee cup, or vacantly out at the
window opposite.
I liked her face still better by daylight,
though she had less claims to the beautiful.
Dark faced and eyed, with abundant brown
hair, she was unlike thus far any of her rela-
tives I had seen. I felt in her company as
though I were in a presence, something unlike
the indifference I feel with commonplace peo-
ple. A character forceful and strong, perhaps
sometimes a little obstinate, was visible in those
eyes, which, I felt, would look at any fate, how-
ever adverse, with "level fronting lids." I
have a habit of looking at the mouth for au in-
dex to one's temperament. How haughty and
handsome were the lips of Mabel Gorhani!
Exquisite and sensitive, I knew that through
her love she might be made intensely miser-
able or happy.
I initiated myself and my pupil into the rou-
tine of our studies, and did not scruple to dis-
play the pleasure I felt when I found that the
study-room was in the tlme-hatmted old wing.
Mrs. Gorliam came down at lunch, and in-
quired, with invalid pettishness, for her son.
Mabel answered with studied indifference that
he was not to be home till dinner.
"But where is he? What is he doing? You
must tell me, Mabel;" the lady writhed her
hands in feeble anxiety.
"Mother, I don't know where he Is; you
know that now I am not his confidant." Ma-
bel's voice fell as she finished her sentence.
Ellen's face looked for a moment as if she
was going to speak about him, but something
decided her differently. I could perceive in
the countenance of Miss Gorham that, how-
ever evident this vexation, she still disliked
that a stranger should knowlt. Acting upon
this idea, I looked an indifference and igno-
rance I was far from feeling.
The day passed by so pleasantly and rapidly
that when the dinner-bell sounded I echoed
the explanation of Ellen, that study hours had
never seemed so short.
As I passed through the hall I heard a step
on the gravel walk outside, and in a moment
more the door opened abruptly and admitted
the heir of Gorham Park. Ellen was with me,
holding my hand as we walked; she made a
sudden movement to go to her brother, then
shrank back after a second glance. He stood
In the open doorway, ordering his groom to
take his horse and that of a man he had brought
with him. The stranger ascended the steps,
and the two turned to come in. The hall lamp
showed Gorham"s face flushed, and his eyes
brilliant with a foreign light. He bowed to
me, and seemed about to present his compan-
ion, but Instinctively I turned and hurriedly
entered the dining-room. They followed, and
Gorham walked to his sister and bent his face
as if to kiss her, but she moved slightly, and
seemed not to notice it.
"Deuced cool!" he muttered, then sank
down in his seat and motioned his companion
to seat himself beside him.
That gentleman bent and said, In a low voice:
"Excuse me, Gorham, but you have not yet
presented me to these ladies."
Harry flushed still more, and, apologizing,
introduced Mr. Van Rcnsalaur, a native of
New York, who had spent the last five years
in Europe. Harry mumbled the supplement-
ary information in a maudlin way that would
have made his guest smile, had he not looked
across the table toward Mabel in time to pre-
vent an expression that would have called still
more frigidity to her face.
She bowed coldly to him, and went on doing
the honors of the table in calm indifference.
THE STORY OF A2f EXGLISE GO VERNES8.
2G9
It seemed evident that she did not choose to no-
tice any gentleman whom her brother brought
home when he was in the condition now so evi-
dent I think the stranger saw how unpropi-
tious was his coming, for, without paying much
attention to Ilarry or his sisters, he was deli-
cately attentive to Mrs. Gorham; so gentle-
manly and kind did he seem, that he half won
my good opinion before the meal was over.
We left the table early; I was drawn into the
drawing-room by the pertinacious Ellen, sec-
onded by an invitation from her sister.
The sound of young Gorham's voice grew
louder and more boisterous; it only needed a
few more glasses to make him completely
drunk—drunk in the most beastly sense of the
word. I tried hard to amuse myself and Ellen;
ensconced in a window recess we tried to be-
come absorbed in a game of chess, but at every
burst of intoxicated hilarity that sounded from
the dining-room, 1 could not help a furtive
glance at Mabel's face. It seemed to grow
paler and colder every moment. At last, un-
able to be a witness of that which I knew to
be so humiliating, I retired to my room, and
shortly after I heard Gorham and his guest
coming up stairs, the former expostulating
with Van Rensalaur upon his wish to retire so
early. I was very thankful to the stranger
that he had resisted the entreaties of his host
to prolong their festival. He had earned the
thanks of all in the house by so doing; if it
was a piece of his policy, it was very kind nev-
ertheless.
The weeks ran into each other, and I felt
myself so identified by sympathy with the in-
terests of this family, that I was conscious that
my days were darkened by the shade that
shadowed the Gorhams. Of Harry Gorham I
had seen enough to know that when uninflu-
enced by wine or excitement, ho was one of
those child-like, happy temperaments that seem
formed more to be loved than to love intensely.
Affectionate aud gay, he promised to be, at
middle age, if he did not become a confirmed
debauchee, one of those jovial English landed
proprietors which it gladdens one's heart to
see. I knew something of how uncontrollable
was the sorrow Mabel felt when she saw her
brother's face changing from its youtliful fresh-
ness to the jaded blase look which comes only
with sin. The pleasures of the voluptuary
were leaving their mark on his boyish chocks
and in the bright blue of his eyes. To the high
pride of the Gorhams it was a hard stroke to
know that the last of their lino was a drunk-
ard, a libertine, and that he was fast wasting
.his patrimony in the wildest gaming into which
wealthy youth can plunge. These facts came
to me by degrees, for Mabel never spoke of him
to me, though she did not always silence her
sister in her exclamations of sorrow or vexa-
tion.
I had been at the Park some six months,
when Ellen came to me with varying face and
flashing eyes, her voice quivering with some-
thing between grief and anger. She threw
herself sobbing into my lap and told me that
her brother had come liomo "in wine" as she
expressed it, that lie had ordered a dinner for
a dozen persons, and that they were coming in
the evening; "all men, too," she cried, with the
memory of her brother's words still present.
"I have been to mother's room," she contin-
ued, "and she almost cried; and Mabel not at
home, either—if Mabel was bound to stop it,
she could do It."
I fully believed her last expression; there
might be a look in Mabel Gorham's eyes, be-
fore which her brother would yield from very
inability to cope witli it.
"I thought you expected your sister home
to-night," I said.
"Yes, we did; but she ought to have been
here before. I don't believe she will come
now."
Something within me made mo feel confident
in saying, "I think she will come. You know
she said she should return to-night, and Mabel
always does as she says." I said that word
Mabel with lingering inflection, for I had come
to love her with warmth, almost with passion.
Ellen grew more quiet at my words. It was
already late, and Gorham's guests began to
arrive. Such young men as ride horses that
would cost almost a fortune were they paid
for, and who are never respectful to any wo-
man, only for the sake of her social position.
There were one or two among the number
whose suave manners and keen eyes marked
them as professional gamblers. We watched
them dismount, and occasionally saw their
faces as they passed by the light that streamed
from the windows. Their murmurous conver-
sation at last changed to the sudden exclama-
tion, the rapid and thickening utterance of
inebriety. The hours flew by, and Mabel did
not come. I could not tell why I so longed
for her. It was not that I knew that her
mother would have given unspeakabilities only
for her presence; It was not because Ellen
wandered like a ghost, vainly longing for her
sister—it was because I felt some premonition
that her presence would beimperativeiyneeded.
At last I sent Ellen away to her mother's room.
I thought the child might possibly distract the
invalid's attention from the roars of revelry
that came surging up from the revellers below.
I opened my window and leaned out, wishing
inexpressibly that I might hear the sound of
Mabel's carriage. I listened in vain. After
half an hour, Ellen came flying up the stairs.
"How is your mother?" I asked, vaguely
expecting something had happened to her.
"I don't know," she gasped, struggling for
the breath she had half lost in her rapid mount-
ing of the stairs.
I waited for her to tell what she had to say.
270
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
"I have been out on the wet walk," she be-
gan, "listening for Mabel. 1 didn't want to
go to mamma's room, because I can't hear a
carriage from there. I have Just come in, and
1 stole along through the hall by the dining-
room. There was such a noise there that I
was almost frightened, and I hurried by, when
1 -heard one of the men say something about
Susie Johnson, and then they all laughed, and
my brother loudest of all. You know Susie
Johnson, that pretty girl who lives in the cot-
tage at the farthest end of our grounds?"
"Yes, I have seen her; she is very hand-
some, and simple, and good," I replied.
"Then Harry said he was half a mind to
ride over and get her to preside at his feast;
that he thought a kiss from her lips better
than Burgundy. When he had said that, some-
body cried out, 'Fie, Gorham! you couldn't
get her.' Harry said—and he is very drunk,
Miss Gwynn—he said he would bet twenty
pounds he could, and the company cried
'Done!'and I ran away then to tell you. If
Harry goes, 1 will. WW him when he comes
back I"
The child's eyes glowed like coals; her slight
frame trembled violently.
"That was probably only done in fun," I
said, though I hardly believed my words.
"No; when he is drunk, he is as obstinate
as Mabel herself. Oh! what shall we do? If
he goes, what will he say to Susie? To think
that my brother should insult her I"
"Could Mabel prevent his going?" I asked.
"She would do it!" was the reply. "She
would sooner die than that a brother of hers
should so behave to a woman."
The child's face grew to look like her sis-
ter's, notwithstanding her blonde hair and
complexion. A sharp, Impatient ring sounded
from Mrs. Gorhain's room. I sent Ellen to
her mother, and followed her slowly down the
stairs. There was a stir in the dining-room,
as though some one were leaving. The fear
that Harry was actually going made me call
Ellen, and send her maid in her stead. Ellen
came to my side; we heard Harry's voice
apologizing for his absence, and promising to
atone for it by bringing back "Susie Johnson,
with her cheeks rosy red from her ride in the
dark."
El len drew me around to a side room, through
which her brother was to pass on his way to
the stables. He came with a more unsteady
step than 1 had expected. I hoped he would
choose his quietest horse. I drew back in the
shadow, and Ellen stepped up to him. He
leaned back against the wall, and looked at
her with bloodshot eyes, his inflamed face
looking strangely unlike the young man I had
first seen in his mother's drawing-room.
"■Well, sis, what's up?" he asked, with im-
peded utterance.
"Where are you going, Harry?" Ellen
asked, going up close to him.
"Does Miss Gwynn want to know?" he
said, with a disagreeable inflection in his voice.
"I want to know myself," she said, in a be-
seeching tone. "You are not -going to ride
over Black Heath bridge to-night, are you?"
"And why not?"
"Because—because—it's very dark, and the
bridge is so narrow," hesitatingly replied
Ellen.
"And you think I've been drinking too
much to ride straight? Do you think I've
had too much wine, Miss Gwynn?" He swayed
over toward me as he spoke. "Say I"
• "I should think from your appearance that
you had," I answered, as he persisted; his
face darkened.
"Well, good-night, ladies! I am going.
Can't you wish me success?"
"Harry Gorham, you are not going!" cried
Ellen. "For shame on any gentleman to go
to Susie Johnson's on sucli an errand I"
Her. brother walked on unheeding. Ellen
stepped forward and stood before him.
"Are you going?" her face whitening with
her words.
"Yes, of course! Do you want to give me
a kiss before I go?"
He bent his head, but staggered back to an
upright position. She'caught his hands.
"Oh, I wish I had papa's pistols I" she cried
under her breath.
Gorham's face changed somewhat. "What
for?" he asked.
"I would shoot you with them before you
should do such a thing," she said.
Her brother laughed. "Don't try to come
Mabel airs over me," he said, and pushed past
her and disappeared.
Ellen would have burst into tears if she had
not been too angry. The storm within her
young soul was so fierce that it kept her super-
naturally quiet. I took her hand.
"Now we will go around to the other door
and listen for your sister," I said. "How far
is it to Johnson's cottage?"
"It's an hour's ride, certain. I don't think
Harry can ride that bridge in such a state as
he is. It's hardly safe for a steady person in
a dark night. He '11 be drowned in Black
Heath Biver;" she spoke in a dogged tone,
very painful to hear from so yonng a child.
We opened a side door and stood on the
stops outside, hoping so earnestly to hear car-
riage wheels on the winding road through the
park. Mrs. Gorham's maid came to tell us
that her mistress desired us both to come to
her room. I could hardly restrain my impa-
tience sufficiently, so that I might enter Mrs.
Gorham's apartment calmly. I saw that she
was nervous and excited to a great degree.
More than ever, I longed for her daughter's
THE STORY OF AN ENGLISH GOVERNESS.
271
presence, for Mabel alone could calm lier
mother's highly excitable nature. I sat down
and read to her. Ellen perversely remained
behind a few moments in the upper hall at the
window. Presently she came in silently and
sat down at my feet. I glanced off my book
an instant to look at her face. She whis-
pered :—
"Ilarry has just rode off on Flame."
Ominous words; I could not keep them out
of my head. I knew Flame was the fiercest
horse in the stables. Now 1 did not think so
much of the unmanly deed he meditated as of
the fearful probability that he never would
return. It was only by the utmost strength of
my will that I remained and read aloud. It
seems as if I must wander about the grounds
in the hope of finding Mabel. I looked at my
watch; it was a quarter of an hour since he
went. I murmured an Excuse and left the
room. Ellen followed close at my heels. We
stopped at the same door; a thrill of delight
ran througii me. Far and faint the wind bore
the sound of wheels crunching the gravel.
Ellen stood with clasped hands and parted
lips. The carriage came on rapidly; soon it
was in sight. Mabel saw the lights in the
front of the house, and, guessing the cause,
she ordered the carriage to the entrance at
which we stood. There was company with
her; 1 saw them with vexatious dismay. Ma-
bel saw us, and sprang up the steps, leaving
them to follow. She bent and touched my
lips with her own, whispering as she did so :—
"What is the matter? Hmry"—
I told her, not taking a moment for the reci-
tal—hardly half a dozen words.
"Stay here," she said to me, then turning to
her guests, "I am obliged to depute my little
sister here to do the honors for a while; I shall
be absent an hour or two."
Not waiting to hear the murmurous assent
of tlit» ladies, she drew me along the passage,
hastily handed me a wrap and hood, ordered
two horses to be saddled, then asked me :—
"Are you willing to go with me? I should
like to have you go."
"I want to go," I said.
She looked at me witli so much love In her
face, that I wanted to do much more for her
than riding in this dreary night with her. We
mounted our horses, and galloped fast down
the approach and on to the heath. I had many
times scoured over the moors with her, but
never on such a night as this. The wind blew
coldly and weirdly from the north, the clouds
were heavy and black; but, blown about by
the wind, there was sometimes a star visible
between their ragged edges. The shrieks of
the air through the trees sounded mortal and
dreadful to me. 1 felt that I should remember
that night ride as some dream that had visited
me in some nnhappy hour. But I was not
precisely unhappy; it appeared to me that 1
could not be that when with Mabel Gorham.
I was excited and anxious. We rode close to-
gether, galloping in a steady, fast gait. At
last we came to a rough place, where we were
obliged to walk our horses. Then Mabel
spoke, for the first time since we started.
"Kathie," she said, just loud enough for me
to hear, "are you afraid?"
"No," 1 replied.
After a moment she said, "Let me take
your hand a minute."
In my hurry I had taken no gloves; so I
held out ray gloveless fingers. Her hand was
thickly gauntleted. She bent her head and
kissed my hand with all the royal grace of af-
fection. Incomparable Mabel! It was impos-
sible not to love her. We rode fast again, and
saw in the distance what we thought to be the
figure of a man on horseback. We stopped
our horses and listened; we heard his horse's
feet, and on we dashed again. We were almost
to the bridge, towards which the horseman
was going. We gained on him, for we were
going at a furious rate. We were now near
enough to see that the man sat unsteadily, and
jerked at the reins in a way that would prove
fatal on the narrow bridge, which was only a
few feet before him. Suddenly Mabel's horse
darted forward; she bent and caught Harry's
bridle, and wheeled around with perfect com-
mand of her horse. She stopped after she had
turned him around.
"Mabel I Where in the deuce did yon come
from? Let go my bridle!" he cried, in a husky
voice.
She did not mind his last words, but replied,
"I came after you." *
He reeled with rage and wine. "But I am
not going back with you."
"Yes, you are."
"But I swear I '11 not," in a choking voice.
Mabel's tones sounded sharp, and stern, and
commanding. She said :—
"Then I'll stay hero ail night and hold
your horse, for you are drunk, Ilarry Gorham
—drunk as a beast!"
"And Mabel Gorham, the high and mighty,
she is my sister!" said Harry, with something
like a sneer, only it was too imbecile.
Mabel lowered her face close to his, and
looked into his eyes.
"Now, sir, dare to disobey me I"
She let go the bridle and spurred the horses.
Harry did not utter a word; we rode home in
silence. In the hall, Mabel called a servant
and sent him up stairs with Harry. She dis-
patched another to the dining-room to tell the
company whatever he pleased about his mas-
ter's absence. Ten minutes after, I heard her
voice, modulated to soft music, conversing
witli her guests. I stole up to my room, and
remained at my window till late in the night,
when I heard the company retiring. A few
moments after, I opened my door to a knock,
272
OODET-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
and found Mabel standing without. She begged
to come in and stay the rest of the night with
me, and I was too happy in granting her
request.
All this happened years ago. Now Harry
Gorham is truer brother and truer man, for
Mabel could not work in vain. My happiest
days are the regular visits I make at Gorham
Park, and the woman I love most in the world
is Mabel Gorham, with whom I rode to Black
Heath bridge.
A FATAL IIABIT.
Irresolution is a fatal habit; It Is not
vicious in itself, but it leads to vice, creeping
upon its victims with a fatal facility, the pen-
alty of which many a fine heart has paid at the
.scaffold. The idler, the spendthrift, the epi-
curean and the drunkard are among its vic-
tims. Perhaps in the latter its effects appear
in the most hideous form. He knows that the
goblet which he is about to drain is poison, yet
he swallows it. He knows, for the example of
thousands has painted it in glaring colors, that
it will deaden all his faculties, take the strength
from his limbs and the happiness from his
heart, oppress him with disease, and hurry his
progress to a dishonored grave, yet he drains
it. How beautiful, on the contrary, is the
power of resolution, enabling the one who pos-
sesses it to pass through perils and dangers,
trials and temptations. Avoid then the con-
traction 4of the habit of irresolution. Strive
against it to the end.
PURITY OF CHARACTER.
Over the plum and the apricot there grows a
bloom more delicate and beautiful than the fruit
itself—a soft, delicate flush spreads its flushing
ciieek. Now, if you strike your hand over that,
it is gone. The flower that hangs in the morn-
ing impearled with dew, arrayed as no queenly
woman ever was arrayed with jewels—once
shake it so that the beads roll off, and you may
sprinkle water over it as you please, yet it can
never be again what it was when the dew fell
silently on it from heaven. On a frosty morn-
ing you may see panes of glass covered with
landscape, mountains, lakes, trees, blended in
a beautiful picture. Now lay your hand upon
the glass, and by the scratch of your finger, or
by the warmth of your palm, that delicate
tracery will be obliterated. So there is in
youth a beauty and purity of character, which,
when once touched and defiled, can never be
restored.
THE OCEAN SHELL.
BT LUTHEB O. KIQGS.
I ncKED it up upon the ocean shore.
While the wild surges dashed with ceaseless roar.
And heaven's artillery was grandly breaking
In thunder peals, the earth and sea awaking;
And after soon, I watched the rainbow bright,
Suffusing heaven with its tinted light
And colors vivid; then the skies grew clear:
"These are the types," I thought, "of hope aud fear.
And passions opposite, that sweep the breast
Of changeful man, with rapture or unrest."
And holding still the shell unto my ear.
The secrets of the deep I seemed to hear;
It whispered to me of the hidden rock
Of coral reefs and many a fearful shock;
Of mothers' tears, and waiting widow's sigh,
And lovelorn maidens' agonizing cry;
; Of noble craft, its wings displayed in pride,
Now rotting idly by some tropic tide—
And those whose bone* lay bleaching on the sands
Of alien shores and undiscovered lands!
; It whispered low of wild, tempestuous nights—
| Of minute-guns and lurid beacon lights—
! Shipwrecking billows, rising to the sky,
I While terror stark flashed from the pilot's eye-
All these, and more, its murmuring would tell
! Tliat mystic tenant of the ocean shelll
And then It told of where drowned heroes sleep.
And dripping mermaids tlielr lone vigils keep.
Their festooned walls with perfect pearls hung o'er.
While shells and emeralds strew the coral floor!
O, magic Moon! well may'st thou veil thy sight,
A fearful tale my shell hath told to-night!
I dared not hold it! 'twas a doleful thing.
Whose sound was that of the death-angel's wing!
No more Its murmured music soothed my soul.
But wild and hoaiwlt grew, and like the roll
Of surging breakers, hurling in the dark,
To doom and death, the ma'-tless, shuddering barque!
O cease 1 vexed spirit of my ocean shell-
No more to me thy dismal secrets tell!
Thus man, as o'er life's shifting main he sails,
Finds zones of calm and devastating gales-
Margins of bloom, and bright Hesperides—
Highlands of happiness and fatal seas!
And bears two mystical but diverse voices.
At which his spirit trembles or rejoices;
Yet, fixing still his eye on that pure light.
Which gleams afar from heaven's radiant height,
He brings at last, when life's wild voyage Is o'er.
His mortal barque to the immortal shore!
Cunning leads to knavery; it is but a step
from one to the other-, and that very slippery;
lying only makes the difference; add it to cun-.
ning, and it is knavery.
What Hope did.—It stole on its pinions of
snow to the bed of disease; and the sufferer's
frown became a smile—the emblem of peace
and endurance. It went to the house of mourn-
ing, and from the lips of sorrow there came
sweet and cheerful songs. It laid its heart
upon the arm of the poor, which was stretched
forth at the command of unholy impulses, and
saved him from disgrace and ruin. No hope,
my good brother? Have it. Reckon it on
your side. Wrestle Willi it that it may not de-
part; it may repay your pains. Life is bard
enough at best, but hope shall lead you over its
mountains, and sustain you amid its billows.
, Part with all beside, but keep your hope.
WORK DEPARTMENT
273
WORK DEPARTMENT.
WASTE-PAPER BASKET.
This basket is made of card-board and wire,
covered with gray linen embroidered, and puff-
ings of claret-colored taffetas, arranged accord-
ing to illustration. The rucbings are also of
Flg.L
this latter material. The basket is lined with
taffetas. On each of the six divisions of gray
linen is placed au applique of claret-colored
leather, edged around with silk soutache of the
same shade; the arabesques are worked in but-
FlR. 2.
tonhole and knotted stitch, with claret-colored
silk; the rest of the embroidery is in chain
stitch and point rum. Around the foot of the
basket is a border of claret-colored leather ap-
plique on gray linen, the applique edged in point
ruste stitch with claret-colored silk.
BOX FOR TATTING.
The little box itself may be made of card-
board, and lined through with quilted silk, and
VOL. XCI.—18
covered with Java canvas. If one is purchased,
work a row of red chenille all around the lid
and edges of the box, sewing it down with gold
Fig. 1.
netting silk. You then take three strips of
cloth or satin, deep red or crimson, and cut
them a sufficient length to lie upon the box in
the manner shown in the engraving. On the
centre stripe lay a piece of gold-colored silk
braid, the width shown in detail Fig. 2, and sew
Fig. 2.
it down with a double row of herringbone
stitch in two shades of blue; cross over the
braid with black silk, and work a wheel of the
same in the centre. The other two stripes em-
broidered in shades of blue and gold. Finish
the ends of the stripes with tassels to match
the cloth, and sew them down to the top of the
box only.
LADY'S RIBBED SILK STOCKING.
Two ounces of thick imperial knitting silk,
and four pins, No. 16, Bell gauge. Cast on 40
stitches on three pins, 120 altogether; do 1 plain
round. 2d round. Make the first stitch the
seam stitch (knit it in two rounds and purl it
in the third), knit 1, purl for 8 rounds. Do
plain knitting for 4 inches; then work the
seam stitch. Knit 2, * purl 1, knit 3; repeat
274
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
from *. Knit the last 2. Continue these ribs
for the remainder of the stocking. When 12
inches are done, decrease on each side of the
same stitch every fifth row until you have only
84 stitches. When the stocking is 20 inches
long, divide for the heel by taking 21 on each
side of the seam stitch. Knit and purl these
43 backwards and forwards for 48 rows (not
rounds). Turn the heel as follows: Knit 21,
then the seam stitch, which from this time
forth you cease to make, knit 4 beyond it, knit
2 together, knit 1. Turn back, purl 11, purl 2
together, purl 1; turn, knit 12, knit 2 together,
knit 1. Turn back, and purl to where you
but if the foot is desired longer, knit Ti inches
before decreasing.
ANTIMACASSAR-TAPE, BRAID, AND
EMBROIDERY.
You require for the antimacassar, of which
the engraving gives one corner, linen tape of
two sizes—the first size the width of the square
in the pattern, the second size the width of the
band around the edge—a piece of cordon braid
No. 4, and some cotton No. 16. You first of
all cut the wide tape into pieces double the size
of the square, fold them in half, and sew them
turned in the preceding row. This you can
easily perceive by the small hole formed in
turning. Knit the 2 stitches together, knit 1,
and turn. Go on in this manner until all the
stitches are worked off. Pick up 24 side stitches,
do 1 round, carrying on the front ribs evenly,
but the sole to be done in plain knitting. De-
crease for the instep thus: On the right-hand
side of the heel, just where the ribs leave off,
you slip 1, knit 1, pass the slipped over, knit to
where the ribs begin again, and then knit 2 to-
gether. Reduce in this way until you have
only 80 stitches. When the foot is 7 inches
long reduce for the toe. Knit the ribs all but
3 stitches, slip 1, knit 1, pass the slipped over,
knit 2, knit 2 together. Do the same on the
other side. Be sure to make the decreasings
exactly opposite each other, so that the upper
part and the sole may lie perfectly even. Do
2 rounds between each decreasing, and when
the foot is 9 inches long cast off. Sew up the
toe on the wrong side. This is a medium size;
all around with a needle and thread. Then
trace on a piece of calico straight lines to guide
the braid ; on this sew the braid, joining strong-
ly at the corners, sew in the squares, and add
the tape around the edge. The border is worked
in the same manner; the loops of braid inside
the small scallops are caught up and overcast
with a needle and thread.
LETTERS FOR MARKING.
WORK DEPARTMENT.
275
LAMP MAT, APPLIQUE EMBROIDERY.
This mat is made of fancy straw, with a puff-
ing, three and a half inches broad, of blue satin
ered with various colored purse-silKs in chain,
knotted, and feather stitch ; the pattern is bor-
dered with gold cord.
around the edge. On this puffing are laid flat
pieces of white cloth, cut according to pattern
Fig. 2.
(In Illustration Pig. 2 we give the full size), the
edgee are Yandyked, and the cloth embroid-
FOOTSTOOL.
This footstool is made round in shape, and
is composed of black satin, the top being em-
broidered with a bouquet of flowers In the nat-
ural colors. Diamond-shaped puffs of blue
satin fastened by four buttons are placed
around the sides of the cushion. A ring and
276
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cords of blue silk are fastened at the sides to
lift it by.
BAG FOR EGGS—CROCHET.
The materials are white knitting-cotton;
coarse steel hook; whalebone or cane j red cot-
ton. Make a chain of 47, join round, work 5
chain, pass over 1,1 double in the next; repeat
all around. In the next round, 5 chain, work
the double under the 5 chain. Repeat for 53
rounds. Draw in the first round, and with
needle and thread finish with a tuft of cotton.
Cover the cane or whalebone for the handle
witli the red cottorr, and run through the top
row of holes. Now wind the cotton around
the two pieces together for about three inches.
Leave the other open (see design).
FOOT-REST WITH COVER.
(See Engravings, Page 277.)
Fig. 1 shows the rest open; Fig. 2, closed ; Fig.
3, stripe for the cover. The cover may be made
Us. L
of velvet, cloth, or Cashmere of various colors,
embroidered with purse-silk or filoselle. The
stripes are pointed at each end to finish them,
and a tassel is put on to the point. The em-
broidery is shown in the full size in Fig. 2.
The design will make a pretty winter antima-
cassar on worked stripes of Cashmere.
LACE EDGING FOR WASHING MATE-
RIALS, DARNING ON NET, ETC.
This elegant design is embroidered on a
ground of fine Brussels net. The outlines of
the flowers, leaves, and spots, are worked m
overcast stitch; those of the larger patterns
and the outer edges in buttonhole stitch; the
narrow lace stitches then worked, and the
Maltese crosses in the ovals are embroidered
in point de reprise.
WOIIK DEPARTMENT.
277
Figs. 2 and a—Foot-Rest with Corer. (See Opbosite Page.)
278
GODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Iccciyts, telr.
TEA.
We have always considered the tea-table a good
test of theceneral housekeeping; it demands more
refined taste and appropriateness than all other
meals put together. Indeed, it is not a meal, but a
reunion, an excuse lor conversation and light re-
freshment in most families, and as such deserves all
the praise that has been lavished on it.
VIRTUES OP TEA.
A enp of good tea is one of the best material bless-
ings; It will refresh both head and heart, and help
the rest of the fatigued body; It will cure almost any
minor ailment, from headache to cholera; aud do
more to cement the bonds of friendship than a thou-
sand congratulatory epistles or a wagon-load of pre-
sents. We have faith In a woman who .loves tea,
who makes it skilfully, and who cannot abide any
but the best, elegantly served up. The poorest per-
son should aim at having a complete tea-table, and
shonld even give way to extravagance In securing
the choicest herb aud the most fragrant iiifusioi
of it
But extravagance is not necessary; for tea is In
Itself positively beneficial, and at the present day
within the reach of those of most humble means.
Whatever you may tolerate in shabby crockery for
breakfast and dinner, bring on your best at tea-time;
and if your best Is not as good as you would like,
seizo the first opportunity to substitute for It better.
The next point Is to do Justice to the delicate leaf,
and therein lies the
ART OF TEA-MAKTNG.
Boiling Is, of course, out of the quostlon, though we
have seen It practised, and a black, bitter Imitation
of puddle-water was the result To make a fragrant
and refreshing cup of tea proceed as follows: Use
soft water, and be sure It boils. If you are compelled
to use hard water, throw Into the kettle a pinch of
carbonate of soda; but the latter should never be
used unless the water requires correction, and then
very moderately, for it is apt to destroy the delicate
roughness of the flavor. Put your tea Into the empty
pot, and be sure you use enough; some persons prac-
tise a foolish economy In this matter, and use so little
that the product Is not much better than plain hot
water. Then place the pot before the fire, or on the
hob, or still better, on the hot plate of an oven, till
the tea is well heated, but, of course, not burnt: then
pour upon It the boiling water, and a fragrant infu-
sion of good strength Is Instantly produced. Suppos-
ing that you enjoy a'strong cup, and wish to eke out
the contents of your caddy, fill up the pot when you
have done with it, and with that weak second tea
make your next. By this plan you will always have
good tea at a considerable saving, much better than
by drawing off one good cup and then two or three
weak ones till the leaves are worthless and yourself
dropsical.
SALTING BUTTER FOR WINTER.
Butter is salted In the following manner in largo
dairies: "Immediately on being formed the butter Is
taken out of the churn, and put Into a small tub kept
for the purpose. Cold water Is then put Into a flat
wooden kit, and the butter washed by being kneaded
out and rolled up several times at the bottom of the
kit amongst the water. Lumps of it are then taken
in the hand and beaten with the palms alternately
in order to extract every particle of the buttermilk,
the least portion of which would soon render the
butter rancid. The milky water is strained off, fresh
water poured in, and the butter again washed and
worked as often as tne water becomes milky. Aftar
being washed clean in this manner, it is welghedW
the scales, the salt also weighed, in the proportion of
half an ounce to a pound (If uot Intended for Imme-
diate use) and applied to the lump. The butter is to
be spread out in the tub and the salt, ground fine,
sprinkled over it by degrees; the butter is then rolled
up and rubbed down with the lower part of the palm
of the hand, until the whole mass appears equally In-
corporated with the salt. To Insure this, only half
the salt should be applied at first, and the butter
lumped aud set aside till the next day, when what-
ever of brine or milk may have exuded in the mean
time should be poured off. The other half of the salt
should then be rubbed In In like manner, and the
salted lump put Into the stone Jar." To preserve
the butter mere effectually, if not to be used for some
months, dry some salt thoroughly before the fire,
pound it very fine, and spread a layer of it at the
bottom of the Jar, then press and beat the butter
down with a wooden rammer, and cover the top with
a thick layer of salt; this will effectually protect the
butter.
DRESSED VEGETABLES.
Stewed Bed Cabbage.— Slice a middling-sized red
cabbage, cut it, put it Into a stewpan with an onion
sliced, pepper, salt, and half a pint of gravy; let it
stew two hours, then put in a bit of butter mixed with
a little flour, shake all well together, let it boil, aud
serve It quite hot
Cauliflower with Parmesan Cheese.—Having boiled
a fine cauliflower, prepare a sauce in the following
manner: Into a quarter of a pound of butter rub a
tablespoonful of flour, then put it Into a stewpan, and
as the butter melts, add by degrees half a pint of
water, or a little more If you reqidre more sauce;
stir the whole till it bolls, and after It has boiled a
couple of minutes take It from the fire, and when en-
tirely off the boll, add the yelk of an egg beaten up
with a little lemon-Juice and a dessertspoonful of
soft water; shake the stewpan till the whole is well
mixed and the sauce set. Now powder the cauli-
flower rather thickly with rasped Parmesan cheese,
then pour the sauce over it, and when the sauce is
firmly set upon it, covej the surface with more rasped
Parmesan cheese, and then bread-crums, and brown
it with a salamander. Serve very hot, as a third-
course dish.
Mashed Parsnips. —Cut up the parsnips if very
large, boll them, mash them, and press them through
a coarse sieve; then put them Into a stewpan with a
little cream, pepper, and salt; stir them over the fire
till quite hot, and then serve. If you have no cream,
use Instead a little milk, and a small piece of butter
with a slight dredge of flour.
Mashed Vegetable. Marrow.—-When vegetable-mar-
rows are cettlng rather old, and too large to serve
plain boiled with white sauce, they are very good
boiled and then mashed, draining them very tho-
roughly from the water which runs from them in
mashing; put this mashed vegetable-marrow into a
stewpan with a bit of butter, pepper, and salt stir it
over the fire till quite hot, and then serve it upon a
rather thick slice of toast, which you have Just dipped
into boiling water and then slightly buttered and
sprinkled with salt
Stewed Spinach. — Having carefully picked and
washed the spinach four or five times in plenty of
water, put it into a very large saucepan of boiling;
RECEIPTS.
279
water (so that it may have ample room), with some
salt, pressing down the leaves that rise above the
water. When the spinach is about half done, take
tt off the Are, strain It, and prepare some more boll-
\j4t water and salt, in which it must be again boiled
till sufficiently done; the moment It is so, throw it
into a colander, and keep pouring cold water over
it for some time; then make it into balls, and with
your hands pressout every dropof water it contains;
next chop it very line till it becomes almost a paste,
and then put a lump of butter into a stepan, and
place the spinach upon the butter, let it dry gently
over the fire, and when the moisture is dried up,
dredge it with a little flour, then add a small quan-
tity of good gravy with salt, pepper, a little nutmeg,
and a small lump of sugar; let it boil up, and serve
with neatly cut pieces of fried bread around it in the
dish.
Spinach with Cream Proceed as in the previous
receipt, and just before you put the spinach in the
stewpan with the butter, boil some good cream;
when you have added the flour to the spinach with a
little salt, put in the cream, a little sugar, and nut-
meg; let it simmer for ten minutes, then send it to
table with sippets of fried bread around it, and a
very slight sift of powdered sugar over the spinach.
MISCELLANEOUS COOKING.
Beefsteak Pie.—Make some forcemeat with two
ounces of fat bacon, two ounces of bread -crums, a
little chopped parsley, thyme, a small onion, and
some mushrooms; add seasoning of salt, pepper, and
nutmeg, pound in a mortar, moistening with the
yelks of two eggs. Take a tender rump steak (or the
undercut of a sirloin of beef), cut it In thin slices,
season with salt, pepper, and a little shallot Roll
each slice like a sausage with some forcemeat inside.
Border a pie-dish, put in the beef and forcemeat, fill
it up with good gravy, flavored with a sharp sauce.
Cover with puff-paste; bake in a moderate oven.
Make a hole in the top, and add some reduced gravy.
It can be served hot or cold.
White Soup.—Take two quarts of good white stock,
put it into a saucepan with half a pound of lean veal,
a slice or two of ham, two whole onions, a carrot, a
head of celery, mace, and a faggot of herbs; boll
gently for an hour and strain. Pound up the white
part of a cold fowl with one ounce of sweet almonds
(blanched), and one slice of crum of bread previously
soaked in boiling milk. When quite smooth add this
to the soup and press it through a hair sieve. Mix
the beaten-up yelks of four eggs with three-quarters
of a pint of cream and a dessertspoonful of arrow-
root; add it to the soup and stir it over the Are till
quite hot, but do not let it boll; add salt, pepper, and
a little powdered sugar.
Palestine Soup.—Boll two pounds of Jerusalem ar-
tichokes in salted water, and when quite done pass
them through a hair sieve. Take a quart of milk,
boil in it a handful of whole pepper, a piece of mace,
half a dozen cloves, and an onion. When the milk
is well flavored, strain It; then melt a piece of but-
ter the size of an egg, stir into it a tablespoonful of
flour, then gradually the flavored milk and the arti-
choke pulp. Boll it up, mix well, and lastly stir in a
gin of cream, adding more milk If the soup be too
thick; serve with small dice of bread fried in butter.
Veal Croquettes.—-Take some cold veal, remove
carefully all fat and outside parts, and mince It fine-
ly: melt a piece of butter in a saucepan, add a little
flour, stir; then add a small quantity of stock and
the minced meat with some parsley, finely chopped;
season with pepper, salt, and a little powdered spice;
stir well, and as soon as the mixture is quite hot re-
move it from the Are. Beat up and strain into a
basin the yelks of one or two eggs with the Juice of
half or a whole lemon, according to the quantity of
mince; put two or three tablespoonfuls of mince into
the basin; mix them well with the egg and lemon;
then add the whole to the rest of the uiince; mix
well, and turn it out on a dish. When cold, fashion
it In bread-crums to the shape of corks, taking care
to make them all of a uniform size; then roll them
In egg, and again in bread-crums. Let them dry a
short time; then fry in plenty of hot lard, and serve
with fried parsley.
Forcemeat Cutlets with Oreen Pea*—Take one
pound of any underdone meat, mince it In the sau-
sage machine, or pound it in a mortar as if for
potting; season with pepper and salt, and mix it
smoothly with the raw yelks of two eggs. Press it
out to the thickness of a lamb cutlet, with a sharp
knife shape it like a cutlet, and fry them in boiling
lard. Put about a pint of green peas, previously
cooked, in the cutlet dish, arrange the cutlets neatly
around the peas, and serve quite hot.
Oyster Sauce.—Parboil the oysters In their own
liquor, beard them, and reserve all the liquor. Melt
a pieoe of butter in a saucepan, add a little flour, the
oyster liquor, and enough milk to make as much
sauce as is wanted. Put in a blade of mace and a
bay-leaf tied together, pepper and salt to taste, and
the least dust of Cayenne. Let the sauce come to
the boll, add the oysters, and as soon as they are
quite hot remove the mace and bay-leaf. Stir In a
few drops of lemon-Juice, and serve.
Potato Cake.—Wash the potatoes, and while warm
knead some flour into them to make a smooth paste;
add nothing except salt Then cut It Into cakes
rather more than half an inch thick; bake over the
Are on a griddle, butter them, and eat hot
Holland Sauce.—Put three tablespoonfuls of vine-
gar in a saucepan, and reduce it on the Ore to one-
third; add a quarter of a pound of butter and the
yelks of two eggs. Place the saucepan on a slow
Are, stir the contents continuously with a spoon, and
as fast as the butter melts add more, until one pound
is used. If the sauce becomes too thick at any time
during the process, add a tablespoonful of cold water
and continue stirring. Then put In pepper and salt
to taste, and take great care not to let the sauce boll.
When It Is made—that is, when all the butter Is used
and the sauce is of the proper thickness—put the
saucepan containing it into another filled with warm
(not boiling) water until the time of serving.
Pish and Macaroni.—Take the remains of any
kind of white boiled fish, remove the bones and skin,
and break it in rather small pieces. Boil some mac-
aroni in water till tender, drain it well, and cut it in
lengths of about an Inch, and mix equal quantities
of Ash and macaroni. Then put two ounces of but-
ter into a stewpan, add the yelks of two eggs, a little
lemon-Juice, pepper, and salt, and stir in well half a
pint of good melted butter; make the sauce quite
smooth, put In the Ash and macaroni, and heat it
thoroughly in the sauce. Pour it out on a dish, keep-
ing tt as high as you can in the centre, cover It thinly
with Ane bread-crums, and brown the top in the oven
till of a nice light color.
CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC.
Chocolate Blanc Mange.—Grate a quarter of a
i pound of chocolate Into a quart of milk, add an
| ounce and a halt of gelatine and a quarter of a
pound of powdered sugar; mix all in a jug, and
I stand It In a saucepan of cold water over a clear Are,
stir occasionally till the water boils, and then stir
I continuously while boiling, about fifteen minutes.
280
GODEVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Dip a mould in cold water, pour in the Wane mange,
and turn out when set
Tea-Cakes.—Hub into a quart or dried flour a quar-
ter of a pound of butter, beat up two eggs with two
teaspoonfuls of sifted sugar and two teaspoonfuls of
biewer's yeast. Four this mixture Into the centre
of the flour, add a pint of warm milk as you mix it.
Beat it up with your hand until it comes off without
sticking. Cover it with a cloth; set it before the Are
to rise. In an hour's time make it into good-slzed
cakes an inch thick. Set them on tin plates for
ten minutes to rise before the Are; bake in a slow
oven.
Rolls.—Take the weight of four eggs, in flour and
sugar, and of three, in butter. Beat the butter to a
cream with the hand, add to it the eggs extremely
well beaten, and gradually dredge in the flour and
pounded white sugar. Half fill small cups, and bako
until highly browned; the cups should be well but-
tered. Any flavoring preferred may be used in a
small quantity, and t he puddings are equally nice
with boiled custard, jam, or jelly poured around
them.
Prune Pudding.—Stew some prunes in a little
water and sugar until quite tender. Take out the
stones, and place the prunes lightly in a jelly mould
In the shape of a hoop. Kill up the mould with liquid
calves' foot jelly. When cold and turned out, serve
with white whipped cream in the centre of It
Light-Colored Gingerbread.—Half a pound of frosh
melted butter, a pound and a half of flour dried and
sifted, a pound and a quarter of brown sugar, a
quarter of a pound of bruised ginger, nine eggs, the
yelks and whites beaten separately, two tablespoon-
fuls of rosewater, two tablespoonfuls of white wine.
Mix all these well together; bake one hour. Then
with a spoon spread it over flat tins about the thick-
ness of a penny piece. Bake it of a light brown, and
while warm cut it into oblong pieces, which place
on end till cool.
Custard Pudding.—Take the yelks of six eggs and
the whites of three, the rinds of two lemons grated,
and the juice of one, half a pound of powdered
sugar, two biscuits grated, and a small glass of
brandy. Beat ail well together, add a pint of good
cream and two ounces of fresh butter. Butter small
moulds; put In pudding, and bake half an hour.
Tried and found to be a good receipt.
Cake.— Beat three-quarters of a pound of butter to
a cream, add gradually three-quarters of a pound of
brown sugar, the yelks of four eggs well beaten,
mix one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda with one
pound of flour; add this to the other ingredients,
with a quarter of a pint of milk, half a pound of
citron peel, one pound of raisins, and one glass of
brandy; last of all, the whites of four eggs. Bake
In a moderate oven. It should be kept at least a
fortnight before It Is cut
Scotch Cake.—Beat half a pound of butter to a
cream, add half a pound of sugar, beating well; then
si x eggs previously beaten. Have three-quarters of a
pound of peel, a quarter of a pound of almonds, and
three-quarters of a pound of flour already mixed;
stir them gently Into the butter, etc., and put it into
a tin well lined with buttered paper risiug well over
the top. Bake in a slow oven for three hours. Do
not shake nor touch it when in the oven, or the fruit
will fall to the bottom.
Rice Cake.—Half a pound of butter, three-quarters
of a pound of sugar, pounded, half a pound of ground
rice, half a pound of flour, six eggs, and fifteen drops
of essence of lemon; mix the ingredients, beating
the eggs separately; then beat all together rapidly
for a quarter of an hour. Put the mixture i nto a tin
lined with buttered paper; bake in a moderate oven
for two hours.
Sponge Pudding.—Take three eggs, their weight
in the shell in flour, butter, and sugar, and grate t*e
rind of a lemon very fine; beat the butter to a cream,
and the eggs, yelks and whites separately and then
together; add the butter, and keep on beating; then
mix in the sugar, and lastly the flour; then beat the
whole till quite light. Put into a mould, and boil an
hour and a half. Serve with any fruit saifee, or with
lemon sauce.
Lemon Sauce.—Boil the thinly-cut peel of a lemon
iu a little water till the flavor is extracted, rub some
lumps of sugar on the lemon, to take off all the zest
and add to the water in which you have boiled the
lemon-peel, and make a thin syrup; add the juice of
the lemon, pour around the pudding, and serve.
Baked College Puddings.—Take half a pound of
grated bread, three ounces of well-washed currants,
one ounce of candled peels, half an ounce of citron,
two ounces of moist sugar, half a nutmeg, three eggs,
and the third part of a pint of milk; boll the milk
and pour on the bread-crums, put in an ounce of
butter, and then mix In the other ingredients. This
quantity will fill six cups; bake In a moderate oven,
turn the puddings out of the cups, sift pounded sugar
over the tops, pour wine sauce around them, and
serve.
Citron Pudding.—Xine your dish with pufT;paste;
slice thin, orange, lemon, and citron peels, of each
one ounce, six eggs (leaving out four whites) well
beaten, a quarter of a pound of loaf-sugar, and a
quarter of a pound of butter melted; whisk all well
together, and pour into the dish; bake one hour, and
serve.
MISCELLANEOUS.
To Remove Taint from Meat or Poultry.—It meat,
poultry, or game has become rather tainted in hot
weather, the unpleasant flavormay bo quite removed
by washing the part affected with chloride of soda
first, and then in fresh water only; dry the meat
well, and then cook It iu any way that may be wished.
To Clarify Dripping.—Rase ready a large panful
of boiling water, and into this pour the hot dripping,
stir it thoroughly for a few minutes, and then leave
it to get quite cold, when the clean dripping is easily
removed from the top of the water, all the Impurities
sinking to the bottom. Dripping may be treated in
this manner twice after using it for frying.
Aromatic Herb Seasoning.—Take three ounces of
basil, three ounces of marjoram, two ounces of win-
ter savory, three ounces of thyme, one ounce of dried
bay-leaves, one ounce each of mace and nutmegs,
two ounces of cloves, two ounces of pepper-corns,
half an ounce of Cayenne pepper, half an ounce of
grated lemon-peel, and two cloves of garlic. Dry all
the herbs, strip the leaves from the stalks, pound
them in a mortar with the spices; mix all well to-
gether, sift through a fine wire sieve, and put away
In dry corked bottles for use.
Dutch, Sauce.—Take three tablespoonfnls of vine-
gar, three tablespoonfuls of water, one or two ontons,
a little mace, and a small quantity of anchovy sauce;
simmer all over the Ore till much reduced, and then
add half a teacupful of good cream and the yelks of
two eggs. This is a very good sauce for boiled fish.
Cream Sauce.—Take two ounces of butter, the
yelks of two eggs, a little lemon-juice, pepper, and
salt, and melt over the lire in a small stewpan; have
ready half a pint of melted butter, stir it iu, and
serve the sauce with any boiled Ash.
EDITORS' TABLE.
281
;irrt0rs' jlaMje.
PICTURES OF PRIMITIVE LIFE.
IS the Interesting work of Louis Flguleron " Prim-
itive Man," an account Is given of the character and
modes of life of the early Inhabitants of Europe, so
far as can be gathered from the relics found in their
grave-mounds, or In caves, or submerged In the Swiss
lakes. The descriptions are Illustrated by engrav-
ings, in which an ingenious French artist has en-
deavored to bring before our eyes lively presentments
of the people themselves, In their ordinary garb and
occupation — manufacturing their stone or copper
Implements, or their primitive pottery, fighting with
the monstrous cave-bear, hunting the reindeer, bury-
ing the dead, contending with their enemies, and
feasting with their friends. The pictures in many
respects are probable enough; but their author, with
an artist's natural love of the beautiful, has thought
proper to make the savages, whom he depicts a
stately race, endowed with classic elegance of form
and feature, and always "posing". themselves in
graceful and picturesque attitudes.
Those who wish to know what. In all probability,
the men and women of those early ages on the East-
ern continent were really like, may gratify their
curiosity by examining a series of admirable stereo-
scopic pictures which were brought back from the
regions near the Colorado River by the Exploring
Expedition under Major J. W. Powell. These pic-
tures, about sixty in number (published by J. F. Jar-
vis, 479 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington) afford
life-like representations of the people belonging to
the wild tribes of those regions, known by the names
of U-in-ta Utes, Nu-a.gun-tlts, Kai-vav-its, Mo-a-pa-
ri-ats, U-al Nu ints, and other such appellations,
which may afford a novel and lively exercise for the
spelling matches of the day. In these pictures, the
Indians are shown In their everyday garb of dressed
skins, and in their holiday attire, gay with plumes,
beads, fringes, and other adornments. They appear
engaged In their customary avocations—shooting
with the bow, weaving baskets, grinding corn, "mak-
ing fire by friction," carrying water In earthen pots
exactly like those of the primitive Europeans, dress-
ing one another's hair, and playing various games
of chance or amusement There are family groups,
groups of braves in council, a picture of "the war-
rior and his. bride" on horseback. In full wedding
finery—a picture of "the arrow maker and his daugh-
ter," which would afford a pleasantly realistic illus-
tration of a scene In "Hiawatha"—a pretty view of
a little girl watching by the cradle of a baby sister or
brother, a touching picture of a disconsolate mother
sitting by an empty cradle, pictures of rude brush-
wood lodges, of "the elk-skin tent," with grave chief-
tains meeting In a stately fashion, which reminds
one of Arabia, and many other representations, in
which the truthfulness of the photographs has been
made by the skill and taste of the manipulators to
bring out the traits of Indian life and character
with a force and liveliness which no genius of painter,
poet, or novelist has ever attained. Singular patience
and tact must have been required, with such intract-
able subjects, to gain the opportunity of making
Uiew admirable pictures.
There was a time when the nomads of our woods
and prairies were looked upon, as they still are by
not a few. In the light of Irredeemable savages, tmt
little better than the beasts of the forest, and doomed,
like them, to utter extermination. Then came a sea-
son when, by a generous revulsion of sentiment,
stimulated by poetry and romance, they were ex-
alted into a race of ill-fated heroes, the objects of tin
equally unreasoning pity and admiration. At length
the teachings of science, enforcing the precepts of
Christian faith, are making apparent the truth that
they are simply men of like passions and capacities
with ourselves, that their peculiarities are due to the
circumstances In which they are placed, and that,
with different surroundings and opportunities, they
or their children may rise, as our forefathers or their
descendants have risen, or, as we trust, are rising, to
the highest grades of mental and moral attainment of
which human beings are capable. These accurate
sun-pietures, representing the tribes of the western
wilds in very much the condition in which our Teu-
tonic or Celtic ancestors must have lived three thou-
sand years ago, and displaying in act and lineament
the traits and feelings of our common nature, have
a moral ar.d scientific value, beyond their artistic
merit, in enforcing this great cardinal truth, on
which our latest and most successful" Indian policy"
has been based.
THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS AT PHILADELPHIA.
The great complaint which has been made by for-
elgnersof our American cities Is the absence in them
of all means of rational and cultivated amusement.
While picture galleries, libraries, and museums are
open to poor people all over Europe, and while the
finest bands in the world can be heard for nothing
in the public gardens, or, by expending a few cents.
In the open air concert pavilions, we have had few
places open either to travellers or to our own citi-
zens, where they might spend a holiday or take a
friend, except by paving roundly for It, and even
then getting very little for their money. We have
become conscious at length how serious a matter
this want of Innocent amusement Is, and how greatly
it promotes vice of all kinds; and the efforts which
have been made to beautify and enliven our city life
have been so hopeful of a better future, that we may
fairly look forward to a time when life shall be not
only strenuous and successful In heaping up money,
but pleasant and delightful in the frugal spending
of It
Less than two years ago the project was formed of
establishing a Zoological Garden In the suburbs of
Philadelphia, which might become to our citizens
the same holiday resort which the London "Zoo" Is
to the crowded denizens of that great capital. A
number of energetic and public-spirited men formed
themselves into a society, which was endowed by the
city with a sufficient tract of land on the Schuylkill;
and in the summer of 1874, the first shipload of
animals arrived, selected by skilful agents all over
Europe. We have seen the steady growth of the
Garden, until now, although but a year old, it Is
by far the largest collection of beasts and birds lu
America; and yet the results attained arc consid-
ered by the society but a starting point to still greater
achievements.
The animals, Instead of being cooped up in cages,
oeo
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
as In a menagerie, are scattered over the grounds
In large and comfortable quarters. The bears (ol
which there are grizzly, black, and brown) have a
pit on the side of a hill; the deer have a park; the
prairie dogs, of which there are a large settlement,
an open air inclosure whose stone sides extend far
below ground; the elephants and giraffes have open
air yards for the summer, and substantial houses for
the winter. The birds have a large house of their
own; so have the monkeys and the snakes. In fact,
every animal, as far as is possible, is made thoroughly
comfortable; and any one who compares the activity
and life at the '-Zoo" with the apathy aud misery
displayed in most menageries will see what wonders
humanity and common sense can effect
But the most pleasant feature of the •'Zoo" Is the
visitors. It is frequented even through the winter
and in the most unpropitiotis weather, as the writer
can testify; while on pleasant days, and especially
on all holidays, it Is thronged with people. Families
especially are to be seen, parents with children, out
to spend the day; men who otherwise would proba-
bly have been loitering around city taverns, and
breathing the unwholesome air of back streets. The
Gardens have taught many of us lessons in Natural
History, too, which we could learn In no other way.
Certainly, after seeinga rhinoceros, a giraffe, a-casso-
wary, and a toucan, there Is nodevelopmentofanlmal
shape that would astonish us. The constant variety
and excitement of the place; the study of the habits
and Intelligence of "our poor relations;" and the
realizing sense, when we see the mighty strength of
the great beasts here brought together, of the slow
supremacy which man has acquired among the ani-
mals by the building up of his Intellect; these among
others are reasons why every great city should have
Its Zoological Gardens. We hope the "Zoo" In Phi-
ladelphia, in the corner of our great park, will afford
an unmixed pleasure to hundreds of thousands dur-
ing the Centennial year.
A REMARKABLE DICTIONARY..
OrR first lesson In learning is the hardest, though
most of us have forgotten the difficulty we had with
it. But if our children are occupied for weeks in
learning their alphabet of twenty-six letters, how
long a time wonld be required to learn one of ten
thousand? That is the task which every Chinese
scholar, who desires to be thoroughly accomplished,
must go through. In the Chinese language, as is
well known, every word has a distinct character
(which is another name for letter) to represent It.
Our countryman, Dr. 8. Wells Williams, formerly
missionary to Canton, but for nearly twenty years
Secretary of the American Legation at Pekin, lias
Just completed a work of great magnitude and value,
a dictionary of the Chinese language, in which the
various significations of ten thousand words and
characters are explained, and elucidated with many
examples. It Is a large quarto volume of thirteen
hundred pages, a work evidently of immense labor,
and a credit to American scholarship.
In reflecting on the task which every Chinese stu-
dent has to achieve, in learning this vast number of'
written characters, we can see that It is really almost j
the work of a life-time, and can understand how it is
that their scholars can find little time for any other
brandies of study, and that the common people can I
seldom know much of their own written language.
In many large villages of China, we are told, there
are often only two or three persons who know how
to read. The missionaries, who have done so much
In overcoming the difficulties of the language, will
accomplish a still more useful work if they can in-
duce the Chinese to discard their cumbrous system
of writing, and accept the Roman alphabet Until
this change Is effected, it would seem that a fourth
part of the population of the globe must remain in a
state of imperfect intellectual development. It is
gratifying, therefore, to know that an undertaking In
this direction is already in progress, a portion of the
Chinese New Testament having been lately printed
in the philosophical alphabet devised by Professor
A. M. Bell, and termed by him "Visible Speech."
It Is greatly to be hoped that the effort will be suc-
cessful, aud that this vast multitude of intelligent
people will at length have their minds emancipated
from the thraldom of their cumbrous hieroglyphic
system, and with it, no doubt from many other
childish usages and prejudices, the relics of a semi-
barbarous antiquity.
MR. SMITH.
In the long winter Just past, how many evenings
have had Mrs. Battle's conditions of whist, viz., "A
good Ore, aclean hearth, and the rigor of the game t"
In the coming summer, of which the singing of birds
is the herald, how many days will be, when "a west
wind blowing, one's feet in a chair, and a good novel
in the hand" will fulfil the conditions of enjoyment
and when "Mr. Smith" will be that novel.
A hero with a common name, a short stout figure,
and gray whiskers; a story where the Interest does
not flag a moment, and In which characters ex-
press themselves by their talk; these are some of the
elements of a good novel, and these "Mr. Smith"
possesses. None of the heights and depths of George
Eliot's books. One does not feel after perusing it as
if one had made a great stride into the realms of hu-
man emotion and experience; none of the wit with
which Thackeray's stories are crammed, as full as a
pudding with plums; none of the hlghfiown. sensa-
tional sentiment of Miss Braddon or Mrs. Southworth
—scarcely an event—the most commonplace Inci-
dents. What Is the charm of the book T
The charm of the book Is Mr. Smith himself. Gray-
whiskered as he is, unromantlc, even unheroic in
some sense, yet he is the pervading essence of In-
terest to the reader as he certainly was to his own
neighborhood. And It Is sufficient to say this, for
most of us know several persons of his type and Hud
them excellent company.
It Is deeply to be regretted that most women will
be obliged to allow that there are such persons as
the Hunts and Toilet-ens; exceptional certainly, but
among the possibilities. But the author is impartial,
and flirts, gossips, and scamps are of both sexes.
MORBID SENSITIVENESS.
People who are blessed with robust health and
strong nerves are apt to regard with wonder, if not
with distrust the complaints of delicately-organized
persons, whose feelings are wounded by sources of
pain which to others seem utterly trivial and un-
deserving of notice. Such complaints are often met
with expressions of impatience, and with exhorta-
tion to suppress them and to exhibit more self-con-
trol and common sense. But in truth, this excessive
sensitiveness is In many cases a disease, for which
the sufferer is no more accountable than a person
would be who was afflicted with weakness of the
eyes or of the lungs.
A remarkable and affecting Instance of the suffer-
ing produced by this cause has recently been made
public, in the case of a young lady who lately died in
a hospital in Paris. It is stated that she early dis-
played an excessively sensitive disposition, the slight-
est emotion producing a nervous attack. As she
grew older, this unfortunate tendency Increased.
The recital of an affecting story would utterly over-
EDTT0R8' TABLE.
283
come her. A short time ago a disappointment In
love caused a temporary derangement of mind, and
after this her sensitiveness grew pitiably acute. "An
insect would become to her an object of Intense anx-
iety. She would watch the flutterings of a butterfly
with anguish, and would only regain composure on
seeing the insect alight upon some floweret." Fi-
nally, under medical advice, her family caused her to
be placed in the hospital of VllleEvrard, where she
died soon afterwards, the immediate cause of death
being the mental suffering produced by the sight of
a cat devouring a little bird.
The story of this poor girl is merely an extreme
case of an affliction which in its lighter stages is
very common. The exhibitions of suffering which it
onuses are to be met, not with expostulation and ar-
gument, but with sympathy and Judicious medical
treatment. Sensitiveness is weakness, and weak-
ness of the nerves can no more be healed by reason-
ing or reproaches than weakness of the stomach.
On the other hand It is equally true that in both these
affections the sufferer may do much, by a proper
regimen and mode of life, to avoid pain, and regain
comfort and strength.
SONGS FOR CHILDREN.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.*
TWO VOICES.
(First voice.)
—LookI look! toward the sea,
And the tidings bring to me.
(Second twice.)
—Nothing, nothing meets the eye.
Save parched earth and burning sky.
{Firit voice.)
—Look I look! with humble praver;
Look seven times, it will be there.
(Second voice.)
Ah! a little cloud I spy.
Like a white baud on the sky.
(Ftr$t voice.)
Haste, haste I for life away—
Tell the king there's no delay;
Say that little cloud contains
Promise of abundant rains.
God hath pledged It—and 'tis done!—
See, thick clouds are rolling on:
Spreading, spreading black as night—
Earth and Heaven are hid from sight.
But the storm, though wild above.
Is U> man the voice of love.
Bidding famished nature live.
And his hopes with her revive.
They, who trust the King of kings.
Find each storm a blessing brings.—
Look! look, with humble prayer;—
Look to God, He will take care!
BE CONSTANT IN DUTY.
The sun goeth down.
And we feel no sorrow;
We know he will rise
As brightly to-morrow:—
Why do we trust?
—In darkness he leaves us—
And trust to his coming?
—He never deceives us—
Never, no, never.
A lesson we read,
In brightness and beauty,
By God's linger written,—
"Be constant 111 duty,"—
And, graved on my heart,
This lesson to guide me,
Shall ne'er be forgotten.
Whatever betide me.
Never, no, never.
* See 1st Kings. Chap. xvilL, 41-48.
A Trainino School for Governesses.—A College
specially designed for training ladles for the profes-
sion of teachers, and haviug attached to It a " model
school" for practice, is one of the best modesin which
a benevolent person, desirous of accomplishing much
good at moderate expense, could invest a spare for-
tune. The following paragraph from an English
pai>er gives a very encouraging account of the good
success which has attended such an institution:—
"Mrs. Louisa Hubbard, wife of the High Sheriff of
the county, has Issued an appeal on behalf of the
Otter Memorial College at Chichester, where young
women are trained for governesses. She says It at
present accommodates only twenty-seven students,
and Is quite inadequate to meet the applications for
admission. It was left unfinished at the time of its
erection, and It is now proposed to complete the ori-
ginal design by building a wing which will connect
the college with the chapel, and afford accommoda-
tion for fifteen additional students, and provide a
large lectureioom, much needed, with a chaplain's
room aud three small rooms, which can be perfectly
Isolated, aud used as an infirmary in case of illness.
The cost will be large—over £2000—but it is urgently
needed to enable the college more fully to answer
the two purposes for which it was opened. The
model school for girls, built last year at a cost of
£1000, affords sufficient scope for the practice in teach-
ing of forty students. It may interest the friends of
the college to know that those who have completed
their course of training have successfully passed all
their examinations, aud are now In charge of schools
at salaries averaging over £80 per annum, happy in
their work, and evidently valued by their employers.
No difficulty has been found in placing them out in
schools; on the contrary, thirty applications at least
have been refused for every o'ue that could be sup-
plied."
j NOTES AND NOTICES.
The Life and Times of Lord Brougham.—The
autobiography of an eminent man is always a thing
to be grateful (or, especially if he has lived much in
public and been a part of the great transactions of
the day. Lord Brougham died at such an advanced
age that to the present generation he Is little but a
name: but fifty years ago It seemed likely that lie
would become Premier of England. He was the
chief counsel, for Queen Caroline, in the most memo-
rable Slate trial of this century j was Lord Chancel-
lor of England and the ablest orator of the time; and
withal rose to eminence as a scientific man and man
of letters. Such versatility Is rare, and the possessor
of It must needs give an Interesting account of his
long and brilliant life. His account of the great trial
is necessary to all students of history. Our surprise
at the magnitude of the task performed in these three
volumes becomes greater when we learn that they
were written at the age of eighty-three, without mem-
oranda, and when all the contemporary witnesses of
the great events among which Lord Brougham had
spent his active life had passed away. Especially
will women feel an interest In the defender of their
sex, who attributes so much of his own eminence and
success to Ids mother.
Woman's Work in Burano:—
A late writer III the Pall Mall Gazette says that
some Inteiestlng Information with regard to Burano
lace work Is given In Consul Smallv/ood's commer-
cial report on Venice for last year, lately Issued.
The neighboring small island of Burano was in by-
fjoue times celebrated for its lace work, which, when
ts Importation was prohibited In France, Induced
the great Colbert to enforce the expatriation of a few
lace workers to Introduce their lace point in French
manufacture, and hence originated the point il'Alen.
con. An aged woman, the last of her craft who had
survived the manufacture, but remembered and still
worked at the Burano lace, was found. Through
the indefatigable energies of two patrician ladles,
the Princess Glovanellf and the Countess Marcello.
distinguished for their exertions for the benefit or
their countrywomen, a school was soon formed;
284
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
sixty-seven hands were engaged, but only ten at a
time could receive tuition, owing to the Infirm state
of this old woman. Some hundred girls are now
waiting to be admitted to the school for the needed
instruction. The immediate demand upon the ilrst
specimens was extraordinary. The cost, which Is
actually about lOuf. per metre of the width of about
12 centimetres, is considered to be under its value.
It takes 150 days of five working hours per diem to
produce a single metre by one workwoman, her pay
being 50 centimes, about ad., per diem. The grot
point de Venise is also to be revived at Burano. It
is estimated that it will take one person five months
to make a metre (a little more than a yard) of this
exquisite fabric.
icaltjj tjcpartnuni.
TREATMENT OF POISONS.
(Concluded from August number.)
W>>en Lead has been taken in poisonous doses the
mischief is not at once developed, but In a short time
eolicky pains and constipation come on, which last for
some days. There Is generally time to procure med-
ical aid, but If not the treatment consists in allaying
spasm by opium, and producing au action of the
bowels by some strong aperient In slight cases an
ounce of castor-oil may be tried, with twenty drops
of laudanum every two or three hours, till It acts, to-
gether with hot fomentations to the bowels, or a hot
bath, if it can be procured.
-Pnm/c Acid and the Essential Oil of Bitter Al-
monds act so rapidly when taken in poisonous doses,
that there is seldom time for any remedy to be ap-
plied, even if medical aid Is at hand. If, however,
the dose is not enough to destroy life at once, the
following plan of treatment may be tried until the
arrival of a medical man. If the power of swallow-
ing Is retained, give a tablespoouful of sal-volatile In
half a tumbler of water, and dash cold water down
the back of the head and spine. Or, If this power Is
lost, let strong smelling salts or liquor of ammonia
be held to the nostrils, together with the cold water
affusion mentioned above. This plan "has In some
cases saved the lives of those who appeared to be In
a hopeless state.
Ifux Vomica or Strychnine, Coculus Indicus, and
other vegetable poisons of an unusually powerful
character, may always be best encountered at once
by the exhibition of an emetic previous to the arrival
of a medical man.
Bites, whether of a mad dog or of an adder, should
always be at once forcibly sucked, taking care that
the mouth is in a sound state. This removes the
poison more completely than In any other way, and
afterwards the wound may be burnt or the surface
pared at the discretion of the surgeon when he ar-
rives. A string may also in the interim be tied
tightly around the limb above the wound, so as to
retard absorption, and this is particularly useful in
bites of the adder. In the deep bite of a mad dog,
no remedy is to be relied on short of extirpation with
the knife, or a strong caustic, such as nitrate of sil-
ver, or the red hot iron, or the one followed by the
other in very bad cases: but this of course will only
be done by the surgeon himself.
Fur the Sting of Bees, Wasps, Hornets, and Ants,
there Is no remedy like sulphate, of copper or blue
stone, applied by wetting and rubbing it on the part
annuel the wound. The sting of the bee or wasp
should previously to this be extracted, if left In.
For the Bites of Fleas, Bugs, GnaU, or Harvest-
bugs, eau-de Cologne is the best remedy, freely ap.
piled in Its full strength.
Lice may be destroyed by cutting the hair short,
and rubbing in at night the ammonia-chloride of
mercury (white precipitate), brushing It out the fol-
lowing morning, and taking care not to wet the skin
when It Is applied, for fear of salivation. Two or
three applications will destroy any number; or the
spirit of turpentine applied profusely in its full
strength acts quite as well, but Is apt to inflame or
blister the skin.
iilcrarj) Botitts.
From J. B. LnriscoTT & Co., Philadelphia:—
THE MYSTERY: or, Platonic Love. By G. S.
Crosby. This Is apparently the crude effort of a
young writer, who, seeing many things in this world
In a very unsatisfactory state, has conceived the
brilliant but not entirely original idea of setting all
things right by simply writing and publishing a
novel. What the gist of this novel Is, It is a little
difficult for one who has not read carefully every
page, to say: but It Is undoubtedly full of sentiment
and love-making, and plots and counterplots, suffi-
cient to satisfy the most exacting.
From T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philada.:—
THE MYSTEKY OF DARK HOLLOW. Edited
by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. This story,
which is written in a dashing, humorous style. Is one
which will furnish an hour's amusement to its reader,
though It possesses no quality which entitles it to
any prolonged life in American literature.
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE. By Miss Dick-
ens. This novel, which made its appearance a few
years since, was the Ilrst literary effort of the daugh-
ter of the late Charles Dickens. It is a creditable
production, and the public have much to regret that
Its author did not persevere In her literary labors.
HIGHLAND WIDOW. By Sir Walter Scott. This
is the ninth volume of an edition of the Waverly
Novels now In course of publication.
FRANCES HILDYARD. By Mrs. Henry Wood.
This Is a new story from the pen of the fascinating
English authoress whose novels are so well known
in this country.
AURORA FLOYD. A Domestic Novel By Miss
M. E. Ilraddon. "Aurora Floyd" made the literary
reputation of Miss Braddon half a generation ago.
Those who are familiar with the lady's later effort*
while they failed to read this, will be pleased now to
find an opportunity to Judge of her first efforts for
themselves.
MARY STUART, The Queen of Scots. By George
W. M. Reynolds.
THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF NAPLES.
By George W. M. Reynolds.
From Harper & Brothers, New York, through
Claiton, Remses, & Haffei-finoer, Philada. :—
THE CHARACTER AND LOGICAL METHOD OF
POLITICAL ECONOMY. By J. E. Cairnes, LL.D.,
author of "Some Leading Principles of Political
Economy, Newly Expounded." The London Exam-
iner says of this book: "It is the crowning work of
one who, now that Mr. Mill Is no more, may be re-
garded as one of the ablest of living economists; the
fittest continuer of the speculations of Ricardo and
Mill: the best representative of the English school
of economists who, in judicious proportions, unite
the deductive with the lnductivo mode of investiga-
tion." The book is full of subjects for thought, and
should be in the hands of every student of political
economy.
GODEY'8 ABM-UHAIR.
285
THE LADY SUPERIOR. A Novel. By Eliza F.
Pollard, author of "Hope Deferred," etc.
ISEULETE. A Novel By the author of " Vera,"
etc.
Two very readable English novels, belonging to
Harpers' library of select Action.
From D. Afpleton & Co., New York, through J.
B. Lippincott & CO., Philadelphia:—
THE ITALIANS. A Novel. By Frances Elliot,
author of "Romance of Old Court Life In France,"
etc. A gracefully- written romance, which will prove
specially attractive to those who delight In the de-
tailed doings of counts and countesses. As a lite-
rary work, the book Is quite up to the ordinary, and
will not disappoint the reader.
From Dodd & Mead, New York, through J. B.
Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia:—
DOING AND DREAMING. By Edward Garrett,
author of "Occupations of a Retired Life," etc. Ed-
ward Garrett Is among the best, and at the same
time one of the most helpful, of English novelists.
His, or rather her, stories—for Edward Garrett is a
woman—never lack In Interest, though their author
does not consider the first duty of a novelist to be to
amuse. Fiction has to her a higher destiny. It Is
the medlnm by which great truths can be explained,
and made practically clear to those who otherwise
might overlook or misunderstand them.
THE FRENCH AT HOME. By Albert Rhodes.
"With numerous Illustrations. This is a sprightly
book, giving its readers glimpses of the social, lite-
rary, and art life of Paris. The glimpses are not
unpleaslng ones, and the reader will lay down the
book with kindlier views concerning the FrenoU as
a nation, for having read It
From G. W. Cari.eton & Co., New York, through
Porter & Coates, Philadelphia:—
MANFRKD; or, Tlie Battle of Benevento. By F.
D. Gubrrazzi, author of "Beatrice Cenci." Trans-
lated from the Italian by Luigl Monti, A. M. "Un-
able to fight a battle, I have written a book," said
the author of this novel, when he presented a copy
to Joseph Mazzinl. Since It has been written with
a political aim, and to Illustrate certain conditions
at the Italian people—being designed to shade them
from the apathy and political degradation in which
they lived—the critic must Judge of the work from
Its political and social standpoint, as well as from
Its literary one. Viewed In this light, the reader
will peruse its pages with exceptional Interest, and
will gain a clearer perception of late political events
in Italy.
From Henry Hoi.t & Co., New York, through
Porter & Coates, Philadelphia:—
WYNCOTE. By Mrs. Thomas Erskine, author of
"Marjory." A pleasantly-written English novel,
the scene of which opens in Rome, and which pre-
sents the usual amount of sentiment and sensation.
It belongs to the "Leisure Hour Scries," and it has
an exceedingly neat outside appearance.
From TnE United States Publishing Company,
New York:—
OUR FIRST HUNDRED YEARS. By C. Edwards
Lester. This work gives the life of the republic of
America, divided Into four great periods—coloniza-
tion, consolidation, development, and achievement
The first period the author makes to extend from the
discovery of America down to the declaration of in-
dependence. The second period embraces the time
from this declaration of Independence to 1815. The
volume which we have received treats of these two
periods. The work will be concluded in a second
volume. It is an exceedingly valuable contribution
to our historic literature, and will no doubt be ap-
preciated by the American public. The style is
finished—sometimes almost too much so for a book
of its character. The volume Is embellished by a
fine steel portrait of the author.
From L. W. Schmidt, New York:—
A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE NIOBE GROUP.
By Thomas Davidson. As there has never hereto-
fore existed any comprehensive or reliable account
In English of the Niobe group of statuary, it Is to be
believed that the pamphlet before us will attract the
attention of artists and lovers of art generally.
From Robert Carter & Brothers, New York :—
MABEL WALTON'S EXPERIMENT. By Joanna
H. Mathews. In this little volume the authoress of
the "Bessie Books" has collected a number of her
shorter stories. They are bright, easy, and interest-
ing, as our readers well know. The art of writing
for children Is a gift possessed by few, and the in-
stant appreciation which follows a book In which It
is manifest has shown itself in the large circulation
and popularity of Miss Mathews' works.
From the Congregational Publishing Society,
Boston, Mass. :—
SEVEN YEARS FROM TO-NIGHT. By Mrs.
Julia P. Ballard. The characters In this capital lit-
tle story are some of them familiar to our readers.
Pleyel's history Is continued; but many new persons
are brought on the stage. The authoress's easy style
and variety, however, remain the same, and her read-
ers will be many. She writes In a pleasant and re-
fined way, without effort, yet with abundance of
Incident, and has made an interesting and agree-
able story.
From Loring, Boston, through Porter & Coatbs,
Philadelphia:—
MR. AND MRS. FAULCONBRIDGE. By Hamil-
ton Aide, author of "Rita," etc. A story somewhat
out of the usual line of fiction. It is English, and
gives a graphic picture of English society.
From Robert Clarke & Co., Cincinnati :—
THE OLD, OLD STORY. By George Roy.
THE ART OF PLEASING. By George Roy.
These are two very pleasant and ably-written
essays, which will win the commendation of their
readers.
'05 Sep Ccn u
SEPTEMBER, 1875.
The steel plate, the fashions,'the reading matter,
and, indeed, the whole make-up of the September
number, are unsurpassed, we assert, by any monthly
in our land.
No magazine comes to our desk with a more wel-
come greeting than Godet. Tills greeting does not
only emanate from ourself, but from the members
of our family, who are always on the t/ui vive for Its
arrival.—Inquirer, Freehold, N. Y.
The ladles will find Dobbins' Electric Soap
(made by Cragin & Co., Philadelphia), the best of all
soaps for general washing, rrom blankets to laces.
It Is pure, uniform, saves time and clothes. Try it
296
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Typography in Japan.—Among the marvels of
the decade which is to be so brightly distinguished
by the Centennial celebration of American indepen-
dence, is the rapid progress which printing lias
made in Japan since the beginning of 1870. The
advances achieved by typography In the densely
populated and for many ages benighted Asiatic
empire, In the short period of five years, can only
fittingly be described by the one word—wonderful.
In an Oriental country, intensely prejudiced against
Western civilization, where neither types, newspa-
pers, nor books existed ten years ago, there are now
published thirty-four newspapers; eight of them are
issued dally, and the majority were established since
1369. There has also been erected a type-foundry,
which is In active operation.
Many printing presses have been Imported, and
more are needed, and will no doubt soon be sent for.
A number of Americans and Europeans are in Japan
busily engaged in preparing for the press dictiona-
ries, vocabularies, phrase books, and grammars, In
the English, French, German, and Italian languages.
Learned Nlphonese are translating, with a view to
immediate publication, works on medicine, law, po-
litical economy, astronomy, and other subjects. The
old-time opposition to printing has vanished, and
the clicking of types and the clattering of presses
will do more in five years to civilize and Christianize
Japan, than would have been accomplished In the
same directions by fifty y«ars of bombardment from
the combined fleets of Europe and America.
It is a book filled with choice things—In fact, a
delicious literary bon bon sufficiently delicate In
flavor to tempt the appetite of the most fastidious
romancer or devotee of fashion.—Morning J\'ewi>,
Montgomery, Ala.
Of all the love affairs In the world, none can sur-
pass the true love of a big boy for his mother. It Is
a love pure and noble, honorable In the highest de-
gree to both. I do not mean merely a dutiful affec-
tion. I mean a love which makes a boy gallant to
his mother, saying plainly to everybody that lie is
fairly In love with her. Next to the love of her hus-
band, nothing so crowns a woman's life with honor
as this second love, this devotion of the son to her.
And I never yet knew a boy to "turn out" badly
who began by falling In love with his mother. Any
man may fall In love with a fresh-faced girl, and the
man who is gallant to the girl may cruelly neglect
the worn and weary wife. But the big boy who Is a
lover of his mother at middle age is a true knight,
who will love his wife as much in the sere-leaf au-
tumn as lie did In the daisied spring. There Is no-
thing so beautifully chivalrous as the love of a big
boy to his mother.— Beriah Qreen.
Experiments have demonstrated that various
kinds of fresh water fish will live for days In water
so hot that the hand cannot be held In it for a mo-
ment Eels are frequently in the Savoy hot springs,
where the water is 113 degrees Fahrenheit. But the
most remarkable Instance of all was one narrated
by Humboldt and Bonpland, who saw living fishes,
In health and vigor, thrown up from a crater in
South America, when the water temperature was
210 degrees, or only two degrees below boiling.
It Is stated that in South Africa, at a certain sea-
son of the year, elephants resort to a particular sec-
tion of the country, where the umgnau tree grows,
the fruit of which is peculiarly agreeable to them.
They eat it with avidity, but Its effect is Intoxicating
to them, causing them to stagger about, cut up huge
antics, and make the most vociferous noises.
New Sheet Music, published by J. Starr Hollo-
way, 811 Spring Garden St., Philadelphia, to whom
all orders should be addressed, and the pieces will
be promptly sent by return mall. Cave Polka, very
pretty, by Ohm, 30 cents. Aureola Polka, Cloy, 3a
Chancery Hill Schottische, Fawcette, 30. Surf Galop,
Cox, 35. Summer Mazourka, Bhollo, elegant picture
title, 40. Down by the Whispering Sea, by Stewart,
another new edition; every person who has not had
a copy of this beautiful song should order It at once,
35. All Day Long, one of the last as well as best of
the lamented Stephen C. Foster's home and heart
songs; it is both touching and beautiful, 30.
Hblloway'a Musical Monthly. —The September
number Is now ready, containing several beautiful
pieces of music. Send 40 cents for a copy, or SI for
the last three numbers, and get by return mall the
best musical monthly published. Address Mr. Hol-
low ay, as above.
Danctno In London appears to be dying out A
gentleman writing from there says:—
"Society generally seems Inclined to relegate
dancing to the corps de ballet. Tills has been espe-
cially the case this season, when the new fashionable
skirts have gone to an extreme from the liberation
of the ballet A lady was recently h«ard to say,
with a sigh, 'What with being tied around above
and tied around below, I hav'n't had a good square
sit down for three months.' When a large ball is
given, there is an apology for dancing, a few minc-
ing steps are taken, but presently the company rails
to admiring each other's dresses, and it all ends in
music and talk. Dancing bids fair to become a 'su>
vlval,' as the antiquarians say."
The young Marquis of Lome seems to have an
unhappy time among his royal wife's relatives. The
young princes snub him as a subject, and Ills Ger-
man brother-in-law, the heir to the Kaiser's crown,
does likewise. At a recent "garden party" In Lon-
don he was peremptorily directed by an equery of
his brother-in-law, the heir-apparent, to leave the
royal tent, which he had entered without special
invitation.
Charities fob French Women.—A poor French-
woman near her confinement receives succor of
every kind from the Assistance Publique, even when
she might do a great deal for herself. If she can
prove that she Is too poor to remain at home, she
enters the Maternity Hospital, stays there till com-
plete recovery, and on going away receives a present
of baby linen and a sum of thirty francs: if she
keeps at home, the Bureau de Bienfaisance and the
Societe de St. Marie de Nazareth take care, when
applied to, that she shall want for nothing. In ad-
dition to the charities above enumerated, there are
Innumerable others, which may be called fancy
charities, and are managed by ladies who do much
good from the fashionable wish to be patronesses of
something. The Society of St. Francois-Eegis fur-
nishes bridal clothes, pays all the expenses of a wed-
ding, including a good dinner afterwards, to couples
debarred from marriage by the inability to afford a
seemly wedding. The Societies of St. Nicholas and
St Catherine fit out boys and girls for their first
communion: that of the Infant Jesus buys toys for
pooi-children; and that of St. Cecelia provides mu-
sical instruction for poor children who have real
musical aptitude. Over all these and many other
agencies of kindness and mercy, in most of which
can be recognized the Infinite tact in charity of the
French mind, towers the Saltpetrlere, where women
of all conditions—and for that matter of all morals—
who have fallen into distress are admitted at the
age of sixty-five, and excellently cared for till de^Uh.
OODEY-S AllM-UHAIR.
287
LADY FRANKLIN.
Thbbb Is nothing of eulogy that* can be spoken
over the grave of Lady Franklin for which her vir-
tues have not furnished occasion. We should have
marvelled at such a life as hers, had we learned of it
from the pages of some excelling novel, as something
too beautiful and too heroic to be realized by actual
womanhood; knowing how real it was up to the mo-
ment of its ending, we can but point it out as a pre-
cious example, to be embalmed forever In the human
heart and followed out in human action. The dates
and the facts which form the fabric of her story are
easily recalled. Lady Jane married Sir John in the
spring of 1828. He had just returned from his second
Arctic expedition, a famous man; his first wife—a
woman, as we read, of rare devotion and sympathy
for her husband, for upon her death-bed she refused
to allow him to detain the expedition for her sake-
had died the day following that upon which he left
England; and we may believe that his heart sorely
needed the comfort which it found in its new com-
panionship. He was still In bis early manhood; she
Just blossoming from girlhood Into womanhood.
Their married life was marked on his side by stout-
ness of courage and inflexibility of purpose; on hers
by unbroken faith and clinging devotion. It was a
union of virtues. When Sir John assumed the gov-
ernorship of Van Dieman's Land In 1836, she accom-
panied him thither, supplementing the wisdom of his
rule by many kindnesses, for which she was ever held
In grateful remembrance. Together they returned
to England in 1843, where two years were spent In
busy preparation for the fatal expedition in search
of the Northwest passage. Sir John sailed away May
19,1845. A year rolled by, and then another, and the
doubts concerning the fate of the explorer and his
gallant comrades took definite shape In Lady Frank-
lin's offers of rewards for news. But no news came,
and expedition after expedition returned home voice-
less. She spared neither friends, money, nor time
in the labor to which she had devoted her life. She
spoke to America across the sea, begging her aid,
and the equipment of the two Grinnell expeditions
was her answer. When these, like the rest, proved
fruitless, the fate of Sir John seemed too sure to be
longer sought after. But for the brave lady, whose
love was for all time, there could be no such thing as
despair. She, almost alone of all her friends, still
believed her husband living, and refused to abandon
the search. She counted no expenditure too costly,
no solicitation thrown away, that went to solve the
doubt. For fifteen years—years that must have been
fnll of anguish, though her courage never failed her
—she followed out her noble purpose, and when her
triumph came it was a triumph celebrated with tears.
For when McCUntock had returned from his three
years' search, it was known that Sir John had died
June 11,1847, on his way home after discovering the
Northwest passage, and that of the one hundred and
five comrades who survived him not one escaped the
winter's perils. A few meagre documents, discov-
ered in a cairn upon the shores of King William's
Land, told the sad story. Lady Franklin, growing
gray with age and widowed now even from hope, no
longer doubted Sir John's fate, but resolved that so
much as might be left of life to her should still be
her husband's. How faithfully she has adhered to
that resolve there are few who do not know. There
has not been a single expedition fitted out since then
that ber prayers have not followed, and the ocean
was powerless to separate her from our lamented
Hall when she knew that he could tell her of the
northern seas. Almost her last thoughts were of
at"*1" exploration, for when the Pandora sailed
away, generously equipped out of her own purse,
she was already lying ill and knew that she would
never live to see the ship come home.
This was Lady Franklin's life. This was the love
of a wife for her husband, living or dead. It was a
life, a love, that had nothing paroxysmal in it; no-
thing, so far as we know, of that passionate emotion
which some are pleased to take as a type. Those of
us who have come to believe that marriage is simply
a social Institution that we can modify or annul, ac-
cording as our affection lasts, may even be inclined
to mention as foolish that interpretation of duty
which constituted her perpetual happiness. But
there will be others to point to the scandals with
which our society is continually occupied, and con-
trast the faithlessness of the moment with the single-
ness of devotion that Lady Franklin held through
fifty years. The state of widowhood is ennobled by
her life, as all'womanhood is blessed, in that the
memory to which she was wedded lived to be a con-
stant inspiration to good deeds and pure purposes.
For this let us erect a monument to her in our hearts
to remind us when we grow skeptical that this age
had one brave and true lady—Franklin.—Philadel-
phia Times.
Human Dbcoratiok.—It Is curious to remark the
changes In France during the different reigns iu the
art of " human decoration." The wives and daugh-
ters of the Franks were celebrated in ancient times
for the care they took of their beauty, and the Koman
patricians envied their long golden hair and their
fair complexions. After the Crusades the knights
brought back with them balsams and aromatic plants
as proper gifts to offer to the ladles of their thoughts.
Diane de Poitiers increased the feminine love for
cosmetics by using them so Judiciously that she ap-
peared beautiful at an age at which the last traces
of beauty have generally disappeared. Catherine da
Medicis introduced Italian perfumery, which served
at the same time to charm and to poison. Under
Louis XIIL Ann of Austria brought from Spain al-
mond-pastes and cacao-butters, which she used to
preserve the dazzling whiteness of her shoulders and
hands, and which were at once adopted by all the
ladles of the court. The reign of Louis XIV. was a
sad one for perfumers. The great king hated all
odors as thoroughly as he hated baths, and of course
his dutiful subjects shared his dislike. But during
the following reign the lovely marchionesses and
their train of Imitatorsfullyindemnlfied themselves.
They not only perfumed their garments, but had
their apartments so arranged that the air which
filled them was saturated with delicious odors. The
hair was then powdered for the first time, and the
Marchioness Dubarry obtained from Cagllostro a
cosmetic which rendered youth and beauty everlast-
ing. The delicate taste of Marie Antoinette caused
her to prefer the smell of flowers to all other per-
fumes. We have followed her example, and our
favorite odors are those which are extracted from
flowers. The tltgantes of our day have given a proof
of good taste In abandoning the habit of painting
themselves, but the use of )>erfumed waters and of
cosmetics that simply preserve the beauty has be-
come more general than ever.
Cats are as numerous In Cairo as dogs, and many
of them are homeless; they are, however, regarded
with favor by the natives, who assign as their reason
that the prophet Mohammed was very fond of cats.
This may be regarded as a relic of the veneration In
which they were held by the ancient Egyptians, by
whom the cat was considered one of the sacred ani-
mals, and more highly reverenced than any other.
288
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Cocoa-muts.—The three holes in the shell of the
cocoa-nut, which give It such a comical resemblance
to a monkey's head, are for the purpose of allowing
the young tree to Issue from the shell when the nut
is planted. The shell with which the cocoa-nuts are
covered Is extremely hard. When steeped in water
It may be beaten out Into a substance resembling
flax, from which a coarse material may be woven.
Cocoa-nut matting and similar articles are also man-
ufactured from these shells. Inside the hard shell
is a layer of white substance, which is both eaten
and also much employed in the manufacture of cheap
confectionery. When this substance is exposed to
the action of a powerful press, an oil is obtained
which may be employed in lamps, and burns with a
bright, clear flame, without producing any smoke or
disagreeable smell. A quantity of milk-like fluid is
also contained in the Interior of the nut, and which,
when the nut Is young, is much esteemed, but as the
fruit grows older the milk becomes more acid and
more cooling. A sweet oil may also be obtained
from the milk by boiling it at a gentle heat. The
milk obtained from the cocoa-nut may also be em-
ployed instead of ordinary milk for rice puddings,
custards, and similar preparations. The nut itself Is
also used for puddings, cheese-cakes, puffs, etc.
We think the following story of woman's persist-
ence has not the merit of novelty, but, as it has been
revived, we insert it for the amusement of our
readers:—
"In a night train recently was a woman who per-
sisted in requesting the affable guard to inform her
when Chester was reached. Every time the guard
passed, he was greeted with, 'Please to tell mc when
we get to Chester.' Courteous man though he is,
eveu his patience was finally exhausted, and he po-
litely requested the unfortunate lady to maintain
Silence, as he had heard and would heed her injunc-
tion. Chester was finally reached, and 'Chester'
was yelled at the door. The train again started,
and the guard was entering his carriage, when his
tormentor exclaimed, 'Will you tell me when we
get to ChesterT' 'This is Chester 1' he exclaimed,
and he was about to whistle to the driver to stop.
'I'm real glad you obliged me,'said this daughter
of hve to the exasperated official, and, comfortably
settling herself for a further Journey, added, 'My
third "cusiug" used to live here.'
An old lady in Jefferson County, N. Y., acquired
the habit of using morphia for relief from the pains
of a tumor. Her family vainly dissuaded her, and at
last united in deceiving her by substituting carefully
prepared potato starch in morphia bottles. She used
this article fifteen years until the day of her death,
often complaining that it was an inferior article,
though her physician declared It all right. He gave
her Dover's powders once during an illness, but she
could not rest until she took some of the starch mor-
phia.
Soda Water.—Soda water really contains no soda
whatever. It is s:mply water impregnated with car-
bonic-acid gas, and subsequently sweetened with
various syrups. The gas is manufactured in copper
retorts, shaped like a huge egg cut into at its short-
est diameter, and the pieces fastened together with
screws. The pressure of the gas on these retorts is
enormous—far exceeding that even of the steam in
locomotive boilers, which frequently reaches a pres-
sure of two hundred pounds to the square inch. If
these retorts are handled and managed by persons
who are ignorant of the enormous force shut up in
them, there must be occasional instances when they
will explode.
TriEKE are 43,000 clergymen in the United States.
MY EXPERIENCE AT THE FAIR.
I met a nice young lady who said, "Come to our
bazar,
'TIs to help to send the gospel to heathen lands
afar;"
So, when my tea was over, I, poor, deluded manl
Put my purse into my pocket and to the chapel ran.
But, opening the entrance door, what is it meets my
view?
A host of lovely fairies, In robes of every hue.
They gazed upon me sweetly, they had such winning
ways.
That, before I understood it, my head was In a daze.
There was Germany, and Italy, and Spain most won-
drous fair,
Scotland, and Clrcassia, and France with golden
hair;
They led mc up and down the room, they showed
me all their wares;
At last I, quite bewildered, sat down on the pulpit
Then, seeing what they wished for, I purchased
right and left.
Until my poor old pocketbook or money was bereft
But the darlings smiled upon me; I was happy till I
thought,
"What shall I do with all these things they say that
I have bought?"
Twelve toilet cases, aprons five, of dolls at least a
score,
Seven breakfast robes and shawls, and a dozen
tidies more,
Four pairs of slippers, ten cravats, book-marks of
every hue,
Five boot-jacks, fourteen mats, and a baby blanket,
too.
Six smoking caps, three pipes, a cigar case of lacquer.
Twenty dozen cigarettes (I never smoke "ter-
becker").
And I hav'n't any baby, nor yet in fact a wife;
Was ever wretched bachelor so puizled in his life?
I had stuffed at all their tables that I might look and
question.
And in gazing on their beauty got a horrid indiges-
tion.
So, when they brought my purchases and placed
them in a pile,
I looked upon them solemnly and smiled a ghastly
smile.
There's an old familiar proverb about the camel's
back.
The straw this time that broke it was a little baby's
sacque.
The fairy maiden tittered as she placed it on the
heap,
And I wished that I were home again and fast In
bed asleep.
So when, a moment afterwards, the door was left
ajar,
I fled precipitately and left that dear bazar;
I abandoned those strange articles of every sort and
kind.
With exception of the eatables I left them all behind:
And I wished that those were with them as in vain
I courted sleep.
And thought if I could give them their coiTee back
to keep.
But all the other purchases I gladly will return:
They can sell to other victims, tliey can keep, or
they can burn:
Or, better still, can give them to the heathen far
away:
Methinks I see a savage youth in startling array.
Rigged out In cap and slippers, with a blanket and
a pipe;
His pants, all trimmed with book-marks, are mats
of gaudy stripe,
Court-plaster cases at his belt, that sacque to wipe
his nose,
And toilet sets and tidies to take the place of h-^ae.
He'll be a happy little boy, I wish that 1 were such.
And then about my sorrows you'd not have heard
so much;
Bnt my feelings overcame me, nature must have a
"went,"
Though I fear that all your patience in reading has
been spent
The moral from this story which I hope that you
will draw
Is that you should help the heathen In foreign lands
afar.
Alice Meredith.
00BET'S ARM-CHAIR.
289
A Himalayan Pass.—The first clay aud a half were
the worst part of this journey over the Shinkal Pass.
Its features changed greatly after we reached the
point where the Kado Tokpho divides into two
branches, forded the stream to the right, and made
a very steep ascent of about 1500 feet. Above that
we passed into an elevated picturesque valley, with
a good deal of grass and a few birch bushes, which
leads all the way up to the glacier that covers the
summit of the pass. The usual camping ground in
this valley is called Kamjakpuk, and that place is
well protected from the wind; but there are bushes
to serve as fuel where we pitched our tents a mile
or two below, at a height of about 15,000 feet. To-
wards evening there was rain and a piercing cold
wind, with the thermometer at 36° Fahrenheit, and
many were the surmises as to whether we might not
be overtaken by a snow-storm on the higher portion
of the pass next day.
In the morning the thermometer was exactly at
freezing point, the gr.iss was white with hoar frost,
and there was plenty of ice over the streams as we
advanced upward. For some way the path was
easy; then there was a long, steep ascent, and after
that we came on the enormous glacier which is the
crest of this awful pass. The passage on to Hie
glacier from solid ground was almost imperceptible,
over immense ridges of blocks of granite and slabs
of slate. Some of these first ridges rested on the
glacier, while others had been thrown up by it on
the rocky mountain side; but soon the greater
ridge?, were left behind, and we were fairly on the
glacier, where there were innumerable narrow cre-
vasses, many of them concealed by white honey-
combed ice, numerous blocks of stone standing on
pillars of ice, and not a few rills, and even large
brook's, the sun having been shining powerfully in
the morning. It was not properly an ice stream,
but an immense glacial lake on which we stood: for
it was very nearly circular; it was fed by glaciers
and snow slopes all around, and it lapped over into
the villages beneath in several different directions.
I was prevented by an incident, to be mentioned
presently, from calculating the height of this pass,
and the Trigonometrical Survey does not appear to
nave done so; but as Kharjak, the first village in
Zanskar, is 13,870 feet, and it took me the greater
part of next day to get down to Kharjak, though I
camped this day at least 1500 feet below the summit
of the pass, on the Zanskar side, I conclude that the
Shinkal cannot be less than 18,000 feet high, and
that it may possibly be higher. It must be distin-
guished from another and neighboring pass, also
called the Shinkal, which is to be found in the topo-
graphical sheet No. 46, and which runs from Burdun
Gonpa apparently nowhere except into a region ef
glaciers. As the word Shinkal thus occurs twice on
the frontier of Zanskar, it is probably a local word
either for a pass or a glacier.
Of course, the difficulty of breathing at this height
was very great; some of the people were bleeding
at the nose, and it would hardly be possible for us
to ascend much higher. Humboldt got up on the
Andes to 21,000 feet, and the Scblagentwelts in the
Himalaya to 22,000; but such feats can only be ac-
complished In very exceptional states of the atmo-
sphere. Higher ascents have been made in balloons,
bat there no exertion is required. In ordinary cir-
cumstances, 18,000 feet, or nearly 3000 feet higher
than the summit of Mont Blanc, Is about the limit
of human endurance when any exertion is required;
and on the Shinkal I had the advantage of a strong,
sagacious pony, which carried me over most of the
glacier easily enough; but I had a good deal of work
VOL. XCI.—19
on foot, and suffered much more from the exertions
I bad to make than any one else.
On reaching the middle of this glacial lake, it be-
came quite apparent where Its sea of ice came from.
On every side were steep slopes of snow or neve,
with immense beds of suow overhanging them. It
was more like a Place de la Concorde than the basin
of the Aletsch glacier in Switzerland, and the sur-
rounding masses of neee rose up in a much more
abrupt and imposing manner than the surroundings
of any scene amid the high Alps. On the right tfta
snow-slopes were especially striking, being both
beautiful and grand. A dazzling sheet of unbroken
white snow rose up for more than 1000 feet, on a
most steep incline, to vast overhanging walls of
what I may call stratiiied neve, from which huge
masses came down every now and then, with a loud
but plangent sound. So all around there were great
ridges, fields, domes, walls, and precipices of snow
aud ice. No scene could give a more impressive
idea of eternal winter, or of the mingled beauty and
savagery of high Alpine Me.—Blackwood's Maga-
zine.
All bachelors are not entirely lost to the refine-
ment of sentiment, for the following toast was lately
given by one of them at a public dinner: "The ladles
—sweetbriers in the garden of life!"
Refutation op Women.—We have probably all of
us met with instances in which a word, heedlessly
spoken against the reputatiou of a woman, has be-
come dark enough to overshadow her whole exist-
ence. To those who are accustomed—not necessarily
from bad motive, but from thoughtlessness—to speak
lightly of women, we recommeiid these hints as
worthy of consideration: Never use a lady's name
at an improper time, or in mixed company. Never
make assertions about her that you think are un-
true, or allusions that you feel she herself would
blush to hear. When you meet with men who do
not scruple to make use of a woman's name in a
reckless and unprincipled manner, shun them, for
they are the very worst members of the community
—men lost to every sense of honor, every feeling of
Immunity. Many a good and worthy woman's cha-
racter has been forever ruined and her heart broken,
by a lie, manufactured by some villain, and repeated
where It should not have been, and in the presence
of those whose little judgment could not deter them
from circulating the foul and bragging report. A
slander is soon propagated, and the smallest thing
derogatory to a woman's character will fly on the
wings i if the wind, and magnify as it circulates, un-
til its monstrous weight crushes its poor unconscious
victim. Respect the name of woman, for your
mothers and sisters are women: and as you would
have their fair name untarnished, and their lives
unembittered by the slanderer's biting tongue, heed
the ill that your own words might bring upon the
mother, the sister, or the wife of some fellow-crea-
ture.
Some Interesting facts have been given relating to
the Pea body Fund for the poor in London, which
shows the advancement of that institution. Some
$2,000,000 have been spent, and nearly $3,000,000 are
still left in the treasury. A large number of tene-
ment houses have been erected In the different
towns, which will accommodate about fourteen hun-
dred poor families.
Philadelphia ladles have been the champion
batliers at all the watering places.
290 G O DE Y'S LA. D Y'S B O O.K. A ND MAGAZINE.
AMERICAN WILLA.
Drawn expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by ISAAC. H. Hobbs & Sox, Architects, 804 North Eighth Street,
formerly of 809 and 811 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. .
THE above is an ornamented American villa, deco. I feet; CC China closet, 4 feet 9 inches by 8 feet; S
rated in surfeit style. It was designed and is to be scullery, 11 by 13 feet.
built for J. H. Irwin, Esq., at Morton's Station, on
the line of the West Chester Railroad, about eight
miles from Philadelphia. At this place about forty
acres have been laid out #. Mr. Irwin for a town
with wide avenues for bui º The site is well
chosen, and there is no doubt that in a few years it
will be filled with beautiful, residences. The house
will be of brick, the dressings of Ohio sandstone,
slate roofs. The interior plans are arranged in a
nvenient manner, and afford full accommodations.
he building, it will be observed, is in careful pro-
portion. Its cost, when fully built, with all modern
*:::::: will be $9000. The following are the
ensions:-
SECOND STORY.
Second Floor.—B chambers; C closets; D boudoir,
BR bath-room.
SoME years ago the body of an #| || was taken
from a grave, and, upon opening the stone coffin in
which he may have lain for thousands of years, a few
grains of wheat were found, which were sent to Ger-
many and planted. From these few grains a small
lot was raised, some of which were sent to a resident
in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He planted one hundred
and thirty grains for the first crop, from which he
- obtained two quarts. The next crop he raised was
two and a half bushels, and this hº he expects to
FIRST STORY. have about twenty bushes of grain on a three-quar-
ter acre lot. He has raised three º of this wheat
First Floor.—P parlor, 14 by 26 feet; SR sitting. in four years on the same ground without a particle
room, 14 feet by 23 feet 9 inches: DR dining room, 4 of manure. The straw from the wheat is réported
by 18 feet; K kitchen, 14 by 17 feet; P pantry, 6 by 8 as being exccllent.
GOD EY'S ARM-0 BIAIR.
291
ONE of the greatest curiosities in Japan toastranger
is the wonderful variety of coins that are used daily.
In some instances it takes one thousand pieces to
make one dollar. These are called “cash,” and are
seldom received by foreigners, who, as a general
rule, refuse to take them in change. Imagine mak-
ing a trade of five cents, and giving a man a fifty-
cent piece, then receiving in change four hundred
and fifty of these coppers. This coin is peculiarly
made, having a square hole in the centre. They are
about the size of our dime pieces, and nearly two-
thirds the thickness. Next to this comes the quarter
of a cent, then the half cent, eight-tenths of a cent,
and the one and two cent pieces. In silver coins
they have the five, ten, twenty, fifty-cent and one-
dollar pieces. In gold the one, two, five, ten, and
twenty dollars, which are very pretty coinages, in-
deed. Next to this comes the government series of
paper money, in various denominations, ranging
from five cents to one hundred dollars. This money
is made on quite inferior paper to ours, and, from
general appearances, will not last like the American
money.
A TEST was recently made of the buoyant power of
a leaf of the water lily known as the Victoria Regia,
in the botanic garden at Ghent. Bricks were heaped
over its entire area, and before it was submerged in
the water a weight of 761 pounds was floated.
GoDEY.-Beautiful embellishments, entertainin
literary productions, splendid fashion-plates, an
well-written editorial , characterize the pages of this
popular magazine for the month of flowers. Nolady,
who has a taste for the beautiful, should consider her
libra Fº rly made up, without a monthly num-
ber of the LADY’s BOOK gracing its shelves.—Demo-
crat, Brookville, Ind.
THERE are over 100,000 genuine lepers living under
the government of British India.
THE peculiar way in which the Hawaiians bathe
is thus described:—
“They take a board about twelve feet º which
is brought to a blunt point at one end, and is made
convex on the other side. . After preparing them-
selves for the water, they take the board and plunge
into the sea. They watch their opportunity, and, as
a tremendous wave approaches, they throw them-
selves on the board with the pointed end towards
the beach, and, as the approaching wave overtakes
them. and carries them forward with lightning
rapidity, they Fº the board in an oblique direc-
tion, being just under the curl of the wave, continu-
ing so until the wave, * reached shallow water,
buries them beneath it. They come to the surface
immediately, and, diving beneath the approachin
waye, taking, their board with them, they swim ou
and lie waiting for the next roller. t is truly
laughable to see some of them get caught as the
wave breaks, their board going in one direction,
while they go in another.”
PROFESSORTYNDALL recently said that the shock
from a single Leyden jar was very unpleasant; but
a heavier discharge, such as he once received from
a battery of fifteen jars, is painless; he felt nothing,
but was simply extinguished for a sensible interval
of time.
GoDEY.—This delightful magazine is always brim
full of good reading, especially adapted to the home
circle. TFree from anything which can offend the
most fastidious, it is at the same time so fresh and
crisp that both young and old fly to it as a relief from
the too substantial or the soft and love-sick trash
with which so many periodicals abound.—Observer,
Rossville, Ill.
THE orange tree is considered young at the age of
100 years.
Poison of TobAcco.—Science has sped another dart
at the peace of the tobacco smoker. It has heretofore
been made known that nicotine, hydrogen-sulphide,
and cyanogen existin the smoke of tobacco; but now
Dr. Krause, of Annaberg, declares that he has found
in it carbonic oxide, a principle never before detect-
ed in the substance. The quantity of the oxide and
of carbonic acid differs according to the kind of cigar
used, and the way of filling the pipe, etc. The man-
ner in which the smoke is drawn, whether by strong
or weak inhalations, also influences the products by
affecting the combustion. From twelve experiments
made by Dr. Krause, it appears that the quantity of
carbonic oxide varied from 5.2to 13.8 in 100 of smoke,
the average being 9.3. As the consumer of the weed
never gives out all the smoke, but takes a portion of
it into his lungs, a certain amount of carbonic oxide
poisoning is inevitable. “The more awkward the
smoker,” said Dr. Krause, “the more rapidly will
the action of the carbonic oxide make itself felt:
hence the evil of early studies lin. Smoking, the re-
sults of which are commonly ascribed to nicotine.”
GoDEY'S Magazine is emphatically the leading
magazine for the ladies.—American, Albion, N. Y.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
UNDER this, head, will be found all information
connected with MSS., and answers from the Fashion
Editress.
In jº 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 i. by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return
postage.
Be particular, when writing, to mention the town,
county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be
made out of post-marks.
Any person making inquiries to be answered in
any particular number must send their request at
least two months previous to the date of publication
of that number.
Authors are requested to pay full letter tage on
all MSS. Hereafter we will not take any MS. from the
post-office when the full postage has not been paid.
S. A. E.-Sent pattern July 1st.
Mrs. L. M. B.-Sent caps 1st.
Mrs. S. R. C.—Sent fringe 2d.
Miss T. H.-Sent stocking supporters 7th.
Miss J. B. R.—Sent trimmings 7th.
Mrs. T. M. S.–Sent silk 8th.
Mrs. A. L.-Sent trunk by express 9th.
Mrs. W. M.–Sent patterns 13th.
Dr. Desmond.—Sent articles 13th.
John H.-Sent books 14th.
Mrs. T. R. J.-Sent infant’s wardrobe 15th.
Miss F. C.—Sent skirt supporters 16th.
* G. R.—Sent the dresses by Adams' express
h.
Miss W.-Sent hat 18th.
Miss H. C.—Sent musical box 19th.
James S.–Sent lead comb 19th.
Mrs. A. L.-Sent lead comb 21st.
Miss C. D. L.-Sent patterns 22d.
Miss N.F.-Sent ring, etc.,
mirs. E. M. N.-Sent Chromožith.
Mrs. L. H. E.-Sent rubber flºwes 24th.
Mrs. P. R.—Sent zephyrs 26th.
Mrs. R. S. V.-Sent patterns 28th.
Miss S. E.-Sent pattern 28th.
Eva.-1. For a single subscriber, $3 in advance;
which sum entitles you to a Chromo. But the money
must be sent direct to this office. Where several
parties unite, the price is lower. See the terms on
#. second page of cover. 2. The gentleman should
put his own hat on the rack. 3. The gentleman
should enter first.
Eliza H.-A lady who possesses a cultivated and
delicate mind has only to be simple and natural
when she mixes with society, and she will never
“disgrace either herself or her friends.”
Mrs. B.-Taking acids in excess destroys the coat
of the stomach and brings on gastric fever.
§§ Lady.—There is no doubt that some of these
cosmetics contain a preparation of lead, and are
292
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
very dangerous; they will bring on palsy If often
used.
"Happiness." declined.
"Varieties,'1 declined.
"The hark Picnic," declined.
Madge.—We do not advocate the profession for
young ladies, although a genuine actress need not
be ashamed of her profession.
Heleu.—If a mere casual Introduction, a bow is
su Indent
Maria 8.—Camphor and borax is as good as any-
thing we know of for the head.
Clara.—We believe the best thing Is to go to a good
chiropodist and have the corns taken out; In many
cases they do not return.
Alice.—Thanks for the verses.
Janet,—There would be no use In our writing
another description. Our fashion-plate and descrip-
tion are all that Is requisite.
Inquirer.—We have not at present any room for
either long or short stories.
Bell.—we must decline your poem. Your note is
quite flattering.
Wilson.—Touching the warts dally with caustic Is
sufficient.
rastuons.
NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS.
Having had frequent applications for the purchase
of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladles living at a dis-
tance, the Editress of the Fashion Department will
hereafter execute commissions for any who may de-
sire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the
time and research required. Spring and autumn
bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes,
hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, 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.
When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail
here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will
be taken back. When the goods are sent, the trans-
action must be considered hnal.
Instructions to be as minute as possible, accompa-
nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general
style of the person, on which much dependsln choice.
The publisher of the Lady's Book has no interest
in this department, and knows nothing of Its trans-
actions; and whether the person sending the order
Is or Is not a subscriber to the Lady's Book, the
Fashion Editress does not know.
Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed
expenditure, to be addressed to the care of L. A.
Godey, Esq.
iVo order will be attended to unless the money is
first received. Neitherthe Editor nor the Publisher
will be accountaMefor losses that may occur in re-
mitting.
DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE.
Fig. 1.—Carriage dress of two shades of blue silk.
The foundation of the dress Is of the dark blue, the
trimming all of the lighter shade. The underskirt
is trimmed in front with folds, in the back with folds
and knife plaited ruffles. The oversklrt Is trimmed
with knife plaiting alone. The bodice Is cut surplice,
and trimmed to correspond with the underskirt. The
bonnet Is of the two shades of silk, trimmed with
feather and velvet
Fig. 2.—Evening dress of pink silk. The underskirt
Is trimmed on the front breadth, down each side
and around the bottom with lace, bouquets of] roses,
and puffs. The oversklrt is only In the back, and is
trimmed with lace and flowers. Pointed bodice, cut
low In the neck, elbow sleeves, both are trimmed
with lace; the Inside kerchief and cuff worn over
the neck are of crepe lisse. Hair arranged In finger
puffs and curls, with pink roses through them.
Fig. 3.—Walking dress of purple silk. The skirt
made with a pouf in the back with sash and ruffles
of black. Sleeveless jacket of black, trimmed with
lace and passementerie; purple silk sleeves, with
black cuffs, trimmed to correspond with the rest
Black lace bouuet, trimmed with purple feather and
flowers.
Fig. 4.—Walking dress of black silk, made with two
skirts. The upper skirt, only In front and touching
the bottom of the under one, is trimmed with jet
fringe, two rows of buttons down the right side.
The back Is plain laid In plaits, the sides are trimmed
with ruffles and puffs. Basque bodice, coat sleeves,
both are trimmed with jet Black chip bonnet
trimmed with black velvet, white feather and pink
roses.
ELBOW CUSHION IN NETTING AND DARNING OF
BLACK SILK.
(See Plate Printed in Blue in Pront of Book.)
The elbow cushion is one of the luxuries of the
drawing-room table, provided both as an ornament
and an adjunct for the enjoyment of its graceful lite-
rature. The design which we have given is to be
netted in black silk, and the pattern darned in the
same material, though of a coarser kind. It is to be
surrounded with a border of black lace, which may
be either one of those of the ordinary manufacture
or netted for the purpose. When the netting and
darning have been completed, the square must be
laid over a cushion of crimson satin, and fastened
down at the corners with a bow or tassel at each
point The effect of this cushion Is both rich and
elegant the black silk fabric stretched over the
crimson satin producing a striking contrast, and
quite warranting the favor In which this novel sort
of work Is now being received In Paris.
DESCRIPTION OF EXTENSION SHEET.
FIRST 8IDB.
Fig. 1.—Black grenadine dress, made with two
skirts; the lower one trimmed with folds, the upper
with folds and lace. Cuirass basque, cut surplice at
the throat trimmed with lace.
Fig. 2.—House dress of lavender-colored silk; it Is
made with but one skirt, the front breadth having
folds and knife plaitiugs crossing It In diamonds,
finished with bows at the sides. The back is plaited,
forming a long train. Basque bodice, trimmed to
correspond with the front of skirt
Fig. a—Walking dress of two shades of gray eam-
el's-halr, made with one skirt in the back plaited in
lengthwise plaits below the pouf at the top; the
plaits are of the lightest shade. The front has an
apron oversklrt of the lightest fastened with band
and bows at the side; the bottom of skirt is of the
darkest and is trimmed with narrow ruffles headed
with a puff. Basque bodice cut long iu the back,
trimmed with a puff down the centre of the back;
the sleeves are of the dark.
Fig. 4.—Costume of black silk. The underskirt is
trimmed with two knife plaitlngs, headed with bands.
The oversklrt is of velvet striped grenadine, trimmed,
with fringe. Basque bodice, the front trimmed with
the grenadine, and the sleeves are made of It
Fig. 5.—Walking dress, made of two shades of
brown striped wool goods, with a plain brown under-
skirt; the binding on the oversklrt and basque are
all of plain brown. Brown chip bonnet, trimmed
with velvet and feathers.
SECOND SIDE.
We give some very pretty styles for making up
early fall mantles and dresses.
Fig. L—Paletot, made of heavy corded blaak silk,
the sides longer than the back, and formed of folds,
as Is also the back of the sleeves. The trimming is
FASHIONS.
293
lace and embroidered bands; sash falling from the
back.
Fig. 2.—Dress bodice; the fronts are made longer
than the back; the back of sleeves are made open,
to show a white sleeve underneath.
Fig. 3.—Overbasque, made of black silk, and
trimmed with several rows of lace; the sleeves are
composed almost entirely of lace.
Fig. 4.—Ladies' muslin skirt, made with one deep
ruffle, and a narrower one above, the deep one
trimmed with an embroidered trimming on the edge,
with a side plaiting above, and a pointed ruffle
above that
Figs. 5 and 6.—Front and back view of little girl's
dress, of brown Cashmere. The underskirt Is com-
posed of kilt plaits; the overskirt is cut high upon
one side, and is trimmed with a ball fringe. Basque
bodice, trimmed with the same; coat sleeves, with
plaiting at the wrist
Fig. 7.—Basque bodice, cut In scallops, the sides
being the deepest; wide coat sleeves, with very deep
cuffs. The trimming is a band, with several rows of
machine stitching upon it
Fig. 8.—Ladies' boot, made of French kid, and or-
namented with stitching in white and a bow on the
instep.
Fig. 9.—Apron for little girl of three years, made
of Nainsook muslin, the yoke and sleeves being
formed of puffs and Insertion.
Fig. 10.—Sleeveless basque, made of rows of black
velvet, divided by lace, trimmed around the arm-
holes, basque, and neck with lace; this can be worn
over a black or colored silk dress.
Fig. 11.—Black beaded belt and buckle.
Fig. 12.—Bracelet of bright red gold, heavily
chased, made in sections joined by heavy links.
Fig. 13.—Fancy apron for girl of six years, made of
French Nainsook muslin; the yoke, shoulder pieces
pockets, and ornamental pieces on the skirts being
tucked and trimmed around with a narrow edging
or lace; colored ribbon bows fasten on the shoulders
and pockets.
Figs. 14 and 15.—Front and back view of dress for
boy of four, of brown camel's hair. The front Is cut
In sacque form; the skirt of back Is In kilt plaits;
Jacket bodice, trimmed with velvet or silk braid.
Figs. 16 and 17.—Corset with band. A new style
of white corset made of twill, with a graduated
band, and narrow embroidery around the edge.
Fig. 18.—Boy's muslin drawers.
CHITCHAT
ON FASHIONS FOB SEPTEMBER.
As the summer still cllugs to us so closely. It is yet
too early to speak with any certainty of the new
goods to be soon made up into the many bewildering
costumes so well adapted for the bright, cool weather
of the early autumn. Black silks and grenadines are
both safe and useful dresses to make up for this
month's wear, and but few of them are made up
without a combination of the two materials In the
one dress. For a plainer dress, many persons still
use the ever useful alpaca, which, however, has In a
great measure been supplanted by the lady-like and
useful Cashmere. These are light enough in texture
to be worn all through the early as well as late fall,
and may be made as simple or extravagant as the
taste of the wearer suggests. Very frequently they
are made Into an overskirt and basque worn with a
silk underskirt beneath, others have the entire cos-
tume made of the Cashmere.
As black grenadine dresses can be worn through-
out September and the best part of October, we will
speak more particularly about the style of making
them. French lace Is used more than anything else
for trimming them. Such a quantity of lace Is re-
quired for the basque, sleeves, and overskirt, that
ladles are not willing to purchase thread lace, espe-
cially when the French lace Imitates the real so ad-
mirably; even copying their Irregular meshes so that
it Is Impossible to detect many of them except by
touch. It is an unusual thing to flud underskirts
made of grenadine. They are almost invariably silk,
and the flounces may also be silk, If the skirt is.
needed for other suits; but very many have shirred
and knife plaited grenadine flounces mounted on
silk. Another fashion is that of shirred silk flounces
elaborately trimmed with grenadine plaltings. The
grenadine Overskirt for very dressy occasion, is elab-
orately shirred, caught up with long looped bows of
the repped silk called turquoise, and edged with a
frill of lace. The basque is grenadine laid smoothly
over gros grain like that used for the skirt, without
other lining, and abundantly trimmed with lace on
the edge, down the front and back in Jabots, around
the neck and on the wrists. Simplertoiletsof grena-
dine have merely a basque and deep apron of any of
the plaid or matelassf patterns, edged with knife
plaltings of silk, and worn over the black silk skirt
of some other costume. Little fichus of grenadine
edged with lace or fringe are seen on Imported gren-
adine dresses.
As weddings are apt to be very frequent In the
months of autumn and early winter, we feel that
some Information In regard to underclothing will
answer for the felr brides expectant, and many of
our fair readers to whom the question of pretty un-
derclothing Is as Important, even if a bridal wreath
is not expected to soon crown their brows. Cottou
fabrics are so low-priced at present, and there Is
such a variety of brands to choose from, that but
little difficulty need be experienced In making a
choice of material. Formerly there were but two or
three well known brands to select from, now there
is a much greater variety. The best makes for
heavy muslin are New York Mills, Pride of the West,
and Wamsutta; for llghtermusllnsthe Lonsdaleand
Fruit of the Loom are both excellent muslins. For
those who desire lighter goods, the Lonsdale cam-
bric and the Lyman cambric are both used. We
ourselves consider the latter too light except for
night-dresses and skirts. Some of the French mus-
lins have become so popular as to be imported; there
Is a kind called Madapolam, a percale of firm, hard-
twisted, round threads, very heavy and not soft fin-
ished: this is very much used for underclothing by
ladles who cannot wear linen.
Chemises are of much simpler shape than formerly.
European patterns have found favor here, and have
done away with sleeve gussets, and with the four
smaller gassets that were formerly attached to the
band. Now these are all cut In the garment, and the
small seams are dispensed with. These French
shapes are all called sacque chemises, but they differ
In construction; they have straight bands, rounded
bands, or yokes, either sewed on separately, or it
may be shaped In the body of the garment; while
still others, very much liked by-stout ladies, have
merely a drawing string run in the top of the chemise.
The shape of the French sleeve is simple and good.
It has but one short seam, that under the arm, while
Its Inner side Is well rounded to fit in the curve of
the upper part of the body and band. The sleeve is
set half an inch under the sleeve-hole, and the body
is stitched upon it, thus forming the strong facing
seen on American chemises without the additional
clumsy seams. These can be trimmed with a nar-
row edging of embroidery, a scallop, flne edge, or, if
more elaborate trimming for trousseaux are desired,
294
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
fine tucking and Valencienneslacelsused. Drawers
should be made to match the chemise In trimming.
Turkish drawers buttoned around the aukle, and
wide, plain drawers, are both worn. One good fea-
ture of French drawers, now very generally adopted,
is to have the band only in front, and drawing-strings
lu the back so they can be adjusted to fit any-sized
waist for which they are required. Might-dresses
are now made of simple shape, long and narrow.
Some of these have a yoke in the back, the front of
the gown being tucked to form a yoke; this shape is
very simple and popular. The skirt has but two
widths; the side gores are shaped like chemises.
When a very elegant gown is desired, the whole
front can be trimmed down from the neck, with al-
ternate tucks, pulls, and lace and muslin insertion.
Muslin skirts are made much fuller than formerly,
and also have the French belt with drawing-string
in the back, and no opening In the back. They are
mostly worn walking length, and are trimmed with
tucks and ruffles. A ruffle to be fluted should be set
on the hem; a ruffle embroidered requires to he put
on very scaut, so as to show off the embroidery to
advantage; the French fancy is to embroider on
the hem. Skirts are sold in the furnishing houses
made up on the sewing machine at a very low figure;
the work is done roughly, but for general wear they
answer very well. Trained skirts are made to be
worn lUiuler full dress trains; these are made the
same length, and become soiled instead of the lining,
or If the dress Is thin the dress itself. These skirts
are usually made with a Spanish flounce elaborately
trimmed with insertion and frills, edged with Valen-
ciennes lace; some of these skirts are so handsome
as to be suitable to wear as an overdress for morn-
ing. A novelty Is a chemise and corset cover in one.
This garment buttons on the shoulder, has the front
and back fully tucked, so that it fits the figure pretty
closely. The top is finished with a baud and an em-
broidered ruffle deep enough for a fralze.
Corset covers still retain their cuirass shape, with
low, round neck, and short sleeves; they can be
trimmed elaborately or plainly, as the taste of the
wearer suggests.
Dressing sacques still continue to be made of the
straight plain shape so long woru. The trimming
usually goes down the front of the sacque, and not
around the bottom. Some of these are made so ele-
gantly that they are worn as breakfast sacques with
a black silk skirt. Both the English and Byron col-
lar are worn on the sacques. Shirt sleeves with ful-
ness gathered in the cuff are preferred, although
coat sleeves are sometimes made if fancy dictates.
Some of these sacques have merely a yoke of tucks
outlined, but the preference Is for the tucks to ex-
tend down to the bottom, very fine ones being used;
oftentimes the whole front Is composed of these fine
tucks.
Blue flannel suits, trimmed with military braid,
are being made up for mountain excursions to be
worn this month. They are fashioned in simple
shapes, and are as light as wool dresses can be
made, since all flounces are dispensed with, though
the long upper skirt is retained. The waist Is box-
plaited, and worn with a belt. The deep round
overskirt has two or three rows of black military
braid upon it. The lower skirt is similarly trimmed
or perhaps has one scant flounce. Dark navy blue
flannel is chosen, and the trimming may be either
white or black braid.
New linen collars are straight bands three Inches
wide, turned over all around the top, pressed flat,
and worn with a black velvet band and bow.
Bussla leather and morocco belts are again worn.
Black belts, with chased silver buckles and several
Joints, are most fashionable.' An extravagant fancy
Is that of having the monogram of the wearer en-
graved on the buckle. Silver chatelaine ornaments
and a fan chain depend from the side. More dressy
belts, to wear with silks and grenadines, are of plain
gros grain belt ribbon, with a chatelaine bow of rib-
bon on the left side. This bow is a cluster of long
loops of gros grain ribbon and two ends reaching to
the knee. Showy wide belts with beads are pauL
Sasbes are reserved for evening dresses.
Nets for the hair are again to be seen for travelling
and general wear. They are made of black silk
braid, like boot laces; and brown ones, with Alsatian
bows to match, are to be procured in the same style.
Bows made of the soft silk called Surab are also In
excellent taste for the hair; these are both checked
and striped. At several of the largest entertain-
ments in Paris, tulle and gauze scarfs have been
much worn for the hair, the gauze being striped
with either gold or silver. The greatest novelty,
however, Is gauze studded all over with rose leaves,
the leaves having the eflect of Just being blown off
the flowers of the headdress. The scarf falls below
the waist
There is such extravagance now in all the acces-
sories of the toilet that garters in Paris are now
made of cerise satin, fastened with a bow of Alencon
point lace. More Modest ones are trimmed with
Valenciennes lace. To what next extravagance will
be carried it is Impossible to say in this fast age.
We cannot resist describing a very beautiful dress
made for a youthful bridesmaid. It was composed
of white tarlatan over white silk, trimmed with
yards upon yards of blue forget-me-nots. The silk
skirt Is merely a foundation for the tablier and plait-
lngs of tulle and the flower garlands. Around the
bottom of the skirt are six rows of tarlatan plait-
ings laid closely together. The tablier is Grecian
shape, longer on the left side than on the right, and
consists of easy folds draped across the silk, trimmed
with three long garlands, placed quite far apart, and
arranged diagonally. All that part of the skirt that
Is not covered by this apron has plaitings extending
from the belt to the foot Down the middle of the
back are clusters of long loops of white gros grain
ribbon about two Inches wide. The low round close-
fitting waist Is fastened behind, and, in order to
make it lit well, is separate from the skirt and has
long pieces extending over the hips, but which are
concealed beneath the skirt The tarlatan is sewed
plainly over the silk lining, being taken in with
every seam of the darts and side forms. The Greek
bertha is made of folds of white lisse, and has rows
of finely-crimped lisse at top and bottom; the sleeves
are half long, and are puffed with three rows of
crimped lisse on the edge. A garland of forget-me-
nots begins In the middle of the back, passes over
the right arm, and extends diagonally across the
front of the corsage, ending low down on the left
hip, thus making four diagonal vines in the front of
the dress. The wide belt is three broad folds of
white gros grain, fastened behind by a cluster of
gros grain ribbon loops like those that trim the back
of the train. A spray of the blue flowers trims the
hair, which is tied back by white gros grain ribbon.
Biding habits continue to be made in the English
shape worn for the past season. Black cloth is the
material preferred, though blue, brown, or green
cloth habits arc used. The beaver hat Is slightly
higher than formerly. Round crowned Derby hats
are worn by equestrians. The simplest lingerie,
without jewelry, is in best taste with riding habits.
Next month we will give our readers glimpses of
the fall fashions, which will, In a few short days, be
open to Inspect Ion. Fashion.
QODET'8 LADT'P BOOK ADVERTISER,
CHENEY'S AMERICAN SILKS,
These Silks are made in the most approved manner, and are GUARANTEED to surpass in
WEIGHT, FINISH, and DURABILITY any that can be obtained at corresponding prices.
Ladies are especially requested to ask to see the full variety of these Silks before purchasing
any others, which are now offered at all the leading Dry Goods Stores throughout the country.
j^is EASES OF WOMEN, by Oeo. H. Taylor,
■Lf M. D., 318 pages, contains New Methods, with-
out Drugs, for Home Treatment and Radical Cure.
Mailed for 81.50. Circular on receipt of stamp.
N. E. WOOD, 17 East 58th Stkeet, New York.
10 DOLLARS PER DAT fflR3£®!SP&&'
*V VVHHIIIIM I ■»*!■■ SHUTTLE SewinffMaohine
A.ddrtB» Johnwni, Cl»rk ft Co.. Boston, Masi-; New York
City; Pilteburgh, Pa.; Chicago, 111. j or St Louis, Mo.
VIOLET TOILET WATER.
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Learned and Pleasantl 115 Original and Beautf-
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ate In-
stitution at
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J Superintendent,
MINDED YOUTH. sS
»MM AMERICA PRESS.
The most simple, effective, and durable
printing press made. Circulars sent free on
application to JOSEPH WATSON, 53 Murray
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ONSTANTINEST>INE
TOR TOILET, BATH k<*>NURSERY, frTT, £-^ ?.E=S i
fu SOLD BY
cures ,,r
DRUGGISTS
Get the GENUINE! Beware of Imitations I
DMSON'S
New F (Crossed-Boned)
AND
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PATENT
GLOYE-FITTING
CORSETS.
KNOWN THBOTJGHOTJT THE WOELD AS THE
MOST PERFECT CORSET MADE.
Special attention Is called to our new V, the bones
crossing each other at the side and over the hips,
giving extra support to the wearer, and at the same
time producing a beautiful rounded figure. These
Corsets are made of fine French Coutelle, richly
trimmed with Lace and Edging, elaborately boned
in a superior stvle with the best Greenland Whale-
bone. Every bone stitched through and fanned with
silk. No corset has ever attained so worldwide a
reputation as the GLOVE-PITTING. In length
and fulness of bust It cannot be improved. The
great success of our celebrated Corsets has given
rise to many Imitations; unprincipled parties en-
deavor to palm oft their Inferior goods as "Thom-
son's:" but wo have commenced legal proceedings
against infringers, and expect to defend our Patents
against all such imitations. See that the name,
THOMSON, and the trade mark, a CROWN, are
stamped on every pair. No other is genuine.
THOMSON, LANGDON & CO.,
No. 478 & 480 Broadway, K. T.
Sole Importers and Patentees for the U. 8.
IN STRENGTH AND PURITY
Superior to any other, therefore
MOST ECONOMICAL.
IMPORTANT putting bias tkimming
■ iTirv/n inm ^ made a past|m(, bv ll9lng
Tn ELLIOTT'S SCALE GI'IDE.
I" Every lady knows the difficulty
rirrnv . • r of cutting Bias of uniform and
tVtKY LAUY. accurate width. WlththisGuide
a mistake Is Impossible, and the work can be per-
formed as accurately and rapidly as the cutting of a
straight strip. We send the Guide scale by mail,
prepaid, upon receipt of 50 cents. Agents to intro-
duce this wonderful Improvement wanted every-
where. Address SCALE GUIDE CO., 43 Bromfield
Street, Boston, Mass.
A'
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F. HI. WATT,
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Trunks, Travelling Bags, Valises, Satchels, and Leather
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The Standard Lotfi Bustle has outsold every other
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Standard Lotta Bustle, is a laced back for narrow
dresses principally containing the same outvieing
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etc., uot found in any other. Faultless ami perfect,
filling every requirement. For narrow dresses it is
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sustaining no injury by pressing, and the cheapest
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ing; also 15,18, 2, and 10.
• A. XV. TSOMAB,
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- -
º octoses. 2. º -
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º
sº
codey's
- EDITED BY º
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-% L. A. GODEY.
1875.
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Stories by Celebrated Writers.
We have on file several fine stories for 1876, from the pens of the following
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Louise S. Dorr, S. Annie Frost, Montgomery C. Preston.
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WA-JL')U «?:/&£&')!&*
''*
() ( 'T' () BER 1875.
J^JUl; V;&1W
f
FRUIT GIRL.
o* ■ i
Pis. 2.
lu. 4.
Fig. 23.
Fio. 22.
BONNETS AND CLOAKS.
(See Description, fathion Department.)
i
313
irny ifili Galcp.
Composed and arranged for the Piano Forte, for Gody,s Ladey's Book.
By WILL BUCKBEE.
As published by y,"
lie derisively averred. "Best abandon the
hope at once. My express purpose in coming
here this evening was to awake you, for I sus-
pected you would be asleep. I have been
thinking about you constantly since we parted
this morning, and have decided that it is time
for me to interfere witli some of your habits,
the worst of which is indolence"—
"If you can promise any novelty in your
maxillar entertainment, 1 pray you begin it
without loss of time in ambagious remarks; be
commatic, crack the nut, and let me have the
kernel at once."
"Hal, you are surly and not at all polite, but
in the very teeth of your unkindness, 1 am
going to do you good—provided always that I
undermine your egotism, and shake your self-
sufflcieney enough to let you see that your lord-
ship, morally, is not all that the Decalogue
requires, nor your tellural condition what it
should be. As I said, I Intend to attack your
bad habits, commencing with indolence, believ-
ing it to be the aorta from which the others
derive blood. You insist upon a sermon pro-
ceeding from a text—then reach me that Biblo
and I will make a selection. Ah, Hal, even in
this very deposit of dust which disguises tho
name of this book, I have a coadjutor in my
task. See how it can be used against you,"
and with his finger he wrote the word "indo-
lence" on the dusty tablet; then, opening tho
book and turning the leaves, continued, "I am
going to the very fountain of Wisdom—tho
Bible, and that man of wisdom and knowledge,
King Solomon. Hear what he says: 'I went by
the field of the slothful and by the vineyard of
the man void of understanding; and, lo, it was
all grown over with thorns, and nettles had
covered the face thereof, and the stone wnll
thereof was broken down.' Now listen atten-
tively for the next, for he continues, 'Then I
saw and considered It well; I looked upon it
and received instruction. Yet a little sleep, a
little slumber, a little folding of the hand* to
tleep: so shall thy poverty come as one that
travelleth; and thy want, as an armed man.'
Now does not that neatly clench both of the
nails I have driven in? Do the Just thing, Hal,
give the black gentleman his due by acknowl-
edging that 'tis sloth which has filled the field
of your heart and the vineyard of your mind
with misanthropical feelings and judgments.
Next, shake off the lethargy which benumbs
your senses, shut your ears to the enticing
strains of Sleep's Acheloidos, and ply your oars
vigorously till you are beyond their influence,
for only 'a little sleep, a little slumber, a little
loUliug of the hands to sleep' is necessary to
you ere "Thy poverty coine as one that travel-
leth, and thy want as an armed man'—'pov-
erty,' Hal, of the mind and body, and 'want'
of the heart and sensibilities. There are some
blessings granted us which, If unduly em-
ployed, are distorted into curses. It is true of
•leep which, properly Indulged In, is 'nature's
sweet restorer," the kind friend who 'knits up
the ravelled sleeve of Care;' but, when its na-
ture is perverted by ill usage, it becomes a bitter
foe, encourages idleness, panders to discontent
—in short, feeds the evil in us and subjugates
the good. Just hear and see those hideous
yawns I Hal, 1 tell you it's perfect madness
the way you are acting."
"'Though this be madness, yet there "s me-
thod in it,' " 1 quoted, lazily enjoying his ear-
nestness. "I have an engagement to escort
Miss Blanche in a ride to the park this evening,
an I she would have had a chance to sue me
for breach of promise had it not been for the
snatch ot sleep I was successful in obtaining
before you entered. The party last night was
too much for me; I was bored nearly to death,
and the affair lasted till I began to imagine
that the termination had been amputated and
wasn't there. Don't impute Indolence to me,
Larrie; no one, save and except a Hercules,
would perform my labors unmurmuringly.
And as for sleeping—oppressed nature requires
some recreation for her exhausted powers, and
I do not agree with you in your animadversions
against that I have chosen. In trouble I fly to
sleep as to a friend. It is the fountain con-
taining life-giving properties which impart
strength and vigor to pilgrims worn and weary
with bearing the burdens of the day."
"Certainly," he cheerfully acquiesced; "so
far you do not support your word, for you do
agree with me and 1 with you, your last clause
proving that you have reference to the proper
praxis of the blessing. In Nature's economical
and yet loving provision for the welfare of her
children, she ordains that sleep shall be law-
fully indulged in only when as pilgrims we are
'worn and weary with bearing the burdens of
the day.' At all other times wo must steal it,
If we would have it; hence, we are guilty of a
malum prohibitum, sin against our thesmothete,
and, incurring her righteous displeasure, must
suffer the penalty. Indulgence in sleep being
reserved for the night, it then operates cor-
rectly in relaxing and recuperating the system;
but otherwise, like medicine taken when not
required, is an injury instead of a benefit. Hal,
put your reason to work"—
"For what? To tell you that your pragma-
tic diatribe is lasting even longer than usual,
though your custom is to run on to the length of
"' A ntght In Russia
When nishts are longest there;'
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
319
to remind you of the hint which Shakspcare
gives in saying that
"'Brevity is the soul of wit
And tediousness [he limbs and outward flourishes';
or, to tell you that, for the last hour, 1 have
been longing for an Escalus to whom to resign
my position as listener?"
"I wish I coukl meet you sometimes when
you have put your gallimatia behind you, as
good men do Satan, and are ready to listen to
me with proper respect. No, 1 wanted none of
tlie pert information which you were ready to
give. I desired you to put your reason to work
to your own condemnation, not mine. What
do you think, Hal, when I remind you that this
morning, when I called here at ten, you were
but just leaving your bed, and here at two
again I find you asleep," and, with overpower-
ing dignity, he paused for my answer.
'"Faith and bejabbers," as Pat would say,
'an' 1 wish three o'clock would find me in joy in'
the same blissln'," I replied, determined, if
possible, to draw him out of his lecture humor,
for I by no means relished the pricking with
which conscience was favoring me during this
critique upon my misdemeanors and shortcom-
ings. But, like the enchanted steed, he was
wound up to go so far, and nothing would stop
him till he had run down or the springs broke.
I had, however, touched a screw which caused
him to swerve aside into a new path.
"I can scarcely become reconciled to the
change in you, Hal," he said, drawing down
the corners of his mouth lugubriously. "Five
years ago you were so hopeful of the future, so
full of energy, so ambitious to excel in the
world's arena; now"—
"1 am no longer energetic, having found
out, witli FalstaiT, '1 were better to be eaten
to death with rust, than to be scoured to no-
thing with perpetual motion;' I am no longer
hopeful, knowing that
"' What's past and what's to come is stained with
husks
And formless ruins of oblivion;'
nor ambitious, having discovered that the strug-
gle for fame begins with a journey ' 'mid snow
an, and the peskiest sight
of all others in the world is to see a nice trim
little gal tied to a shiftless, do-nothing man.
And lots of 'em is in that fix. But what do
you think 'bout trying to get the place? Think
you'll try?"
"If you Advise me to do so," I meekly re-
sponded.
"Waal, now, putting it that way, I do advise
you to do jest so, for you know the poet sez,
"'Satan alius Hurts some siu
For idle chaps to do,'
and I never was in favor of laziness or loafers.
So go by my 'dvice and you '11 'ply for the
place this evening or arly to-morrow morning.
Best this evenin', though, sence to-morrow's
Wednesday, and it '11 be good luck to set into
work then. Think you '11 go?"
"Yes," I rejoined; "I agree with you that
it is best to secure the situation as early as
possible, as I am 'burningdaylight' in remain-
ing idle. Is the place far from here?"
"Not more 'n two mile and a half. A smart
man can easily walk there in three-quarters of
'n 'our; have done it often when I was a lad,
sparkin' 'round the square's daughter—her
that was my fust wife; but, notwithstandin'
them walkin' fellows that goes walkin' 'bou*-
the country for pay, limbs don't seem as supple
in the young as they was then, and you ain't
got the same reason to take you there quick,
come to remember 'bout it, and it alius took
me longer to get back than it did to go, any-
ways;" and the old man chuckled to himself
over the awakened memories.
I was really eager to enter into the masque-
rade, and rose to go, saying:—
"I have two or three letters to write to the
city before setting out, but when I 'm ready
I '11 come to you again and you can direct me
where to go."
"Very well, and I hope you '11 succeed. No
reason why you shouldn't; you've got plenty
of mettle ef you '11 'ploy it proper. Lads with
329
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
no better hev gone up high in the world. And
it '11 be no disgrace to you to do farm work.
There's Cincinnati, as I was reading in the
newspaper "bout t'other day, as was offered
the persition of Congressman, or legislater, or
somethin', right while lie was ploughin' in tbe
corn-field. 1 reckon he ploughed uncommon
well, or p'r'aps the farmer he was crappin'
with give him a char'cter; leastways, it don't
matter, but serves to prove what lawyer Jim-
son said at the 'cademy exhibition, when he
give my boy Tim the prize Bible. I don't re-
member it all, but it was somethin' 'bout
"'Honor and sin from no persition flies:
Act good your part, and a heap o' honor 'II rise.'
I took occasion to thank him for it and the
other part, and I told Tim 'twas a hint worth
takin; but he didn't seem to hev heerd it, and
I s'pose he was thinkin' more of how Julie
Jimson liked him in his new suit of broad-
cloth and blue vest, than what her daddy was
a-sayin' to him;" and, as the old man paused
to puff awhile at his pipe, I embraced the op-
portunity of coming to my room.
I am really in for the plan now, and must
write to Larrie, excusing myself for non-ap-
pearance at the time specified in my promise,
but I shall not be so open-hearted as to reveal
all my motives for indulging in fickleness.
The sun is creeping down the horizon and I
must haste to make my call at "Square Hog-
gins's." A strange timidity is creeping over
me, and I feel that tbe affair is becoming more
serious than I at first anticipated. I am giving
the world a last chance to redeem herself in
my regard, and I fear the dame will permit
this golden moment, as its sisters, to pass by
unimproved.
Night.—This evening, in making my visit, I
reached the Hoggins farm at that hour when
"Heaven's wide arch
Is glorious with the sun's retreating march."
From the Hesperian sky the fiery eye of Helios
glared vengefully upon the kingdoms escaping
from his rule, and the wide landscape reflected
the lurid eclampsy of his malice. The river
seemed of molten gold; the forest was dean-
rated with
"the glory that the wood receives,
At sunset In its brazen leaves:"
the vast expanse of bloom in the orchard sur-
rounding the house glowed warmly as the sun-
beams glanced upon the corollas; "a golden
lustre slept upon the hills," and upon the blue
canopy which arched over the whole, "sky
Heclas" discharged their lurid streams of lava,
and disbanded rainbows formed a chaos of
colors. Larrie had not overrated the country
through which the green lane passed, and, in
my enjoyment of the beautiful scenery, by the
time I reached the manse the tone of my mind
was healthier than it had been for months,
though, along the whole route, conscience was
pelting my breast with compunctive reproaches
for a misspent life. On every side the laborer
was plying his busy task, rejoicing in the
spring and improving the sunny hoars, while
I, heaven-gifted with health and a founda-
tion for strength, had frittered away so many
precious hours, and was, even then, engaged in
seeking the gratification of that which was pro-
bably nothing more tban a whim. Shakspeare
defines that man who thiuks his "chief good
and market of his time" is to feed and sleep,
as "a beast, no more," and seems content with
this definition; but conscience treated me more
roughly than this, insisting that I was by no
means the equal of the useful creatures pre-
sented to my view in these retired fields. In
my blind vauity I had arrogated superiority
over them; but "Why?" interrogated con-
science, and the truth, freed for the moment
from the influence of self-esteem, was appa-
rent even to me. True,
"He that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after,"
had given me a goodly share of "capability and
god-like reason," but did they not "first in me
unused," while these creatures of the "lower
world," boasting of no intellection, had mis-
sions upon earth and fulfilled them? The no-
ble steed with glossy sides, graceful limbs,
curving neck, and fiery eyes; the rugged piti-
ful cart-jade; the sleekly-rounded cattle; the
fleecy, nimble-footed sheep, and the lazy, dull-
eyed hog, surpassed me in utility. Then, in yet
a lower rank, the chickaree that glided in and
out of the fencing in his flight from me; the echi-
nus, which crept so painfully across my path-
way, and wound up his prickly ball as I tonched
him; the hare, half dying with tremor cordis at
my approach—even the worm and emmet at
my feet had their pursuits and obeyed their
instinct, while I, the blase man of the world,
smothered, at their birth, the promptings of
reason and affection, and, having no aim in
life, endure it and refrain from making my
"quietus" merely because
"I do find it cowardly and vile.
For fear of what might fall, so to prevent
The time of life."
Then there were the flowers, those
"living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book;
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From lowliest nook;"
they were doing good—doing me good, for, In
sending forth their odors to welcome me as I
neared them, they seemed whispering "Good-
will to men;" and, even when my unwary foot-
step crushed some fragile bloom, there was no
human retaliation, but, as the spirit of some
departed friend, it continued to minister to me.
And the birds came forward to help'me from
the Slough of Despond into which my soul had
fallen. Unutterably pleasant were the wood-
notes wafted to my ears, for in them were the
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
329
bravura of the mocking-bird aud aria of the
grosbeak j the cautabile threnody of the culver
and Lydiah cooing of the turtle-dove; the " Bob
White" of the partridge, aud the warbled vau-
devils of the linnet, sparrow, thrush, and tom-
tit—these last sending in their mellow lays to
swell tin- chorus in this glad song of praise.
Truly, I was well situated to learn that there
is "good in everything," for around me were
myriads of teachers eager to inculcate the
lesson. Never before, as then, had I found
"tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones." There were the "rock-
ribbed hills," furnishing homes for the timid
creatures which fled from the cultivated fields
of encroaching man; heath and lea blossoming
and yielding fruit to recompense the laborer
for his toil; the broad river, the almoner of the
fish hiding in its embrace, of the animals
quenching their thirst and cooling their heated
limbs with its crystal drops, and of the vale,
whose fertility was nourished by the aqueous
oorban. Then next came the merry brook,
which, unlike man, seems to lose no precious
moment in bitter repining, but, contented with
its humble sphere, "slips down through moss-
grown stones with endless laughter." As I
crossed over upon the hippius I heard it sing-
ing to itself the little ditty Tennyson has so
aptly interpreted—
"1 chatter over stony ways
In little sharps and trebles;
I babble over eddying bays;
I babble on the pebbles."
I stored up these lessons in my mind with a
half-formed resolution of profiting by them in
the future, and passed on, taking up a new
train of thought, and musing upou the ease
with which poets
"can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,
Have not been wholly sung nor said."
Within the gate I paused again. The house,
with its brown sides covered with flowering
vines, stood in the midst of prettily-cultivated
shrubbery, and its wide door, hospitably open,
invited me to enter, but the silence, unbroken
save by the carolling of birds and the busy
hum of the insect world, forbade an invasion
of the domicil as yet; so I leaned against a tree
and gazed about me, entranced by the beauty
of my surroundings. Soon, attracted by the
distant sound of children's voices and merry
laughter, my glance fell upon a group pictur-
esquely gathered about the basin of a spring
welling up at the foot of the hill. An artist
could not have more gladly welcomed the scene
than did I, and I longed for the power of trans-
ferring it to canvas, for it was pleasant in the
extreme. The nook or ravine in which the
sparkling fountain had found a home, being
terraced to some height on either side with
lichen-gray boulders and overarched with stal-
wart trees, themselves "o'ercome with moss
and baleful mistletoe," would have delighted
Rembrandt with its Memphian gloom. But
few patches of sunshine crept through the
dense foliage to sleep upon the flower-embroid-
ered carpet of the glen, so that, from where I
stood, it seemed one of those evil, but strangely
attractive places in which "the snake throws
her enamelled skin." Its wildness and purple
twilight would have caused it to be regarded
by the murderer as a convenient place for the
perpetration of his crimes; the fairies would
come there to hold their midnight carnival; the
lover would select it as the romantic glade in
which to make his avowal; the muse would
willingly visit the poet enjoying its beauties,
and to the merry parties of the young it would
seem extending an invitation to come there
'' a-gypsying-" The stray sunbeams, the floral
offspring scattered about, and a merry, bright-
ly-dressed little company formed the light in
the clare-obscure of the picture. A young
gfrl, surrounded by children of various ages,
was seated upon a hillock beneath an oak,
whose
"boughs were mossed with age,
And high top bald with gray antiquity,"
while other children were perched upon the
dead trunk of another tree, which, disrooted
from the soil, had fallen across the branch
and formed a rustic bridge over the dimpling
waters. They were deeply absorbed in the oc-
cupation of forming bouquets, garlands, aud
wreaths from bunches of flowers sunk down in
the moist verdure along the banks of the rivu-
let, and were, as yet, not aware of my prox-
imity, so I hesitated to approach lest my too
sudden appearance should startle them. In
the mean while I was well supplied with food
for entertainment, and could never have become
satiated with feasting upon the beauties around
me. There was a murmurous hum from the
rose-flushed dome of foliage above me where
industrious bees gathered nectar from innu-
merable cornucopias, and the birds were choos-
ing lodgings for the night. Fragrant petals,
like snowflakes, were leaving their homes on
high and decking the- greensward "where the
wind had laid up drifts," and the sly zephyrs,
freighted with their pleasant aura, swept past
me, regaling my nostrils with breaths sweeter
than the spice-burdened airs of Arabian Saba.
The full-mouthed baying of the house-dogs
not very pleasantly awoke me from my reverie,
and put to flight Calliope, who but just now
was ready to bestow her gifts upon me, and I
followed the muse's example vigorously as the
dogs made a furious advance; nor, till perched
upon the gate-post, did I, like Lot's wife, take
time to look back. But when, finally, I did
turn my face to my pursuers, my fate was
similar to that of the woman of Zoar, for I
was transmuted into stone with mortification at
finding that there had been a witness of the
330
GODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
disgraceful stampede. And such a witness i
Even in that moment of chagrin and embar-
rassment, I appreciated her exceeding grace
and beauty. An intuition prompted me to
believe that Larrie was fulfilling the promise
made me in the morning, and was, spiritually,
if not bodily, present at this my first introduc-
tion to the "maiden with the milking-pail,"
for I felt that my gentle benefactress was none
other than his heroine—than Mr. Larkins'
Minnie Roberts. There is, Somewhere in "The
Faerie Queene," a beautiful word picture in
which Spenser represents Belphcebe emerging
from the forest, her tresses and robe decked
with the leaves which bad fallen upon her as
she passed under the trees of the flowering
forest. Probably the model of this ancient
Belphoebe has long mouldered "in the cold,
cold ground;" but, as the same scenes are
constantly reproducing themselves, phoenix-
like, upon their own graves, in this modern
age, had I been a Spenser, I could have ac-
cepted Minnie Roberts, tripping to my assist-
ance as the model from which to paint a second
Belphoebe, the twin of the first. Even in win-
ning hearts she would have been the peer of
that beautiful maiden of olden times, for, so
soon as she came in sight, as Larrie's had done
in the morning, "all my heart was gone from
me." Sprinkled with the pink-tinted petals
which had fallen upon her from the ripe corols,
her head daintily trimmed with wild-flowers
and feathery ferns, and her hands bearing a
trailing garland—thus "arrayed by chance
and hapless heed," she approached but to se-
cure my most sincere admiration. She was
truly charming in her youthful health and
vigor. Scarcely more than seventeen, small
and delicately formed, she could vie in appear-
ance with the most fascinating belle of Gotham.
Over the pearly-white splendor of her face,
her eyes, blue as the rifts in the sky above us,
unfurled their azure banners—large and soft,
they conveyed,
"Unaware,
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there;"
and the mouth, "with steady sweetness set,"
seemed an atom of the crimson sunset clouds.
"Bronze-brown" locks, unconfined by comb
or ribbon, waved downwards from her small,
aristocratic head, as "astream the slave might
search for gold, and, searching, find." So
slender was the lissom form, and so lightly
did each footstep fall, that, but for the healtliy
bloom upon her cheek, and the energy «nd
elasticity of her motions, I shoijld have been
appalled by those symptoms of fragility. A
becoming costume of white, garnisjied with
blue, completed le tout ensemble of her appear-
ance. Right royally did she bear herself as
she reprimanded my canine pursuers.
"Down, down, Carlos!" she cried, and the
Newfoundland which had "treed" me wrig-
gled deprecatingly towards her. "Fie upon
you, sir, to allow yourself to be led off in one
of Tip's wild-goose chases I To your kennel,
sir, for the evening I Take Tip with you, and
teach him better behavior;" and the apparently
penitent animal caught the ear of the young
mastiff and drew him resolutely away.
Leaping from my elevated position, and
bowing to her as gracefully as I could, I pant-
ingly remarked :—
"X hope, lady, you do not include the present
occasion in the list of Tip's expeditions against
the skar members of the genus ana»; but, even
should the readiness and celerity of my flight
have prompted you thus to class me, I shall
not quarrel with you, for I am all gratitude
that you came so opportunely to my aid. I
am not much accustomed to such fierce dogs."
"I should imagine not, as in that case ex-
perience would have taught you that barking
dogs are rarely good at biting," she replied,
while a merry twinkle lit up her eyes, and
then, as, entirely forgetting my errand, I
stood gazing at her in silence, she continued,
"Will you not walk in, sir? Do not permit
the indecorous apopemptic of Carlos and Tip
to impress you with an unfavorable idea of
country hospitality: Mr. Hoggins is not at
home at present, but will probably be here in
an hour or so."
"Thank you! though your intelligence de-
prives me of the pleasure of accepting your
invitation. My errand was with Squire Hog-
gins, but doubtless you can furnish me with
the Information I desired. He is in need of
an additional hand upon the farm, I believe?"
■"Yes," she replied, lifting her eyes in-
quiringly to mine.
I blushed furiously, but continued: "I came
down from town to secure the place, if it is
not already filled."
Probably, like Laurance's grandmother, she
felt I had mistaken my calling, and considered
it her duty to reprove my presumption; so,
after regarding me a moment with candid
amazement, she remarked :—
"I think he desired an experienced hand."
"And you do not think I can meet the re-
quirements ?" I rejoined, smiling at her gravity.
Turning, she regarded me a moment doubt-
fully, and then, seemingly unable longer to
control her merriment, laughed gleefully, as
she asked :—
"What do you really mean, sir? Is it for
some one else you want the place?"
"Probably this letter from Mr. Larkins, of
'The Traveller's Friend,' will help to explain.
He, as a friend, recommends me to Squirt*
Hoggins as one whom circumstances prompt
to seek employment, and who, if not acquainted
with the whole art of farming, has a little
knowledge with which to begin, and is ready-
to accumulate more the first opportunity of-
fered," I said, somewhat stiffly, for my amour
LEAVES FROM BARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
331
propre was wounded by her evident doubt of
my efficiency.
She sobered Instantly and said, "Pardon me
if I have wounded you; I really did not intend
doing so. And, if you desire to obtain the
place now vacant on the farm, you must await
Squire Hoggins' return, or call again to-mor-
row."
The chattering bevy of children at the spring,
who had been dubiously watching Miss Roberts
and myself, at this moment left their occupa-
tion, and, coming pell-mell up the hill, stopped
some distance off to reconnoitre. Their bright,
intellectual faces were charming, and my hand
instinctively sought the bon-bons, with which,
for use on such occasions, my pockets were
pretty generally filled. The distribution of
these, combined with other friendly advances,
convinced them that I was not hostilely in-
clined, and we were soon becoming well ac-
quainted. Wild, merry elves they were. How
far different from the city's narrow-chested,
pallid nurslings were these rosy-cheeked, fos-
ter bairns of the country. I purposely avoid
the little ones who throng municipal streets,
parks, and saloons, for it saddens me to see
their mature, trammelled "manners," pale
faces, and attenuated bodies. Vain puppets,
overdressed devotees of fashion, are they, ere
the tide of time has carried them beyond the
boundary of childhood, and I do not love them;
but those plump, romping little rustics^were
truly of a different species. Christened with
the smiles of the angels, Health and Innocence,
they seemed the true god-children of Happi-
ness, and I became really interested by their
winsome, trnta souci ways, and the mercurial,
play of their features. "Minnie," as they all
called her, who, by the way, seemed, in her
freshness and purity, no more than a child
herself, in vain endeavored to keep them within
bounds. We romped, shouted, and canaried
about at our pleasure, ofttimes overcoming
her unnatural assumption of dignity, and forc-
ing her to join in our merriments. There was
an evident struggle between her desire to
gratify the mirth-loving propensity of her na-
ture, and the fear of rending in twain the veil
which propriety had seen fit to draw between
us as strangers; and, honoring her for it, I
strove to assist her in establishing a happy
medium by refraining in word, look, and deed,
from trespassing upon her rights; so that, for
a time, we kept her with us; but when a propo-
sition to go after the flowers left in the glen
was made and favorably received, she turned
to go from us into the house, though the chil-
dren twined their arms about her, and I added
my entreaties to theirs that she would remain.
"No, no," she said. "Grandpa will want
tea when he comes, and I will go and aid Han-
nah in getting it ready. You will come in
with the children, sir? We will be glad to
have you join us at supper," and she lingered
a moment for my reply.
"No, thank you again," I returned. "I be-
lieve I shall stay till Squire Hoggins returns,
as it- is best to settle the matter at once. But
it is so pleasant here, with your permission I
will remain out of doors. It is difficult for one
who has been stifled by the smoke and heat of
a city as long as I have been, to drink in enough
of this delicious air. Then, too, I am thirsty,
and that spring yonder entices me. You will
trust the children with me?"
"Certainly, for I imagine you are neither a
Herod nor a gypsy. But you will need a glass
at the spring. Come, Nannie, and get the
gentleman one. Good-evening!" she added,
lightly, as she disappeared in the doorway.
"Very true, if that was only a reference to
the weather; but, by your leave, false, if in-
tended as a farewell, and I can circumvent
you," I muttered, holding Nannie tightly by
the hand to prevent obedience to Miss Minnie.
When we reached the spring, I waited pa-
tiently for the glass, and in the mean time oc-
cupied myself with the garlands and wreaths
which the nimble fingers were deftly arranging.
There was a perfect Babel of tongues in the
little crowd about me as all talked together;
but, from their confused, incessant- prattle, I
gathered much that was interesting.' One of
the oldest of the children—a pretty little girl
of> probably ten summers, I had heard Miss
Minnie call Fannie Jameson —and another
whose name was Alice—from her close resem-
blance to Kannie, I judged to be a Jameson
also; the other six—Nora, Charlie, Nannie,
Carrie, Eddie, and little toddling Lottie—were
faosimiles of each other, except in size, and
apparently in age. They were Squire Hoggins'
grandchildren, and left upon him by the death
of the mother and father, who, as lisping Lot-
tie told me, were "gone yight up into 'e
starths." They were nicely clad, and well
kept, and, by their frequent allusions to Min-
nie Roberts, and evident fondness for her, I
Judged she had well supplied the place of
mother to the little orphans. Their faces posi-
tively glowed when they spoke of her, and I
was conscious that my heart, in a measure,
reflected the light.
"Minnie m dood, and you ar'n't!" stoutly
declared Eddie, clinching his chubby fists, and
glaring furiously at me, when, in order to learn
more, I doubted Miss Roberts' right to the fair
name they had given her. 1 found I had
roused a storm difficult toquell, for gray eyes
and black, brown eyes and blue, darted light-
ning glances of indignation at me.
"Yes, she is; and she 's as pretty as an an-
gel, if she ain't no fine city lady I" furthermore
asserted Charlie, moving angrily away from
my side.
"I'll tell brother Walter right as soon 's I
332
GODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
get home, and I hope you won't live over to
here," piped little Alice Jameson.
"Hush, Alice! it don't matter what he says,
'cause it ain't likely he knows anything about
it, and you shouldn't ought to have said a word
'bout 'brother Walter,' for you know Minnie
wouldn't like to have you do so," interposed
Nora, adding the last clause in a lower tone of
voice.
"Us all likes her, if you don't, 'cause she's
good to us, and reads for granny, and helps
grandma and Hannah, and knows how to do
all kinds of things besides," said Carrie.
But Miss Minnie cut short our quarrel by
appearing in the doorway with a goblet in her
hand, and calling to Nannie to come and get
It. The child was eager to obey, but 1 drew
her down beside me and—may I obtain forgive-
ness—taught her, probably, her first impu-
dence. Prompted by me, "Bring it yourself I"
she called back, and Miss Minnie came down
hurriedly to correct the young offender. But
the merriment with which we greeted her dis-
closed the stratagem, and shielded my little
cat's-paw. In answer to our entreaties, she
consented to remain, and took her seat beneath
the oak. Then the children remembered their
grievance, and made complaint against me.
(Conclusion next mouth.)
GLIMPSES.
A pew glimpses, scarce more, of a woman in
a street car. A fair, white lily from the garden
of womankind, with ripples of sunny hair
breaking over the brow and falling in a cascade
of curls on the slender, white neck; intellect
in every feature of the fair face; refinement,
culture, and taste, that wealth had fully de-
veloped, in every fold and adornment of the
dainty dress—a woman delicate as a dew-drop,
yet strong in sweet, tender womanliness.
Out of my glimpses grew a picture of the
kingdom where she reigns a gracious queen of
the husband, whose breast is her sweet, restful
sheltor-; of bright boys who call her mother,
and who hold that beautiful woman as very
near their idea of the angels, and who will al-
ways hold her as something altogether beauti-
ful and good; who, as boys and men, will feel
a thril of pride when they say this is my mother.
This was in part what those glimpses showed
me; and though I would have liked more than
glimpses, it was better not. Even among the
watched and tender blossoms of her heart there
might have lain some crushed petals, could I
have looked closely; but now it is a perfect
picture I shall ever keep and over which I shall
dream dreams. •
They give us many a picture, these glimpses,
and often many a pang as well, as the curtain
behind which pride hides life's wounded and
dead is lifted by the careless hand of chance,
and we catch sight for an instant of the pale
ghosts which restlessly wander there. At
times a lurid flash of misery from some life of
sin half blinds us, as we see a wretched fellow-
creature swept on down into the black abyss
of despair and death, trusting to the love and
forgiveness of the All-Merciful Father, when
earthly love and mercy have utterly failed.
They are strange and weird, these glimpses!
and I question if it were not better we had
more of them, and less close, hard scrutiny;
for the lives of most are stern, hard things, and
when over the bleak, bare rocks of cruel dis-
appointment we have trained such vines of
resignation or content as we are able, and won
a few stray blossoms forth to teach forgetful-
ness of what they strive to hide, were it not
better that those whom the sight of all might
pain should (jet-only bright glimpses of grace-
ful, clinging tendrils and fair blossoms.
Maky W. McVicab.
SEPTEMBER.
BI JAMES RISTINK.
The stifling heats are over, and falls
September's sunlight bland
On oaten stubble and stalks ot corn,
That yellowing, rustling stand.
The rosy east is later aglow,
And earlier fades the west;
And in the grasses the cricket's voice
Has a plaintive tremor of rest
From meadows the butterflies slowly waft
And alight on the silent lanes,
And katydids In the tall, still trees,
Chant their monotonous strains.
And the black and hungry crows at dawn
Crowd In the chestnut and beech,
And on leafless limbs, and cawing, fill
The woods with their garrulous speech.
The clouds are fleecier, and the winds
From the south fly languidly by:
And a deeper yet tenderer bine above,
Is the tint of the mellow sky.
And a silvery drapery hangs o'er the rill.
Dreamily glancing afar:
And the chill north air lends a lustrous charm
To the light of each glinting star.
And in the forest, the Strange, sere leaves
Struck by untimely blight.
On branch after branch capriciously poise.
Whispering in sorrowful plight.
And a spirit resigned, and pure and calm.
Is visible everywhere,
Awaiting the natural doom that God
Shall send on the frosty air.
And when life's labors are closed, its cares
And fiery trials past,
When all its harvests are ripe or garnered—
A moral fruitage at last-
How blessed the trust in an infinite love.
The blossoms beyond the snow;
With a mind serene, and a heart uncloyed
By the world and its flaunting show.
Take things always by the smooth handle.
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER VALLEY ROME.
333
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER
VALLEY HOME.
LETTER III.
August XBth.
Dear Mb. Godey: M. Lemoine is here at
last: has been with us a week, and all my
friends, even to father and mother, like him
very much. Of course he does not stop at our
house—though we have a room for him when-
ever he does come here. lie is with Nat and
Lucy; and Nat came with him on his first visit,
to introduce him to my parents, and to relieve
me from embarrassment—as he knows so well
how to do—the dear old fellow 1 As we were
expecting M. Lemoine that day, we had Aunt
Mehitable over to pass a few days with us.
So it all seemed quite home-like to see him.
It was really funny to see those two meet If
they had been friends for many years, they
could not have been more cordial; while he
was so courteous and polite with all his happi-
ness; and she was so enthusiastic in her wel-
come.
"Ah, madame! I am so happy to see you in
your lovely valley, I have so often heard you
speak of."
"How do you do, Mister Lemoine? I'm
really as glad to see you as if you was my own
kin (glancing at me). And I reckon you do
think our valley as beautiful as I said it was;
now don't you?"
"Ah, yes, madame, I have never seen any-
thing more lovely. I think (looking toward
me) I could always live contented within these
mountain walls."
"With 'one fair spirit for your minister,'
eh?" said Nat.
Aunt Hitty never noticed this sentence, but
went on.
"Yes, indeed, I think anybody might be
contented here in spring, or summer, or fall.
You just ought to be hero in October, Mr. Le-
moine. It's a perfect Paradise."
"Ah, well, I must stay till October, then, if
you will let me. A man does not often get to
Paradise upon this earth. Yet I have not the
slightest doubt of the truth of what you tell
me." (Another look over my way.)
"It's true, every word;" said Aunt nitty.
"Of course the people ain't angels, no more 'n
they are in other places." (A perfect shimmer
of light came into the dark eyes of M. Lemoine
as he glanced at me here.) "It's only nature
I 'm speakin' of. The whole sides of the moun-
tains flash out in gold and scarlet; an' the bazy
mist o' the Indian summer seems like a gauzy
veil coverin' the bright leaves a little, as if to
keep 'em from dazzlin' our eyes. Then the
clouds seem just as if they reflected all the
bright colors, makin' it scarlet an' gold above,
as well as below. Do you see that vine so rich
an' green, climbin' all over the cliff there?
Well, in October it's one sheet o' scarlet; an'
the maple in front's a great bouquet o' gold
color. An' that's only a mite in the great
flamin' view. But I must say that I like city
life in winter, old as 1 am. An' I do hope
they 'II 'lect Nat to Congress ag'in, when his
time's out; an'that him and Lucy'11 still want
me to keep house for 'em."
I wore that day my white muslin and pale-
blue ribbons, with some pink rosebuds at my
throat and in my hair; and Nat whispered to
me that I looked "stunning."
That very afternoon M. Lemoine walked out
with father to the barn, and took occasion to
ask his permission to address me. It was
given, though father confessed, when telling
me of it, that he would much prefer having his
little girl settle near him, whenever she did
leave him, than to marry one who would take
her to a far-off laud. Father loves me so much,
and I told him I would not leave him for-long
at a time, and not for quite a long while yet.
But he shook his head and said he "knew how
these things generally turned out; and that I
had better make no promises."
Cousin Jeb—did 1 never tell you of him?
he lives with father and helps -on the farm.
Well, he was very much pleased with the young
"furriner." He says he's "real jolly," and
he has already planned several trips to show
him around. So but twodays after he came a
party was made up for a trip. The harvest
was over and the corn "laid by;' it was too
early for the fall "seeding," and the horses
were more idle now than they would be for
some time. So we set out on our first grand
excursion. M. Lemoine, Cousin Jeb, Aunt
Hitty, and I -occupied our roomy, old-fash-
ioned family carriage, Jeb acting as Jehu; Nat
and Lucy followed in their phaeton, and two
other cousins came behind on horseback. A
large basket of provisions was set in front, and
the gentlemen were provided with fishing-
tackle, as we were to fish for black bass at the
Hanging Kocks.
Starting before sunrise, after a very early
breakfast, we reached this beautiful spot about
ten o'clock A. M., all fresh and happy. We
alighted from our carriages here, and passed
an hour in fishing, catching a fine supply of
these elegant fish. Cousin Jeb built a fire and
cooked them; for he's a regular mountaineer.
Aunt Hitty and Lucy spread the cloth upon a
flat rock, displaying plenty of good things;
while I brought wild-flowers, ferns, and red
sumach leaves, for decorating our table; and
all pronounced the dinner fit for fairies as well
as for human beings. Not a snake did we see,
and our enjoyment was unbroken.
This is one of the loveliest spots in the world.
The great beetling cliff, two or three hundred
feet in height, projects far over the beautiful
winding road; while the glassy river on our
right reflects in its placid bosom the rocks and
334
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
trees and everlasting hills, together with the
exquisite blue sky, and floating white clouds.
Many varieties of ferns grow here, among
which is the fragrant or sweet fern (comptonia
asplenifolia), specimens of which we gathered
and placed in large books brought for that
purpose. Aunt Ilitty fairly goes crazy over
ferns, though she never knew the names of
the different varieties until she knew Lucy.
She thinks Lucy knows all about plants that
is necessary for any one to know. For my-
self, I never weary of ferns. There is so much
of grace and delicacy in all varieties of them,
without any aid from color. The greenness of
the forest alone is theirs—they need nothing
else. They are like the beauty of a Quaker-
ess—they ask no gay attire. In all the beau-
tiful descriptions by Thoreau, not one, 1 think,
is so lovely, and at the same time so terse, as
his description of the fern. He said "it was
created to show how beautiful God could make
a plant without a flower." I always think of
this when looking at the graceful and delicate
plants.
There is a story connected with Hanging
Bocks, of course. One of the early settlers of
the county was pursued by the Indians and
driven over- this cliff. Fearing to go to the
road below to secure the scalp of their victim,
they returned, satisfied that he was dead ; but,
wonderful to rejate! he had been caught in the
branches of a scrubby pine, and was not only
alive, but comparatively unhurt. His descend-
ants still reside in the neighborhood, and take
great pride in repeating the story. A large
sketch of Hanging Kocks was made two years
ago by a Washington artist; and his name,
with several others who visited the spot witli
him, is painted upon the smooth rock under
the projection.
After dinner we drove to- the "Devil's Gar-
den," one of the most wonderful natural curi-
osities in all this region. A level strip of rich
land commences between two spurs of the
mountain, and slopes, in an easy and gradual
ascent, for two miles or more; ending at the
southern part, by a precipitous wall of rock,
several hundred feet in height. Near this wall,
a statue-like shape of black gneiss stands, like
a sentinel, guarding'the opening in the wall.
This statue is called the "Devil;" and through
the opening, after a short descent, is the mouth
of a large cavern, witli several spacious apart-
ments, in the recesses of which John Esten
(Jookc, in his novel of "Fairfax," places the
scene of a fatal engagement between Lord Fair-
fax, his-unacknowledged son, Falconbridge,
and the Indians. The demoniac looking statue
gives a feeling of awe to the visitor, and the
garden, near "his Satanic Majesty," is covered
with flat rocks, broken by irregular seams, out
of which small pines arise at intervals, and
through some of which entrance may be had
below the rocks, to curious cavities, where the
I under strata of soft rock has been washed out
i by the action of the water. It was while ex-
plaining these quaint cells that M. Lemoine
spoke to me and asked if he might hope some
day to win me for his own. I replied that I
liked his company very much, but thought I
was too young and knew him too little to an-
swer him now. He seemed quite satisfied, and
during the remainder of our trip was radiant.
Nat's sharp eyes notioed it, as sundry sly winks
testified.
But 1 did not mind him now. I felt too
happy and too secure in the love for which I
had yearned ; and which had never yet been
confessed to mortal being. Only my pine-
wood fire and I had talked it over together.
But now I could tell my dear mother all about
it, and ask her counsel and blessing. We
roamed about among these wonderful scenes
till the sun sank low in the west, and then
started reluctantly for the village of W ,
where we intended passing the night. This
little cluster of houses is in the valley of Capon,
and is inhabited by a number of very good
families, besides having two churches, stores,
etc., for the convenience of the inhabitants of
the valley.
Instead, however, of stopping in the village,
we drove half a mile further, to the house of
Mr. Frye, where the entertainment is much
better. Aunt Hitty and Mr. Frye were friends
in youth, so we were heartily welcomed, and
treated with the greatest hospitality. Mr. and
Mrs. Frye lost a son a few years since, who
was an honor to his name, and who, if he had
lived, would have been a benefactor and bless-
ing to his native valley. Highly gifted, with
fine poetic powers, and an intense desire for
knowledge, he had already planned an acade-
my, of which he was.to be the principal, when
death came, and the good work was cut short;
not to be renewed, possibly, in this secluded
vale for many years. Mrs. Frye showed us,
with true motherly pride, the book in which
her son's poetical efforts were transcribed.
All were full of tender love of nature, and a
deep devotion to the scenes of his native val-
ley, with. its limpid streams and grand old
mountains. Nat read several of them aloud,
and their tender pathos brought tears to our
eyes. There was an undertone of sadness
through them all, as if the shadow of his early
! death cast a premonitory gloom over his spirit.
j A portrait in oil, of this gifted son of the
; mountains, hung in the parlor, shaded from
common eyes by a curtain of black crape,
which, however, was always lifted to the sym-
pathetic visitor. A large, neat book-case—his
own work, his mother said—was filled with his
books, many of these being classical and
poetical works. We remained here till the
afternoon of the next day, taking a delightful
morning walk by the really beautiful river,
and taking in all the loveliness of this charm-
ALICE'S SUMMER IN *ER VALLEY HOME.
335
rag valley. We then bade adieu to bust and
hostess, and drove to Capon Springs. A por-
tion of the way led through the valley, after
which we entered a gorge of the mountains,
and soon reached Capon Springs, at the foot
of the Great North Mountain. It was inter-
esting to notice Aunt Kitty's excitement as
we approached this place; for, when she and
Uncle 'Siah were married, they took Capon
in their bridal journey, or "tower," as she
calls it now. That was thirty-eight years ago,
and she has never been here since; so she was
constantly making some remarks about the
road, the brook, the cliffs, and the mountains.
"Ah, Mr. Lemoinel" she said, "when I
come here the last time, I was almost as young
an' good-Iookin' as A1 lie is now, though maybe
you wouldn't think that was possible. We
drove up from home, an' stopped over night
at the spring, an' then went on next day to
'Siah's father's. Then there was. only a com-
mon-sized boardin'-house here, with a dozen
log houses scattered around. But I thought it
was a beautiful place, though I didn't like the
water. I don't think you'll like it; it's too
warm. I can drink any kind o' mineral water
if it's cold enough. There '8 an iron spring or
two here that's nice an' cold. One up towards
the cliffs is very good. Well, I didn't think
then it would be so long before I seen the
place ag'in; but, somehow, when folks git
married, they have to go to work, an' don't git
to run around much more till they git old.
It's a solid truth, that I enjoy life more now
than I did thirty year ago. But I reckon, if
Nat was like some folks' sons, it would be very
different. Ah I there's the rocky walls that
the road passes through, an' at the foot o' the
one on the right hand there 's the old- Capon
Springs. Why, dear me I if they hain't got a
pervilion built right by the spring! an' a nice
large one, too. An' there's two old ladies
a-knittin' away as comfortable-like as if they
was at home. Have some water? Yes. I
couldn't pass by the old spring. But highty-
tighty! what's this? A man to dip up the
water for you, an' a sign, 'Remember the
water-dipper I' Well, well 1 that beats all. If
we ain't allowed to dip the water ourselves,
an' if we have to pay every time, I 'in sure I
sha'n't enjoy it. Not that I care for a few
pennies. No, no! But I always think o'
springs as bein' free gifts from God. I love to
go to 'em all alone sometimes, an" dip up the
pure water, an' think about it comin" out of
the deep, deep mountains for us; always
flowin' out, an' always renewed, like the love
of Christ for poor human souls'. It seems to
talk to me in a language so different from ours I
—gentle, tender, an' true. Oh, if there's one
thing in this beautiful world I love more than
any other, it's a fresh, pure spring of water,
without any signs around it, or any one to dip
it up for me, or anything to remind me for a
minute that it ain't as free as the air we
breathe I"
When we reached the great hotel, with its
massive columns and its many windows, Aunt
Hitty was more and more astonished. The
building is very large—capable, it is said, of
accommodating five or six hundred guests;
while the baths, erected on the opposite side
of the way, present a fine appearance. As for
the houses formerly erected here, they must
have vanished long ago, as there is no appear-
ance of a town; although Kercheval tells us
that "in 1787 the town of Watson (commonly
called Capon Springs) in the County of Hamp-
shire, was established—twenty acres of land
to be laid off in lots and streets." This is the
smallest amount of land spoken of in any of
the new Virginia towns, but the smallness of
the valley probably accounts for it. These
springs were called for many years "Frye's
Springs," after Henry Frye, the father of our
late host, who discovered the spring many
years before Aunt Hitty's first visit, and who
took his invalid wife there to try the waters
for her rheumatism. The trial was eminently
successful; the woman was entirely cured,
and from that time the spring was famous.
We were shown into pleasant rooms, where
we took a bath and dressed for tea. Had an
excellent meal, and after it was over took a
tour through the hotel. The ball-room is a
very fine one—large, artistically finished, and
with the floor nicely waxed. The band of
string and wind instruments was very good,
and in the evening we had a most enjoyable
waltz. It seemed like being in Washington
again, to be waltzing with M. Leraoine. The
night was lovely, and we promenaded up and
down the great piazza till ten o'clock, when
we retired to rest. 1 forgot to say that we^met
quite a number of friends here. Several of the
wealthy families on the South Branch, a num-
ber of Baltimoreans wo knew, and ever so
many of our Washington friends, were here.
Among these we had a most delightful time,
and, of course, felt obliged to remain longer
than we at first Intended to do. All the next
day we walked, ancTtaiked, and danced, and
ate; Nat and my lover being apparently as
happy as human beings well might be; Lucy
occasionally speaking a quiet word to Nat
about being "so undignified," and Aunt Hitty
telling all the elderly people about her "wed-
din' tower" to the springs nearly forty years
ago.
In the afternoon of the second day, 1 went
out to walk with M. Lemoine. He wishes me
to call him Alphonse, but I cannot do so yet.
We took a quiet-looking pathway up the white
cliffs, and came to one of the chalybeate springs.
The water was cool and pleasant, the path
seemed little frequented, and we found a nice
shady seat, and passed the afternoon delight-
fully. I will not tell you all we talked of. On
336
GODEVS LADY'S BOOR AND MAGAZINE.
his part it was ardent and earnest; but the
true language of love can never be told upon
paper. He talked of his home in France, and
how happy he would be if 1 would go with him
some day to visit it. He praised the beautiful
country through which we had been travelling,
and the home I had left but yesterday. Nothing
would be more enchanting to him, he said,
than to live as Nat and Lucy did—the spring,
summer, and autumn among these delightful
scenes of nature, and the winter in Washington
or Paris. I think I feel that we are just the
same as engaged; but I will not consider It
sure till I talk with mother.
We took a detour on our return home, to
visit at the home of Cousin Clifton, a married
brother of Cousin Jeb's. Here we took dinner,
and by driving late in the evening reached
home on the fourth day. Nat and Lucy stopped
at their own home; but, as Aunt nitty and
Jeb insisted upon it, M. Lemoine came on to
our house, and, for the first time, occupied the
blue room, which we had fitted up for his use.
Several other trips are talked of, but I do not
know which we shall take first. Alice.
P. S. The story of Mr. Frye's son is literally
true, even to the name. He had a wonderful
genius. I looked over my papers to find a
poem or two of his, intending to copy a few
stanzas, to show you their beauty; but they
are mislaid, and I am not sufficiently well to-
day to look further. At some future time I
shall send a copy of one of these poems. It is
also entirely true in regard to the discovery of
Capon Spring, nearly a hundred years ago, by
Henry Frye. Alice.
THE WIDOW.
How sweet and pensive she looks, with her
becoming black bonnet, and the irresistible
white bow over her bonnet strings I Ah 1 who
will say that a widow's cap is not pretty?
What a delightful, cheering presence she seems
to have! with always a beautiful dimpled smile
that shows patient resignation under her sor-
row, and a bright hope beyond the passing
grief. Perhaps it is the anticipation of future
joy and bliss after the time of her widowhood
has expired, and a delightful union of happi-
ness and love with whom she does not know
now, and scarcely wishes to.
It is better to wait and let the gentlemen be
attentive to her many wishes, and decide to
choose the best by and by. There is no hurry;
only let her take a drive every pleasant after-
noon, and an occasional amusement; that is
all she cares for just now. What pretty little
attitudes she has! And those eyes of hers are
so full of expression and sadness I But at
times there is a little roguish look of mirth.
One touch of her white hand is enough to cap-
tivate the most indifferent of her admirers.
At the expiration of the year she looks more
happy, and her quiet flirtations are a little
more open. She takes her drive oftener, and
she seems to have lost some of the sadness
that was her wont, and once or twice she has
almost been tempted to dance. Perhaps she
would, if it had not been for her husband's
sister, who stood near, and looked so reproach-
fully at her. Just as though she would mourn
for her lamented first all of her lifetime. She
should commence to have a good time, and if
an opportunity occurred again, see if she did
show her sister-in-law that there was a time to
mourn and a time to dance. The time to dance
had arrived, as the time to mourn had expired
that year.
Well, people soon get tired of gayeties, and
sigh for a home—widows as well as others.
That time came to the widow after a year of
parties, balls, etc. She had found her second,
or perhaps nor second had found her. One
evening she received a call from a gentleman.
As it happened, the subject of their conversa-
tion was love, The widow artfully asked,
"What is love, Mr. M ?" He explained
his definition of love, and then declared that
the widow was his ideal of a wife, much to her
evident astonishment. Must I tell the truth?
They were married! The widow was a widow
no longer, and soon found that her second lord
was not really so nice as her lamented first.
Jeajs Scott.
NEARER HOME.
BY 8. B. M.
O'er the hills the sun 1* setting.
And the eve is drawing on;
Slowly falls the gentle twilight.
For another day is gone.
Gone for aye. Its race is over,
Soon the darker shades will come;
Still 'tis 9weet to know at even
We are one day nearer home.
One day nearer, sings the mariner,
As he glides the waters o'er;
■Wlille the light is softly dawning
On his distant native shore.
Thus the Christian on life's ocean,
As his light boat cuts the foam,
In the evening cries with rapture,
"I am one day nearer home I"
Nearer home, yes, one day nearer
To oar Father's home on high;
To the green fields and the fountains
Of the laud beyond the sky.
For the heavens grow brighter o'er us.
And the lamps bang in the dome;
And our tents are pitched still closer,
For we 're one day nearer home.
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
337
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
BT VIBGDOA 8. IMLIA.
"I do not wonder, girls, you regret the
work you are bestowing on those dresses. I
heartily wish these 'fashionable weddings'
had never reached our South land. They may
suit large cities, where they are only an event
among the various means of amusement and
display; but in our quiet town, when will you
again have an opportunity of wearing these
elaborate costumes? The bride leaves imme-
diately after the ceremony, and then your
dresses are discarded, perhaps never to be
worn again until the change of style has ren-
dered your weeks of labor worthless. Now, if
you were preparing for such a wedding as I
attended when I was seventeen, you need not
object to all this ruffling, puffing, and stitch-
ing, for then the wedding festivities lasted
two weeks; other weddings followed as a
result, and we were well repaid for all our
trouble."
"Oh, do tell us about it, Cousin Nelly I now
while we are basting, and the machine is
quiet," said my young Cousin Addie, who,
with her two friends, had taken possession of
my house and sewing machine, and were de-
voting a vast amount of energy to the produc-
tion of three wonderful combinations of Swiss
muslin, tarlatan, and lace, in which to appear
as bridesmaids at the marriage of a friend.
The ceremony was to be performed in church,
and the whole time during which they would
enjoy the triumph of their skill could not be
longer than an hour. Their complaints on
this account led to my remarks. Having ex-
cited their curiosity, I was persuaded to pro-
duce the time-stained journal in which I had
recorded my girlish experiences, and read to
them the account of an old-fashioned wedding.
Their busy needles basted with rapidity while
my fingers slowly turned page after page of
youthful egotism and schoolgirl rhapsody;
and, like a dirge, my thoughts kept echoing
Wordsworth's plaint :—
"It is not now as It hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er 1 may.
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more."
1 at last came to the story of which I was in
search. Heading it over after this long lapse
of years, I find that its only merit is that it is
a true picture of our old-time life, told in a
homely way :—
January 13, 185-.
Julia Baxter and Doctor Herndoo are to
be married at last. They were engaged while
Julia was at St. Mary's—dear old St. Mary's 1
—but the marriage has been deferred so long
on account of Julia's want of health that I
began to fear I should never be bridesmaid. I
know they have been engaged two years. My,
you xci.—22
how " we all girls" used to envy Julia in those
days, and exalt her as our superior because of
that plain gold ring which she would never lend
out I and how far off it all seems, nearly eighteen
months since we left school I
I was just lamenting the dull winter in
prospect—for George has gone to Baltimore to
attend lectures—when I received a short letter
from Julia asking me to spend several weeks
with her in her Carolina home, adding in the
postscript, "Be sure to come before the 20th,
as I am really to be married on the 25th. The
doctor thinks he will make a better nurse for
me than I do for myself, and objects to longer
delay."
Uncle James has been wanting me to pay
him a visit for some time. Father and mother
are very willing for me to go, provided I stay
some with uncle's family. I readily promised
to do so. I wonder what I would not promise
to get off. Uncle Charles, Aunt Betsy, Will,
and Bart are going out at the same time. I
dread that stage-ride, for aunt is so fussy!
Sam Fairfax is coming down from New York
to join our party, as he is. a special friend of
Doctor Herndon's. This will be his first visit
South since his childhood, for he was only five
years old when Uncle George moved North.
I expect he has become fully Yankeeized, but
I intend to show him that we know how to
welcome our friends with open hearts, if we
don't have things stylish. I hope the weather
will be warm and clear, for it is a long ride of
forty-five miles, with the canal on one side
and the Dismal Swamp on the other, and papa
says he knows I will give it up if it is the least
cold; but I know 1 sha'n't do any such thing.
Milly, of course, goes with me; but where she
will find room I don't know, for our party will
fill every seat. She says, "Laws, Miss Nelly 1
I kin set on de floor, all scrooched up, and
hole your feet in my lap to keep dem warm.
You knows how cole your feet is always git-
tin'."
I can't do without her, so somebody else
must make up their minds to "scrooch," too.
She does provoke me sometimes, but she Is so
fond of me, and looks so woe-begone when I
threaten to send her in the kitchen and take
Jane in her place, that I never carry the threat
into execution, and she well knows my "next
time" never comes.
January \5th.
Cousin Sam will be here to-morrow, and our
party leave early the next morning. I do
hope nothing will happen to disappoint us. I
was so provoked with Milly this morning! It
was such a pretty day, so warm and bright,
that I told Milly to go to the kitchen and wash
my finest things (as she washes so much better
than Aunt Rachel), and be sure to make haste,
as I wanted her to help me with some sewing
and pack my trunk. I thought as she was so
338
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
anxious to go to Martinsville she would hurry
for once. I was busy, so several hours slipped
away before 1 remembered how long she had
been gone. I then rang the bell very hurriedly,
when, instead of Milly coming in all nice and
trim, ready for sewing, here came Jane, with
her big eyes dancing, and her mouth in a broad
grin. I asked, in an impatient tone :—
"Where's Milly? Hasn't she finished that
washing yet? I want her."
"Miss Nelly," she replied, holding the knob
of the door in one hand, and looking at the
fire, "she tole me to tell you, ef you axed arter
her, she jest gittin' ready for to wash. She
had to wait for de water to bile, and ef she
watches de pot you knows 'twon't never bile;
so, while she was waitin', she Jest stept down
to de corner a niinut to let Jim know she was
gwine 'long wid you."
I ask any young lady of hasty temper, whose
affairs were in hopeless confusion, if this was
not more than girl-nature could bear?
"Jane, go right straight and tell her to come
to me this Instant I" said I, in an excited tone,
mentally resolving to give her a good slap
when she came.
"Miss Nelly, jest listen 1 1 spects Milly
done gone to see de soljers," was the reply I
received to this imperative demand, as Jane
rushed out of my room and down stairs four
steps at a jump.
Worried as I was, I could not help going to
the window as I heard the music from a brass
band, which, at the head of a company of sol-
diers, was just passing the house. Within
sight was every negro on the street, old and
young, in every conceivable attire, and every
mark of hasty departure from work, gazing in
open-mouth admiration. Milly, in happy ig-
norance of my scowling face and her wasted
morning, was indulging in a loud laugh at the
awkward attempts of one of the men to keep
step with the music. After they passed, Jane,
who had forgotten all about my message,
•glanced up, and, seeing me at the window,
suddenly became very grave, and I suppose
told Milly what I had said, for 1 saw her look
up with a frown the counterpart of my own,
and slowly disappear.
■Presently, In answer to another violent pull
of the bell-rope, Milly entered the room, look-
ing the picture of energy—dress pinned up,
head-handkerchief all on one side, arms bare,
andwet to the elbow, and said, sulkily, as she
wiped her hands on her apron :—
"Did >you ring de bell for me, Miss Nelly?
I 'se called off so much I can't make no head-
way nohow, wid all dem 'chicken fixin's.""
"If you would attend to your work properly,
you would have been through long ago. The
very next time you spend the morning in the
street when I send you down to do anything, I
will punish you ; see if I don't. Pick up those
towels and fold those dresses!" said I, as I
began to look for my thimble. "Have you
finished washing?"
"Miss Nelly, you Is so disreasonable when
you gits mad 1 Now, in de name of peace, you
think I got wings, an' kin fly over de wash-
tub? I'd done bin done an' forgot it if it
hadn't bin for Jack; he wouldn' cut no wood;
I 'se bin waitin' for him. Good-for-nottin"
nigger I I wish I had my way wid him. I 'd
mash his nose flatter dan 'tis."
I knew it was useless to tell her it was her
own fault; so I said :—
"Make haste and finish and come up here,
or you shall not go with me to Martinsville."
She slowly left the room, and, as she went
down the passage, muttered loud enough for
me to hear, "Never kin please some white
folks, if you works your fingers to de bonel
More you trys, more you may! I pities de
man dat gits Miss Nelly for a wife; 'fore de
Lord, she '11 make him see sights, she will."
They always "take their spite" out of the
young ladies in the family by such remarks
when they are angry, so we never take any
notice of it, and seldom reprove them for such
outbursts.
North Carolina, January 18th.
We left home yesterday morning, in a tum-
ble-down stage, for a ride of forty-five miles.
Father said we would all wish ourselves back
before we changed horses, it was so cold; but
go I would, though I thought we would never
get off. Cousin Sam came the night before; I
like him right much. He was in high spirits
at the fun in prospect. From his remarks, I
think he will find some things slightly different
from his anticipations. The. night before we
left, the thermometer fell lower than it has
been for years. It was so cold that when Milly
came in in the morning with wood and coal to
make my fire, stopping every second to blow
her fingers, and quarrel with the wood for not
kindling, I pulled the covers over my head and
almost decided to give up the trip; but it was
to be my first appearance on the hymeneal
stage, and, although I was only to play a sec-
ondary part, my interest in the affair was too
deep to be easily dissipated. My first greeting
to Milly was:—
"How is the weather? Cold?"
"Yes, marm, you better bTeve 'tis; never
seed sich a mornin' since I bin born."
By a wonderful exercise of will, I attempt
to obey Milly's repeated in junction—" Miss
Nelly, do, pray, git up. De longer you lays
dar, de sweeter de bed feels." I slowly touch
one foot to the floor, only to withdraw it with
a shiver, and exclaim :—
"Oh, it Is awful cold! Do, pray, Milly, shut
the door; I believe I will wait till the fire
burns brighter," and my head is lost under
the blankets for a few minutes, only to suffer
I renewed persecution from Milly.
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
339
"Miss Nelly, I'se comin' an' tote you outen
dat bed, an' set you down in your bare feet on
top of dis cole oil-cloth, if you ain't done up
'g'inst I gits back wid de water for you to
wash;" saying which, she goes out with the
pitcher, leaving the door wide open, and I
have full test of the difference in the outside
atmosphere.
In sheer desperation, and wishing Milly had
to tote doors on her back, as Sampson did the
doors of Gaza, I spring from the bed and rush
to the fire, making grimaces, uttering exclama-
tions, and hovering over the grate, when I
hear a voice in the next room, saying, between
chattering teeth :—
"Take me back to the place
Where I first saw the ligut.
To my sweet sunny South
Take me home."
"Say, coz, how is this for your land of per-
petual spring—thermometer fourteen degrees
above zero?"
"Sam, I am so cold I cannot even talk, all
owing to your coming from Yankeeland and
bringing this horrible weather with you. Ilurry
up and dress, or we will be too late for the
stage!" is my response.
"Dress I 1 have been dressed for two hours,
sitting at the open window listening to the
mocking-birds in the orange grove perhaps!"
he replies.
"Delusion number one exploded. You Yan-
kees think we have perpetual spring, but the
only spring you will enjoy for some time will
be the spring you will utin/i that old stage has,"
is my answer.
Our chatter is interrupted by the entrance of
Milly, with a most frozen expression on her
dusky face, and the empty pitcher.
"De Lord knows what we all gwine to-do
dis freezin' mornin' 1 Dare ain't nary drap of
water in de kitchen, de pump clean froze stiff.
Jack he never fotch up one bit of light-wood
to make de kitchen fire wid; nottin In de
kitchen but two chunks most gone out; Jane
she settin' over dem crying wid chilblains;
Aunt Rachel she done gone and woke marster
up to ax him to give Jack a beatin; I got so
froze 1 had to come up hure to git warm, for I
right numb."
"What about our early breakfast?" said I,
beginning to fear that our trip would be de-
layed.
"I axed Aunt Rachel 'how 'bout breakfast;'
she turned 'round, as she was gwine out de
kitchen door, and say, 'Gal, if you opens your
mouf to me 'bout breakfast, I '11 hawl off an'
knock you down sprawlin', you great, lazy
house nigger 1 I wish I had my way wid de
whole tribe of you; you sees me done worried
to death now, and den you come hure talking
'bout breakfast—mor'n white folks do, hurry-
In' me up dis weather, coldest mornin' we had
since missus been married. I tell you, every
one, now, don't nary one of you speak a word
to me dis blessed day, for 1 ain't gwine to stan'
nothin' from none of you; now dare!' an' she
give de old cat a kick, near 'bout sent her into
de fire, and went into de house a-biling. I let'
dat kitchen in a hurry, 1 did. Somebody have
broken shins 'fore dis day over, sure I"
"Well," said I, "there is one thing certain.
I must have some water, aud we must have our
breakfast, or I will just go and tell father.
With six servants in the house, it is a hard case
that we can't have anything done." I was so
vexed that I was just ready to cry.
I wish there was some way of teaching dark-
eys to think. All this inconvenience would have
been avoided by a little forethought on Aunt
Rachel's part, or a little management by Milly.
There was no help for it, I must just "wrap
the garment of patience around me," and wait
until the fires burned, before there would be any
hope of having breakfast or making my toilet.
1 sat on the floor with my dressing wrapper
around me, in anything but an amiable mood,
poking the fire, with Milly standing as close
to it as she could get, warming her feet, when
it suddenly occurs to me that our guest may be
in the same plight. I turn to Milly and ask :—
"Is there no water in Cousin Sam's room?
How did he wash?"
"I don't b'le've he's up yit, kase I met Ned
walkin' down stairs wid one of Mars Sam's
boots on and t'other one in his hand, gwine
down to clean dem. I tried to knock him over
for his impertence. He said, 'he bound to
make b'l'eve he somebody else, to keep from
freezin'.'"
After a long time Jane brought up news that
Jack had "gotde pump loose, and breakfast
soon be ready."
Our negroes seem completely stupefied by
cold weather coming on suddenly after such
mild days as we have, aud we have to submit
to their slow movements as best we can.
When I met Cousin Sam in the dining-room,
I felt more reconciled to the cold trip. His
bright face and merry laugh were enough to
warm any one.
After swinging me around and giving me a
morning kiss, he said: "Say, coz, where are
your ventilators? This house seems to need
ventilation."
"Oh, we build our houses on the economical
plan. To save the expense of patent ventila-
tors, we have nice wide cracks left in the doors
and windows, so the 'gentle breezes may whis-
per to you of their love,' and then we leavo the
doors open occasionally," was my reply.
"Yes," he answered, "that diminutive speci-
men of African humanity, Ned, came near hav-
ing a split head for leaving my door open. I
have sufficient proof of the balmy airs of a
Virginia January."
"Don't run down your native State, young
man; for rf you say one word against our noble
310
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
mother, I will brand you traitor," said I, in a
laughing tone.
After a hurried breakfast, we were kept an
hour waiting for the stage. I suppose the cold
weather was the cause, as the driver is usually
so prompt. Mother had us a nice lunch pre-
pared, and shawls and wrappings in abun-
dance. Liza, Jane, and Ned, each in the
other's way, were glad of the excuse to stand
over the kitchen fire "warming bricks to put
to Miss Nelly's feet."
At last, to the delight of all, Milly came to
inform us, "Do stage done turned de corner,
and de horses makiu' fire fly outen de ground,
it's so cold."
Uncle Jerry, muffled up to the eyes, soon
came to the door and called out in a loud voice,
"Ladies and gentlemen, here I is, all right dis
cold mornin'."
While everybody was running to get us off,
although we had been waiting an hour, Milly
was nowhere to be found. Presently, in an-
swer to repeated calls, she came in with a bun-
dle in her hand.
"Why did you keep everybody waiting,
Milly?" asked mother.
"Laws, missis! I just went to smooth over
an apron I forgot, and den I put down Miss
Nelly's key, and had to search high and low
'fore I could find it," was her excuse.
When we entered the stage the horses gave
a sudden jump to the right, and seemed on the
point of starting before Uncle Jerry had taken
his seat.
"Now look here, Jake," said he, "don't you
go cuttin' up capers, cause I 'se cold well as
you is, and ef I kin stan' it you kin."
Father and mother gave us many cautions,
and mother stood on the stage steps to tuck
the blankets in, after the servants had put in
the warm bricks. The whole six were stand-
ing at the stage to tell us "good-by." After
mother had finished her adieux, Aunt Rachel
came with a bottle of hot coffee wrapped in
flannel. "Ilur, honey, dis will help to keep
you warm. Take good care of yourself, an"
don't you let none of dem Norf Carliner gem-
men come shining 'round you, coss we can't
*spare you nohow. I hopes you Ml have a good
time, and don't stay too long, and be sure to
bring me som'fing," and she put her hand in
mine for a hearty shake.
"Aunt Rachel, don't you be scared; I 'm
gwine to watch Miss Nelly closs, an' if I sees
any of dem Carliner gemmen walkin* 'ten-
sions 'round her, I 'm gwine to tell somebody I
knows," replied Milly, with her usual pertness.
Everybody laughed at me, and Cousin Sam
said: "Well, Nelly, how much does that em-
bryo M.D. pay your spies?"
After shaking hands with the servants, we
are driven off at last, and they all call after us
at the top of their voices: "Good-by,.Miss
Nelly!" "Good-by, Milly!" "Good-by, Un-
cle Jerry I"
"Now, Sam," is my first remark, "we will
have to stop at the next street for uncle's
folks, and I only hope Aunt Betsy will be
ready."
"Coz, is she just as fussy as ever?"
"Just as fussy, if not more so. I wonder if
all married ladies without children are as self-
ish as she is."
"Do the boys live at home still?" is his next
question.
"They both stay there, but Bart says 'It is
high old living. He likes his step-mother less
than ever, since they had some difficulty about
the servants.' Her own servants she spoils
very much,, and makes the boy's servants wait
on them, which neither boys nor darkeys like,
and they are constantly at dagger's points
about it."
When we stopped at uncle's door, there were
two trunks standing on the pavement, with a
little negro boy sitting on each. As soon as the
stage stopped, they both forgot all about their
charge, and ran up the steps calling as loud as
they could, "Miss Betsy, marster done come!
He done comet"
The boys came out first, and were rather sur-
prised that I had not changed my mind. They
were delighted to see Sam, and while we were
all talking I heard Aunt Betsy's voice saying,
in a whining tone, "Now, Mr. Fairfax, I know
those horses are going to run away. Just look
at them, Jerry can hardly hold them. I won't
go; 1 shall give up the trip."
Sam called out, in his cheery manner, "Come
on, aunty; I '11 insure your life for this trip at
a low premium."
Bart frowned and looked at me. I looked
out of the window; there stood aunt on the top
step muffled in about six shawls, two fur capes,
a large muff, and her head a bundle of veils.
Lizzie (a pretty mulatto whom aunt spoils
dreadfully)^ in the background with two pil-
lows and a blanket.
After much hesitation, and when our pa-
tience was worse than threadbare, the united
persuasions of uncle and Sam — who left the
stage to try his eloquence—succeeded in over-
coming her reluctance, and she entered the
stage and seated herself in the most comfort-
able corner, with the declaration, "I know 1
shall never have a moment's peace until we
get to Martinsville." .
Lizzie followed her mistress down the steps,
pillows and blankets in hand; aunt saw her.
and forgot her own ills a few moments, to say,
"Mr. Fairfax, there is Lizzie coming out in
this cold air without anything on her head.
Tell her to go back and get her bonnet; she
will get sick."
Uncle called to her to go back, but, obstinate
thing, come she would.
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
341
Bart said, in a whisper to Sam, "That is
mother's pet; how I wish she would take cold,
so as to keep her out of the way for the next
year."
Aunt commenced as soon as she put the
blanket around her. "Lizzie, you are so im-
prudent, you worry me to death with your care-
lessness; you don't care whether you please
me or not, you bad girl."
Lizzie made no reply to this remark, but
leisurely stooped to adjust the warm bricks,
when she came in contact with Hilly, who
was effectually " scrooched" on the floor of the
stage with my feet warmly nestled in her lap.
"Milly, is you going with Miss Nelly? I
think I might go with Miss Betsy if you is
going;" with these words she raised her head
and said something to aunt, which I did not
hear.
"Now there will be the dickens to pay,"
said Will, who with uncle, Bart, and Sam, had
been enjoying a stand on the pavement while
aunt was getting fixed.
Sure enough, aunt said she could not go with-
out Lizzie. Lizzie said she would be ready in
a few minutes. In vain I promised Milly should
do extra duty; in vain uncle protested there
was no room in the stage, and that there were
enough servants at his brother's to wait on
her. There was no reason in her. She would
not go without Lizzie, and actually left the
stage. One can imagine that neither of the
youthful representatives of our family were in
the best humor at this delay. "To please a
fussy old woman who ought to be an old maid,"
ssid I to myself. Will and Bart wished "every
nigger in Africa or elsewhere." I almost echoed
the wish. Sam indulged in an animated remark
on Milton's insight into woman nature, and
wished for his genius, to give vent to his feel-
ings on the occasion. Uncle said nothing, but
frowned unutterable things.
I happened to look down, and caught sight
of Milly's round, shining face, and almost
forgot my vexation. She had such an expres-
sion of disgust on it as she said to me in an
nndertone, "Lord, Miss Nelly I if I was Mars
Charles, if I woulden' take dat stuck-up yaller
nigger and sling her overboard. She settin'
herself up to keep ladies and gemmen waitin'
like dis dis awful cold day I Goodness knows,
she'll wish herself out-en dis stage 'fore she
gits whar ye gwine. 1 means to have my fun,
and let her know I 'm good as she is, ef she is
yaller, and kin read and write. Don't you
say nottin', Miss Nelly; but you better b'l'eve
she will be sorry she ever started."
It ended in Lizzie's going, of course. I think
the boys were, well tired waiting before she
was ready. They snapped their fingers, pulled
their moustaches, smoked, talked to Sam and
I, and when I proposed to wait no longer she
came running out, buttoning up her cloak, and
with three of the other servants bringing her
bundles. She was told to get in in no pleasant
tone by uncle, and succeeded in "scrooching"
beside Milly. I believe they can get in the
smallest space possible.
Once more we make ready for a start, when
it is found that one of the boys will have to
ride outside. I still call Will and Bart boys,
though they are both men in age and stature.
To avoid more delay, Bart said he would ride
the first five miles, then change with Will.
All echo my sigh of relief as we start at last.
Jolt, jolt, out of town, and on the road to Mar-
tinsville; the hard, frozen canal on one side,
and the Dismal Swamp on the other, leaving a
narrow track for the stage, over which the
horses, scarcely restrained by Uncle Jerry,
make rapid progress. The juniper trees were
cold-looking, even in their dark winter dress,
and for miles we could see the charred trees,
which the many swamp fires have left, tall
sentinels to tell of their wasting march.
Sam soon answered all the questions about
his family, which aunt asked in that "must do
it" tone, when uncle, after trying in vain to
stretch his feet in defiance of Lizzie, who oc-
cupied the needed space, commenced to tell us
some of bis adventures on this same road,
which he has often travelled. Just in the
midst of a thrilling adventure, aunt ex-
claimed :—
"O Mr. Fairfax, those horses are running!"
"Yes, my dear, I believe they are," said
uncle, calmly glancing up at the window.
"Let me get-out I Oh, stop! I shall get
out before I am killed!"
"Well, wife," answered uncle, who likes to
tease her sometimes, "you will have to walk
back home, for we are now five miles from
any house, and I am bound for this frolic, now
we have started."
Seeing uncle's indifference, her next appeal
is to Lizzie.
"Lizzie, get up and see what those horses
are doing."
"O missis!" is Lizzie's answer, "I can't git
up unless somebody moves, I am so jammed."
"Oh, dear! I wish I had never left home,"
and with these words aunt buries her face in
her muff, but only for a moment; as the stage
gave a lurch to one side, she started up and
said, "Mr. Fairfax, do stop that driver! 1 am
sure those horses will throw me into the
canal."
Just then Will said, "I think that bay horse
does feel his oats."
Uncle replied, with a look at Sam, "I think
the inside one is the most gayly. What do
you bet on him?"
The two boys, Sam and Will, were constantly
calling out to Bart, and making some witty
remark. Between laughing at them and at
Milly rolling her eyes at Lizzie, I did not have
time to get alarmed. Aunt stood up, pulled
down the window, and was about to call to
342
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Jerry, when Bart hallooed as loud as he could,
"Whoa!" The stage gave another jolt, I
screamed, aunt fell on her knees with all her
weight of a hundred and sixty pounds into
Lizzie's lap, uncle and the boys threw back
their heads and gave a hearty laugh, and Milly
let one of the bricks fall on Lizzie's hand,
which made her so mad she could not speak,
but her eyes flashed as she put the hurt finger
in her mouth. When order was restored,
Milly had smoothed the laugh from her face
and apologized to Lizzie by saying :—
"You must 'scuse me, but dis stage \s so
crowded, if de Lord forgives me dis one time,
I '11 neber come in it no more long as I lives.
I neber likes commiscuous crowds nohow."
As the horses became more quiet, we were
freed for a time from aunt's sad complaints,
and rolled slowly along until we changed
horses, when, the fresh ones being more fiery,
and not liking the exchange from the warm
stable to the cold air, it was some time before
Jerry could control them. The boys sang
several songs, and told many stories of runa-
way horses, all for aunt's benefit. She could
stand it no longer; but, after Jerry mounted,
she told him she would give him any amount
of money if he would let her get out.
"Miss Betsy, dere ain't one bit of danger.
Dese bosses gentle as dogs, only deys cold
now. I'll fetch you safe, sure's I'se born,"
said he.
"Why, auntie, are you going to join the
'Maid of the Dismal Swamp,' and paddle your
white canoe?" asked Sam.
"Yes, I would do anything to get out of
this dismal stage," replied aunt, as the stage
dashed off.
Bart, who had taken Will's place inside,
said, in a whisper, to me:—
"If Jerry knew as much as I do about ma's
bags of gold, he would let us 'paddle our own
canoes,' and do anything she wished. De-
luded Jerry! happy passengers I"
We went along more quietly presently, and
our lunch-basket became the most interesting
object of consideration. Cold turkey, chicken,
ham, pickles, bread, and cake were soon dis-
posed of; but aunt refused all refreshment,
and still continued her lamentations; first
about the horses, then the weather. Once I
thought I heard my trunk fall off, and it be-
came my turn to get up and look out.
"O Bart! do see if my trunk has fallen into
the canal, that's a good fellow. I am nobody
without my wardrobe," pleaded I.
The stage was stopped, and Bart jumped out
to see. Milly waked up to ask :—
"Whar's dat cunnoo Mars Sam talkin' 'bout
jist now? Can't he git it to git Miss Nellie's
trunk outen de canal?"
"No, Milly; by this time it is frozen stiff to
the water, and will stand, a melancholy beacon,
to warn all adventurous young ladies from go-
ing to North Carolina in January to catch
beaux," was Sam's reply.
"More probably catch her death of cold,"
said aunt, spitefully.
"Miss Nelly ain't poor for no Caroliner
beaux, she ain't," resented Milly.
Fortunately, my trunk did not fall; only
became loosened, so was soon adjusted. Bait
resumed his seat, and we rode on. The cold
became more intense with the approach of
night. I think I never was so cold in my life.
As weneared Martinsville, Lizzie began slowly
to change her position, for Milly had been
sleeping some time, using Lizzie's arm for a
pillow, which that dignified lady did not ap-
prove; so she gave her a significant glance
and a push, which effectually waked Milly,
and nearly knocked us all over. Uncle ex-
claimed :—
"I '11 take you both and pitch you head fore-
most into the canal if you make this stage jolt
like that again;" which threat was received
with as much indifference by them as we had
paid to aunt's fears.
Altogether we had a more pleasant ride than
we hoped for, but were all delighted when we
drove up to Uncle James' door. His genial
face, hearty laugh, and warm welcome were
enough to make us forget the long ride.
"Give me Virginia girls for hard, solid sense,
and overcoming difficulties," said he, and
caught me in his arras, as I tumbled, half
frozen, from the stage. "Sam, old fellow,
welcome to the land of the orange and myrtle.
We will show you North Carolina fun, and
get the dandyism out of you, after a week's
enjoyment of our institutions," was his greet-
ing to Sam. "Is that you, sister Betsy, all
covered up, head and ears? How glum you
lookl The funeral ain't over yet, so don't be
so dismal," and he threw his arms around her
to help lift her from the stage. "You are
solid, sure," as she reached the ground.
"Brother James, you must make much of
this visit, for I shall never undertake that ride
again, after to-day's experience," was aunt's
first remark.
"Oh, pshaw I" said uncle, as he shook hands
with Uncle Charles and the boys. "We are
going to treat you so well, and have you so
fat, that you will occupy the whole stage going
back, and you will be sure to come again.
You don't look as if you were 'clean dead
gone froze,' as Nick says," and he turned to
the negro men standing by. "Here, boys,
lend a hand with these trunks; and, Nick, run
tell your missis to send Uncle Jerry a dram,"
saying which he preceded us into the house,
where we were welcomed most cordially by
Aunt Sue and the girls. Such commiseration,
after our cold, long ride, such flying around of
darkeys, such rubbing of hands and feet, and
such bowls of hot punch as they have nowhere
else but in the old North State I
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
343
But I cannot write more to-night, or give a
description of my surroundings, for if I do,
Milly will burn all her hair off, for she has
nodded twice nearly into the fire, and when I
called her to wake up, her answer was, "I
ain't asleep, Miss Nelly; I jest studyin' 'bout
dat stuck-up Lizzie, puttin' on white folks'
airs," and, with a shake and a groan, she is
standing in a martyr-like attitude, waiting to
do up my hair.
January 20th.
I have had so many visitors, and been so
much engaged, that I have not much time for
writing. To-morrow I am to go out in the
country. Colonel Baxter lives about ten miles
from the village; all the bridal party from
town are to go and stay there until after the
wedding festivities are over. Uncle James
and Aunt Sue think I ought to stay with them
until the night of the marriage; but I am too
anxious to see dear Julia, besides it is so much
more pleasant to go out with the party. 1
have often heard mother talk of country wed-
dings, but I have never attended one.
I am much pleased with North Carolina.
The people are so kind and hospitable, though
I have seen very little of the village. The
boys have gone out bunting, but I think the
weather is too cold for that kind of fun. Hilly
says it is going to snow before morning.
January 22d.
This morning when I waked I found Milly
was right, and the ground covered with snow.
How pretty everything looked 1 I don't re-
member to have seen such a deep snow for a
long time. When we sat down to a late break-
fast, Uncle Charles thought 1 had better give
up going in the country until after the snow
thawed. Uncle James said there would be a
fine chance for a sleigh-ride, as he had not
seen such a snow for a time. While we were
discussing the matter, a note was brought
me from one of my friends, saying a sieigh
would call at the door for us, and we would
all go together.
About an hour afterwards the sleigh came.
Sam, thinking of New York sleighing parties,
was the most ludicrous specimen of astonish-
ment I ever saw when he went to the porch
and saw a long North Carolina market wagon,
mounted on improvised runners, filled with
young ladies and gentlemen in every variety of
dress and wrapping: instead of Buffalo robes,
homespun quilts, varied with a few bear skins;
and for silvery, tinkling bells, two dairy bells in
the hands of a little negro boy astride one of
the horses. We did not care for appearances,
the ground was covered with snow, here was an
opportunity we might not have again for years,
and from the way the sun was then shining,
we might not hope to enjoy this but for a few
hours. I was all eagerness to start, and could
only wait to tell Milly to bring my trunk in a
cart.
Cousin Sam at first demurred. "Nelly, I
think this is barbarous; such a turn-out I never
saw."
"No," was my reply, "nor will again this
winter maybe. Stupid that I am, I like this
barbarism. Your kids do look out of place,
coz; come, be sensible, and do not put on city
airs, but throw aside ideas that are out of place
here, adapt yourself to circumstances, and we
will have lots of fun, if we have no handsome
sleighs, gayly-dressed horses, or liveried driv-
ers," saying which I left him, as a fine-looking
widower—who had called on me the night be-
fore—came up to escort me to the sleigh. Sam
and the two boys, Will and Bart, followed, and
we soon started.
We did not skim lightly over the crisp sur-
face of the snow, for it was not crisp at ail-
quite the reverse; but rode slowly enough for
all the darkeys in the village to run to the
gates of the various yards to stare at the un-
usual sight, and then report the news to the
inmates of each house as we passed. If noto-
riety is fame, we were all famous for once.
Sam entered into the spirit of the frolic, and
joined in the songs and related anecdotes, until
all forgot he was a stranger.
Laughing, talking, and singing, we rode mer-
rily on for several miles, though we frequently
had to slacken our pace as the warm rays of
the sun sensibly diminished the deptli of snow.
I was so much interested in conversation with
the widower that I had not noticed how slowly
we were going, when suddenly our driver
stopped laughter, song, and flirtation, by call-
ing out, "Now, dere now I what we gwlne to
do now? Dere ain't 'nough snow long hur for
dis hur thing to go on, and dese horses clean
stuck in de mud. Mars Ned, you all have to
git outen dat wagin and see what you gwine
to do 'bout dis. Dese plague-taked horses
won't budge nary inch."
Sure enough, there was nothing but mud and
slush. The road lay along the edge of the
piney woods, and the trees had partially kept
the snow from lying very deep, and the sun
shining so brightly had effectually broken up
our sleighing.
All the gentlemen jumped out and puzzled
their wits in vain; fence-rails, the usual resort
in break-downs, were of no avail under such a
calamity, for clearly they could not take the
place of snow.
The gentlemen came to us with woe-begoue
faces. "Well, ladies," said Cousin Edwin,
"we have placed you all in a fix; we can go
no farther on runners, and you will have to
summon patience to your aid until we can get
some other conveyance."
"Hurrah for Southern sleigh-rides I" said
Sam, with a shout, in which we all joined, said
shout doing more service than all the commit-
344
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
tee's debates on ways and means, for a dog
commenced to bark very savagely from an ad-
joining field, which brought an old colored
woman in sight. She came across the field,
which was separated from the main road by a
rail fence, and soon was standing on the sec-
ond rail looking at us. As she stood there,
dressed in a short, blue homespun dress, yel-
low apron, and head covered above her—plaid
head handkerchief with a white cotton cap,
the frill about an eighth of a yard long—shad-
ing her eyes with one hand and driving back
the dog with the other, she was in keeping
with the occasion.
"Here, aunty, step this way, please," called
out one of the gentlemen.
She jumped over the fence with a nimble-
ness seemingly at variance with her age, and
came towards us, hurried by her curiosity.
She made a low courtesy as she said :—
"What 'sessed you all to come out dis pow-
erful snowy day? Miss Nannie, honey, what
you doing dare? Wliatde matter now? 'pears
like you done lost your wheels, ain't you?"
and she peered down at the runners with a
curious air.
We explained our misfortune to her and en-
listed her aid immediately.
"Lord, children!" said she, as we finished
telling our story, "if you wa'n't so fur from
our house now, our folks be powerful glad to
see you all, but de great house mor'n a mile
from hur, and dese nice pretty ladles be most
done froze time 3*ou got dare; but I 'se got a
rousln' big fire in my old shanty, and Lord
knows I'd be mighty proud to have you all
come dare and get warm till dey can git an-
other wagin ; but it's monstrous sloppy walk-
ing dere 'cross de fiel'."
We thanked her, and were only too glad to
accept her invitation, until the driver could be
sent for other vehicles. We all started towards
her house, she and the gentlemen letting down
the rails for us to pass through.
To most of us it was nothing new to go to a
negro cabin, but to Sam and a Miss Boyd—who
was from the North on a visit to a cousin of
Julia's—the scene was entirely new, and they
looked with wonder at the rousing fireplace,
which filled one end of the room and left but
little space for splnnlng-wheel, bed, loom, and
sundry other articles which were stored around
with a care that showed their value. . The old
aunty, in her hospitable efforts to make us
comfortable, seemed to forget the "powerful
cold" as she went from house to wood-pile,
bringing In ends of logs to serve us in lieu of
chairs. After we were seated she leaned over
the fire, her cap frill bobbing up and down as
she blew up the already glowing hickory coals,
and piled the wood higher, every now and then
raising her head to address first one and then
another of the bright group around her.
"Now, honey, dry your feet good, 'cause wet
feet mighty apt to bring on rumatiz. Young
marster, set up nigh de fire, de chimley corner
de warmest place; I 'm mighty feared you
pushed for room in dis little place."
The fire by this time burning to suit her, she
stood behind the merry group for some mo-
ments, then went to a wooden pail that stood
near the open door and brought a large gourd
filled with water, offering us each a drink, care-
fully going to the door after we each had drank a
little, to pour out what was left before offering
it again, talking all the time as she passed from
one to the other.
"I reckon you all on your way down to Mars
Green Baxter's, ain't you, to Miss July's wed-
din'? I hurd Silvy say dey spectin" company
down dere to-day. I 'm gwine to try to hobble
down to see her married if de Lord spares me.
Miss July devited me hurself."
"Are you free, aunty?" asked Sam, as she
handed him the gourd of water.
"Free! Thank de Lord no, marster. I
ain't none your free trash; I 'longs to Mars
Sol. Johnson, one of de fust folks 'bout hur.
We ain't none your poor folks. I 'm sorry I
can't 'resent de family better in dis poor place.
1 hopes you won't look at dis dirty coat; if I
had knowed I was agwine to have company
I'd put on my meetin' frock. I knows what
s'iety is, fur I was raised a lady, I was, and I
kin tell quility folks soon as I sets my eyes
'pon dem."
By the time we were thoroughly warm the
driver and Mr. Ilinton—my widower—returned
with a wagon—this one on wheels, and brought
the whole party a kind invitation from the
master of the "great house" to spend the bal-
ance of the day and night with his family.
We all vetoed such an innovation on our pro-
gramme, and bade Aunt Kitty good-by. The
gentlemen gave her a token of their gratitude,
and we all shook hands with her and thanked
her for her kindness. She followed us to the
road and stood watching us as we waved our
handkerchiefs and hats to her until we drove
out of sight.
Without further delay or accident, we drove
rapidly on, as the day was quite far advanced-
Just before we reached Colonel Baxter's, a
white boy driving an ox-cart with a small load
of wood on it passed us; both boy and animal
looked much in want of food ns well as clothes.
Our driver, Jake, stopped his horses and gazed
at the boy a moment, and as 'he drove past,
called out:—
"What you feed dat mule on? He looks so
fat I spectshe llbes on fence-rail oats. Yar!
yar! yar! Git up, Fanny." I omit the long
reply to the "black nigger."
We reached Colonel Baxter's just before
sunset. His place is very pretty; a large white
frame house standing back from the main road,
with double piazza across the front and sides,
and surrounded by a grove of pine, hickory,
A CAROLINA FROLIC.
.",40
and walnut; the out-houses and main building
newly painted, with the many cabins grouped
at a little distance, gave the appearance of a
miniature village. As we neared the house
about a dozen little negroes of all ages and
both sexes ran from different parts of the yard
and peered through the fence at us, and one
little fellow dropped a basket full of chips and
ran up the front steps to announce our arrival.
The whole household came out to greet us,
and the warmth with which we were received
more than repaid us for the lost sleigh ride.
Julia took possession of us, leaving the gen-
tlemen to bo entertained by her father; and
the party of eight girls were escorted to her
room, which Is very large and was brightly
lighted by an immense fire, on which were
piled several logs of lfchtwood, rendering the
candles almost unnecessary.
We were in excellent time for a late supper,
sp did not hurry our preparations. Such a
bedlam as that room was, with everybody talk-
ing and apparently nobody listening. Such
snatches as this in every variety of tone and
between much laughing. "Packed up in a big
shawl." "Lostthesleeve." "Toldhimnotto
go." "Susan burnt the front width." "Afraid
I will not be ready." "Do coma and get
warm." "Don't be prinking for the widower."
"Picked out a splendid beau for yon." "Jane,
bring some more wood." "Tell me how to
trim the skirt." "Lend me a hair-pin?"
"Here, girl, lace this shoe, please." "Sukey,
shut that door," etc. etc. To vary the scene
of mirth and confusion, two white-teeth dark-
eys stand in open-mouth wonder, ostensibly
waiting on missis, but really drinking in the
novelty of the scene, one holding a foot instead
of lacing the shoe, the other pretending to pour
water in the basin, but in trnth letting half go
on the floor, where, fortunately, there Is no
velvet carpet to spoil.
The end of an hour finds us no nearer the
end of our comments, and but little nearer
being ready to go down stairs, when the loud
blast of a horn announces supper; at the same
moment a dark, happy-looking face appears at
the door, to say, "Miss July, marster says
how long for you be ready to come down, he
waitin' your pleasure. But don't yon hurry,
if you ain't done fixin' up for marster doctor,"
with a sly look at Julia. "'Cause supper ain't
done yit, de bread ain't quite soaked. I knowed
you wouldn't be ready with all dese nice young
ladies fixin for dey beau; I wish I didn't have
to tend to Buddy, I 'd be in here helpin' of you
all, sure," and she turned to go.
"Aunt Clary, don't go, I have a bone to
pick with you," exclaimed bright-faced Mabel
Elliott.
"You hur, Miss Belle? what's de matter
wid me and you now?" with a laugh; and,
going to Mabel, she picks her up in her arms
and gives her such a hug that Mabel cries for
help.
"Why," says Mabel, when she is free again,
"you promised to give me Doctor Uerndon,
and used to tell me all sorts of nice things you
said he told you about me. Now just see how
things have turned out!"
"Well, Miss Mabel," she replied, "I am
bound to look out for my own child fust, and
she loved marster doctor so hard, I thought it's
a pity not to let her have him," which speech,
reaching Julia's ears, she chases her "mammy"
out of the room with the hair-brush, and we
hear her laughing long after she disappears.
Miss Boyd looks on in astonishment, and
asks Mabel if she allows syich familiarity in a
servant.
"Oh, yes; Aunt Clary, and such servants
who have nursed two generations, take the
liberty of mothers almost."
We are ready at last, and meet the gentle-
men in the parlor, where are two or three new
comers; among others Doctor Herndon and
his brother Mortimer, with whom I am to wait.
He escorted me in to supper, which was served
in the large dining-room. There was no car-
pet on the floor, but the floor was waxed and
polished until it was as smooth as glass; the
furniture, massive and glistening with constant
rubbing, for it has been in the family for over
a hundred years. The table was loaded with
delicacies, for they know how to live at Colonel
Baxter's. There were ten servants to wait on
the table; I was astonished, for at home we
only have three, and I did not think the ten
an improvement, for they were in each other's
way. I could scarcely eat for saying "No,
thank you!"
Mr. Herndon Is just splendid; I like hira
ever so much—I wonder what George would
say if he saw that—he is very dignified, but
full of quiet fun, for every now and then while
we were talking, I would see his mouth twitch
and his eye sparkle ae though he were much
amused at my remarks. I think he is quite
handsome, but not as handsome as George,
almost though; but he is much older, and I
feel afraid to order him about as I used to do
George. I have not written to the poor fellow
yet, but I will after a while. It was quite late
when Mllly arrived with the baggage, I was
already up here in my room waiting for her.
She made me. laugh as she told mo "She had
cotched a beau"—one of Uncle James's men.
"You knows, Miss Nelly, I cou'den fetch your
trunk down Mars Jeems's stairs myself. Sally
said 'it was Bill's place to do it, but ho de la-
ziest nigger on de plantation, too good-for-no-
t'ln' to do anything but go conrtin'.* So I jest
steps down to de kitchen, and dere he was a
settin' on de kitchen steps a noddin'. So I
says, 'Now, Mr. Jones'— dat waked him, and
he stood up and made a bow—'now kin 1 ax a
346
OODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
favor of you?' and den I looked shy at him,
just for de world like you looks when you is
selling at fairs; you knows how. He said,
'certainly, Miss Johnsing, I will do anything
with streine felickity. What kin I 'commodate
you 'bout dis arternoon?' 'I most 'shamed to
'pose on you, and you so kind,' 1 said, and den
1 looked down and fotched a sigh, and den
looked up at him again and den 1 said, 'If you
please, to be so 'bligin' as to help me tote Miss
Nelly's trunk down?' 'To be certainly 1 will,'
and he starts off quick. As we was agwine up
stairs nrter the trunk, he says, 'Now, Miss
Johnsing, I axes of you de pleasure of seein'
you to de party we gwine to give in honor of
de Yirginny ladies. I never seed a lady I likes
so well on short 'qua'ntance much as I does
you.' I looked at him ag'in, and says, 'We
both seems to have de same f eelin 's, Mr. Jones.'
He toted de trunk down and woulden' let me
put my hand to it."
"What, Milly 1" said 1, "flirting with stran-
gers when you are engaged to Jim."
"Lord, Miss Nelly," was her reply, "Jim
won't know nothin' 'bout it; he ain't here to
be a-waitin' on me, and I ain't gwine to say Jim
once. I knows he be shining 'round while I 'm
gone; 'sides I reckon I'm bound to sustain
de honor of my State when gent'emen civil to
me."
"But looking love at them is more than civ-
ility requires," I rejoined.
"Now, Miss Nelly," said she, "if you calls
liftin' your eyes and den droppin' dem suddin
like lookin' love, I seed you do it your own
self last night when you talkin' to dat Mr.
Widower, an' I was jest takin' pattern arter
you."
"Well, Milly, it is awful late, so let's get
ready for sleep," Is my only reply to this ac-
cusation.
January 27M.
The marriage is over, and a grand time we
had. Sam said he never enjoyed a wedding
more. Julia looked lovely, but so frail. Doctor
Herudon so proud, strong, and withal so tender,
that, had I not known his noble character, I
would have trusted him then and there with
the happiness of my best friend. The ceremony
was performed in the large, old parlor—where
so many generations of the Baxters have been
courted and married. The walls were dressed
beautifully with evergreens by the skilful hands
of Aunt Clairy, who is devoted to Julia, and has
much artistic taste. The furniture plain but
stately with age, the only modern article being
Julia's piano. One end of the room is occupied
by the huge fireplace, where many a young
giant, cut down i:i his prime, lies, a helpless
victim to the destruction that roars around;
grand light-wood knots, piled on In profusion,
light up the room and cast weird shadows in and
out among the massive furniture. Although it
has turned very cold again after the two warm
days, every door and window is thrown wide
open. A large assemblage of the neighboring
planters, plainly dressed but conscious of their
position, mingle socially with the more fash-
ionably attired families from Martinsville. All
the outer windows and piazzas are filled with
gayly-dressed negroes, not only Colonel Bax-
ter's servants, but many from the adjoiniog
plantations.
Up stairs a lively scene of excitement, but
to-night the bridemaids are distributed in vari-
ous rooms, and each young lady is assisted in
her toilet by her own maid. A party of the
house servants, some eight or ten in number,
go from room to room and knock, with the re-
quest, "Please, ma'm, let us come in and see
how you looks." Of course the; request is
never refused. As the group reach my door,
Milly says, " Plague take it I I was hopin' you 'd
be all done 'fore dem gals got hur."
"Why do you allow them to come in?" asks
Miss Boyd, who is rooming with me.
"Oh," I reply, "it would hurt their feelings
not to let them see us dress; it is one of their
greatest delights to see their young ladies dress
for a party, and their admiration, though gross
flattery, is seldom unwelcome."
"Do you really care enough for your slaves
to avoid hurting their feelings?" she asks.
"Yes, indeed!" is my answer. "While we
-often slap them and sometimes punish severely
for misconduct, I know no one who would will-
ingly and calmly hurt a servant's feelings.
They are very sensitive, and a slight to their
affections by either master or mistress is keenly
felt."
By this time Milly has opened the do<5r, and
I am the centre of an admiring group. One of
the young girls is anxious to assist Milly in
putting the last touches to my dress, which she
politely declines by saying, "I rather fix my
missis myself, thank you. Eyes on, hands off."
One little imp of ten comes up and slyly feels
the light folds of my dress as it lays on the floor,
which her older sister perceiving, snatches her
away, saying :—
"Let Miss Nelly's coat 'lone; ain't you got
no manners? Go 'long down sta'rs, go!" and
she is ingloriously pushed out of the door to
cry in the passage until her sister is elsewhere
engaged, when she watches her chance and
returns.
One comes up to me and says, "Miss Nelly,
you looks jest as pretty as Miss July. I reckon
marster doctor think you de bride."
"Now, ain't dat neck good 'nough to eat?"
and I feel a warm kiss on my bare shoulder, as
another comes behind me. "Dere! I done got
one kiss, 'tain't de fust one needer; I kissed
Miss July 'fore she dressed."
They look with awe on Miss Boyd, who is
dressed much more elaborately than I am,
until one of the older women says, "Miss Boyd
POETRY.
347
clean beat all de ladies, she dressed so fine.
She look magnificous. 1 reckon you catch one
of our young gent'men for a beau."
We then walk across the room for their
gratification, and are pronounced "powerful
grand," "splendiferous," and the like, and
with a courtesy they leave us to continue their
tour of inspection.
Milly said I looked prettier than I ever did
before; but she tells me that so often that she
is no criterion. I know I was looking my best.
As Mortimer Herndon and I followed Mabel
and Sam down stairs, Sam looked back to
whisper, "Coz, you do justice to the occasion."
I can say "give no higher praise." I wish
I knew what Mr. Herndon thought. lie looked
at me with such a comical smile as we entered
the parlor; later in the evening I found out
the reason. He overheard Milly—who with
some of the servants were standing at the foot
of the staircase watching the bridal party come
down—say, "Miss Nelly and her 'scort step-
pin' mighty grand, but dere 's mor 'n me leaves
home folks beaux outen dere way when dey
visitin'. I wish Mars George hur to see -her
lockin' «rms wid dat Mr. Herndon. I means
to tell him if de Lord spares me."
After the solemn ceremony was over, and
congratulations had been extended, everybody
gave themselves up to an evening of unalloyed
pleasure. I was introduced to numbers of
gentlemen, somedull, others highly interesting.
Mr. Herndon was very attentive. He said,
"You belong to me ex-officio. I see my friend
the widower looking daggers at me, but both
he and 'home folks beaux' must surrender
thWr claim to-night if for no longer."
About ten o'clock the colored men brought
in many large waiters, with plates, cups and
saucers, knives, forks, and spoons; hot breads
of all kinds; meats, oysters, salads, poultry,
tea, and coffee. Afterwards delicious cakes,
fruits, jellies, ices, and in fact everything that
could be desired, and all prepared on the plan-
tation by Mrs. Baxter and her servants. Ac-
cording to our usual custom, the brldemaids
and groomsmen served the guests, the servants
holding the waiters. We all enjoyed this part
of the fun very much; but especially the awk-
ward attempts of the gentlemen to keep up
with the rapid movements of the girls, as we
fairly flew backwards and forwards in our
efforts to ouUhine the gentlemen as waiters.
It was one o'clock before the parlors could be
cleared for dancing.
Six negro musicians were then brought in to
play the fiddle and banjo. Everybody, old and
young, joined in the dance. I danced as I never
danced before; and such music to make one
forget everything but the delicious sense of
motion. No piano can come up to it, and
would have been out of place with the sur-
roundings.
Late in the night, or rather early In the
morning, the old folks gave up the floor, and
left the parlor to our occupation. Edwin Fair-
fax told the musicians they might rest for a
while, and left the room. He soon returned
with four little negro boys, and, after telling
the gentlemen to select their partners, told the
boys to clap Juba.
They began with delight, slowly at first,
clapping both hands together, then striking one
knee, increasing in speed and excitement with
each blow, until the whole body becomes ex-
hilarated, whistling in perfect time. The faster
they clap the more rapidly the dance goes on.
I took my place with the others, but soon be-
came so convulsed with laughter at their antics
I had to give up and sit down. But Bart Fair-
fax and Mabel Elliott spun round and round
that room until all the rest stopped dancing to
watch them. The faster they danced the louder
Will ordered the boys to clap, until you could
scarcely see their feet move, and I thought the
negroes would clap their hands off. At last
Colonel Baxter caught Mabel in his arms, and
declared she should not dance another step.
We retired after breakfast, and slept about
two hours, when we were called up to get ready
for a ride of four miles, as we are invited to
dine at "Greenland," the residence of Doctor
Herndon's sister, Mrs. Minor. We have invi-
tations for every day during the next two
weeks. But I must stop, as I have promised
to dress Milly after supper, as there is a grand
party below stairs to-night."
There, girls, I Ml stop now, as I know you
are impatient to hear that sewing machine,
and I am apt to forget that these reminiscences
are not as interesting to others as they are to
myself.
DEPRECATION.
BT M. F. ANDREWS.
I oaknot bear It; it is too bright
For this poor aching brow of mine;
The ivy sprays are silver white.
And the laurel leaves are all of light.
Yet oli. It Is a chastened slirlnc,
On which to lay, with lone appeal,
The garland gift and the starry seal.
The chaplet I know is very fair,
But it seems so like a weary weight.
Though fashioned all with loving care.
With many a wistful word and prayer,
A token and trust that Is choice and rare.
Dear hands have wrought too late.
A precious prize, not worn, but won,
A sweet, Rad service of life-work done.
And laurel and life, with the love of years,
I give to thee, Lord, with praise and tears.
A good servant makes a good master.
Wherever the speech is corrupted, so is the
mind.
348
QODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
PROGEESS OF LITERATURE AND
SCIENCE.
BT I. O. BOOTH.
It is a truly difficult task to delineate the
state of mankind in the earlier ages of the
world, and to present a perfect record of
events and the persons concerned in them.
Even to a comparatively late date history is
not to be relied upon as truthful in every re-
spect, from the fact that superstition and fable
possessed for-a long time a firm hold upon the
minds of the people of that barbarous age, and
it was almost impossible for them to write the
annals of their time without representing as
positive facts the legends taught them by their
fathers. The almost entire absence of written
records in the earlier ages contributed much
toward making the history of early events vague
and uncertain, and when their exploits were,
in a great part, handed down from memory,
from generation to generation, through the
medium of poetry recited at their games and
festivals, it is not surprising that the chroni-
cles of their nation are filled with battles that
never were fought, and commanders who were
never inaugurated. In later times, however,
as learning progressed, superstition gradually
gave way, and from that time only do we ob-
tain reliable information on historical subjects.
The first restorers of learning in Europe
were the Arabians, a rude and warlike nation
before the advent of Mahomet, but which ex-
tended its dominions, in a few years after his
death, over a considerable part of the Old
World; these people, becoming acquainted witli
some of the Greek authors, discovered and
justly appreciated, the knowledge and im-
provement to be derived from them. The
caliphs obtained copies of the ancient manu-
scripts, and caused them to be translated into
Arabic, holding in great esteem those treating
of mathematics and physics. They dissemi-
nated their knowledge, and founded schools
and colleges in all the countries which they
subdued.
Tlie western part of Europe became first ac-
quainted with ancient learning through the
medium of these translations. Charlemagne,
in the eighth century, caused Latin copies to
be made, and also founded institutions pro-
moting learning, commerce, and agriculture.
From his time must we date the birth of mod-
ern society. In England, also, at the same
period, Alfred introduced a taste for literature
among his subjects. It is wonderful to see
with how great rapidity those half-civilized
people, by the Influence of learning, became
respected and powerful, and formed themselves
into three distinct nations—France, Germany,
and Italy.
In the middle of the fifteenth century ap-
peared the distinguished genius Roger Bacon,
who possessed a power of invention fitted to
advance in every science which was the ob-
ject of his study; he made important discover-
ies in astronomy, chemistry, and medicine;
yet this genius believed in an elixir of life, and
the transmutation of metals into gold. A
general taste prevailed at this time for poetical
composition. The troubadours wrote sonnets
and ballads, and excelled in extempore dia-
logues on the subject of love; they contended
for the prize of poetry at solemn meetings,
and Illustrious ladies attended to decide be-
tween the rival bards. Among those cele-
brated as troubadours of eminence are Richard
I., of England, and Frederick I., Emperor of
Germany. The transference of the papal seat
in the fourteenth century familiarized the
Italian poets with the songs of the troubadours,
and gave a provincial stylo to their writings,
which is at once noticed in the poetry of
Dante. It was not until the fall of the East-
ern Empire at the end of the fifteenth century
that a taste for polite literature extended over
the whole of Europe. A successron of popes
possessing a liberal spirit, and above all the
discovery of the art of printing, contributed
much to the rapid advancement of knowledge.
In enumerating the great changes which
characterized the fifteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies, the high state of advancement in the
fine arts is to be noticed. At this time lived
the distinguished painters Raphael, Michael
Angelo, Titian, and others, and at the same
period the church of St. Peter's, at Rome, ex-
hibited the noblest specimen of architecture m
the world. We can see how much literature
and the sciences are Indebted to the art of
printing for-their advancement and dissemina-
tion. From that period classical learning,
criticism, poetry, and history make rapid ad-
vancement.
At this time appears Bacon, the most pro-
found philosopher, and perhaps the most uni-
versal genius, that any age has produced.
Says an English writer, "We owe to Bacon
the sure method of advancement in knowledge
by experiment and observation of nature,
instead of system and conjecture." In the
seventeenth century lived also Galileo and
Napier, who made important discoveries in
astronomy; and later in the day, Locke and
his contemporary Newton. The lyric poetry
of the sixteenth century—of Spenser, Surry,
Sydney, and even Shakspeare—is somewhat
harsh and inharmonious; nor is there much
improvement till the time of Cowley. At a
later day Dryden carried lyric poetry to per-
fection. The compositions for the French
stage, at the end of the seventeenth century,
are models of a correct and polished taste.
The most noted of the French writers were
Corneille, Racine, and Moliere. From this
time forward we notice a rapid advancement
in literature and science, as well as in other
MISS LE ROT.
349
branches of learning, and a state of society
reaching a higher degree of culture day by
day. It is "useless to enumerate the poets, the
historians, and the men of science of the present
day—persons with whom all are familiar, and
whose works every true lover of literature
cannot fail to admire and cherish as master-
pieces of thought and composition.
The educated man of the present century Is
not content, as once, to pass his time in lux-
urious ease, satisfied with the present, and
regardless of the future; but is occupied with
plans for the advancement of society and the
promotion of culture and refinement, and
finally is able to retire from the busy turmoil
of life exclaiming, with the ancient bard, "I
have raised a monument more lasting than
brass, and more sublime than the regal eleva-
tion of pyramids, which neither the wasting
rain nor the Innumerable succession of years
will be able to destroy."
MISS LE ROY.
All Lynn had gone wild over her. Our one
little newspaper appeared triumphant, with
her name in great capitals, and filled with
glowing accounts of her great loveliness and
grace, as well as voice. But then Lynn had
never seen or beard any one like her before.
No wonder the people raved, and the dark lit-
tle theatre was crowded nightly, and all the
pretty flowers our town could boast of were in
constant demand 1
I told Cousin Max one morning, whilst pour-
ing his coffee, that he had spent a small fortune
In bouquets, and all for what? "For the love-
liest woman and singer in the land 1" he had
replied, with emphasis, and 1 had tossed my
head incredulously, and neglected to put any
sugar in his cup, just to punish him.
"You shall see her to-night," my cousin con-
tinued, "then I am quite sure you will agree
with me."
"I do not want to see her," said I, falsely.
I had been impatient all the week to see and
hear her; but had been kept indoors with a
miserable cold.
"Yes you do," remarked Max, quietly and
provokingly, "so do not waste your fine sto-
ries;"
"I sha'n't look at her if I go!"
"Well, you can hear her?"
"No; I will put my fingers in my ears."
"That would be lady-like."
"1 do not care!" cried I, nearly choking my-
self, in my eagerness to speak with a piece of
hot, buttered muffin. "I know I shall not like
her; I never like people who are so universally
praised."
Max laughed, finished his bitter coffee with-
out complaint, and went off to buy more flow-
ers for that Miss Le Koy.
But that night I went with my cousin—went
to hear this " marvellous" singer, with my heart
set hard against her. The house was packed-
one sea of eager human faces—and the main
aisle was almost entirely filled with brilliant,
exquisite flowers. I looked at them indig-
nantly. "Would she half appreciate them 1"
I wondered.
I had formed my opinion of this Miss Le Roy
—somewhat hastily and without any founda-
tion whatever, I must confess—and 1 pictured
her a vain, frivolous woman, craving only ad-
miration and applause. I did not think she
would care for anything so simple as flowers.
Now, if they were jewels—something she could
wear and look beautiful in—they would most
likely please her, I imagined; but being only
flowers, that will soon fade and be of no use,
how little will she prize them! I could not
help telling Max what 1 thought, but be only
smiled, in his provoking way, and said: "Wait
until you see her."
The curtain — a shabby, faded affair—rose
at length, revealing the stage in all its barren-
ness—the feeble little orchestra made a grand
effort to play an opening overture in unison
—and the "fifth grand concert of the season,"
quoting our programmes, began.
A nervous little man in a tight-fitting, un-
comfortable looking suit of black came for-
ward, made his bow, and sang, "Oh, fly with
me I" in a timid, high baritone. Then followed
a " fine harp performance," again quoting from
our programme, by a young (?) lady, youth-
fully attired in pink with white trimmings. A
fierce looking bass then roared, "Rocked in
the Cradle of the Deep," and finally, to my de-
light, Miss Le Roy made her appearance.
I leaned forward eagerly in my seat ready to
criticize, and selfishly keeping my opera-glass
to myself—never once thinking to offer it to
Max. But the glass brought out no defects;
the delicate oval face, seen through it so clearly,
was one of great beauty, innocent of either
paint or powder.
She wore some sort of a dark wine-colored
dress, with bits of creamy old lace at her throat
and wrists, and white azaleas crowning her
blue-black hair. Very lovely! 1 could not
help thinking; then I turned and caught Max
watching me with an amused expression.
I frowned defiantly, but soon forgot him in
listening to Miss Le Roy singing. I had never
heard such a simply perfect voice.
Ah! it was not strange that all Lynn raved.
She was equal, I think, to the new prima-donna
N——, any day I At times she would seem
fairly to electrify the audience, and the cry of
"Brava! brava!',' rang out again and again.
For some moments after her voice had ceased,
the entire house remained hushed and still.
The enthusiasm was too great for the instant,
350
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
to find vent in mere applause. Then the old
wooden building almost shook with the storm
of excitement that suddenly burst forth, and
the small stage was quite strewn with flowers.
I glanced at Max. lie was very pale, and
his eyes fairly dazzled me, they were so bright.
Presently he leaned over our box and dropped
a cluster of cream-white roses, that he had been
carrying tenderly all the evening, at Miss Le
Roy's feet.
She picked them up quickly, and fastened
them in her dress, with a little smile towards
us of thanks. Then, in response to the hearty
encore she had received, she sang some gay,
trilling little thing, that won my heart com-
pletely.
"Max," said I, on our way home, "I wonder
you do not fall in love with Miss Le Boy; I
could easily."
"Perhaps I have," he observed, quietly.
The following day proved the truth of his
words. For he came to me with his fine face
all aglow with a great happiness, and bade me
"wish him joy."
"What has happened, Max?" 1 cried.
"Something that will surprise you not a lit-
tle, cousin mine."
"Somethingthatevidentlypleases you. Tell
me," I said.
Max came and bent over me, taking both my
bands iu his. "She has promised to be my
wife," was what he told me.
"She 1 Who?" I exclaimed, excitedly.
"Can you not guess? Who did I tell you I
loved, last night?" a little reproachfully.
"Oh! Miss Le Boy. You cannot be in ear-
nest, Max?"
"I am, surely."
Then I cried a little bit, I think, for although
I now admired this Miss Le Roy very much, I
hardly liked the idea of her having taken such
complete possession of ray Cousin Max's big
heart.
"You must not cry, little girl. You must
be glad for my sake, for I am the happiest
man in the world."
"But what made her love you?" with a sus-
picion of a sob in my voice.
"I'm sure I don't know," laughed Max.
"You are not very complimentary, young
lady."
"You have only known her a week!" I
cfled, indignantly, and not heeding his remark.
"I know, and it does seem a little strange
that I grew to love her in so short a time; but
hereafter, little cousin, I shall believe most
firmly in yonr doctrine of Fate. Are you sat-
isfied?" this smilingly.
"Are you sure she loves you?" I asked,
still incredulous.
"Quite; otherwise I should not be so happy.
Yes, she confessed to-day, this morning, that
she had liked me from the first night of our
meeting, and that I had seemed like an old
friend, somehow. And now I am very cer-
tain, little girl, that she more than likes me.
Good old John Beardsley I how I bless the fel-
low 1 for he introduced me to her the iiight of
her first concert in Lynn. I have been to see
her every day since. Her mother—a dear,
white-haired old lady—is travelling with her,
and it is amusing, as well as pretty, to see the
pride she takes in her daughter's wonderful
voice. Miss Le Boy says she believes her
mother enjoys the applause she receives more
than she does herself."
"Then she does enjoy it?" I observed.
"Of course I What true woman would not?
It is very natural. Would not my little cousin
enjoy it were she, too, a great singer?" in-
quires Max, laughingly.
I was obliged to confess to myself that I
should, but 1 did not deign to answer him.
"Tell uiesome more about her," 1 merely
said.
"There is little to tell. She has led a very
quiet life until within the last few years; liv-
ing with her mother in a dull little town, some-
thing similar to this, until the death of her
father caused such a change in their circum-
stances that something had to be done in a way
of support. Then it was that Lucile—Miss Le
Boy, 1 mean—used her voice, which had been
most highly cultivated, to advantage, render-
ing herself and mother independent by her own
efforts alone."
"Then her name is Lucile? Lucile Le Boy!
Very pretty, is it not?" Max laughed, and
pinched my cheek.
"I think so. And now good-by I" and then
he went off gayly to find mamma and tell her.
After he had gone, I sat thinking for some
little time quite sadly. Max had always been
more like a brother to me than a cousin, and I
had always looked upon him as such ever since
he had come to our house to live, a little rosy-
faced, mischievous boy. And now I felt,
somehow, as though this very lovely Miss Le
Roy was going to take him away from me, and
perhaps cause him to forget me, and I did not
like i^ at all.
A clear, fresh morning, with the sky deli-
ciously blue, and the sunlight falling in warm,
golden patches on the rose-terrace. It is Max's
wedding-day, and could not be fairer. I am
glad on his account, and I am also generous
enough to be a little bit glad on Miss Le Boy's
as well, for it cannot be pleasant to be married
on a stormy day.
Max's engagement has been decidedly brief.
He imagined singing in public was wearing
upon Miss Le Boy, and it was true that her
lovely face was growing a trifle sharper in out-
line, and the pretty pink tint in her cheeks
fading a little; so Max only consented to her
fulfilling one other engagement—that a more
imperative one, being in some large city—and
THE OLD AND NEW 80 HOO L-HOUSE.
351
then cancelled all others, anil brought her and
her mother back triumphantly to Lynn. They
are now, at mamma's wish, stopping with us,
and I have given up to Lucile my own cosey
blue room, for which I have received many
thanks and several kisses from Max.
I must confess that I like Miss Le Roy
greatly, she is so charming in every way. 1
am jealous of her no longer, and consider my
cousin a very fortunate man. However, I
think her chief charm lies in the way she lis-
tens when any one talks; with so much atten-
tion, and apparent interest. It makes one feel
as though they were constantly saying some-
thing very pleasant, witty, or entertaining. I
am always quite proud of my conversational
powers when in her society.
"Little cousin 1" calls Max from the foot of
the stairs.
"I am coming I" cry I, and slip on my white
dress—for I am to be bridemaid—and hurry
down.
Lucile is standing with Max in the hall,
leaning on his arm, radiant in gleaming silk
and pearls, with her lovely face flushed and
happy, seen through a cloudy mist of tulle.
"Would you keep the marriage service wait-
ing, little lady?" asks cousin, gay and hand-
some, smiling down at me.
"Has the carriage come?" 1 inquire, smooth-
ing down my dress, and trying to get a peep
at myself in the hall glass.
"Yes, and the two mammas already gone.
Come, cousin mine, you look very well."
I redden, my manoeuvre being detected, and
follow obediently to the carriage.
The day grows more perfect; the sun shining
in brightly through the stained glass window
of the oldest, grayest church Lynn can boast
of, turning the bride's white roses into vivid
red ones, and shedding a ruby glow over the
entire little group gathered around the chancel-
railing. Max has just placed the ring on Lu-
cile's slender finger, and all Lynn regrets
there is no longer a Miss Lo Koy.
EXPECTATION.
BT ANSA CLEAVES.
And so be will come to-day!
And my heart Is all aglow—
Is all aglow with my love for him,
And lie loves me well, I know.
The sky never-looked so fair,
The birds never sang so sweet;
I 'm sure they know of my heart's great Joy,
And the sunbeams kiss my feet.
Lo, the morning-glories bright
All nod as I pass them by.
And the roses smile as they seem to say,
"We know that your love draws nigh."
And so he will come to-day.
At the golden time of noon I
Now the hours are all too long, too long;
But then they will pass too soon.
THE OLD AND NEW SCHOOL-
HOUSE.
BT CAROLINE 0KNB.
A golden sunset was beginning to weave its
fading splendors with the purple mists of twi-
light. Those rural sounds, which, as Cowper
says:—
"Exhilarate the spirit,
And restore the tone of languid nature,"
were gradually lapsing into silence. The twit-
ter of the swallows, as flying in circles, they
one by one slipped into their nests under the
eaves of the barn, soon ceased, and only the
night-hawk, with the crescent-like curve of his
wings sharply defined against the sky as he
flew, continued at intervals to utter his one
monotonous note. Even that will now cease,
for he has reached a place where he sees be-
neath him, in the hollow of a gray rock, his
mate carefully brooding her unfledged young.
With a note, different, deeper, fuller, and more
emphatic than those previously uttered, after
whirling swiftly in rapidly diminishing circles,
with a sudden plunge be reaches his mate on
the rock with her callow young. What a joy-
ful stir and flutter there is, and what a peeping
out of little heads from under their mother's
wing, and how cheerful, soft, and sweet the
chirping voices that greet him, for even in a
family of hawks there are ties of love and
manifestations of endearment and joy.
The wind which, as it passed, gave the green
leaves that delicious shiver, which carries with
it a sense of grateful coolness, now breathes so
low as to seem like "soft floatings from a faint-
heard hymning of Biry tongues."
Leaning against the outer door-post of a
large, roomy old farm-house, so low-studded
as to invite the morning-glory vines to creep
to the eaves, stood a young girl, the beauty and
grace of whose figure was heightened rather
than impaired by the simplicity of her dress.
The spirit now looking through her large brown
eyes indicated a pensive thoughtfulness, chang-
ing now and then to a sunny glow, which irra-
diated her whole countenance. If features,
regular and of faultless outline are essential
to beauty, hers being irregular, she could not
have been called handsome. And yet her
bright, clear complexion, fine forehead, rich
chestnut hair, abundant and wavy, her red
lips, around which hovered those sweet curves,
the impress of the kindlier emotions, which,
taking root in the heart bloom into deeds of
benevolence, formed an ensemble both charm-
ing and lovable.
"Salome," said Mrs. Trask, a pleasant, quiet-
looking woman, who sat gathering yarn from
a spindle on to what was called a clock-reel,
"Salome," said she, looking up from her work,
"what are you thinking about?"
A faint deprecatory smile flitted over the
352
GODEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
young girl's face, as she said: "While con-
templating the picturesque beauty of the scene
and the serenity of the hour, what the poet
says came into my mind, and made me think,
like him, that
"' Life Is the rose's hope, while yet unblown.'"
"Well, the poet you speak of has a pleasant,
pretty way of expressing himself; but I like to
think of something that seems more real. I
kind a-thought you were looking at the new
school-house."
"I did notice it, among other things."
"You can see it plain as day through an
opening just to the right of the great rock."
"Yes, and from the windows of the west
chamber."
"Have you been into it yet?"
"No; but I intend to the first opportunity."
"Well, I'll say this about it, and that is, ac-
cording to my mind, there isn't auother spot
in Marlborough so pleasant and convenient for
a school-house as the one where it stands."
"I think the same as you do relative to that,"
said Salome. "In external appearances it har-
monizes with its surroundings. It is not such
as to throw all other buildings Into the shade,
while with an air of ostentation and scorn, it
seems to say: 'How much more splendid I am
than the rest of you, particularly my predeces-
sor.' On the contrary, it is in keeping with
the other buildings, and in a way, better ima-
gined than described, lias an air of good-na-
tured simplicity pleasant to behold. The true
secret of this, no doubt, is owing to its evident
adaptation to what is required of a school-
'house in a place like this."
"No doubt," said Mrs. Trask.
"It has, therefore, at the outset," Salome
went on to say, "achieved a good name, which,
according to an old French adage, 'is better
than a golden girdle.'"
"Or, as Solomon says in his Proverbs, 'bet-
ter than precious ointment,'" said Mrs. Trask.
"I heard a lady say the other day, she be-
lieved, judging from her own observation and
experience, that among the different social
bonds which unite those composing a commu-
nity, for the purpose of making them wiser,
better, and happier, the school-house should
go hand in hand with places set apart for Hi-
vine wqrship; thus causing the influences of
the one to co-operate and harmonize with those
of the other. In the school-house the initia-
tory steps are, or ought to be taken, for under-
standing and reverencing not only what is prac-
tically useful, but what in a moral and religious
sense is truly good, noble, and beautiful."
To those who do this in the true spirit, it will
lead to that realization of the beauty of holi-
ness, which enables its possessor to go bravely
and cheerfully on, and perform, uncomplain-
ingly, whatever duties may be required.
For a while the silence remained unbroken.
Then through the air stole a few clear, liquid
notes. It was the voice of the robin, dreaming,
perhaps, so Salome thought, of cherries, red
and juicy, and the dew in flower-cups, such as
he and his mate and the young robins feasted
on in the cool of the morning. Taking her
key-note from the robin's song, she sang in a
rich voice, and free, careless way :—
"While all the neighbors shoot thee 'round,
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground.
Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell."
She had no time to sing more, when some one
near by said :—
"Hoes not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the
sound of days that are no more? Often, like
the evening sun, comes the memory of former
times to my soul."
Salome had not heard the coming footsteps
of him who repeated these words, they had
been so muffled in the soft grass; but she knew
the voice, and turned towards him with a smile
and words of welcome.
Mrs. Trask, too, when she saw who it was,
said: "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Wilmore.
Come in and sit a while."
"Thank you I but I'll sit in this garden-
chair. In a summer gloaming like this, I like
to have nothing between me and the blue cope
of heaven."
Mr. Wiltnorc was a fine specimen of an octo-
genarian. Time had dealt gently with him.
nis tall, symmetrical figure remained unbent,
and in his movements there was still much of
that freedom and grace which had distinguished
him in the prime of manhood. His hair, too,
was still spared. Its only change was from
sable to silver, and instead of being tied in a
queue with a black ribbon, the style prescribed
by fashion, was free to fall in curls over his
shoulders. He might have sat for an ideal pic-
ture of Ossian, tlte son of Fingal, from whom
he had just quoted.
"Salome and I have been talking about the
new 6chool-house," said Mrs. Trask.
"I think that I should better like to talk
about the old one, where I went when I was a
boy. With your leave, and yours, Miss Salome,
we will take a retrospective glance down the
dim vistas of the past. There, quickened by
imagination, the mist of years roll away, and
I see this old school-house standing in the pris-
tine glory of its first coat of paint, which the
contrast of surrounding verdure makes brighter
and more vivid. Since that time, more than
once it has appeared in a new dress. Red was
thought to be the proper color for a school-
house when I was young, notwithstanding the
disrepute into which the sanguineous hue had
fallen from being associated with the red-coats
worn by the Britishers, who fought under
Cornwallis and others to prevent the freedom
of the Americans.
"Sometimes, when passing the old-school-
house, I almost fancy I hear a low, weird mur-
mur, with now and then a touch of sweetness
POETRY, ETC.
353
in it, steal from the windows. It makes me
think of the pleasant words of a song, sung by
one whose voice will be heard no more. 'They
were like the calm dew of the morning on the
bill of roes, when the sun is faint on its side,
and the lake settled and blue in the vale.' As
I listen to the low, sad sounds, 'mournful yet
pleasant to the soul,' they change to those so
clear, silvery, and entrancing, with little inter-
ludes of laughter rippling through them, that
I know the lips that breathe them must be
fresh and red as the roses which crown the
month of June.
"Yes, there they are, and it being recess, a
bevy of blooming girls arc gathered near the
window; some witli eyes black as the ripe sloe,
others of a mellow brown, or of a blue serene
and beautiful as the sky, while the faces of all
are beaming with that sunny, eloquent bright-
ness which wells up from cheerful hearts.
"The picture vanishes, and now, looking
through the same window, I see the school-
master sitting in dignified silence at his desk,
with ruler, inkstand, and a pile of writing-
books before him. At bis right hand lies a
ferule, that instrument of correction, suggest-
ed, it may be, by the Oriental mode of punish-
ment called the bastinado,'in which the blows
are applied to the soles of the feet' instead of
the palms of the hands.
"There is nothing in the schoolmaster's
countenance which could cause the shadow of
a supposition that, like the poet Thomson, he
considered it a
'Delightful task to rear the tender thought,
To pour the fresh Instruction o'er the mind.
And teach the young idea how to shoot.'
There were those who thought that shooting
partridges would be to him a more congenial
employment. Nevertheless, at the appointed
time, he never failed to be at his post. Each
boy, as he entered the school-room, removed
his hat and made a low bow. Nor did either
of the girls, with cheeks aglow by the exercise
of walking half a mile, more or less,, fail to
make her best, most graceful courtesy—not so
much, it may be feared, in honor of the school-
master, as from a consciousness that the
glances of more than one pair of keen, admir-
ing eyes were directed that way. To his credit
be it spoken, that whatever longings he might
have for field-sports, he held them rigorously
in abeyance. He was a thorough-going disci-
plinarian, and was firm in the belief that to
spare the rod was to spoil the child. It was
not in his time that
'Stern discipline, a faithful servant, long
Overlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died.'"
"'litquiescat in pace,' I say," said Salome,
"and from his ashes, Phoenix-like, we may
hope, will rise a successor who has the gift of
twining garlands of praise with hard, distaste-
ful duties, and of recognizing kindness as
stronger than the rod, or the sword either, I
tol. xci.—23
think, and that even little kindnesses may
prove great ones to the recipient."
"I had a vague consciousness of what you
say, when I was a child," said Mrs. Trask.
"When I was older I often asked myself the
question, 'why should not parents and guard-
ians be as solicitous to cultivate the minds and
manners of those under their care in a way to
make them kind, gentle, and obliging, as to see
that they are well skilled in the sciences and >
other knowledge taught in the schools?'"
"According to my mind," said Mr. Wilmore,
"the best that can be said of the subject is,
that either reason is allowed to succumb to
custom, or that people are prevented by an in-
born coarseness from realizing the close affinity
between amenities and morals. Some may
even imagine that the little civilities of social
life result from pride and vanity, instead of
those virtues which are in direct opposition to
selfishness, and those mean vices which self-
ishness cherishes and evolves. No one has
given a truer and more practical exposition of
that politeness whose introgression into the
heart of social life sets its secret springs into
harmonious motion, than is contained in the
admonition of Paul the Apostle, where he says
to his Roman brethren: 'Be kindly affectioned
one to another, with brotherly love; in honor
preferring one another.'"
Saying thus, Mr. Wilmore rose and bade the
ladies good-night, with all the politeness of the
old-school.
SONG.
(Translated from the German.)
BY CLABI.
Ltttlb breeze, whither away
Bearest thou fragrance so rare?
Doubtless, afar o'er the sunny fields
Call tbee the loved and the fair.
Little brook, whither away.
With thy kissing, caressing flow 1
The flowers that bend o'er thy sparkling wave
Are thy playfellows, I know.
Little lark, whither away,
Warbling with joy to the sun?
'Tis thy heavenly mind that urges thee up,
Thy joy in the sky alpne.
O birds, and breezes, and brook 1
Like you could I only flee,
With a heart full of love, to the one I love,
What a glad world this would be 1
We spend half our lives in making mistakes,
and waste the poor remainder in reflecting
how easily we might have avoided them.
"That man," said Sydney Smith, "is not
the discoverer of art who first says the thing;
but be who says it so long, so loud, and so
clearly, that he compels mankind to hear
him."
354
OODET'8 LADT'8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
THE DOBBSES.
BT MRS. F. M. HOWARD.
It was the lottery ticket that did it. Pa
Dobbs had always been a remarkably prudent
man, insisting on an ocular demonstration of
value received before investing his capital;
but the blandishments of this lottery agent
were such that even Mr. Dobbs succumbed,
and a dollar reluctantly left its quarters in the
well-worn pocketbook which rested securely in
the left breast pocket of his coat into the more
stylish one of the stranger. We say reluctantly,
because .when dollars, dimes, and cents found
their way into the aforesaid pocketbook, there
was always plenty of room and to spare; no
squeezing and crowding, but good breathing
space, where weary cash, tired of being tossed
about in the hurry and jam of life, could stretch
itself, and have time for quiet reflection; and
especially were the dollars sure of having a
good time. They were patted, caressed, and
made much of before being smoothed out to
their full length, and laid carefully in its bill
department.
Pa Dobbs drew a long sigh as he beheld the
sleek gentleman disappearing around the cor-
ner, and remarked to himself (an attentive and
appreciative listener, by the way), "There's
that bill as Jemima was a-teasin' of me fur, to
fix up her old bunnit with, gone for sich tom-
foolery. But, confound the chap I a dollar's
cheap enough to pay to git rid of him, and
. then, who kiwmt"
Who did know, remains forever doubtful, as
Mr. Dobbs immediately went off into that land
where airy castles rear their stately fronts,
and " maybes" " perhaps," and " like-enoughs"
skip and frolic to their hearts' content, deluding
their entertainer with many an unstable dream
of future bliss or grandeur.
He had enough of the practical left, after
this visit to the ideal, to lock the transaction
securely in his own breast, knowing well that
the wrath of Mrs. Dobbs, and especially under
the aggravation of having to wear her old bon-
net unmillinered, was no slight obstacle to
encounter; so at dinner he applied himself
vigorously to the manufacture of toft sawder,
in which various complimentary allusions to
the superior style of last year's bonnets, and a
timely remark to the effect that Mrs. Dobbs'
style of beauty rendered, adornment super-
fluous, completely mollified thatgood lady, who
igave vent to her gratified feelings by remarking
to her daughter Sally, "Yer pa has got amazin'
good taste for a man; an' if he likes my old
bunnit so well, why, I ain't so sot to change
it," with additional remarks ad libitum.
Time passed on, as might have been expected,
and the investment had long since been added
to the dead loss column in Mr. Dobbs' mental
profit and loss account, when his morning's
mail brought him a letter. Not directed in the
cramped chirography which characterized his
usual correspondence; but with a free and
easy business hand which proclaimed it a
stranger in the house of Dobbs. It quite took
the family by surprise, and pa Dobbs felt hur-
riedly for his glasses, and turned quite pale as
he reflected that it might be a summons or a
subpoena, or some other dreadful instrument
of law sent for his special torture.
The spectacles on, the envelope was opened,
and, after much bumping of heads in the strife
to get and retain the best position from which
to look over the paternal shoulder, and after
much spelling out and re-reading, to make
sure of the right, the letter was deciphered as
follows :—
Mr. John Dobbs—Sir: Your lottery ticket,
bearing the number 7797, has drawn a cash
prize of fifty thousand dollars ($50,000). Please
draw on Third National Bank of ISew York
city for the amount, and accept our congratu-
lations. Yours, very truly,
H. Ketchtci & Co.
"Je-ru-sa-lem!" solemnly ejaculated Mr.
John Dobbs, as the whole tremendous purport
of the letter burst upon him in all its magni-
tude.
"Oh, lorky I I '11 bet we '11 crow over them
Jennings girls some!" said Miss Susan, trium-
phantly.
"You mns'n't say 'lorky' now," replied
the gravely rebuking voice of Miss Sally, the
eldest; "we 're rich, an' we mus'n't use none
of them 'ere words."
"Sal's puttin' on style so quick," observed
young Thomas, with a burst of childhood's
joyous laughter, as he turned consecutive sum-
mersaults on the hard floor. "I say, pa Dobbs,
can I have five dollars all of my own when
you get that money?" said the young gymnast,
to whom, prior to date, fifty cents had appeared
a colossal fortune if possessed in his own
right.
"Yes, bub, yes," replied Dobbs, Sr., looking
about on his family with a beaming smile;
"and, Jemima, you go straight an' order just
the best bunnit this town can scare up," he
continued, with a still broader smile; and
amid many a "La, sus!" and "I never!" the
story of the purchase of the ticket was told.
The Dobbses had been humble people once,
and, like many others of the same stamp, very
much afraid some one else was going to get a
round above them on the social ladder and
look down upon them; so it followed, as a
consequence, that, after this stroke of fortune,
humility should become very far below par in
their estimation, and the important question
beaame, not, as in the past, "Who will associate
with us?" but, one better suited to the present
Dobbs standard of inquiry, viz., "Who shall
we associate with?"
THE D 0BBSE8.
355
This grave query was the subject of many
family councils, and it seemed as if the tedious
process of the selection of "our set" would
never be completed, especially as many of
those considered eligible refused the selection,
and declined to bow before a calf gilded even
fifty thousand dollars deep.
All this was a mystery to the Dobbses, who
had supposed, to usea vulgar phrase which often
graced the conversation of the private family
circle, that it only "takes njoney to make the
mare go;" and when that quadruped, with
plenty of money to accelerate her motions,
refused to move in the desired social direction,
her drivers were at a loss to know what to do.
No house in town was more elegant than theirs;
no silks could stand alone more imposingly
than did Mrs. Dobbs'; the girls had snubbed
their old beaux (the blacksmith's son, and the
young man who earned his daily bread by dis-
pensing shining tin-ware throughout the coun-
try in return for paper-rags and old iron); and
Miss Sally ordered her dressmaker around
equal to the haughtiest heroine in her last
novel; still no improvement was discernible.
At last a happy thought struck the family
mind. Without doubt, Miss Susan suggested,
the reason so few of the elite had called to
make their acquaintance was that they had
omitted the usual housewarming, which cus-
tomarily followed the establishment of a home,
and the explanation was so beautifully simple,
so entirely reasonable, that the motion that
the oversight be at once remedied was seconded
and carried without a dissenting voice. As
none of the family had ever attended a real
crime de la creme affair of the kind, the execu-
tion of the scheme was necessarily attended
with difficulties.
The first mountain which presented itself
was the Invitations, and it was only after a
quire of paper, a dozen pens, and Miss Sally's
temper were fully used up, that a satisfactory
form was fixed upon for the printer. These,
together with the wear and tear of the dic-
tionary, might have been saved, had the com-
position of the notes been left to the discretion
of that functionary; but it was not, and the
following, in faultless type and style, was the
result :—
Mr. and Mrs. John Dobbs,
and the Miss Dobbses,
Will be at Home on Thursday Evening next.
If the public had been of an inquisitive turn
of mind, it might pertinently have inquired
what public or private interest the announce-
ment of this fact could have to the community;
but it is to he supposed the hidden meaning
was understood, for the recipients of the intel-
ligence al 1 uded to the subject among themselves
with broad smiles (of pleasant anticipation, no
doubt), and the remark, "Ah, the Dobbses are
going to give a party I ha, ha, ha!" became
current at every street corner.
Mrs. Dobbs pronounced the notes "very
pretty," and in young Thomas's eyes they were
"old persimmons," but Miss Susan turned up
her nose, which was an unnecessary exertion,
as nature had given it an aristocratic lift in
advance, as she remarked :—
"The notes is well enough; but, sakes, what
a namet I always did hate it, and now it's
worse than ever. Susan Dobbs! The Dobbs
is bad enough, without having Susan tacked
on it."
"Susan ain't so bad as Sally," responded
her sister. "I don't see why pa and ma
couldn't 'a' named us Arabella and Rosamond,
or something nice."
"I 'm sure Soozie is a pretty name," said ma
Dobbs, taking up the subject in self-defence,
"and we can call Sally 'Sarawh,' as Pearsall's
folks do their Sally. It's because we don't
speak 'em polite that makes 'em so bad."
"But there is the 'Dobbs' left yet," replied
the still discontented "Soozie." "I don't see
why we can't change that, too; other folks do.
Smythe's folks used to be Smiths before they
got rich, and the Brownays were Browns
where they came from."
"Wo might call it Dobays," said Miss
"Sarawh," who had undoubtedly got an un-
derstanding glimpse of Mark Twain's descrip-
tion of Mrs. O'Reilley's transition to Madame
Oraille, in "The Gilded Age."
"I can't see as that is any prettier than ,
Dobbs," replied Mrs. Dobbs; "but" (meekly
bowing to the superior judgment of her daugh-
ter) "ask your pa when he comes in, an' if he
is willin' I had just as soon be called ' Daubby'
as anything else."
"We must try and talk perliter," said Miss
Sally, after a moment. "We say git, and go,
and all them things as isn't manners, jist like
common folks, and I'm goin' to try—I mean
indeavor, to talk more eddicated now."
"What shall we say instead of 'git' and
'go?'" asked Miss Susan, in open-mouthed
astonishment at this exhibition of her sister's
superior wisdom.
"Why, 'obtain,' and 'peramberlate,' of
course," replied Miss Sally, tossing her head
with lofty scorn. "I 've been observin' in the
dictionary, and there's lots of words we should
ought to use instead of them as we do."
"Better swaller the dictionary, and then
you '11 have it handy," remarked Thomas, a la
"terrible infant." "I tell you what I '11 do,"
he continued, after a moment's reflection.
"I '11 foller you up with it when the party is
here, and when there's a chance to stick in a
big word I "l sing it out for you."
Thomas repented his brotherly suggestion
in dust and ashes, for by it he received an in-
troduction to the broom-handle, wielded by the
356
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
skilful band of Miss Sally, who stopped not
for dictionary words or stylish grammar as she
poured out her wrath upon him for his imper-
dence.
The question of refreshments was next con-
sidered, and it was one of perplexing interest,
until a happy thought struck Mrs. Dobbs'
mind, which removed the wrinkles from her
brow in a twinkling. The Dobbses, like every
aristocratic (i) family, had an unpresentable
(of course) poor relation—fearfully trouble-
some in society, but exceedingly useful in the
kitchen and seamstress department. The speci-
men of the genus under present consideration
had long officiated as cook in a family noted
for stunning dinners and recherche suppers,
and was therefore entirely eligible for the
situation.
To be sure, Mrs. Dobbs had cut her unmer-
cifully since her rise in society; but if she had
any doubts of procuring her service, the sight
of the Dobbs pocketbook reassured her. She
was right—nothing but pressing needs would
have induced Mrs. Grey to enter the house of
her purse-proud relative; but necessity con-
quered, and all went merry as a marriage bell
in the culinary department.
It was exasperating, to be sure, to observe
that the baker's man and the butcher's boy
paid more respect to Mrs. Grey than to the
lofty Mrs. Dobbs, and that the "upstart crea-
tur" was invariably taken for the mistress of
the house by strangers—a natural mistake,
Mrs. Grey being a lady by virtue of birth and
• education. But necessity was also Mrs. Dobbs'
master for the time, and her wrath was kept
well bottled for future use.
The night of the party arrived, and pa
Dobbs, in very tight pants and swallow-tail
coat, shone resplendent in the parlor. Ma
Dobbs had almost wished herself a man, as
the difficulty of selecting a suitable costume
for the evening had presented itself. The
rival claims of silk and velvet almost crazed
her, but the velvet finally triumphed, it being
"so mucli more stylisher;" and as she appeared,
flushed and exultant, with very tight kids, a
stupendous coiffure, and with the heavy velvet
incasing her ample proportions, she looked
very near as stylish as a pillow tied in the
middle.
Last came the daughters. A special reporter
would have scratched his head in despair had
he been required to describe the intricacies of
their apparel. Solomon in all his glory was
not arrayed like one of these, and the lilies of
the field would have been nowhere in compari-
son. The dressmaker—foolish creature!—had,
in her presumption, ventured to suggest plain
white, with suitable trimmings, af, combining
elegance and simplicity; but she was extin-
guished in less time than it takes to tell the
talc, and given to understand that she was ex-
pected to manufacture a toilet which would
eclipse all others which had ever been made in
that vicinity, and—she succeeded.
The party arrived—at least the Smith, Brown,
and Jones portion of it; but, oh, wrath ! those
for whom the trouble had been made, for whom
Mrs. Dobbs had laid awake nights in devising
means to entertain, and spent her days in per-
spiring agony over the stove in preparation for
—the Pearsalls, Montagues, and their circle-
were cosily seated at home, mentally indignant
that "those Dobbses" should have dared to
insult them by an invitation to any of their
vulgar doings.
How are the mighty fallen! The Misses
Dobbs gnashed their teeth as they gave up all
hope of being able to outshine the gay Miss
Montague and haughty Sarah Pearsall, with
the magnitude of their rings, bracelets, and
chains, and the length of train and delicacy of
waist pertaining to their shining silks; or, bet-
ter still, of fascinating the brothers of those
proud young ladies with the same, combined
with the pink cheeks, black eyes, and wealth
of "warranted real water curls," which gave
such a flattering copy in the mirror. Ma Dobbs
would have gone off by herself and had a cry
on the subject, had she not been so thoroughly
and magnificently mad, and the youthful
Thomas was the only one in the family who
was unaffected by the social catastrophe. Ee
was too deeply engrossed in thoughts of the
coming glories of supper to mind anything
which did not interfere with that; and, as the
absence of guests only made the certainty
clearer that the victuals would hold out, what
mattered it to him whether it was the Pear-
sails or the Perkinses who stayed at home, so
long as the result was the same?
The evening passed off with as little variety
of sorrows as such evenings usually afford.
Ma Dobbs, in a fit of self-communion, gently
inclined her ice-cream saucer so that the melted
portion softly escaped and started on an ex-
ploring tour down the front of her dress, sur-
prising from her the inadvertent exclamation,
"Drat the luck!" and the waiter, in passing a
plate of hot oysters over Miss Sally's head,
missed his aim by half an inch, and succeeded
in landing a liberal portion of the soup and
oysters in her hair and down her back, thereby
causing another wrathful slaughter of the
English language. Aside from these trifles,
everything was lovely, and at half-past two
the last guest had departed; the good and bad
were blended in one happy oblivion, as the
Dobbses slept the sleep of the just.
The next day there was a prolonged family
debate, in which tears were the principal argu-
ments used, and the upshot was that pa Dobbs
promised to make arrangements as soon as
possible to move to some more congenial
sphere, where wealth should be considered an
POETRY, ETC.
357
equivalent for education and common sense,
and where "stuck up" people should be un-
known.
In view of this Arcadie, the house was sold
at an early day, and the money therefor de-
posited in the bank with the rest of the Dobbs'
fund, pa Dobbs never having embarked any
of his capital in trade, as he found plenty to
do in supplying the numerous wants of his
family after acquiring his fortune. The fur-
niture was packed, and Mrs. Dobbs, seated on
one of the packing boxes, was taking a lunch,
when in rushed Mr. Dobbs looking very pale,
and dancing about as frantically as a chestnut
on a hot shovel.
"We're ruined, ruined!" he groaned, sink-
ing down on another box. "It's all lost, and
I 'm nobody but John Dobbs again I" (Query,
who had he been but that personage?)
"Ruined and lost I What do you mean?"
cried Mrs. Dobbs, in a voice sharp with excite-
ment and anxiety.
"The money—it's all gone," replied Mr.
Dobbs pitifully. "The bank's broke—men
all run away, and we're as poor as Job's
turkey."
The Dobbses declared they could never,
never, never look their neighbors in the face
after what had happened, and they accordingly
sold their furniture, from which they realized
enough to buy them an unpretentious dwelling,
and quietly took their departure to a distant
town. The girls kept their fine clothes and
jewelry, and, with careful patching and mak-
ing over, manage to continue a very good
show of shabby genteel. They are very fond
of telling their associates of the grand things
they used to have "before pa lost his money,"
but very careful not to admit them to the little
back kitchen at certain hours of the day, which
reluctance may be explained by reading the
neat sign which ornaments one corner of their
dwelling :—
JOHN DOBBS, Shoemaker.
Repairing and Custom Work done here.
Success in Life.— Self-help alone makes a
man succeed. If he has confidence in himself,
he may despise the world, because he Is sure
to get on by his own determination to succeed.
—Sir Robert Peel.
Books and Ships Compabed.— If the inven-
tion of the ship was thought so noble, which
carries riches and commodities from place to
place, and associates the most remote regions
in participation of their fruit1), how much more
are letters to be magnified, which, as ships,
pass through the vast seas of time, and make
ages so distant participate of the wisdom, illu-
mination, and inventions, the one of the other I
—Lord Bacon.
ONLY A BABY'S GRAVE.
BY K. Q. P. BRCCE.
Only a baby's grave,
A little grass-grown mound;
Removed above the world's din,
From every wakeful sound.
A very tiny little one,
The blossom of an hour;
We could not keep her little life,
She withered like a flower.
And yet thy loss we '11 ever mourn,
Although you scarce were ours;
Just lent us for a little while,
The blossom of an hour.
No sin nor sorrow e'er you knew,
Nor yet a mother's love,
Ere you wen* taken to your home
To dwell with Him above.
Nothing to mark thy resting place
But the mound upon the hill;
There thou shalt calmly rest in peace,
Till all our ends fulfil.
Only a baby's grave,
A little hallowed spot:
Removed as soon's we realized
We had a daughter got.
Placed in thy little coffln-cot.
E'en by thy mother's hands;
Too sacred far for stranger's care.
Born in a foreign land.
I '11 watch and deck thy little grave
Upon the quarter hill;
God's only taken what he pave,
He'll guard our Agnes still.
TO MAKE HOME HAPPY.
Nature is industrious in adorning her do-
minions; and man, to whom this beauty is ad-
dressed, should feel and obey the lesson. Let
him, too, be industrious in adorning his domain,
in making his home, the dwelling of his wife
and children, not only convenient and com-
fortable, but pleasant. Let him, as far as
circumstances will admit, be industrious in
surrounding it with pleasant objects, in deco-
rating it within and without with things that
tend to make it agreeable and attractive. Let
industry make home the abode of neatness and
order —a place which brings satisfaction to
every inmate, and which in absence draws
back the heart by the fond associations of com-
fort and contpntW Let this be done, and this
sacred spot will become more surely the scene
of cheerfulness'and peace. Ye parents who
would have your children happy, be careful to
bring them up in the midst of a pleasant, a
cheerful, and a happy home. Waste not your
time in accumulating wealth for them, but
plant in their minds and souls, in the way pro-
posed, the seeds of virtue and prosperity.
None can feel the pleasures of reflection
who do not enjoy the peace of innocence.
353
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
KATIE'S REQUIREMENTS.
BY ELOISJE.
"I'd be a butterfly.
Born in a bower;
Sipping the honey
From flower to flower."
A fair young girl sat at a desk looking over
a pile of compositions. She was alone in her
small, but bright and pleasant school-room.
Soon her occupation was interrupted by the
entrance of her sister, holding a letter aloft, as
if in triumph.
"Such a piece of news, Moll I" she exclaimed.
"Gramiy is dead, and there is no will; so the
whole property is ours."
"Kate, how can you sp#ak so of grand-
father's death? Poor old man I When did he
die?"
"Oh, he died yesterday; and the reason why
I can speak so, baby, is because 1 am not a
prim little goose. Why should we pretend to
be sorry, when he kept us all away while he
was alive? You have never seen him but once
or twice; as for me, the month I stayed in his
house was a torture, with all his grim oddi-
ties; the same to him, I suspect, for he seemed
more than willing to have me go away. As to
his educating us, decency compelled him to do
that, you know; and his allowance to mother
is simply beggarly. Just think of the grand-
children of that old millionaire being obliged
to keep this odious little school! But that is
over now, thank Fate! so give me those rub-
bishy papers for the kitchen fire. I 'd be glad
to make a bonfire of the whole concern."
"Why Katie 1" exclaims Mary. "I never
knew you disliked the school."
"You dear little goose 1 Do I look like one
to make a wail over what is unavoidable? No,
indeed! I lovo my own ease too well; and
what must be done, I choose to get as much
pleasure from as may be. So I just determined
to charm the girls into making of me an idol,
and think I succeeded. Don't you, innocent
little Moll?"
Her sister nodded assent, and thought how
easy this magic ever would be to Katie. As
she stood there, leaning against the window,
looking down at Mary, her exceeding beauty
seemed to her sister like something ever new
and wonderful. A perfect Qbwer-face, where
white and rose blended in exquisite proportion.
Eyes of golden hazel, eyebrows and lashes
black; while every feature was beautifully
moulded. The hair was the crowning glory.
It was not golden, but a deep yellow color,
shining like satin; very long and abundant.
Her figure was elegant and graceful; but after
all there was something wanting, of which one
felt the lack more and more in turning from
this brilliant face to the paler, more quiet love-
liness of Mary. Hers seemed the transparent
vase to hold the beautiful soul. While Katie
(more gifted in intellect, acquiring learning
and accomplishments with a quickness and
ease to make one wonder) was like one wait-
ing the awakening of hers, caring only for the
present pleasure and ease.
"Of course, Moll, you will give up Jack
Richmond now? I told you it was a silly af-
fair," said Kate.
"Of course I shall not, Katie, and I wonder
you should think me capable of it; but you do
not mean what you say."
"Indeed I do. He is no match for an heir-
ess—an architect, who just earns his bread!
Why, Moll, how delightful it will be to hear
ourselves called 'the two beautiful heiresses
of old Cameron the millionaire I'" And she
clapped her little white bands, laughed, and
tried to whirl her sister in the joyful dance she
was performing.
"Do be quiet, Katie; my mood is not so gay
as yours, and I don't know what you mean by
two heiresses; mother has just as much right
to a share as we."
"You don't know anything about it, baby.
The law would not give her one cent, as grandy
outlived papa. The whole sum (nearly four
million) is ours."
"Kate, how can you?" exclaimed Mary.
"One would think you hard and mean, which
you are not. If what you say is the law, it is
not justice, and I for one will not consent to it.
My mother shares equally with me, or I do not
touch one cent."
"Now, baby, do be sensible. You know it
is only for the grand appearance of the thing
I care. Of course my mother will never want
cash as long as there is any in my purse. To
be dependent on her daughters will not be dis-
agreeable, I am sure."
"I am not so certain of that, Kathie," re-
plied Mrs. Cameron, who entered the room
while her daughter was speaking. "It is not
natural, and I think will not suit my disposi-
tion."
"Of course it is not natural, mother," said
Mary, "and it never shall be. I will not touch
the money unless you share equally witli me."
But Kate interrupted. "Why, mother, I
should think you would rather be dependent
on us than on grandy."
"I was not, Kathie. Your grandfather marie
me an allowance, and I always felt it was his
duty to do so; it was much less than the sum
he paid your father, who spent all the last
years of his life in attending to his father's
property and business, and had a promise from
his father, when he was dying, that he would
provide for us."
"Well, mother dear, you know it will always
be a joy to me to provide everything you can
possibly want; but I do wish to keep that no-
ble property from being cut up into little bits.
But there is baby, she is so headstrong she will
not understand me, and thinks dreadful things.
KATIE'S REQUlREATEyTS.
359
Then, too, she means to keep her promise to
Jack."
"I fancy mother will not be surprised to
bear my decision. But, Katie, I wish you were
not so fond of calling me baby, it comes quite
too often; I don't like it."
"Oh, but you are one, you know," laughed
Kate. "I am twenty-one I my own mistress"
(and she made a grand courtesy before her
mother). Then, as if the better spirit came
to her, she suddenly knelt down and laid her
bright head in her mother's lap, looked up with
a winning smile, and said, "But always your
own little girl."
For Katy was not hateful, only thoughtless
and a lover of self Indeed, she was quite cap-
tivating, even to mother and sister, who felt
her faults the most keenly; ever sweet tem-
pered, she was (as we have just seen her) al-
ways frankly outspoken and absolutely truth-
ful. Affectionate as sister and daughter, any
warmer emotion was to her only a matter for
curious, half incredulous speculation; there-
fore she could not appreciate Mary's constancy.
The homage of her many gentlemen admirers
she received as the natural tribute to her su-
perlative beauty, and a laughing gibe was her
only response to their professions of love.
The next day they arrived at their grand-
father's late residence; a somewhat dreary old
house, built when New York was a province,
but surrounded by a beautiful estate. Here
they remained for a few months, during which
their prospects assumed an aspect entirely sat-
isfactory to Kate. She took her portion with-
out one apparent qualm of conscience. Mary
was obliged to postpone all division of hers
until she was of age; but insisted until that
time all her income should be paid to her
mother.
These weeks of quiet enjoyment were soon
broken up by Katie's resolve to go abroad
Her mother at first hesitated upon this new
change, but when Katie airily announced that
she need not go, as she "could make up a
party of girls, and it would be very easy to
find some married lady friend glad to chape-
rone" them, Mrs. Cameron objected no longer
but determined to follow, as she could not lead,
her whimsical child wherever she might go,
hoping that ere long some good man's love
might conquer her strange heart.
Mary would not let her mother go without
her, much as she disliked to forsake Jack Rich
mond just at this time, who took a rather
gloomy view of the contrast between bis own
struggling fortunes and Mary's wealth, and
was, Mary told him, "in a very proud and un-
grateful state of mind," which culminated in
utter discouragement when he heard their
plans. At the same time, he nobly told Mary
he felt sure it was the best thing for her.
"You are so young, Mary," he said, "that
perhaps you do not know your own heart.
You must go free from all engagements, then;
if you come back to me the same, 1 shall have
no doubts in taking you and your fortune. If
otherwise, remember, love, this; your happU
ness is more precious to me even than your
love."
She scolds him well for what she called his
"wicked doubts," though she really loved him
all the more.
Katie contrived to learn from poor Jack
(whom she teased and snubbed in her gay,
good-humored way) of his renunciation, over
which she exulted greatly, until Mary told her
she did not accept it.
"I cannot understand you, Moll," she said.
"Jack is all very well in himself; indeed, I
rather like him. But what do you expect to
gain in marrying him?" —
"I expect happiness, Katie."
"Happiness!" exclaimed Katie, with a puz-
zled look. "Are you not happy now? I think
I am always happy. Now I expect a great
deal more. I must have high rank, vast wealth,
the best of gay society; and above all, every
pleasure my heart desires."
"And-yet you may find some day that all
these are not happiness, my Katie." But this
was an unknown language to Katie, for which
she had uo key.
Well, they went away, and soon, through
letters of introduction and the acquaintance
formed abroad, they were in the midst of the
gay scenes and society in which Katie delight-
ed. Both the girls were much admired, and
wherever they went Katie soon had her train
of suitors; some enslaved by her beauty and
wit alone, others, alas! doing homage to her
wealth. Many of her admirers were of rank
and wealth, it would seem, to satisfy even her
expectations; but ambition is apt to grow by
what it feeds on, which was the case with
Katie's.
She had dragged her mother and sister along
with her, in her butterfly progress, to nearly
every capital in Europe : had persuaded them
to be presented, with her, to more than one
crowned head ; until at last, while visiting one
of the gay Continental cities, she saw the pros-
pect of an alliance, which seemed to her worthy
of serious attention. A count, in possession
of a marvellous .rent-roll, high in diplomatic
position, and with a person eminently hand-
some, he was to Kate the realization of all her
day-dreams. That he could inspire her with,
love entered not into her thoughts, I suppose.
She would like any one, sufficiently for her
own peace, who would ~iv her all things her
heart desired, provided ho was gay, good-na-
tured, and no fool, lie must, of course, be
very much in love with her, and these, she
gayly told her mother and sister, were her re-
quirements for a marriage which would sepa-
rate her from home and family for life. She
360
G O D EY'S LA DY'S B O OR AND MAGAZINE. "
met the count for the first time at a fancy-dress
ball, for which occasion she had chosen to as-
Sume the character of “Undine.”
One time, when her mother had been sorely
tried by her thoughtlessness Katie overheard
her murmur, “My Undine !” and from that
time she had fancied the name.
Her dress was a pale green silk, almost the
shade of aqua-marina, with puffings of blond-
like sea-foam, festooned around it with long
grasses of sea-weed. Around her waist, loosely
tied, was a thick rope of opaline-gleaming
shells. Her satin-yellow hair hung down in
great waves below her waist, half uncurled,
and bound around it was a chaplet of pearls
and water-lilies. In her hand she held more
of the flowers, while at her girdle hung, from
a string of pearls, a small mirror in its setting
of brilliant shells. Her little satin boots were
encrusted with the same ornaments; and a
beautiful creature she looked as she glided
with airy grace through the brilliantly illumi-
nated rooms. Mary personated an American
autumn.
Katie was in a mood of freakish brilliancy.
She was “Undine,” bubbling over with wit
and repartee. With the mirror at her girdle,
she pretended to read fortunes and character;
telling saucy truths with the merry audacity
of a child, while the victims were forced to join
in the laugh at their own expense. All through
the night, dancing or sitting, she was surround-
ed by a group who seemed aware of her pre-
sence only.
The count was certainly the most favored of
her train, but neither to him was she all sweet-
ness. Most of her dances, however, were given
to him; and as the night wore on, one would
scarce have recognized him as the impassive
personage with cold, critical eyes, he generally
chose to appear in society.
Meanwhile Mrs. Cameron looked on with an
anxious, disturbed sensation. There was no-
thing in Katie's conduct even verging on im-
propriety; but so rarely beautiful as to be
always conspicuous, the perfection of costume
and the character she assumed, made her too
much the object of admiration for her mother's
comfort. After two or three efforts unsuccess-
fully made to persuade her to leave, Mary, in
desperation, applied to the count, begging him
to bring her sister to the cloak-room, as their
mother desired to return home. No gentleman
could have resisted that sweet, earnest pleader,
and, before they dared hope, Kate was brought
to them in a sort of triumph, to be bundled up
and led to their carriage by the radiant count.
Time went on. Each day saw Katie and the
count more or less in each other's society;
he with admiration in every look and action,
which she repaid with an easy, good-natured
sweetness or saucy audacity; but still affairs
did not seem to approach that climax Katie
had resolved upon in her mind.
All this time Mary had remained faithful to
her home lover. She persisted in writing to
him long, sweet letters, although he sent no
answers back for weeks and months; but at
last he could hold out no more, her love tri-
umphed over all his resolves, and he allowed
himself to be happy. He was prospering too.
An invention of his promised success, and no
little wealth also, so that life began to look
quite bright with Jack at last.
About six weeks after the memorable ball
(during which the name of “Undine” had been
given to Katie by their acquaintance with a
persistence, not distasteful to Mrs. Cameron)
a large sailing party was planned to spend a
day visiting some of the islands in the beauti-
ful bay, near which they were residing.
On the day appointed Mrs. Cameron was
prevented by illness from joining the party,
and was obliged to allow Katie to accompany
Some friends.
Kate and her party accompanied the count
in his boat. He had brought a copy of “Un-
dine,” and, as they floated over the blue, rip-
pling waves, he drew it forth, proposing to
read a few extracts from the volume. His
offer was accepted gladly; it seemed just the
story for such a scene; then, too, the reminis-
cences of the late ball were still fresh, and
gave zest to the episode, which, however, ter-
minated abruptly and with a dramatic success
quite unexpected. The count was a finereader,
and as he portrayed that most pathetic scene
of Undine's grief and disappearance, the atten-
tion of his audience hung rapt upon his words.
Katie had for some time, in perversity, been
sitting on the side of the boat, leaning back, in
her fearless way, against the sail. Whether it
gave a sudden lurch, or how it happened, no
one knew; but just as the count was reading of
Undine's being drawn under the waves, Katie
with an anguished cry disappeared, and the
waters closed over her.
All was dismay on board every boat of the
flotilla, for the accident had been seen from
all; while the exclamation, “It was Undine!”
came from many white and quivering lips; for
none knew the fact that Katie was a perfect
swimmer and utterly fearless.
The count had no sooner seen her go than
he plunged in after her; but there was another
before him.
George Heyward had been watching Katie's
position from his boat. She was his idol,
though he knew all hope for him was in vain;
and the instant she was in the water he was
there also, and bore her, with his strong arm,
in triumph to her boat.
I believe Katie would have hated him, as
nearly as hºr nature allowed, if she had not
seen, through her languidly-closed eyes, the ex-
KATIE'S REQUIREMENTS.
361
pression of disappointed vexation with which
the count regarded them, while all three formed
an interesting group in the bottom of the boat,
very damp and rather forlorn. But seeing
what she did, Katie smiled a little to herself,
and formed a plan for future action, looking
all the while more an Undine than ever.
I said that Katie formed a plan, and for this
she called into requisition, for the first time,
all her powers of coquetry, to bring affairs to
a crisis. Without changing her manner to the
count, she showed to her “preserver,” as she
called George Heyward, a sweet devotion of
gratitude, a winning kindness that uplifted the
poor fellow into a heaven of sweet dreams,
arousing the deliberate count to most unmis-
takable jealousy, giving Kate full occupation,
and raising her spirits to frolic pitch.
Not for one moment, after she had heard the
full version of Katie's adventure, did Mrs.
Cameron believe it to be an accident, knowing
well her powers as an actress as well as swim-
mer; also her utter fearlessness. She was filled
with anxiety, and felt that she had come to the
end of her resources in the guidance of this
wayward child. She was almost ready to hail
the prospect of even the count as a husband
for Kate, although she could not but fear that
his love had no deeper source than admiration
of her wonderful beauty, her wit, and grace;
that his heart would be tender and considerate
with her she had to doubt, and so made an-
other and last effort to withdraw her from his
neighborhood, but without success.
“Very well, Kathie,” she concluded; “but
if you indulge in any more freaks, such as your
so-called accident, Ishall carry you off to some
place where I can shut you up safely until you
learn discretion.”
“Oh, but you can’t. You know I am my own
mistress.”
“That makes no difference in this country,
Kathie. A parent has control over a daughter
until she marries.”
“You can't do it,” persisted Kate, laughing.
“I will run away to the American Embassy,
claim their protection as an American citizen.
I will, truly, and you know how much you dis-
like a scene.” -
“O Kathie! what shall I do with you?” ex-
claimed her mother.
“Kate, you deserve to be whipped. How
can you distress my mother so?” said Mary,
indignantly.
“Why, mother! Please don't weep. There,
I will kiss away those tears,” pleaded Kate.
“I will be a good girl, mother, and get into no
more scrapes.” But when she had petted and
coaxed her mother into smiling again, she
turned upon Mary. “Poor Jack,” she said,
“I pity him. I am half inclined to write and
show him what a little shrew he had engaged
to marry.”
“Mr. Richmond would rather marry the ‘lit-
tie shrew,’ who is capable of loving, than the
yellow-haired beauty who can think of marry-
ing while at the same time she laughs to scorn
the sentiment of love.”
“Girls, girls i' exclaims Mrs. Cameron. “I
cannot have you quarrelling.”
“You are right, mother; Iam very naughty,”
penitently replied Mary.
But Katie retorted with a laugh. “No,
mother, let baby cut her wisdom teeth upon
me, I.don't mind her little bites, they do not
hurt one mite,” and with this parting shaft,
..she turned in high satisfaction to receive the
count, who was at that moment announced.
Katie played her cards so well, before an-
other week she had roused the count so far out
of his usual self-esteem, that it was with some
doubt as to the result he offered to Kate a share
in his possessions, and as much of his love as
he could spare from himself. She accepted
him, but not too eagerly. True to her nature,
she frankly said that she would like him as
long as he was gay, good-natured, and kind—
allowing her to do just as she pleased, and have
everything she desired which their wealth could
purchase.
Nothing daunted by these unromantic condi-
tions, the count promised, with a fervor of love,
which grew with Katie's gay indifference, and
even proposed that, besides the settlement he
should make on her, all her property should
be entirely in her own hands.
Now this was just what Katie liked, and had
determined should be done ; but even she was
glad the proposition should come from him.
Notwithstanding all this, do not think Katie
a monster of meanness. So far from that, it
was her delight to shower gifts upon those she
loved; while for the poor and suffering her
money and kind words were ever eagerly
ready. Any trouble which Katie could com-
prehend, found her a ready and kind helper.
But she was thoroughly self-indulgent, and was
resolved to keep in her own power the means
of pampering this weakness.
When once engaged, the count quite discard-
ed all his cold reserve and hauteur. To both
Mrs. Cameron and Mary he was cordially at-
tentive, almost affectionate. He was utterly
fascinated with his new possession; he was
charmed equally by her tormenting caprices
and her sweet, winsome grace; she gave him
an endless variety, of which he never tired.
He was impatient, however, that the marriage
should take place; and it was important he
should return to his home to transact the neces-
sary business. Nearly every day of his absence
brought to Katie letters and beautiful gifts;
who was quite convinced that she had acted
wisely, even if George Heyward's eyes did
look bitter reproach, and his haggard face tell
of sleepless nights. Herself-satisfying remark,
“He should never have supposed I would
862
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
marry him!" seemed all the attention she be-
stowed upon his case.
They were married, and marvellous was the
show of gleaming jewels, wonderful lace, and
all the rest of the bewildering catalogue re-
quired to change Katherine Cameron into a
countess. It calls for an eloquence beyond
mine to do the splendors justice.
The years went on—one, two, since Katie
bloomed into a countess, and her life of pleas-
ure was pursued with as much zest as ever.
One beautiful boy was hers; but, after the
novelty of this possession was passed, she al-
lowed the count to convince her that she wa3
far too beautiful to assume any cafe, even for
her child; so he was established with nurses
and attendants in the most approved style,
affording a very pretty plaything for the small
leisure of Countess Kate.
Ail this time Mrs. Cameron and Mary had
remained in Europe, for the mother could not
yet recone'le herself to the thought of leaving
Katie. Jack Richmond grumbled at their pro-
longed absence, but finally joined them, and
was soon after married to Mary; very magnifi-
cently married, according to the programme
Katie insisted upon. Almost immediately af-
terward Mrs. Cameron returned home with
her youngest daughter.
To all appearances, Katie's life was quite as
prosperous as ever, yet envious Fate was al-
ready prepared to give her a buffet. Just
about the time she was separated from her
mother, the count began to open his eyes to
the fact that his wife's love for him was a very
cool sort of sentiment, if, indeed, it had an
existence. Now, such a state of affairs could,
to his mind, be explained only by the suppo-
sition that she loved another, and he looked
around witli jealous and angry eyes for the
presumptuous mortal. More attentive than
ever to Katie in their outward life; yet it was
with a surly suspiciousness and domineering
manner that excited her indignant surprise,
while his conduct in private was so changed
she told him, with her usual laughing candor,
that he was growing odious. Still she did not
much heed his tempers, unless their wills
clashed, and never gave a thought to the pos-
sible cause.
The count was baffled. Not even the most
Jealous eye could see rightful cause for grave
suspicion, when he bethought him of George
Heyward—of his very evident love for Katie,
and of the sweet kindness she had shown him
at one time. It is true, they seldom met him
now in society; but still he lingered on In the
town, and the count thought of him with
deadly hatred as the cause of his own unsuo-
cess. Soon his position became intolerable to
the haughty man, and he requested a recall
from his government. Upon receiving it, he
abruptly informed Katie that she must be
ready to leave town the next day and accom-
pany him home. All expostulation was in
vain. At last Katie was obliged to obey.
After the first shock, she felt, in truth, little
regret, and turned toward the new prospect
with so much pleased curiosity that her hus-
band was somewhat shaken in his suspicions.
They journeyed direct to one of his castles, a
noble old pile kept up in princely style. Katie
was delighted, and as long as the novelty
lasted enjoyed her country life and the society
their few neighbors afforded. But winter
would soon shut them in, and the prospect
looked rather dreary; but, true to her nature,
she got what pleasure she could out of the
present. She accompanied her husband in his
rides and hunting expeditious, and, happily,
found in her child a delightful resource.
As the winter wore on, the count was fre-
quently away from home for days, even weeks;
so that toward spring Katie grew desperate,
and resolved she would bear it no longer, but
at the next flitting she would follow his exam-
ple; she would even go home to her mother,
taking her child with her. Deliberately she
formed her plans, and not until her husband
had gone again did she inform the only person
she intended taking with her; it was her maid,
who had followed her from America, lovingly
and blindly devoted to her mistress. About
their persons they stowed away as much cloth-
ing as they could, with all the jewels and
money Katie had in her possession. Then,
announcing that she intended visiting a friend,
and would pass the night in her house, she
took her child and maid, and drove away her
pony carriage in triumph. Leaving it at the
next town, they journeyed to the nearest sea-
port, and Katie secured a cabin on a vessel
soon to sail for America. But while she was
waiting, her child became so alarmingly ill
that she forgot all else in the terror and regrets
that then assailed her.
The count returned after a few days, to find
his family vanished, his servants in the height
of consternation and confusion. Scarce wait-
ing to hear their story, he went rushing forth
again breathing curses and vengeance against
the supposed worker of all this woe. So cun-
ningly had Katie contrived, that no clue could
he find to her movements. Thus he went aim-
lessly on, until he blundered into the very
town where she was keeping her doleful watch.
He was walking under the windows of a great
hotel, when suddenly a blind was opened, and
he heard Katie's voice—"Eugene, O Eugene,
look up I"
Could that be Katie's flower-face? So ghastly
almost. Yet there .were the great waves of
glittering yellow hair, and he sprang up the
stairs toward her. He found her at the open
door; she drew him in, and shut it; then she
threw herself on her knees before him and
cried:—
POETRY, ETC.
3G3
"Eugene, forgive me, for I am wicked,
wicked!"
She laid her bright head down on his feet and
groaned aloud, but he took her by the arm and
dragged her roughly to her feet.
"Woman, why should I forgive you? What
have you done?" and his eyes glared fiercely
at her out of his almost livid face.
"O I have killed him, Eugene 1 Our boy is
dying, dying I"
"Is that all?" asked the count "Who
brought you here?"
"Is not that enough, Eugene? I came with
my maid and baby alone. I was going home
to mother. O Eugene, I have been a wicked,
silly fool 1"
Eugene almost laughed, he looked so pleased.
"Why, I thought you came with Hey ward,"
he said, with a blush.
"Is he here? I have not seen any one but
the doctor," replied Katie.
"Katie, forgive me. I thought you loved
him," the count whispered.
"I never cared for him at all. But, O
Eugene, come to the baby! You do not know
how ill he is; he does not know me."
"Oh, he will get well, I am sure he will,
Katie! I am so happy 1" and, notwithstanding
his dying child, he could not but think, with a
thrill of delight, how often Katie had called
him "Eugene," and for the first time; never
once the "Count," which sounded so cold
from her lips.
When he stood by the side of his child, he
realized something of Katie's misery. The
little creature lay in a stupor.
"Speak to him, Eugene," whispered Katie.
He leaned over his child and called, "Genie,
Genie, here is papa."
A ghost of a smile rippled over the little
mouth, and the eyelids quivered.
"Call him again," said the physician, after
a few moments.
The father called, and with the same suc-
cess; then he called again and again, until he
brought his child safely out of the Shadow
Land, and he opened wide his eyes, whisper-
ing, "Papa." Soon after he fell into a healthy
sleep, and the danger was over.
As for Katie, she had come to a new birth.
In that fearful battle with death, for her child,
she saw the crime she had committed against
his father; and in her loneliness there, and
helplessness, she first knew what it was to
love—In that anguish of remorse. What hap-
piness could pleasure afford if her child should
die, and his father turned^rom lief in loathing
and hate?—and its magic charm was broken
in that hour. In writing to her mother, she
said, "Your 'Undine' has found her soul I"
An honest man is believed without an oath,
for his reputation swears for him.
FIRESIDE MUSINGS.
BT ADA Al 11.
Sitting by my whiter fire,
Peering at the ember's glow;
Fancy doth my brain inspire.
While without the fierce winds blow;
Light and warmth my soul do thrill;
Winds, ye do not, cannot chill,
For I forms and laces see
In the coals, my company.
Seemeth very like a throng
Met at lecture "or at ball;
But we hear no voice nor song,
Mirth, nor music, nor foot-fall j
Here a form Is bent in gTlef,
There a child In bold relief,
Lovers bend In listening mood-
Happy hearts are easy wooed.
Graybeards white, and faces young,
Glow with feeling, silent all.
Motionless my pictured throng,
Moving "ow the ashes fall;
So methinks It is like life-
Full of changes, care, and strife;
Youth of ambitious fires Is full.
Pallid sorrow, old age dull.
Then the change when life Is gone.
Dust and ashes left—we see,
Naught is lost when all Is done,
Li :ht and heat and gases free;
Shadowy flickering, light and shade,
On the wall by embers made—
Ghosts of anthracite we call;
Sleepiiy my eyelids fall.
Soothed by light and heat I sleep,
Dream I dreams of those I love;
While the shadows 'round me creep,
Watcheth He who rules above j
Loved and lost come back to me,
Faces of my loved I see;
Far too soon their flight they take.
Ashes fall, and I awake.
To Adam and Eve Paradise was home; to
the good among their descendants, home is
Paradise.
Force of Habit.—There is an Eastern tale
of a magician who discovered, by his incanta-
tion, that the philosopher's stone lay on the
bed of a certain river, but was unable to deter-
mine its exact locality. He therefore strolled
along the bank with a piece of iron, to which
he applied successively all the pebbles he found.
As one after another they produced no change
in the metal, he flung them into the stream.
At last he hit on the object of his search, and
the iron became gold in his hand; but, alas I
he had become so accustomed to the "touch
and go" movement, that the real stone was
involuntarily thrown into the river after the
others, ami lost to him forever. This story
well allegorizes the fate of the coquette. She
has tried and discarded so many hearts, that
at length she throws away the right one, from
pure force of habit.
864
OODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
MAKING THE BEST OF IT.
One of the happiest arts in life is to enjoy
thoroughly what is good, and one of the great-
est to make the best of what is bad. It can be
done with a little resolution, some patience,
and more cheerfulness and courage. And it is
worth doing, as any one may find who tries.
No doubt it is sometimes difficult to make the
best of a bad job; but, then, without difficulty
there is no triumph, and success is not to be
had by lounging along the sunny side of the
way, and carefully avoiding every disagreeable
circumstance that would give one trouble—and
carry one higher. There is no difficulty in sit-
ting down under one's burden and bemoaning
Its weight; and to turn back from the steep
road, and take the easier and the lower instead,
needs no special education. The sluggard and
the coward may join hands when they meet at
the hard pinch, but neither will get over it by
fearful drawing back or by lazy disinclination
to face its hardships; only those who know
how to make the best of drought, fatigue, a
rough road, and a steep incline will surmount
It and come to the top gloriously.
Some of us seem to have been sent into the
world to evidence the maxim of making the*
best of what is bad. Day by day the struggle
has to be renewed. No sooner is one bad pass
got over, than another comes in view, and life
seems to be but one continual steering among
rocks and shoals—an endless chapter of disap-
pointments and misfortunes. If one does not
make the best of things, there is nothing for it
but to die. To live in a long-drawn martyr-
dom, weeping, fearing, lamenting, seeing lions
In the way everywhere, is too dreadful for hu-
man nature to contemplate. One may give
way now and then: but for ever?—on all diffi-
cult occasions, and those occasions never end-
ing? It is impossible 1 Better stiffen the mus-
cles to bear bravely, and make the best of what
cannot be avoided. If tears could obviate the
difficulty, shed enough todrown the giant De-
spair once and forever; but tears have no such
good effi-ct—they only weaken the defence,
and, by consequence, strengthen the hands of
that same giant, and add power to his quality
of despair.
At no time is it more necessary to make the
best of tilings than when you are travelling.
Do what you will, manage as well as you can,
and plan as perfectly, there must come occa-
'sions when you are disappointed, put upon,
annoyed, and your best designs untowardly
traversed. It is of no use to rave, of none to
sulk: you only make matters worse if you do.
All that is loft for you is to make the best of
it, and bear with cheerfulness what you cannot
avoid by cleverness. Say you go down to a
beautiful neighborhood, where the old-fash-
ioned coach still exists and railroads are not.
You want the front seat—every one does; but
you have not been quick enough, and travel-
lers better used or more lightly weighted than
yourself have been before you. You are rele-
gated to the back, where your chief prospect
is a pile of luggage, varied by a sight of the
coachman's heels as he loads or unloads at the
stopping places. How much soever you may
. dislike the fact of that obstructive luggage and
your own back seat behind it, you cannot do
away with it. But of the two classes of men—
and women—into which for our 'present pur-
pose we have divided the world, one will make
the best of It, looking to the right and to the
left, and enjoying all that Is granted them to
enjoy; and the other will fret and fume, or
storm and swear, according to temperament
and education; as if that mended matters,
made windows through portmanteaus, ren-
dered carpet-bags diaphanous, and did not
rather make everything worse than need have
been.
You come to your halting place in the gloom
of the late evening, or the dark of the early
night; and you have not bespoken beds. Say
it is such a place as Lynton where you are
bound—Lynton, whence is no beyond within
reason. You have arrived by the Minehead
coach, as some we know of; and you are dead
tired with a long day's travel over twelve hours.
Being in the full swing of the season, every
place Is full. The hotel doors are shut; not a
waiter appears, napkin on arm, fair offers in
his mouth; not a tout, not a guide. You are
bid go to your own place, or where you will,
so long as you clear out and do not seek to en-
cumberthe already over-plethoric homes. You
have nothing for it, then, but to go farther.
You are a stranger in the land, and you know
not your right hand from your left; but the na-
tives cherish the odd Idea prevalent in country
places, and imagine you born into the knowl-
edge of the local topography. Finding their
mistake, they hold you as little better than a
"natural," because you do not know where
the principal points of interest lie. By the
time the luggage has been sorted, the darken-
ing night has deepened into absolute obscurity.
Say the skies are lightning, as a relief, and the
only one, to the depth of blackness into which
you plunge. You are bidden to follow the
coach which forges on ahead, but which you
can only hear, not see. Your friendly coun-
sellor tells you encouragingly that you cannot
ride up because the way is too steep, but that
it is not long, it being only a quarter of a mile
distant. And you believe him, and imagine
that you wilfbe safely housed and snugly shel-
tered, as he says, in just a few short minutes.
You follow the coach-, and you enter on a road
as dark as Erebus. You soon lose sight of your
wheeled and ghostly pioneer; but you still hear
the slipping feet of the struggling horses, tho
cries of the men, the lash of the whip; and you
do your best to follow on a road you do not
THE THREE SOMES.
365
know and cannot see, with the roar of a river
below you, the sound of a locomotive strife in
front, walls and thick foliage on either side, a
steepness which is more like a mountain side
than an honest coach road, and of a pebbly and
sharp-stoned roughness.
Perhaps there are other wayfarers In your
company—say, a mother who threatens to faint
on the smallest provocation, and two little chil-
dren whom you must care for or let wander on
in the dark neglected and alone. Midway on
on this mountain-side of a road you hear a car-
riage come grinding down the steep, rough de-
scent. The children scream; the lady sighs,
and vows she will faint; the male or males
shout to the driver contradictory orders; the
horses are startled, and plunge wildly in the
darkness; you are backed by an inaccessible
wall; and men swear at you and at their ani-
mals in choice vernacular and with absolute
impartiality. What is the good of giving way?
—of getting angry if you are a man, or drifting
into hysterics if you are a woman? Better
take your courage in both hands, and face the
present pinch bravely—making the best of it
by storing up the scene in your memory, as an
experience for after days to laugh at, maybe
for future nse not unpalatable to your audi-
ence.
And when at last you set foot in the proper
place, the end and resting-place of all your
troubles, and are blandly informed that not a
bed is to be had for love or money, what can
you do? Drop on the sofa, and wish tearfully
you had not left home, and you never saw such
a horrid place In your life; or turn angrily
against your companion—husband, father, sis-
ter, mother—and reproach him or her with bad
management, and it is always the way, and no
one has such dreadful adventures as you have,
because every one manages better? Or, an-
other way, eat your supper in peace, and trust
to a friendly fate for the pillow to follow? The
last is the wisest course, be assured, and the
one most likely to bring the desired result.
For if you say cheerfully that you can do any-
thing, and that anything will do for you—that
you can sleep in a chair, or make your four-
poster of the legs of a dining-table—ten to one
the kindly instincts of the folk are aroused;
and the good-tempered man or woman fares
most handsomely, in acknowledgment of his
or her greatest amount of amiability.
We have all need of this art of making the
best of it. Into the happiest life come unbid-
den disappointments and anxieties; the sun-
niest peaches get their wasp bites and bruises;
the fairest flowers are not Insured from canker-
worm and blight. None of us can be certain
that sorrows and annoyances will not rain
heavily to-day or to-morrow on our heads; but
if we have learnt this art of how to make the
best of bad days and worse events, we have got
to our own share the talisman of happiness be-
cause we have learnt the habit of content and
the practice of cheerfulness.
THE THREE HOMES.
BT LOCISB T. ZIMMERMAN.
"Gbnetteve, it is quite time to begin your du-
ties in the school-room. I will inform you when
I think the children are tired; and, between
.the morning and afternoon session, you might,
while the children refresh themselves, give
Maud her music lesson. Then I will tell you
when to begin again in the afternoon, when to
close, and what to do in the evening."
And having thus delivered her orders, and
quite taken away the breath and courage of the
poor little governess, Mrs. Marchmont with-
drew, congratulating herself that, like a brave
general that she was, she had defeated the
enemy, and come off with flying colors.
"Now there can be no mistake," she said to
herself, "she will know precisely what her
duties are, and, being so fully occupied, she
will have no time to mope and mourn over the
loss of her kindred. There is nothing like oc-
cupation to make one happy and contented,"
and thereupon she picked up the latest French
novel, and was soon lost to all else. When she
had finished the last page she remembered to
pay another visit to the school-room, then, or-
dering her carriage, she started to make a few
calls. Wherever she went she spoke in triumph
of her new governess, of what an. acquisition
she was to her household, and how very fortu-
nate she had been in getting her.
Meantime the subject of so much praise he-
roically plodded through the tasks of the day.
As it was her first experience in teaching, she
was very weary before the day closed, and in
the evening, although Mrs. Marchmont had re-
quested an hour and a half of French conversa-
tion, Genevieve was obliged to excuse herself,
as she had a violent headache, and retire to her
room.
When she was fairly on the other side of the
door she broke down completely, and, after a
good cry, she felt refreshed. She felt like
laughing at herself for being so easily discour-
aged. Then she concluded to contemplate the
situation, and, keeping in the background the
evil, she would think only of the advantages
of her new position. She looked around her
room. It was well furnished and comfortable,
nothing was wanting, and yet, why did it look
blank and cheerless? There were no pictures,
and no little feminine ornaments that almost
create "a sunshine in a shady place." It was
simply a room upholstered. Genevieve's mind
reverted to her room in her father's house,
where the colors were all bright and cheerful,
and the poor girl started with a shudder, when
she thought of the awful change a few short
months had wrought in her destiny.
366
GODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Mr. Clayton, Genevieve's father, had failed
in business six months before this time, and
the excitement and subsequent depression had
caused a hemorrhage of the lungs, which so
enfeebled him that he never recovered. Gene-
vieve was his only child. Her mother was
dead, and she had no relatives except a few dis-
tant cousitj. whom she scarcely knew. And
now she was ieft alone in the world and un-
provided for, save in the capital of a fine edu-
cation—the safest investment of money and of
time, for outward circumstances can never in-
terfere with that.
Feeling the necessity of exertion, Genevieve,
soon after her father's death, having sold her
Jewelry and stored the greater part of her
clothing, substituting a few serviceable black
dresses for her handsome wardrobe, sought
Mrs. Sedgton, her teacher and friend, from
whose school she had graduated the year before
with high honors. She solicited Mrs. Sedgton
to use her influence in obtaining a governess's
situation, stipulating only that it should be
among strangers. Her sensitive nature could
not endure either the pity or the slights which
those who had known her In better days would
be apt to offer.
Among strangers, Genevieve felt that she
could preserve her dignity by filling well her
new position, and win the respect, at least, of
those whose children she taught. Mrs. Sedg-
ton had frequent applications for teachers, and
she immediately wrote a note to Mrs. March-
niont, introducing Genevieve Clayton, and rec-
ommending her in every respect, as one who
would be faithful to her charge.
This note poor Genevieve had to carry her-
self, and she never quite realized the desola-
tion of her position till she found herself sitting
in Mrs. Marchmont's parlor, waiting for that
lady to appear.
She was engaged at once, for Mrs. March-
mont saw in the gentle face before her one
whom she could domineer over to her heart's
content. It was with her literally a ruling
passion to turn the world around in her way.
Everything that conflicted with her opinion
was rank heresy, not to be tolerated a moment.
Genevieve was rather astonished at the small
remuneration she was to receive—two hundred
dollars a year with board and washing, "quite
enough for so young a person and a beginner,"
Mrs. Marchmont said. Genevieve ventured to
say that, although she was young and inexpe-
rienced, she hoped Mrs. Marchmont would find
her quite as competent as an older person.
Genevieve's school consisted of five pupils—
four young Marchmonts and a neighbor's child,
whose tuition, she afterwards discovered, paid
more than one-half her salary. She was to
teach each one the English branches, accord-
ing to the scholar's age and capacity. Two
were to study Latin and French, and Miss
Maud Marclimout, a young lady of sixteen,
was to have a music lesson every day. Every
evening, between seven and half-past eight,
Genevieve was to converse in French with Mrs.
Marchmont and Miss Maud. We have seen
how her first day at the Marchmonts ended.
For six months she plodded on patiently,
hoping that time and custom would increase
her strength; and growing every day paler
and thinner, till at last there came a day when
nature could hold out no longer, and Genevieve
fainted in the school-room. For several weeks
afterward, she lay unconscious In a slow, nerv-
ous fever, and then the Marchmonts wondered
where her friends were. They were the pro-
per persons to have the care of her, and must
be found.
Alasl this was easy to accomplish. Mrs.
Sedgton was the only person in the wide world
who took any interest in the poor orphan, and
when she was informed of her illness, she said
at once that Genevieve must be moved as soon
as possible to her own house, where she should
have every attention.
Mrs. Marchmont, inwardly congratulating
herself upon having got rid of a burden, asked
Mrs. Sedgton if she could not supply her with
a substitute until Genevieve should recover.
Mrs. Sedgton would be delighted to serve
Mrs. Marchmont, and sent to her a young lady
of the self-asserting order, who retained the
position just one week, at the end of that time
informing Mrs. Marchmont that what she ex-
pected of a governess no two persons could
accomplish, and that the salary she offered
was less than she gave her cook.
Mrs. Marchmont indignantly sped to Mrs.
Sedgton with a terrible account of the young
lady's temper, and hoped that Genevieve was
much better, and would be well soon, for the
children had grown so fond of her, and she was
to useful.
Mrs. Sedgton assured her that It would be a
long time before Genevieve would be able to
do anything, and she advised Mrs. Marchmont
to get another teacher, for perhaps Genevieve
had better turn her attention to music in future,
as it would be more profitable; and in giving
music lessons, she would have more exercise
than In a school-room.
Mrs. Marchmont was disappointed when she
found that Mrs. Sedgton had no other teacher
in view for her, and mentally censured that
lady for taking so little interest In the matter.
The fact was that Mrs. Sedgton purposely se-
lected the spirited young lady whom she sent
to supply Genevieve's place, to ascertain the
true merits of the case, for she knew as well
that Genevieve would never complain, as that
Adelaide Fredericks could not be imposed upon.
Mrs. Sedgton wasn skip-
ping through the flames witli the terrifled child. A
few days thereafter King Louis Philippe sent the
heroine a gold medal for her bravery, and a captain
of the French army, who had witnessed the girls
pluck, begged an Introduction. The captain is now
President of France, and the brave girl .Madame
McMahon."
The attractiveness of the Lady's Book will make
any family happy.—Leader, Burton, Ohio.
Music Received.—"Centennial Ode." Words by
Samuel C. Upham. Music by Adam Gclbcl. Pub-
lished by W. H. Boner & Co., 1102 Chestuut Street
This piece of music has that ring of patriotism in It
that made the "Star Spangled Banner" our national
song. It Is becoming popular throughout the length
and breadth of the whole country.
GODEY'S ARM-CHAIR.
383
Coffee.—Java coffee has a large, full, yellow berry.
That of the Rio is smaller, and Is of a greenish tinge.
The difference in essential properties is derived from
the difference in climate—that of Java retaining the
bean to ripen more perfectly than it is left to do in
Brazil, where it is raised chiefly by unskilled slave-
labor. The best coffee for family use is made by
mixing the two. Java affords the most fragrance,
and Bio the most stimulation against chilliness and
damp. Very much depends upon the parching of
coffee. This should be done slowly at flrst, to expel
all the moisture, and rapidly at last—stirring it con-
stantly, so that It will be browned, and not burned
in the least When It has an oily appearance, and is
of a light-brown color, it should be removed at once
from the Are and put In a close vessel. There are a
great many coffee-pots; but for family use we have
never found anything better than a good block-tin
pot, and the white of an egg to cleanse the beverage.
What is LovEUXE88?-It Is not in pearl-powder,
nor in golden hair-dye, nor in Jewelry. It caunot be
got in a bottle or a box. It is pleasant to be haudsome;
but all beauty is not in prettiness. There is a higher
beauty that makes us love people tenderly. Eyes,
nose, hair, or skin never did that yet; though it is
pleasing to see fine features. What you are will
make your face ever for you in the end, whether Na-
ture has made It plain or pretty. Good people are
never ill-looking. Whatever their faces may be, an
amiable expression atones for all. If they can be
cheerful also, no one will love them the less because
their features are not regular, or because they are
too fat, or too thin, or too pale, or too dark. Cnltl-
vation of the mind adds another charm to their
faces; and, on the whole, if any girl is desirous of
being liked by the many and loved by the one, it is
more In her power than she may believe to accom-
plish that object. Cosmetics will not accomplish it,
however. Neither will fine dress, though a woman
who does not dress becomingly wrongs herself.
Forced smiles and affected amiability will be of no
avail; but if she can manage to feel kindly to every-
body, not to be Jealous, not to be cross, to be happy
if possible, and to encourage contentment, then
something will come Into her face that will outlast
youth's roses, and gain her not only a husband, but
a life-long lover.
Glass.—Probably the Romans were the first to
employ glass for windows. Some remnants of glass
panes are to be found to-day In their frames, in the
buried houses of Herculaneum and Pompeii. They
substituted glass as a material for bottles, in place
of the leather which is still in vogue among the
poorer classes in the Orient. Epicureans in wine
then, as now, determined the age of their article by
the seal upon the cork and the label Impressed upon
the glass. Glass goblets were less popular. Gold
and silver reluctantly yielded the palm to their new-
fangled rival, which sought popularity by appealing,
not to the poverty of the poor, but to the desire of
novelty among the rich. Even artillcial stones
and pearls of glass were not unknown. Whether
mirrors of glass were known to the Romans, or
whether they depended exclusively, as they certainly
did chiefly, upon the resource of the Jews—polished
metals—Is a question of grave dispute among the
learned in such matters—a dispute into which we
shall not venture to enter. It Is safe, however, to
say the only use of glass which modern art can claim
with assurance, as exclusively Its own, Is the em-
ployment of It in optical Instruments.
The Illustrations in this number have been exe-
cuU^i by our artists in admirable style.
Types op Women.—Au English Review has lately
devoted much of its talent to discussing the educa-
tion, character, peculiarities. Influence, and foibles
of women. One of Its latest essays is upon the vari-
ous ideals of womanly perfection which are found
among mankind. These ideals differ, it is said, ac-
cording to the situation and peculiarities of the dif-
ferent countries. In Italy the Ideal woman is a fiery
patriot. In Poland she Is a patriot also, but of a more
etherealized kind, resenting Russian tyranny with
feminine scorn, and living in perpetual music and
mourning. The Spanish ideal is a rich and passion-
ate beauty, who always needs looking after. That
of the French is a feverish little creature, full of
nervous energy, but without muscular force ; of frail
health and feeble organization; a prey to morbid
fancies, which she has no strength to control or re-
sist; now weeping away her life in the pain of find-
ing that her husband—a man gross and material
because her husband—does not understand her;
now sighing over her sins in the arms of the lover
who does; without reasoning faculties, but with di-
vine intuitions that are as good as revelations; with-
out cool Judgment, but with the light of burning
passions that guide her Just as well; thinking by her
heart, yet carrying the most refined metaphysics into
her love; subtle; incomprehensible by the coarser
brain of man; a creature born to bewilder and to be
misled, to love and to be adored, to madden men,
and to be destroyed by herself whenever she falls to
be attractive. The ideal of the German, according to
this authority, is of two kinds. The one Is a broad-
faced housewife, who cooks good dinners at small
cost, and mends the family linen as religiously as if
this were the eleventh commandment specially ap-
pointed for feminine fingers to keep. The most per-
fect type of this sort of female Is Charlotte cutting
bread and butter. The other German ideal Is repre-
sented by Bettina, full of mind and aesthetics, heart
uplifting love, yearning after the Infinite, with holes
in her stockings and her shoes dowa at the heel—for
what are coarse, material mendings to the xsthetlo
soul yearning after the infinite, and worshipping at
the feet of the prophet? The American, like the
German, is said to revere two idols. One Is a clever
manager, with a good executive faculty in the mat-
ters of cooking and sewing; the other an aspiring
soul, who yearns after the morally vast and sublime,
and, putting her aspirations Into deeds, goes out into
the world to do battle with the sins of society—an
editress, preacher, or stump orator.
An Englishman was speaking one day to a Scotch-
man. The Scotchman said :—
"It Is no' mere national pride if I say, what uut
perfectly white and pure; but, nevertheless. It fs
reckoned one of the finest large diamonds in the
world. The large oblong diamond fixed above the
Star Is flat, anu possesses nothiug like the purity
and brilliancy of its great rival. It cost £3uO,OUj.
The whole breast-piece of diamonds cost over half a
million sterling, and Is one of the most beaulilul
necklaces of that description extant."
Among those following the business of driving the
oab In London, Is a former governor of the Bank of
England, an ex-member of Parliament, and a late
fellow of a Cambridge college.
A venerable snuff-taker in Massachusetts esti-
mates that he has taken, during the past forty yi^ars,
two tons of the dust, valued at (3300.
GODEY'8 ARM-CHAIR.
385
MAnuiArfE Superstitions.—All nations have added
their quantum of superstition to the institution of
marriage. That this particular event in man's life
should be thus favored above the rest may be ac-
counted for by its immense importance, and by the
fact that all other events in the life of man are more
or less connected with it. In the middle ages it was
firmly believed in England that there were lucky and
unlucky days for a wedding. He who married on
Wednesday ran the risk of being deceived by his
wife; while he who married on a Friday would be
certain to die a poor man. A Journal in Paris actu-
ally published the dates of these unlucky days, which
were forty-two in number. Many old country folk
will to this day tell you that when two betrothed give
each other their hands before the altar, the one whose
hand is the coldest will die first—especially if that
same one should be the first to fall asleep on the
bridal night. Another curious belief is that which
we have often heard expressed at English weddings:
"Ah! the bride shall weep, for the rain doth fall."
In the Vosges it is still believed that when two
marriages take place on the same day, and in the
same, church, the bride who first steps out of the
church porch will have a boy for her firstborn child.
So strong does that belief exist that it gives rise to
terrible quarrels, and even fights—the friends of the
respective parties doing all in their power to aid
their own bride to leave the church first, to the de-
triment of the other. Only a few years ago, a mayor
of a certain village in the Vosges had the following
luminous Idea, and thus prevented a most serious
riot on the occasion of a double marriage: He offered
his two hands to the rival brides, and thus triumph-
antly led them out of the church door at the same
moment.
If, while going to church, the bridal party should
meet a funeral, it is supposed that, according to the
sex of the dead, either the bride or her husband will
die the first Should two persons of the same family
intermarry with two members of another family, one
of the four is certain to die within the year. In Brit-
tany, if the contracting parties would not have their
children born mutes, they must fast during the cere-
mony; while in the province of Arragon a couple
become man and wife by simply drinking together
from the same glass. In another province the newly-
wedded pair must be struck smartly between the
shoulders to preserve them from the Evil Eye; or,
again, with the same idea, some ornament of their
dress is stolen from them the moment after the nup-
tial blessing has been given. Another manner of
securing the happiness of the bride was to cause her
to pass over naked swords arranged in the form of a
cross, and called the Cross of St. Andrew. In yie
province of Arragon, in order to insure a large fam-
ily, the bride, on entering her house for the first
time, was bound either to break an egg by kicking
it, or to have some wheat thrown over her. These
are but a few of the superstitions still believed in
some parts of Europe.
Silver Mines.—The Son Francisco Chronicle
gives the following account of the wealth of the
silver mines in Peru, Mexico, and other places:—'
"In the first three centuries after the discovery of
America, it has been computed that 160,000 tons of
pure silver were exported from Peru and Mexico
alone. This would be sufficient to form a solid
globe of silver one hundred feet in diameter. Con-
sidering the rude manner of working ores at that
day, this is no trifle. The dilference between mining
in Peru and mining In Mexico is only in the climate
of the silver regions. The Potosl mine, which lias
yielded enormous quantities of silver, is at an eleva-
tion as great as that of the summit of Mont Blanc, in
a region of perpetual snow. The mines of Mexico
VOL. XCI.—25
are on the middle lands, where neither frost nor
great heat Is felt. The vast mineral wealth of Peru
lias been developed by the patient industry of the
native Indians. They live almost entirely on cocoa.
Their wages per week average about 81.50 In our
money.
"A very romantic story is told of the Salcado
mine, which has been lost for a hundred years.
Salcado was a young Spaniard, who fell In love with
and married an Indian girl, whereupon she revealed
to him the location of a silver mine of fabulous rich-
ness, and as yet unworked. Salcado, with the aid
of his wife, found the mine, and, making friends
with the Indians, he commenced work upon it. In
a lew years he was enormously rich. The Spanish
Governor, learning of his prosperity, and designing
to secure the mine to himself, caused a charge of
'conspiracy to be made against him, under which he
was arrested, tried, and condemned, though the
charge was entirely fictitious.
"When awaiting execution, he promised the Gov-
ernor, De Lemos, that if he would allow the proofs
to be sent to Madrid and be inspected by the king,
there should be paid to him a hundred pounds of
silver every day until the vessel should go to Spain
and return. As the voyage one way In those days
consumed about sixteen months, it is readily seen
that the ransom offered was enormous. Salcado
was executed. The avaricious Governor hastened
to the mine, but the mine was gone. It has never
been found. The widow and her devoted Indians
had determined that the murderer should never be
rewarded for his crime, and they had Hooded the
mine and burled it In such a maimer that discovery
was Impossible.
"The richest silver mine in the world, probably, to
the Potocchi, or. In our vernacular, Potosl—the
Chollar-Fotosl being named from it It is near La
Plata, and was discovered in 1545. It has always
been worked in a rude manner, but yet is said to
have already produced 8250,000,000 of the precious
metal. For many years sixteen hundred Indians
were employed in ft, and, being slaves, so cruelly
were they worked that thev died rapidly, and their
places were immediately filled by others. At the
present time two thousand paid men are employed,
and the mine yields well, and shows no signs of ex-
haustion.
"The total silver production In the world, from
the year 1850 to 1875, has been estimated to be
81,025,000,000, the United 8tates producing one-tenth
of the entire amount The yield of Mexico is at
present at the rate of 820.000,000 annually. Peru is
falling gradually behind, the yield for the year 1874
being but little over 83,000,000. The mines of Chill
and Bolivia are being rapidly developed, and will
soou furnish a material item in the annual produc-
tion. In 1867 Nevada proudly pointed to a yield of
812,500,000. In 1869 the production was hardly half
as much. The production for the present year will
probably exceed 825,000,000. The annual production
of the Idaho mines is about 83,000,000, or as much as
the famous mines of Peru. Colorado, in 1874, is esti-
mated to have produced bullion to the amount ol
81,000,000."
HUMAN BEIN'S.
Some folks is jlst like chestnut burs,
Nothin' but prlckels;
An' «ome are sour through and through,
like plckels.
And some are coarse, and rough, and cold.
Like granit mountains;
And some are good as music sweet
Of summer fountains.
Some are like soft, sleek tabby-cats.
Most allers purrin',
While treachery lies underneath.
Alive an' stlrrin'.
Some are made up of shaller froth,
Foamln' an' fussin'.
And all that they pertend ter do
Is only nussln'.
And some are only eyes and ears,
Hearln' an' seeiu'
A hundred thousand different tilings
That have no beln'.
And some are only made of tongue,
Allers a waggin',
Ami used ter other people's hurt.
Or else a braggin'. Sallt Jbbosha.
386
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.
Drawn expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hobbs & Son, Architects, 804 North Eighth Street,
formerly 0/809 and 811 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
The above design Is one of those that meet with
more admirers in this country than anv other class
of buildings. We send throughout the North, South,
East, and West, perhaps a hundred similar designed
FIRST STORT.
buildings In a year of this type, varied In their evo-
lutions to suit different grounds and surroundings;
also different plans, number of rooms, closets—por-
tions of them changed to suit circumstances. Also
SECOND STORT.
changes for materials to be used In the construction;
some of wood, as the above, others pointed stone,
others bricks painted. The beauty rests in the pro-
portions and treatment. The house can be built,
completely finished, with all the modern improve-
ments, hot and cold water, heater, and gas-pipe
throughout, for from S4O00 to S7000, according to the
expensive character of materials used.
First Story.—A parlor, 12 by 18 feet: B porch; D
office, 15 by 15 feet; R kitchen, 12 by 13 feet 6 ipches:
F dining-room, 15 by 12 feet.
Second Story.-C principal chamber, 12 by 18 feet:
H chamber, 15 by 12 feet; F chamber, 10 by 12 feet:
N chamber, 15 by 15 feet.
A tourist in China gives the following Interesting
account of a visit he paid to one of the most ancient
and wealthy families In Wel-hyon. "Chin Ghial
See" is the name on his visiting card:—
"His house is remarkable—the first I have seen In
China. The reception-room Is furnished with ancient
arm-chairs at least three feet wide in the seat, like
thrones. The place of honor had a beautiful draw-
ing of a bamboo grove in the wall. We never saw
such a thing in China. Before it a large porcelain
plate on a stand 700 years old. On one side is a
bronze vase of the 'Clieu' dynasty, or 600 years be-
fore Christ. The old man introduced his grandson,
a charming boy; and on our request to see some old
curiosities, he went to his room and brought a sacri-
ficial bronze cup on three legs, which belonged to a
noble family 1100 years before Christ, lust the same
as one sees printed in the books of the ancient
Chinese classics.
"It was most curious, and It seemed to say,'Ishow
you a thing which was used by my ancestors In their
worship nearly 3000 years ago.' In fact, this cup was
contemporary with Solomon's Temple, and was made
before Rome was built. He only showed us that, as
If all the rest was too modern forour admiration. In
this grand room, where he received us, were his
library of books, in beautiful cedar cases, and his
family banners of silk, with gold letters on them,
which are borne before the coffins at their inter-
ments. I also saw another One house—' Vang'—and
I am much pleased with my visit here."
Human life Is a constant want, ana ought to be a
constant prayer.
Men are contented to be laughed at for their wit,
but not for their folly.
0 0DET-8 ARM-CHAIR.
387
Persons Interested In ancient historical relics will
be sorry to learn that the Parthenon at Athens is
being shockingly wrecked and ruined. Tourists
every season visit It, knock off limbs of statues, pull
down portions of the frieze which Lord Elgin left,
and, clambering up with hammer or stone, break off
bits of the Doric capitals. These capitals. It will be
remembered, are painted with rows of leaves, which
are supposed to be beut double under the weight of
the architrave, and relic hunters seem to be espe-
cially fond of chipping this portion of the masonry.
"Not a fortnight ago," says a correspondent, "a
tourist knocked off the finger of one of the finest
statues, as he wished to add to his private collection
of curiosities at New York." The Greeks have de-
termined to protect the building as much as possible,
and to store up In a safe place the most Interesting
and valuable of the fragments of sculpture which lie
all over the place, exposed to rude winds, and men
more savage still than they. They have almost com-
pleted a museum at the back of the Acropolis, but
the work has come to a standstill for lack of money.
In European travel, when compartment cars are
In use, much depends upon securing pleasant travel-
ling companions, or in keeping a compartment en-
tirely for your own party. Many plans are devised
for this, but as babies are the particular bugbears of
travellers, the adoption of bogus ones to act as scare-
crows has been found the most successful. To meet
the need of the travelling public, a London firm ad-
vertise that they have for sale "artificial babes for
travellers," which they will sell at the following
prices: Common travelling infants, yielding Inter-
mittent cries of fear, and capable of being put into
the pocket, 10 shillings. Second-class, crying not too
loudly, but lamentably and Insupportably, 20 shil-
lings. Third-class, full squallers, with a very pierc-
ing and aggravating voice of five octaves, £2. The
same, arranged as prompt repeater, £2 6s. Fifth-
class, float quality, capable of continued squalling, £3.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Under this head will be found all information
connected with MSS., and answers from the Fashion
Editress.
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 mall must send
a post-office stamp; and for all articles that are to
be sent by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return
postage.
Be particular, when writing, to mention the town,
county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be
made out of post-marks.
Any person making inquiries to be answered in
any particular number must send their request at
least two months previous to the date of publication
of that number.
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. H. L. A.—Sent box by Adams' express August
3d.
Mrs. J. S.—Sentpatterns3d.
Mrs. B. W. F.—Sent articles by express 4th.
Miss C. V.—Sent silk patterns 4th.
H. J.—Sent ring 5th.
Miss J. X—Sent dress goods 5th.
J. L.—Sent box by express 0th.
G. W.— Sent order by express 9th.
Mrs. B. M.—Sent Infant s wardrobe patterns 10th.
Mrs. N. M.—Sent patterns 10th.
Miss C. H.-Sent hat 11th.
Miss H. P.—Sent rubber gloves 11th.
Eliza.—Sent skirt supporters 12th.
L. A.—Sent child's cap 14th.
Philip Augustus.—Sent Dreka's Dictionary Blotter
17th.
Kate.—Too sentimental.
Hope.—Omitted through a mistake.
Mrs. M. N.—Sent suit for boy 18th.
Mrs. K. R. W.—Sent collars 19th.
Mrs. S. M.—Sent lead comb 24th.
Miss T. E. F.—Sent zephyr 28th.
Mrs. F. L.—Sent girl's dress 28th.
Rebecca.—"Ratafia" is pronounced ra-ta-fl-o.
Hazel.—You cannot darken your hair without dye-
ing it. You had much better be satisfied with what
nature has made It than attempt to improve it.
A Young Lady.—A wish may be expressed in the
shortest possible form for the health ami happiness
or the newly married pair. Young ladies are ex-
pected to say very little In such cases
Parent—Agnes, a German word, signifies chaste.
Agatha.—Bathing the face with elder-flower water,
if it is only slightly scorbutic, will sometimes afford
relief.
• "Marriage Lines," declined.
F. H. J.- When actually needed they are.
"Love's Persuasion" is declined for the reason that
we do not publish acrostics.
"The Stolen Kiss," accepted.
Eugene.—1. Yes. 2. Yes. 3. That depends on your
intimacy. 4. We cannot answer this question.
Inquirer.—Rothermel's "Battle of Gettysburg"
cost 830,000. It was painted by order of the Legisra-
ture. It is a huge canvas.
Ida.—Your diffidence alone is the cause of your
blushing. The more you mix In society the sooner
you will overcome it.
Harry B.—White camellia signifies "perfect love-
liness.1*
Bertha.—We thank you for your highly compli-
mentary letter about the magazine.
Annie W.—We have np opening for designs in fancy
work, as we are abundantly supplied.
Joseph.—You will find it a dlnicult matter to get
the MS. inserted In a periodical. An amateur has a
poor chance nowadays. We cannot suggest any
mode of employing your pen so as to make it profit-
able. This answer lias reference to other Inquirers.
Flora.—We must avoid any remarks on theological
subjects.
rasj}i0tts.
NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS.
nAYiNohad frequentapplications forthe 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 percentage for the
time and research required. Spring and autumn
bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry, envelopes,
hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, mantil-
las, and mantelets will be chosen with a view to eco-
nomy as well as taste; and boxes or packages for-
warded by express to any part of the country. For
the last, distinct directions must be given.
When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail
here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will
be taken back. When the goods are sent, the trans-
action must be considered final.
Instructions to be as minute as possible, accompa-
nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general
style of the person, on which much depends in choice.
The publisher of the Lady's Book has no interest
In this department, and knows nothing of its trans-
actions; and whether the person sending the order
Is or is not a subscriber to the Lady's Book, the
Fashion Editress does not know.
Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed
expenditure, to he addressed to the care of L. A.
Oodey, Esq.
„Vo order will he attended to unless the money is
first received. Neitherthe Editor nor the Publisher
will be accountable for losses that may occur in re-
mitting.
DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE.
Fig. L—Visiting dress of two shades of purple.
The underskirt Is of silk, the back breadths plaited,
the front laid in folds and puffed. Polonaise mantel
of silk warp Cashmere of a darker shade, embroid-
ered and trimmed with fringe. Bonnet of silk of the
two colors, trimmed with flowers.
Fig. 2.—House dress of two shades of greeu silk,
390
OODET'S LADT'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
These wraps were worn by ladies of fashion last
winter, and will be very popular later In the season.
Quantities of plaitlngs, many rows of lustreless
braids and fringes, are to be the fashionable trim-
mings for fall and winter dresses. The plaitlngs
are all turned one way, but are in clusters, being
separated by a single wide plait Fringes are ex-
ceedingly elaborate, having netting, tassels, balls,
and crimped braid all combined.
A great deal of old-fashioned hem-stltchlng is go-
ing to be used on the cuffs, collars, and handker-
chiefs to be worn next winter. Ladles who have
learned these odd and pretty stitches from their
grandmothers can now use them for ornamenting
their own lingerie.
As there are so few styles of Jewelry appropriate
for mourning, we must call attention to tortoise-
shell, which, since It has been so nicely manufac-
tured into articles of ornament, has been, by our
more wealthy leaders of fashion, sought after In the
darkest shades as a mourning jewelry; although it
is not by any means restricted to only mourning
wear, but Is adapted to almost any style of dress.
Among the many qualities it possesses is durability.
Many persons have erroneous Ideas as to Its strength,
they being simply acquainted with foreign work,
much of which is pressed into shape, and from thin
and Inferior shell. Wo had the pleasure a short time
since of seeing some Welded Shell Jewelrv manu-
factured by Wn. H. Potter of the Providence Shell
Works. This company do not make any pressed-
work, but use only the best quality of shell; weld-
ing It Into thick pieces, and then carving from the
solid block of shell the article to be made. Jewelry
thus made is very durable and will last for several
generations. One good feature Is, that if the shell
ever loses its first gloss, it can be repollshed and re-
ceive again a lustre equal to new. It is preferable
to onyx, on account of Its light weight; onyx jewelry
in the same patterns would be too heavy to wear
with comfort It Is preferable to jet, because jet Is
so brittle; and better than rubber, as It has none of
Its disagreeable odor. The reason the goods of the
Providence Shell Works are not more generally kept
Is on account of their price. The perfect manner in
which it is manufactured makes It a first-class arti-
cle, and none but the leading Jewelry houses have a
trade to purchase it A set In tortoise-shell Is now
considered requisite for the completion of a set of
Jewels. Americans formerly, when abroad, pur-
chased a shell set before returning to their homes;
now the scale is turned, and many purchase before
leaving, on account of Its beauty and durability mak-
ing It a fashionable travelling Jewelry. To those
unacquainted with shell work, as executed In the
fine manner alluded to, we would recommend an In-
spection of the goods wherever kept, or at the sales-
room of the manufacturers. No. 76 and 78 Eddy St.,
Providence, R I., feeling convinced that, once seen,
a purchase will surely follow.
A pretty costume for a young lady for the early
autumn Is of slate-gray Cashmere, and gray and
blue-figured wool goods, or gray and blue striped
• goods. The skirt has one flounce, after which comes
a series of very narrow bouillons, finished with a
standing up frilling. There are two tabllers to this
dress; one very long of striped, the other much
sliorter of the plain goods. Each Is fastened at the
back by a wide bow of the figured or striped, with
broad ends edged with fringe. Jacket bodice, with
deep plain basque, trimmed around with a border
of the fancy goods and a fringe. A band of the same
is put on as a small fichu, and tied In a bow with
fringed ends in front. The sleeves arc finished with
two plaitlngs and u baud and bow of the fancy goods.
For the benefit of our readers who are their own
dressmakers, we will give some hints in regard to
the styles. Coat sleeves are being made almost tlght-
flttlng, but shorter than formerly, with flaring cuffs
or plaited frills around the wrist Cuffs are of sim-
ple shape merely corded on the edge and decorated
with a small bow. Basques are as long waisted as
the wearer's figure will permit Long side forms in
the back are seen on most French dresses. It seems
almost impossible to make the neck of the dress too
high and close for style, no matter how great the
discomfort Side plaitlngs for trimming skirts of
dresses are not made as full as they were formerly,
twice and a half the length of the space to be cov-
ered Is now used instead of three times. These
plaits must be caught on the wrong side in the mid-
dle, pressed flatly above, and allowed to flare below;
some persons use rows of machine stitching to keep
them In place; this makes them more regular look-
ing but adds nothing to their beauty. Pockets are
again placed on plain long basques. When in front
and on the sides, they are Sat and square; when on
the back of the basque, they are gathered like old-
fashioned reticules, and have a bow for ornament
The Louis XV. basque, with the back quite short be-
hind, long on the hips, and meeting across the chest
over a vest, will be worn with winter suits. This
pretty basque has been very much worn this past
snmmer, and finds great favor. The vest Is sharply
pointed, or else slopes away In two points. This Is
a pretty fashion for dresses that are made of two
materials, one of which Is figured and the other
plain. The reports about the length of dress skirts
are very contradictory; but there is a general desire
to short en the skirts of suits for the fall and winter.
Tito French arrangement of mixed costumes. Is a
plain basque with striped or plaid sleeves, and a
plaid overdress and plain apron. A quaint new suit
has a brown groa grain basque, with plaid wool
goods; sleeves of rose and brown plaid; the apron is
plain brown, with a bias band on the edge; the lower
skirt of plaid has plaitlngs of both fabrics, the plaid
flounce being placed between brown plaitlngs.
Black velvet ribbons are imported in large quanti-
ties for trimming winter dresses. They are used on
rich brocades and silks, but are especially designed
for Cashmere and other fine woollens. Three or four
rows are sewed plainly around the skirts of the dress
instead of flounces; perpendicular lines of velvet
trim the basque.
Bonnets of regular shape with strings are shown
almost to the exclusion of round hats. The strings
are not necessarily tied in front but may be fastened
behind or passed around the neck In the way tulle
strings were worn the past season. Some of the
bonnets are simply made of velvet and silk, trimmed
without feathers or flowers; this is a natural re-
action after the profusion of flowers worn the
past summer. Others are entirely trimmed with
birds' wings, one shown having six wings on each
side; these are sold In pairs, as the right and left
wing must be placed In natural positions. Birds are
also to be very much used for trimming, large birds
especially, such as pigeons, the blrd-of-theisles, the
lophophore, and various others with bronze-shaded
plumage. Thus a large bluebird is placed low on
the back of the bonnet, aslf flying down; in his beak
he oatches up the long ribbon strings that are tied
behind. Flowers will of course be worn, the ever
beautiful and popular rose will be the most popu-
lar for velvet bonnets. Cardinal red still continues
popular. Navy blue, gray, brown, and black are to
be most worn. Felt bounets are to be very much
worn for second best
Fashion
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK ADVERTISER.
CHENEY'S AMERICAN SILKS.
These Silks are made in the most approved manner, and are GUARANTEED to surpass in
WEIGHT, FINISH, and DURABILITY any that can be obtained at corresponding prices.
Ladies are especially requested to ask to see the full variety of these Silks before purchasing
any others, which are now offered at all the'leading Dry Goods Stores throughout the country.
AGENTS WANTED
FOK DR. MARCH'S
GREAT WORK,
NIGHT SCENES IN THE BIBLE,
And a magnificent NEW BOOK Just from the press.
Address J. C. HcCUBDY k CO., Philadelphia, Ta.
JVISEA.SKS OF WOMEN, by Geo. II. TATLOit,
JU M. D., 318 pages, contains New Methods, with-
out Drugs, for Home Treatment and Radical Cure.
Mailed for 81.50. Circular on receipt of stamp.
N. E. WOOD, 17 East 58tii Street. New Vokk.
VIOLET TOILET WATER.
CASHMERE BOUQUET EXTRACT.
CASHMERE BOUQUET Toilet Soap.
TJVJSOl. iT. OA.RZ.TON'8
LIST OF TWENTY-FIYK MAGAZINES
Is the best and cheapest for Advertisers. Address
WW. J. CARLTON, 39Park Row, New York.
T aiiips canmake $5a dav In their own city or town,
.united Address Eixis MVo Co., Waltham, Mass.
YOUNG AMERICA PRESS.
The most simple, effective, and durable
printing press made. Circulars sent free on
_ application to JOSEPH WATSON, 53 Murray
8treet, New York, and 73 Cornhill, Boston.
The Utility Adjustable Table
May be, raised or lowered to suit any person or purpose, and folded
for packing away in a moment. Invaluable to ladies in cutting and
basting. A boon to invalids. A treasure to children, and une-
qualled for writing, study, games, etc. Expressage prepaid within
600 miles of New York. 10 per cent, allowed on orders from greater
distance. Extra inducements to clubs. Made In great variety of
style, shape, size, and price. Tables for games, with chess and crib-
bage boards inlaid. Send for illustrated circular, and quote GouEY'a
Lady's Book.
LAMBIE & SARGENT,
Sole Prop'a and M'Prl, 793 Broadway, New York.
BEAUTIFY HOME
BY PADiTlNQ WITH
AVERILL
CHEMICAL PAINT.
IT IS THE
MOST DURABLE AND BEAUTI-
i
FUL EXTERIOR PAINT
KNOWN.
Sample Card of beautiful Colors, and recommend-
ations from owners of the finest residences iu the
country, furnished free by the
Averill Chemical faint Company,
82 Burling Slip, New York,
OB
CLEVELAND, - - - OHIO.
FOR THE HOUSE T
Tlio Autumn No. of Vlck'B Kloral Guide,
containing descriptions ot Hyacinths, Tulips, Lilies,
and all Bulbs and Seeds for Fall Planting in the Gar-
den, and for Winter Flowers in the House—just pub-
lished, aud sent free to all. Address.
JAMKS TICK, Rochester, If. T.
IN STRENGTH AND PURITY
Superior to any other, therefore
MOST ECONOMICAL.
■ ii
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK ADVERTISER.
(EstatoUsUod BO Tonrs.)
OF SUPEBIOB
filtotv filoteb
2d Floor, Artizan Hall,
No. 618 Chestnut Street,
PHILADELPHIA.
All our wares, whether intended for Privati
or Hotel use, Wedding, Holiday, or Birthday
Presents, we guarantee will be found unsur-
passed for beauty and durability.
Every article warranted quadruple plate,
on the finest metal.
A 8FECIALTT IH
Old wares repaired, replated, and maris
equal to new.
All orders promptly filled, and sent safely
by express to any destination.
Orders solicited from the trade and froa
prirate parties.
Address
GARRETT & SOW, 618 Chestnut St., Philad'a.
'J". IK. (D-A.JML'F,
60S Chostiiiit, o-xxci 610 Joyno Street.
LITHOGRAPHIC! ENGRAVING, PRINTING, ETC.,
IN ALL ITS BRANCHES.
EXTRA NOTIOH.
Having a Jew copies remaining on hand of the following
popular Chromos, we will furnish litem to our subscribers and
their friends at the low prices given below, and pay the postage:—
ASKING A BLESSING
THE OLD MILL
THE OFFER -
THE ACCEPTANCE
THE SINGING LESSON
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GODEY'S
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VOLUME XOL-HO. 545.
PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER, 1875.
LfiONIE.
BT H. VICK1RT DUMOST.
They were walking In the stifling July stm
in Mrs. Chester's garden, Mrs. Chester's gov-
erness and Mrs. Chester's brother. The gar-
den flooded with crimson and golden shadows,
gorgeous with scarlet geraniums and purple
hearted pansies, fragrant with the sensuous
perfume of heliotrope and plain little blossoms
of mignonette. The governess silent, sweet-
faced, and slender, holding up her crepe trimmed
dress with one slim hand, turning her eyes to-
ward the flaming westward with supremest
unconsciousness that, outwardly at least, she
was the most direct contradiction to the de-
pendent condition which nature had assigned
her. The brother, strong, fair, and handsome,
his Saxon outline pencilled clearly against the
crimson background of the sky, his whole face
one pi-rfect reflection of Miss Gascoigne's in-
tangible loveliness.
From her post of observation behind the
drawing-room curtains, Mrs. Chester saw, for
the first time, the subtle prophecy of the pic-
ture, and, seeing it, felt an instantaneous anger
at herself.
"How blind I have been not to have foreseen
it!" she said. "And yet how could I? They
told me at home that Ross was almost engaged
to Agnes Earle, and I certainly did not think
of Leonie when I invited him here. She seemed
iuch a child to me, and I never before noticed
?>vr very lovely she was. I wonder what I
fciKdo!"
The scene In the garden became panoramic
jut then. Miss Gascoigne going quietly up
'If veranda stairs, and little Katie Chester
fitting into the vacated places among the
patey beds and roses. Mr. Carman leaned
irraolutely on the garden railings, and Katie's
motker resolved her wonderings by going
dowr. and facing him.
"Ross," she said, with a nervous adjustment
Of her widow's cap, and a meaning glance to-
ward the balcony, where Miss Gascoigne was
endeavoring to dance her youngest pupil in
her arms, "I do hope you are not going to
commence one of your flirtations. 1 like
Leonie so much, and besides it is not fair to
Miss Earle."
A sudden wave of color passed over his
brow as lie turned his handsome, winning
face towards his sister.
"Now, Jennie, what do you mean? Any
person hearing you talk would imagine flirting
was a chronic state of my being; that I was
the most ruthless heart-breaker imaginable;
instead of which I am a gentle, peaceable, fel-
low, with only the purest intentions. I admire
this mademoiselle of yours immensely. Who
wouldn't, I'd like to know? And by that
same token where did you find her? I asked
you before, and you didn't answer me."
The liveliest curiosity inflected his voice
just then, but Mrs. Chester, with her eyes still
on the balcony, ignored his question.
"I wish you were steadier, Ross. I wish
you would not jest when I want you to be in
earnest. It is all very well to flirt with girls
that can accept your attention at its proper
valuation; but Leonie is so very young, and
she does not look upon tilings in the same
light as our Northern young ladies do. Then,
you know, in a week or two I expect Agnes
will be here."
Again the wave of color conquered his face;
again he attempted nonchalance In his reply.
"Jennie, please spare my blushes. When
you know what an unfortunate complexion I
have, it Is mean of you to torture it; and be-
sides, I want to know how I am to conceal my
admiration. Am I to put a green shade over
my eyes whenever mademoiselle is around?
I shall have to do something of the kind, for
in my natural state of susceptibility, and in her
413
414
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AKD MAGAZINE.
natural state of tropical loveliness, want of
admiration would In- an impossibility."
"But, Ross, when Agues comes," Mrs.
Ciiester once more hazarded, tearing a fuchsia
blossom into pieces as she spoke.
"But, Jennie, she will not come," Mr. Car-
men answered, leaning a little more resolutely
upon the railing. "You are laboring under a
delusion, of which I suppose it is my duty to
dispossess you. Miss Earle and my humble
self have not arrived at that state of beatitude
commonly known as an engagement; and
moreover, I hardly think we ever will. I ad-
mire her, most emphatically, and our world at
Washington drew up our marriage settlements
long ago; but I am not fool enough yet to think
1 could have her for the asking."
"Yet she encouraged your attentions," Mrs.
Chester interposed, with vague surprise.
"Permitted them, you mean," her brother
corrected. "Yes, she did last winter, but not
lately. I have been losing my vantage ground
for some time now, and I know it, though I
do not know the reason. Any way, 1 venture
to say that if she hears 1 am here before her
she will go back on her promise of making
you this visit."
Mrs. Chester made a sacrifice of the fuchsia
leaves as well as the blossoms, then looked up
Inquiringly.
"1 think, however, that she will come; and
if she should, what then?"
Mr. Carmen laughed a little provokingly.
"' Mati apritf always a woman's question.
Well, my sister, if she should come, knowing
that I am domesticated before her, I shall be
constrained to think she does take a little in-
terest in me after all; therefore, in boundless
gratitude, I shall offer her my name and what
little fortune I have. Then the chime of wed-
ding bells shall be the epilogue of the strain;
eternal happiness shall be my portion, et ctetera,
et csetera. Now 1 've given you my whole con-
fidence, and will you reciprocate? Where did
your protege come from? and how did you find
her?" Ilia voice was very peremptory by this
time, so Mrs. Ciiester was forced into recital.
"She came from New Orleans, and I found
her at Arlington's. Isabel met her at the
Convent in Montreal, and raved so constancy
about her that Mrs. Arlington wrote to Leonie's
father to know if he wouldn't allow his daugh-
ter to spend the winter with them. He was a
sea captain, and had intended taking Leonie
with him on a two years' voyage; but when
Mrs. Arlington's invitation came, he accepted
It thankfully, and brought Leonie North him-
self. She felt dreadfully at parting with him,
and we all think it must have been presenti-
ment, for, just think, Boss, two months after
his departure, his first mate wrote to say that
the captain had died and been buried at sea.
Leonie was wonderfully attached to him, so
you may Imagine the poor child's grief was
something terrible. She had neither friends
nor fortune, and when her father was gone,
she was virtually alone in the world. The
Arlingtons wanted to adopt her, but under all
her childishness she is wonderfully proud, and
as she would persist in making her own living,
I persuaded them to let her come to me. Katie
and Ted almost adore her, and I would do
anything to make her happy. 1 really think
she is comparatively contented now, but I did
think that her sorrow would kill her at first.
She is just the kind of a girl to die of a broken
heart."
Mr. Carmen's face grew grave with the teu-
derest sympathy.
"Poor little beauty! how lonely she must
feel I" he said, pityingly; and thereupon Mrs.
Chester seized her opportunity.
"Now, Boss, I 've told you her story, and
will yon not promise me"—
"To adopt the green shade," he interrupted,
affectedly debonair. "No, I thank you! butl
will try not to break her heart. A heart so
tender ought to be spared for the rarity of the
tiling. Honestly, Jennie, I do feel inexpressi-
bly sorry for your poor little friend; but I
think you are rather nonsensical. I am no
male specimen of the genus tgren. I am not
one of those of whom it was spoken, 'To know
them is to love them,' and I really can't see
why you should be afraid."
Perhaps he was honest in the candid incredu-
lity ills face and words expressed; but, know-
ing him better than he knew himself, Mrs.
Chester failed to share the incredulity, and
answered him by an ominously despairing
sigh, which sigh was intensified when, in an-
other moment, he had left her, and, vaulting
lightly over the railing, attempted to relieve
Miss Uascoigne of her childish burden by taking
his little nephew in his arms, and saying:—
"Ah, Teddy, my nephew! in twenty years
more you won't be so willing to leave a resting
place like mademoiselle's arms."
"But, Uncle Boss, in twenty years more
Teddy will be a man, and mademoiselle will
bo an old woman, and Teddy wouldn't want
to have her hold him in her arms," Katie re-
sponded, in large-eyed sincerity, whereupon
mademoiselle laughed a trifle shyly, and Uncle
Boss' dancing eyes confronted the small sage
Tery .mirthfully.
"Mademoiselle Is Immortal, Katie," he said
"She will never grow old. It is only ugf
little people like you that grow into old wo»»»-
N'est que ce pas mademoiselle."
Tho sweet Southern face above him U*WP
with shy, unspoken rapture; the lumim'i*
eyes were kindled with conjecture as to whetier
earth or heaven ever held a grander, noMer
face than that upraised to hers. Then si0
leaned over the railing and answered, wW*
the pretty foreign accent that lent to eirry
I word a charm :—
416
OODBVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
She was sitting on a weed-grown rock by this
time, her hands crossed with a sort of impas-
sioned mournfulness, her eyes turned on the
limitless expanse of waters as if silently claim-
ing fur .sympathy. Mr. Carmen, leaning against
the rocky shelf behind them, wondered, with a
sudden pang of self-reproach, whether he had
not increased the orphan's need, whether, in
the two past sunshiny weeks of his meaning-
less attentions, her father's loving care had not
been more than ever necessary. Then, looking
down at the sweet, averted face, at the folded
hands and the bowed head, he retracted the
adjective, and told himself truthfully that his
attentions bad not been meaningless.
In that brief instant the scales fell from his
mental vision, and for the first time he recog-
nized his position. In the world's eyes ho was
Miss Earle's favored and devoted admirer. To
his own eyes he stood, for the time being, Leonie
Gascoigne's lover. The sunshiny days, the
sweet summer hours had come to this at last.
All the bright dreams of a season past, the
dreams in which he saw Agnes Earlu relin-
quishing her innumerable triumphs of belle-
doin, to grace with her continued presence his
"ain fireside," faded into nothingness now.
Without any effort of his own, he arrived at a
state of feeling when he might have parodied
Lady Clara Vere de Vere's Mentor :—
"The daughter of a hundred ' Earles,'
You are not one to be desired."
And yet, in spite of his weakness, in spite of
the fickleness which I have not attempted to
conceal, be was too thoroughly a man to dis-
close his passion to Leonie while he was even
partially uncertain as to the estimation in
which Miss Earle held the protestations lie
had made her during the by-gone season; too
thoroughly a gentleman to give her any more
comfort than what was contained in a few
sympathetic words he might have addressed to
Katie.
"Poor child, I am so sorry for you!"
Most young ladies would have disdained such
pity; but Miss Gascoigne answered it by rais-
ing her pleading, glistening eyes, her flushed
cheeks, and tender, wistful mouth.
"Ah! but you must not sorrow, for I have
much to make me happy still."
A girl trained in our cold northern atmo-
sphere would never have uplifted such a reve-
lation of voice and eyes. A man acquiring the
thoughts and passions of a man beneath the
sunny skies of the South would never have re-
sisted such an appeal. But in this case the
national characteristics were fortunately bal-
anced, for Leonie saw no impropriety in ac-
knowledging her happiness, and Mr. Carmen
did no more than to take her hands in his and
bend his handsome face above her.
"If ray wishes could be fulfilled," he said,
"if for one moment I could borrow the author-
ity of the gift-giving fairies of old, 1 would ask
that you might be eternally iiappy. Honestly,
Leonie, if the days of chivalry would come
back I would claim your happiness at the risk
of my own. I would do anything to pay off
the debt I owe you, the debt of having made
my life a fairer, dearer thing."
When he had proceeded that far he stopped,
with a sudden conviction that his ambiguity
was leading him on dangerous ground, but
Leonie, having no very defined idea of ortho-
dox love making, was quite satisfied with this
incomprehensible attempt, felt herself for those
few hours blessed above women; but when
those hours were past, a reaction came.
They sauntered home with the setting sun,
strolling up the avenue once more flooded with
crimson and golden shadows, stopping laugh-
ingly to assist Teddy in his laborious trundling
of a small wheelbarrow, passed carelessly
through the hall and opened the drawing-room
door, to find a subtle odor of violets stealing
towards them, to see a girl standing in the
shadow of the curtains. A girl with a marvel-
lously fair face. A face which brought to the
beholder's mind intangible recollections of
Raphael's Saints and Corregio's Child Angel.
A face which of its very sweetness cast a sha-
dow upon Leonie's heart, which of its very
saintliness brought the warm color into Mr.
Carmen's too suffusable cheeks.
"Miss Earle!" he stammered, in unqualified
surprise; and then, with some of his confusion
imparted in her manner, Miss Earle came for-
ward from the shadow.
"I have surprised even the unsurpruable Mr.
Carmen."
After that Mrs. Chester, witli all her accus-
tomed nervousness called into action, effected
an introduction between her guests.
"Agnes, this is my friend, Miss Gascoigne;
Leonie, this is Miss Earle."
Miss Earle once more put forth her hand,
and smiled an unspoken compact of friendli-
ness; but Leonie, glancing from one face to
another, seemed to realize that with this new
arrival
** A discord on the music felt,
A darkness on the glory."
She had before this totally disregarded Mrs.
Chester's prophetic mention of Miss Earle's
name, but now, in the light of Miss Earle's be-
wildering beauty, the warnings took a new
and tangibly bitter shape. In her thorough! y
unsophisticated nature she could understand
nothing but reality itself, and, Miss Earle being
the fairest of realities, the comprehension in
this case was the deatli warrant of her dearest
hopes. "He is mine no longer. His eyes will
never again tell me the story of his love."
Then the dinner-bell rang, and she went
down stairs, outwardly and inwardly changed,
and as time passed on the change became even
more apparent. Mrs. Chester recognized it
with bitter self-reproach. Mr. Carmen recog-
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LEON IE.
417
nized it with guilty self-contempt, thought over
it with sorrowful discomposure, tried conscien-
tiously to ascertain which way his duty directed
him, then endeavored to solve the problem by
a week of spasmodic attention to Miss Earle.
Lastly, Miss Earle, out of the depth of her
kind and womanly Intuitions, recognized the
change that had fallen upon the poor little ex-
otic's life, and of the three she alone faced the
recognition with a sturdy determination to re-
claim the vanished sunshine. "It is a miserable
game of cross purposes," she said to herself;
"but if it continues much longer, one of the
players will come off with a broken heart. I
must try in some way to prove myself her
friend."
In most situations of Agnes Earle's life try-
ing meant succeeding; but this difficulty did
almost baffle her. Without even approaching
rudeness, Leonie refused all her overtures of
friendship, and her attempts at establishing
any sort of confidence met with point blank
refusal. Te be allowed a faithful prosecution
of her duties, and after that to be left entirely
to herself, was the only boon the poor little
governess claimed, and this she did claim with
a silent persistence that was of itself inexpress-
ibly touching.
Watching her stealthily at intervals Ross
thought of his sister's words. "She is just
the girl to die of a broken heart," and, think-
ing of them, he grew almost wild with himself.
He had been and was still a coward, and he
knew it, but, man like, he could see no clear
way of rectifying the wrong. Miss Earle had
received his first vows, he thought, and, there-
fore, to Miss Earle he owed his first duty, which
duty he fulfilled by imposing bis company upon
Agnes to a much greater extent than she found
agreeable. If she could have mustered courage
to tell him all her thoughts, the difficulty might
have been easily solved, but any one can see
that in the awkward position they held towards
each other, she found such a revelation almost
an impossibility. Her most dexterous allusions
to Leonie evoked nothing from him that could
by any means be considered a fair commence-
ment, and she herself was too thoroughly a
lady to angle in any way Tor the proposal that
he had deferred so long, first from fear of re-
fusal and now from fear of acceptance.
"The meshes are so thickly entangled that
I fear I shall never unravel them," she told
herself when a week had gone by, and Leonie
seemed as far away as ever. "I am woman
enough to like difficulties, but this is such an
awfully delicate one that I am afraid even to
approach it."
She was heartily afraid, and yet she did in a
manner approach it that same afternoon—an
afternoon gray and lowering enough to dis-
grace the season in which it came—an after-
noon in which Miss Earle, wandering near the
shore, found Miss Gascoigne seated on a low,
vol. xci.—27
rocky seat, entirely unconscious that Ted and
Katie were navigating a neighboring puddle to
the utter destruction of their dainty slippers.
"Katie, what an irreclaimable little rowdy
you are 1 Come out of that as quickly as pos-
sible, and take Teddy home," Miss Earle called
out, a pretty assumption of authority, and
then she came forward to Li'onio with the
gracious frankness that drove the poor child
almost crazy with jealous despair.
"Mayn't I sit down beside you, mademoi-
selle? I am very lonely this afternoon, and q
do w#nt so much to talk to some one."
A quick spasm of pain passed over the dark
childish face, the tender foreign accent held a
new note of suppressed agony.
"Miss Earle is most kind, but I do not talk
so well as to make any one less lonely. When
I am lonely, the sea is my cheerful friend. It
is so wide, perhaps you, too, might find the
sympathy there."
"I find the sympathy I want there? Oh,
my, no I Why, I hate the sea, Miss Gascoigne!
I crossed the Atlantic one time, and I was ill
the whole voyage, so you see old ocean re-
minds me of nothing more pleasureable than
those awful days and nights. I can't see any
beauty about the waves since then."
Miss Earle laughed carelessly at the recollec-
tion; their, relapsing into gravity, attempted
to draw Leonie out regarding those months
and years of childhood, that to the land-born
girl seemed almost a fable of themselves.
Failing at that, she spoke of convent life, and
then wandered into reminiscences of her own
school days, told so piquantly that at any
other time Miss Gascoigne would have enjoyed
the recital heartily. But now the shadow of
her sorrow obscured every trace of careless
mirth, and Miss Earle's sweet, rippling talk
evoked nothing more than a wearily polite
smile.
"I used to think, when I was a little girl,
that if ever my heart was broken I should go
into a convent until it got mended. But it is
quite whole yet, so the cloister has no claim
on me," Agnes said, at last, half despairingly,
and then, only then, Leonie looked up with
some show of interest.
"Did you think that, mademoiselle? I, too,
have thought so; but when I told iteeur Helens
at our convent in Montreal my thought, she
said to me that the dear Lord would like better
to reoeive our hearts when they were whole
and altogether his. But he seems to me so kind
and loving that I think he would take the
broken heart to himself and bind it up for-
ever."
The tired, childish face brighted with an
unspoken resolution, and Agnes, reading the
resolution aright, made a counter one to the
effect that neither the convent at Montreal nor
any other convent should become enriched by
Soaur Ste. Leonie's heart-offering.
418
GODEVS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
All through the tedious formality of the
dinner hour, she thought over her determina-
tion, and by the time evening had closed over
them she had resolved at any hazard to put
her determination to the test. The gray sullen
afternoon extended itself into an evening
state more sullen. From the window they
could see the water rolling up with gloomy
anger; they could see the sky dully prophetic;
the ragged outline of the shore rising up in
the ugliest and most uncompromising naked-
ness.
"It is horrible," Mrs. Chester said. "It
brings all my nervous faculties to the surface.
Agnes, I am going to nurse a headache in my
own room, and leave you to the dame du tnaiwm
this evening."
"Thank you I" Miss Earle replied, looking
up half abstractedly. "But it promises to be
a solitary position. Miss Gascoigne is,, as
usual, invisible; Ted is asleep; Katie investi-
gating the kitchen premises, I think; and Mr.
Carmen is"—
"At your service," Mr. Carmen himself re-
sponded, appearing in the doorway, and then
Mrs. Chester left them tete-a-titc, which tete-a-
tite was, as usual in those days, by no means
animated.
lie stood for a few moments on- the hearth-
rug, watching, with gloomily compressed lips,
the leaping firelight which, out of respect for
the weather, had been kindled in the grate.
She seated herself at the piano, and, to out-
ward appearances at least, concentrated all
her attention on the keys, arranging chords
and symphonies, trying over fragments of
long-forgotten songs, lingering at last with a
sort of cruel pleasure upon one which he had
never heard before—a sad little morsel in itself,
but deriving still more sadness from the low
minor key to which she had arranged it.
"Broken love, oh, sweetness incomplete!
Souls that touch, but never wholly meet.
Precious treasures scattered 'round about.
Hungry hearts that never And it out
"Broken smiles on which the tear drops fall.
Laughter with an anguish through it all,
Faces lighted up all glad and bright,
Just to meet the bitterness and blight.
"Broken prayers, O Father! dost thou hear
Stammering words that utter nothing clear?
Lips that breathe out God with stammering sound,
While the earth-born thoughts break in around?"
"Don't sing that," he said, casting his broad
shadow across the polished keys. "It is weird
aud unearthly."
"I like it for that," she said, carelessly,
arising as she spoke, and bending her fair
face over a dish of lilies an the marble stand.
"I like weird things, and I like lilies; but of
all the curious combinations 1 have ever seen,
lilies and firelight are the most curious."
"And of all the strange gradations I have
ever heard, from weird things to lilies are the
strangest," Mr. Carmen responded, laughingly,
looking at her with slight curiosity as to the
reason for her increasing nervousness, the
vague promise with which her voice was fraught
when uext she spoke.
"I wonder where Leonie has gone! She is
like the firelight, fitful and uncertain."
"And you are like the lilies," he replied,
more in avoidance of Lconie's name than any-
thing else.
"Inasmuch, I suppose, as I toil not, neither
do I spin'!" Miss Earle questioned, laughingly,
balancing herself against the mantle with an
involuntary grace that thrilled him with purely
artistic rapture as he made reply.
"Inasmuch, rather, that Solomon, in all his
glory, was not arrayed as nature has arrayed
you. The comparison is flat, however, for it
cannot begin to do you justice."
"The comparison is flattery, I think," Miss
Earle interrupted; then, steadying herself
against an arm-chair, she confronted him sud-
denly, with womanly honesty in her eyes
"But I do not wish to discuss myself just now,
Mr. Carmen. I want to talk to you about
Leonie." The old treacherous crimson once
more suffused his face. He followed her ex-
ample by taking possession of another arm-
chair, but did not interrupt her, while she
continued: "I am afraid you will think me
presumptive, but I have wanted to speak
about her for a long while now, and I may not
have so good an opportunity again."
She stopped then for a moment, nervously
expecting some encouragement, but she did
not receive it. Outwardly, Mr. Carmen was
engaged in studying the fern leaves of the car-
pet; inwardly, he was wondering, with just a
suspicion of hope, whether his conclusion was
not at fault after all; whether she had not
paid this visit more in ignorance of his domes-
tication than from any personal interest she
had in him. With lightning-like rapidity he
saw that everything corroborated this supposi-
tion, and then again he listened to her voice
more excited than before.
"Having undertaken the task at all, I shall
have to tell the whole truth, and the truth,
Mr. Carmen, is, that I think you have acted
towards Leonie in anything but a gentlemanly,
even a manly, manner."
"I agree with you perfectly," Mr. Carmen
said, raising his eyes for the first time. "During
the last week I have never for one moment
doubted it."
Then he lowered his head once more, and
Miss Earle, discovering through his ready con-
currence that her task of mediator was even
more difficult than she had anticipated, grap-
pled with the difficulty more earnestly than
before.
"Then why do you not retrieve your wrong-
doing? I fancy you must care for her more
than a little. She is so wonderfully charming
L&ONIE.
419
that you must like her, and any one can see
that you have won her affections. She is per-
fectly miserable now, and, if you have been
ouly flirting, it will end in a broken heart; but
if you do care for her, why don't you go to her
ami tell her so?"
The monotonous fernery of the carpet, the
mammoth rose-buds of the hearth-rug, the
glaring colors of the Afghan, lost interest for
her vis-a-vis. Again he raised his eyes, again
he spoke more calmly, more decidedly than
ever.
"For the simple reason that I intended offer-
ing myself to you."
She had been looking at him before this with
all the steady defiance of an avenging goddess,
but at his latest information all the crimson of
his Saxon face transmuted itself to hers.
"O Mr. Carmen I" she said, faintly. "You
must not do that, whatever else you do or say.
I am sure you do not care for me, and beyond
the most passing interest I do not care for you
at all. I honestly thought you had got over
that idea, and I never meant you to tell me
this."
Was it mortified vanity or relief that was
most prominently expressed on his face as he,
standing in front of her, repeated?—
"And you really do care nothing at all for
me, Agnes?"
Something like gentle satire flitted into Miss
Earle's eyes, but she answered, gravely and
frankly:—
"I really do care nothing at all for you, Mr.
Carmen. In fact" (here the clear voice did
tremble, and the blue-veined eyelids drooped
tenderly), "I have a confession to make.
Last winter I allowed, perhaps encouraged,
your attentions more than I should, because,
having heard your fickle character, I thought
they were safe to mean nothing, and 1—I
wanted to pique some one else whom I did
regard in more than a friendly light. It was
very wrong of me, I know; but it seemed to
me that, as far as you were concerned, there
was no real danger. Now that some one else
of whom I have told you is very far away;
but, in spite of the distance, I have a right to
consider him my nearest and dearest, and that
is the reason I came to pay this visit to Mrs.
Chester. I wanted absolute quiet, and, hon-
estly, I did not know you were here until I
arrived. Then, you know, I could not leave
suddenly; and, besides that, before I had beeu
here two hours, I saw that you and Leonie
were interested in each other, and I was so
happy myself that I wanted to Impart a little
of my happiness to those around me."
"But why did you not tell Leonie about your
engagement?" lie questioned, still lingering
with mannish persistency on a doubt.
"Because our engagement was not fully con-
summated until I received a letter from him
yesterday," Miss Earle replied, drooping her
flower-like face shyly over the lily in her
brooch, and then Mr. Carmen Instantly became
egotistical.
"Just to think of all the anathemas I have
wasted upon myself! in theso last few weeks
I have called myself the weakest and ficklest
fellow going, and really I believe I am; but
then, you see, after the attention 1 had paid
you, and the declarations I had made you, I
thought it would be decidedly dishonorable to
declare myself to Leonie. But really, Miss
Earle, I am ever so much obliged to you, and
I hope you don't despise me."
"Despise you?" Miss Earle laughed, with
the frank grace that was so vastly becoming.
"No, indeed, I do not, for you are honest
throughout. For the common species of male
flirt I entertain the most boundless contempt.
I hold it the meanest thing a man ever did to
disappoint a woman whose affection he has
■wilfully won; but if you only go to Leonie now
and fulfil the orthodox programme, I can't see
why you should indulge in any more contri-
tion. And you will tell her right away, won't
you?"
Mr. Carmen's boyish smile became more than
ever Intensified. "Tell her? I should think
so, very, very gladly; but, Agnes, how shall I
ever thank you?"
Miss Earle laughed with perfect freedom
from annoyance. "Doesn't it strike yon that
it is an absurd novelty to thank a young lady
for refusing you? However, you are perfectly
welcome to the favor, if it be such. And now
will you not go to Leonie?"
She walked into the hall as she spoke, and
Mr. Carmen' followed her towards the door,
pausing on the threshold to say, with a relieved
laugh:—
"How awfully complimentary we are to each
other, and what a downfall to all last winter's
sentimentalities!"
Then he went out on the veranda to look for
Leonie, but the darkened landscape effectually
concealed her, betrayed nothing of the slight
girlish figure which an hour before had stood
upon the balcony watching with hungry eyes
the pretty tableau the interior of the drawing-
room revealed, listening with strained ears of
jealousy to Miss Earle's heart-breaking little
song. Then passed into the gray gloaming,
repeating to herself—
"Precious treasures scattered 'round about,
Hungry hearts that never And them out"
Down the dark road she wandered, until she
came face to face with her wide, illimitable
comforter, aud then the burden of her sorrow
found expression:—
"Oh, my mother! if the dear faith of my
father could but leave me. If I could but be-
lieve that truly there was no hereafter, it would
be so much sweeter to die than to live, sweeter
to lay my poor head down rpon this sea-weed
and sleep forever and ever, than to go back
420
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
and livo my life. I loved him, oh, I loved him,
and he went away from me forever. Oh, my
sea, take my sorrow from me and let me rest!"
The weary head drooped in passionate aban-
donment upon her outstretched hands, and the
sea, as if in answer to her prayer, came rolling
up towards her. The gray shadows fell from
the gray sky, the twilight grew dimmer and
dimmer; so dim, that when at length Leonie
Gascoigno lifted her head she could feel rather
than see that her rock was an island, that the
water was lapping gently at the hem of her
dress, that the rocky path, over which she had
so lately passed, was now invisible excepting
for a stray peak here and there. Above all,
she could feel that the life before so worthless
was now inexpressibly sweet and precious.
"Oh, my dear Lord, I am not ready for
death t" she cried, and then, in her agony, she
screamed aloud, a fierce and thrilling scream,
that told a true story to the one solitary stroller
on the sands.
"It is Leonie I" he said, remembering, even
then, the last time she had shown him her com-
forter. "Leonie 1 Leonie!"
No answer came; a terrible fear took pos-
session of his soul; but to him it was little more
than the work of a moment to drag forward a
boat that lay beside him on the sand, and then,
siezing the oars, his quick, short strokes took
him quickly over the yards of intervening
water to the rock that he dreaded with a horri-
ble, nameless dread.
Had the water really covered it? Had she,
in her agony, fallen from even that treacherous
refuge? Ah, no! ah, no! An object indis-
tinct in the dim light still crouched among the
sea-weed, two small hands clung desperately
to the cruel cliff above her, a white, despairing
face was upraised in thankfulness to Heaven,
when his two strong arms caught her in their
close embrace, when his voice, with an under-
tone like a sob, broke upon her.
"Child, child! how dare you go away from
me like this? What would my life be without
you?"
"Very happy," she began to say, but he
checked her utterances, he hid her in the fold
of his strong arms, and, the cloudy darkness
vanishing, the Paradise of perfect contentment
came into her life, never again to be taken from
her.
The primitive dictates of Nature in the ap-
petite, provided that it has been kept healthy
and sufficiently enlarged by experience, are
the best rules we can obtain for diet.
A distinguish™ investigator in physical
science has left it on record that, whenever, in
the course of his researches, he encountered
an apparently insuperable obstacle, he gene-
rally found himself on the brink of some dis-
covery.—Self-IIdp.
THE DUMB CAKE.
A CHARM OF HALLOW E'EN.
BT MBS. SAMUEL M. ALEXANDER.
"TIs said that words and signs have power
O'er sprites in planetary hour;
But scarce I praise their venturous part.
Who tamper with such dangerous art.
Scon.
Several years ago there lived in North
Carolina a gentleman by the name of Ritchie,
lie was a man of liberal principles, genial and
benevolent in his tastes and disposition. In
addition to the large estate inherited from his
father, he received a valuable dowry with his
wife. By their united fortunes they lived in
elegant style upon one of their plantations.
His intelligence and suavity of manners, and
the refinement and accomplishments of his
wife, made his hospitable mansion the constant
resort of company. Southern courtesy is pro-
verbial. Associated in parties, the gay and
happy may pass from plantation to plantation,
each host vieing with the other in chivalrous
efforts to gratify and amuse his guests.
The period in which transpired the incident
about to be related, was at the close of several
weeks of unusual gayety at Squire Ritchie's,
as he was generally called. The guests had
departed, bearing with them pleasant remem-
brances of the squire and his lady. Everything
at the Hall was fast resuming its systematic
tenor. The gray-headed butler laid aside the
bustling and pompous air with which he in-
vested his office while "de house was full ob
company." The house-dog resumed his station
on the veranda at the door of the dining ball.
There were, however, four visitors still re-
maining at the Hall. Two of them were mis-
chievous spirits, and these spirits inhabited as
fair temples of humanity as ever commanded
the admiration of man. During the gay season
Just passed, they had caused many a manly
bosom to swell with rapturous emotion, as he
perceived the seeming interest with which his
attentions and conversations were received.
But ere many days had elapsed the same breast
was endeavoring to hide in its depths the rage
and mortification of its possessor, upon dis-
covering that the fair being in whose favor be
fancied he was being established, was listening
with the same rapt attention to the man whom
of all others he most hated. One of these
lovely tormentors was a cousin of Mr. Ritchie,
named Agnes Willard; the other was Mrs.
Ritchie's sister. She, too, had a name—as
pretty in its way as her own sweet self—Louise
Montgomery.
The other visitors were two gentlemen, inti-
mate friends of Mr. Ritchie. Report repre-
sented them as being in a truly pitiable condi-
tion, which was that the two aforesaid ladies,
with the assistance of Cupid, had succeeded in
enslaving them so completely, that, although
THE DUMB CAKE.
421
the cords with which they were bound were I
only silken, yet they found it impossible to
break them; and, strange as it may seem, they
had now given over the contest, and were in
love with their fetters. Day after day passed,
and still the gentlemen found some excuse for
remaining. The latest invention for amuse-
ment they had discovered was a hunting expe-
dition. With several gentlemen of the neigh-
borhood, they had left the Hall to spend some
days in search of game. The tall, manly form;
classic head, over which clustered thick, jetty
locks; and full, black eyes, told plainly that
Bryant Davidson possessed deep, powerful
feelings, with great strength and endurance of
mind. The quick, ardent temperament of
Ralph Palmer was truthfully represented by
his florid complexion and large blue eyes, in
which fun and frolic lurked, without an attempt
at concealment.
Messrs. Davidson and Palmer could not have
devised a more effectual plan of proving their
importance than by absenting themselves for
a few days from Squire Ritchie's. At the
close of the first day of their departure, not-
withstanding all their efforts to while away
time, the two young ladles were obliged to
confess to their own hearts that it was the
longest and dullest day they ever spent at the
Hall. On the morrow It became necessary to
resort to active measures to dispel ennui. At
length they determined to have a peep Into
the future that night—it being Hallow Eve—
by means of some fortune-trying project
As Agnes and Louise were not more cou-
rageous than young girls generally are, they
concluded to have the wisdom and courage of
a third person in the momentous matter. Ac-
cordingly it was communicated, with all due
injunctions of secresy, to Mrs. Ritchie's seam-
stress, Sallie Coburn, who was their senior by
several years. Early In the night the girls
retired, taking Sallie with them, having pre-
viously obtained Mrs. Ritchie's consent that
she might occupy the apartment with them,
alleging as a reason that they were lonely
since the departure of the company.
The hour of rest was waited for by the trio
with nervous impatience, but they were doomed
to annoyances. Mr. Ritchie smoked an extra
cigar, and read every word of the Governor's
Message, that had just been published. After
finishing, he arose, yawned very audibly, kissed
his wife, and, telling her not to sit up late, re-
tired to his room; whereupon Mrs. Ritchie
very composedly trimmed her lamp, and sat
down to the perusal of a book that she had
been reading that day. These movements
were noted by the young ladles with deep in-
terest through the key-hole of their door,
which communicated with the sitting-room.
This torture was endured for nearly two hours.
At length, to their great joy, Mrs. R. began to
exhibit evident signs of drowsiness. They
fled noiselessly to their couches and composed
themselves, in the event that Mrs. Ritchie
should be induced to see if all was right in
their room. In a short while they had the ex-
treme satisfaction of hearing the door of her
own apartment close after her. Some time
was allowed to elapse in order to be assured
that everything in and about the house was
wrapped in the first and soundest sleep of the
night. When convinced of this fact, they
arose, and, quietly dressing, entered the sit-
ting-room. It was a cool night, and a fire was
"wrapped up" on the ample hearth, before
which Amos, a black boy who waited in the
house, always slept.
Now commence their incantations. They
had decided to play the project of "The Dumb
Cake." Those engaged in it must set a table
with as many plates and knives as there are
persons testing the scheme. They must also
place at the table a corresponding number of
chairs. One thimbleful of flour, one thimbleful
of salt, one thimbleful of sugar, one thimbleful
of water, all to be measured in a bona fide thim-
ble; mix well together, and bake in the ashes.
When done, place them on the table, and pre-
pare to receive the gentlemen. The parties
must be particular to set the plate and knife,
place the chair, and make and bake the cake
each one for herself. Those that are to be
married will have the satisfaction of seeing her
future husband walk in, draw back the chair
she has placed at the table, seat himself, and
eat the cake she has prepared. If one of the
number Is to die soon, a coffin will be brought
and placed on the chair she has set. All the
doors are to be left open, and the strictest si-
lence observed throughout the continuance of
the project. Accordingly they set the table,
each one placing her plate, knife, and chair?
Then the cakes were commenced. During the
early part of the proceedings, it was with diffi-
culty they could restrain their merriment.
The Idea of such a diminutive measure as a
thimble, and such a heterogeneous sort of cake
as their beaux were to eat, and all to be per-
formed in such imperturbable silence, was
quite sufficient to upset the gravity of such
lively beings as our heroines. But as the night
progressed, and with it the project, the feelings
of levity gave way by degrees to emotions of
fear. They had opened the doors soon after
they commenced, or their courage would have
failed to comply with this important requisi-
tion.
It was now midnight by the clock. A solemn
stillness held absolute reign. The night had
been calm although cool; but suddenly the
heavy boughs of the old trees around the house
began to swing to and fro, as the rising wind
swept through them with a weird noise, while
the low mutterings of a distant thunder-cloud
told that a storm was at hand. The girls, now
really alarmed, gazed on each other with silent
422
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
fear. Each one confidently expected to see a
terrific monster bear in the emblem of dj>ath,
and place it on the chair she had set. The
storm continued to increase. The wind in fit-
ful gusts and hollow moans wildly tossed the
branches of the trees, and roared down the
woods behind the house with appalling sound.
The vivid flashes of lightning streamed through
the room with startling brilliancy. The thun-
der, bursting stunningly overhead, went rat-
tling down the sky. The yelling and howling
of the plantation dogs were frightful. At
length the quick, angry bark of the old mastiff
gave notice of the approach of strangers. Amid
a lull of the wind, there could be distinctly
heard the clatter of horses' feet coming swiftly
up the avenue. On, on they dashed. Louder
and fiercer became the barking of the dogs;
but the horsemen heeded them not. Distinctly
could the girls hear the neighing and snorting
of the horses, as they arrived at the gate.
Plainly did their listening ears catch the creak-
ing of the saddles, as the riders jumped from
them. But still more fearfully distinct was
the tramp of feet on the veranda. They were
so utterly paralyzed with terror as to lose all
power to give notice of their situation. They
fully believed that, as a punishment for at-
tempting to pry into the future, the Wicked
One was about to come, amid thunder and
lightning, and carry them off bodily. In their
fright, Sallie Coburn had crept beneath an old-
fashioned lounge ; so low was it, that, under any
other circumstances, she would have deemed it
impossible to have accomplished the feat.
Agnes Williard, with almost supernatural
strength, had pulled out the end of a massive
sideboard, and hid herself between that and
the wall. Louise Montgomery was kneeling
in the middle of the floor, her long ringlets
thrown back from a face pale with fright, her
hands clasped on her bosom, and her almost
colorless lips murmuring, incohesently, "Our
Fa—Fa—Fa—ther 1 Our Fa—Fa—Fa—ther!"
The din and confusion without awakened
Mr. Kitchie. Hastening out to the sitting-room,
he comprehended all at a glance.
"What in the name of the Furies is all this?"
was his angry exclamation. "Louise, what are
you doing here making a fool of yourself?
Where are the other girls?"
Without waiting for an answer from Louise,
who was unable to give one, he proceeded to
search for himself. A portion of a woman's
dress from under the lounge betrayed one. It
was also plain to perceive that some extrane-
ous matter had caused the staid old sideboard
to deviate from its accustomed horizontal posi-
tion. In a little while the three culprits were
standing before him to receive sentence. But
the first impulse with Mr. Ritchie was over.
The really frightened condition of the girls
touched his heart and moderated his anger.
So, softening his tone, he expressed his aston-
ishment at their foolish conduct; and hoping
they would never again be guilty of such non-
sense, dismissed them to bed.
"Amos! Amos! Amos!" The third call
was at the highest pitch of his voice, and ac-
companied by a not very gentle shake of bis
foot.
"S-a-h."
"Get up, you sleepy-headed rascal. Eat
these cakes, and fasten the doors and win-
dows."
"Yes, Bah."
Amos obeyed. But not exactly fancying the
appearance of the prepared supper, he man-
aged to prolong the house fastening very much
beyond the necessary time.
The next morning there were pale faces,
heavy eyes, and confused looks, at the break-
fast-table. In the course of the day Bryant Da-
vidson and Ralph Palmer returned from their
hunting. The young ladies were exceedingly
disquieted lest Mr. Ritchie should betray their
secret. But he wisely kept it to hector them
with, which he did to his heart's content.
The autumn of the following year found a
happy party gathered around the cheerful fire in
the sitting-room at Squire Ritchie's. Agnes and
Louise were there; but it was now Agnes Da-
vidson and Louise Palmer. It was Hallow Eve
again. Bryant Davidson, who was seated on a
sofa with his bride, wilfully persisted in laying
his arm around her delicate waist, which the
scarf that was thrown carelessly over her hid
from view. Every now and then, notwith-
standing the tremulous flutterings of her heart
and imploring looks, he would draw the arm
closer and tighter, knowing full well that she
dared not offer resistance, from the fear of dis-
closing to the company his misdemeanor. Gen-
tle, shy Louise was seated at a table opposite
Ralph Palmer. Over her varying countenance
sweet visions flitted, while the eloquent blood
would rush quickly to her tell-tale face, when
she became conscious that her husband's eyes
were resting upon her. Mr. Ritchie had been
reading aloud the Governor's Message. The
reading ended, he drew his chair towards the
fire, and, with a mischievous smile playing
around his mouth, asked the ladies if they re-
membered what they were doing that night
one year ago.
Ralph Palmer suddenly left the room. In a
very short time the door was thrown open with
great violence, and Ralph rushed into the room.
Advancing to the centre of the apartment, be
fell upon his knees, and, clasping his hands
across his breast, while the mock expression of
fear on his countenance was ludicrous in the ex-
treme, repeated the memorable invocation of
Louise.
This revealed all; and also opened the *ray
for each one to act as the heart prompted.
Bryant Davidson threw both arms round his
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER VALLEY HOME.
423
wife, and, drawing her closely to him, half
smothered her with kisses. Louise, forgetting
her bashftilness, flew to the kneeling Ralph,
and began to pound and thump hint with all
the strength that her little fists possessed. He
heeded it not, but still went on with his broken
petition. Squire Ritchie, in the fulness of his
heart, leaned back in his chair and made the
room fairly echo with his joyous laughter.
Mrs. Ritchie, who was in her husband's confi-
dence, enjoyed the hilarity in a more quiet
way.
At length came the explanation. At the
time the girls were "trying their fortune,"
Bryant and Ralph, weary of hunting, were on
their way to the Hall, but losing the road, they
were belated. They did not reacli the squire's
until the storm burst upon them in all its vio-
lence. The clatter of horses' feet, the creak-
ing of saddles, and the heavy tramp upon the
veranda, were all produced by them. They ar-
rived at the window of the sitting-room, which
opened on the veranda, just as Mr. Ritchie
made his appearance in the room. Perceiving
the pitiless situation of the ladies, and the un-
pleasant dilemma In which they were placed,
out of respect to their feeling sthey forbore to
enter. Waiting until Amos ate the cakes, they
left for a neighbor's. It was mutually agreed
they would keep the matter quiet until they
won the ladies. When a favorable opportunity
presented the denouement was to be made
known.
WITHERED FLOWERS.
BT LttTHEB O. ltllKiS.
Flowers, yesterday so bright.
How are your blushes faded now!
Then brilliant as the stars of night,
Now like some mourner drooping low.
Thou (lost a lesson teach to all:
Though daily read, yet how few know;
Today wc live, to-morrow fall,
Kow royal clad, and now In ashes go.
And I have watched as one by one
Thy petals dropped, so pale and dead,
Until, thy rare aroma gone,
Beauty and perfume both had fled.
Ah, how like the fragile life of man,
The weak, the hopeful, or the brave,
Struggling through life's little span.
To till at last one common grave!
The anger which flushes the face is not so
deadly as that which makes it pale. The red
heat is less intense than the white.
It is very indiscreet and troublesome ambi-
tion which cares so much about fame; about
what the world says of us; to be always look-
ing in the faces of others for approval; to be
always anxious about the effect of what we do
or say; to.be always shouting, to hear the
echoes of our own voices.— ljxngfellmn.
ALICE'S SUMxMER IN HER
VALLEY HOME.
LETTER IV.
September 15th.
Dear Mr. Godey: During the past month
we have been having all kinds of fun at home.
We have made two or three flying excursions,
of which I may have something to say; but
shall dwell mostly upon our home amusements
and employments, for we have managed in the
most natural way to turn useful labor into
recreation and fun. The season being a busy
one in the matter of putting away fruits and
vegetables for winter, we have combined busi-
ness with pleasure, and not one of us has been
so much interested as or more industrious than
M. Lemoine; he insists upon helping about
everything. He wants to be able, he says, to
tell them in France just how an American
farmer lives. So he has gathered berries,
pared peaches and apples, filled the furnace in
the dry-house with wood, changed the peaches
in the drawers as they dry, and learned the
entire process, ne even borrowed Jeb's old
clothes and washed apples for the cider-mill,
and knows all about making cider. He has
also learned to chop wood a little, though I am
always afraid he will cut his foot off. He lias
helped to dry corn and berries, and to can
fruit, and, indeed, has got to be so expert in
the latter that mother, who is generally so
particular that she thinks nobody but herself
can do them right, has allowed him to seal up
all her cans. Indeed, he says that he never
learned so much before in a single month, and
never lived so pleasantly. He is quite in
love with a farmer's life, and thinks it the
most satisfactory of any, declaring that he
would enjoy it eight months in the year. He
thinks it so grand to feel that one can live
without money, or with a very little of it; that
there is no need of fawning and cringing
to the great ones of the earth for office, of
which he has seen so much recently; or
standing up in a court-room and telling lies
for your client; or in cheating your customers
in trade; or in being forced to buy your bread
with any of the mean and petty dishonesties
of metropolitan life. He thinks, if the people
of France could have their own land, and be
like our farmers, free and independent sover-
eigns, uncontrolled, by the tyranny of petty
princes, and educated to think for themselves,
that the government would soon become free,
stable, and strong, the fickle spirit of the gov-
erned would change to strength, and the respect
and confidence of the governing power in its
people would become secure.
The day after I wrote you last, we had an
excursion to "Wilson's Lick," eight miles dis-
tant—to a camp meeting "among the hills."
Here is a magnificent spring of pure white sul-
424
GODEY'iS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
phnr water, flowing out from a glen near the
summit of old Branch Mountain. Before the
war many wealthy families from the great val-
leys on either side of the mountain came here
to pass the hot season. Log cabins were
erected, and, with a few household articles,
they would keep house in primitive style,
[drinking of the famous water, and inhaling
the pure, invigorating air.
We had a party of eight or ten, were pro-
vided witli an excellent dinner, and passed a
most enjoyable day. The inhabitants of the
hills, poor and illiterate, were the principal
attendants at the meeting. Few of these peo-
ple have ever been more than twenty miles
from home, and very few have any intelligence
gained from books. They have a kind of
legendary lore regarding the first settlers of
the country, and in the matter of weather
signs and witchcraft. But of the scientific
wonders amid which they dwell, the vast geo-
logical studies, and the chemistry elaborated
in the innermost recesses of the mountains,
and flowing out in healing waters to bless the
people—of all this they neither know nor
speculate. As for the history or geography of
the world, it is all a sealed book, of which
they do not even know the existence. They
live their lives in the most primitive manner,
caring little for what the day may bring forth,
and worrying themselves neither over the past
nor the future. They bask, not act, in the
living or breathing "present," accepting the
power to breathe and eat as the chief end of
man, seeming to sing with the lotos-eater,
"There is no joy but calm;" and when they
hear of a ripple on the calm waves around
them, accept it as
"A tale of little meaning, though the words are
strong,"
and so go on, undisturbed and contented, sure
that, "somehow or other," the corn, and ba-
con, and tobacco will come to them. And it
always does. Nobody ever suffers in this land
for food, or fuel, or shelter. The wealthy
valley farmers seldom refuse a "little meat"
or a "bushel o' cawn" to the thriftless beings,
though they know very well that their prom-
ises to work will not be kept. And so the
doctrine of distribution of property is practi-
cally carried on here, perhaps with as great
success as in any of the communist institutions.
Only the industrious man, in this case, toils
for the drone.
These are probably the only people in
America who do not follow the fashions. Old
style calico sun-bonnets, and calico dresses,
made straight up and down, are still worn by
the women in the hills, and they would doubt-
less open their eyes wide enough to be told
that anybody ever used thirty yards of goods
in a single suit. They passed by us, and
glanced out from the depths of their sun-bon-
nets with a shy, startled look, as the wonder-
fully-dressed woman and "nobby" looking
gentleman met their gaze. Almost the entire
congregation was comprised of these people.
Only a few city folks from the Springs and
our own party gave variety to the human tide
flowing up the way after service.
We found a pretty place under a tree upon
the hillside, where we spread our dinner, and
had a pleasant time taking notes of odd-look-
ing people. Nat said that he was sorry Charles
Dickens could not be living and with us there
to-day. He was sure he could have found a
sufficient number of queer characters with
which to people several novels. We strolled
around for several hours, peeping into the de-
serted cabins and cottages, and stopping often
at the spring to drink. M. Lemoine was per-
fectly charmed with the place, and said it
would be a delightful situation for a gentle-
man's chateau; that nature had done every-
thing for it. "And art nothing," said Nat;
"and possibly will not do so for centuries.
Yet the beautiful waters will still flow, white
and pure, from their hidden laboratory, and
pass off 'to join the brimming river,' and waste
their strength in the weaker tide. Do yon
ever think, Lemoine, of the wonderful waste
of good things upon this earth of ours? Of
the mineral waters that might cure all the
diseases, if only the poor invalids could reach
them? Of the myriads of flowers, unseen by
human eye? Of the lovely scenery, lying
silent and unknown for centuries? Of the
toil of genius—the love and sympathy of wives
and mothers, utterly, utterly wasted, while
thousands of hearts are pining for just such
love and such sympathy. Ah ! it is a mixed-np
arrangement, as seen through our poor human
eyes."
"Yes, It is so," was the reply. "Yet we are
such small beings, and we know so very little,
that I think it much more satisfactory to con-
sider ourselves but atoms of a great whole, the
magnificence of which we are utterly unable
to comprehend, and to feel deeply, reverence
greatly, and trust entirely, the great Master of
all, sure that He doeth all things well."
But the sun sank low in the west, and the
full moon arose to light our silvery pathway
through the enchanting valley, for if ever our
old earth possessed a scene of enchantment,
this valley is one, when lighted up by the
beams of the full moon. Full half of the way
home our road lay along by the river's side,
within whose shadowy depths the overhanging
trees and floating clouds of white were mir-
rored as in polished black marble. And the
moon trod her majestic way above the brow of
the mountains, gloriously, yet most peacefully.
Aunt nitty did not go with us to the Lick,
and you may know how much we missed her.
She is the kind of old person who always adds
to, rather than detracts from, the pleasure of
such parties. She never forgets that she her-
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER VALLEY HOME.
425
self was once young; and her odd, quaint re-
marks are a constant source of amusement, as
well as of instruction, for no woman ever pos-
sessed that rare virtue called "common sense"
in a greater degree than does our dear old
Aunt Meuitable. When we saw her again, we
expressed our regrets that she could not have
been with us, and she said:—
"Yes, I'm rather sorry I couldn't go. You
all know how much I love springs. I could
live by a fine spring for a week, all alone, an'
not git lonesome a bit. They always talk to
me in a way that nothin' else does. The wind
among the pines an' the whisperin' o' the aspen
leaves is a little like the murmur of a spring,
but not half so satisfyin'. They stop speakin'
when you are feelin" most like listenin', but
the music o' the water just goes on forever.
Lucy, say over them lines o' Tennyson about
the brook 'goin' on forever,' won't you?"
Lucy repeated these two verses from the
"Brook:"—
"I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,'
I linger 'round my cresses.
"And out again I curve and flow
To Join the brimming river;
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever."
"Yes, men may come, an' men may go, but
the water from the little spring goes on for-
ever. It is what we think eternity will be, an'
I think that's where the charm is. We feel
how short a time wo '11 be here, an' then we
think, When our great-great-grandchildren
are old men an' .women, this little spring will
still jfhrgle up an' flow out to join the brimmin'
river, as sweet, an' fresh, an' pure as it does
to-day. This is a fine old spring. I used to
go there before the war, when all our kinfolks
from both valleys used to pass the hot months
there. They had their cabins, an' beds, an' a
few kettles, an' some dishes, an', of course,
the housekeepin' didn't take up much time.
So we just had good times a-walkln' an'
cltmbin' an' huckleberryln' on Branch Moun-
tain. Why, there's huckleberries enough
there every year to supply all the Washin'ton
markets. You young folks must go while M.
Lemoine's here. It's splendid fun, an' if
Locy '11 go I reckon I will, too. We '11 just
take a two-horse wagon, with plenty o' straw
in the bottom, an' a good dinner, with a coffee-
pot for makin' coffee, an' we'll have a nice
time. An' then there's a view from the top
of old Branch Mountain that can't be beat, I
know, anywhere."
All this was said nearly a month ago, and
now the huckleberries are just ripe on the
mountains; so we are going in a day or two.
It being too early yet for the apple-butter
making, we decided to have an old-fashioned
quilting party. I had a quilt of scarlet and
white, pieced in the old "compass work" pat-
tern, which I finished just before I left home
for school; and this we stretched in the great,
square bed-room up stairs, having taken the
bed out for the occasion. We sent Cousin Jeb
out with the invitations—not cards, or even
written upon paper, but simply gave him a list
of those we wanted to have come, and lie was
to give the invitations by word of mouth, in
regular old style. Then we baked all day—
piles of cakes and pies and knick-knacks; and
mother had Jeb and the bound boy dress the
turkeys and chickens, and she prepared them
for the stove and put them in the spring-house
to keep till she wanted them.
The girls came and we worked all day, tak-
ing a light noon meal, and by three o'clock the
quilt was finished—finished but not out. That
was a ceremony to be performed in the even-
ing. No young gentlemen around all day but
M. Lemoine and Jeb, both of whom took the
liberty, as inmates of the house, to stay around
the quilt most of the time. M. Lemoine in-
sisted on quilting one of the pieces, and I bad
to give the necessary instructions, of course.
One of the girls gave him a thimble, and it was
too funny to see his earnest efforts to make
small stitches. Of course he didn't make them
small, and of course we all told him they were
beautiful. But
"Alas! the schemes o' mice and men
Aft gang agley."
lie pricked his finger to the bone, and was glad
to quit quilting long before his "piece" was
finished. So one of the girls suggested that he
should write his autograph on the quilt, and
have Allie quilt it in, which was successfully
accomplished.
About three o'clock the boys commenced
dropping in—all in their Sunday best; and " we
girls" slipped away to my room to renew our
toilets a little aftef our day's work. I had flow-
ers and ferns gathered all ready, and when our
supper was announced we came down looking
like a bevy of wood nymphs, nearly all being
in white with flowers and ferns for ornaments.
Lucy had set the table, and it was lovely.
Everything was garnished with flowers, and
all our old silver shone brightly, while moth-
er's new China looked beautiful.
After supper came the great climax of the
party—the taking the quilt out of the frame.
This was always to be done by the latest mar-
ried couple in the company. The task fell on
Cousin 'Manda Ilarper and Tom. The next
thing in order, a la "old times," was to catch
and incfose within the folds of the quilt some
young lady and gentleman in the company,
who, according to the old legend, were sure to
be the next ones married. Now I know there
was a conspiracy; for whom should they catch
but M. Lemoine and I. He seemed delighted,
notwithstanding his tousled hair and general
disorder of dress; but 1 slipped away to my
426
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
room, half ready for a good cry; yet, upon
thinking over the matter, concluded I had bet-
ter smooth my hair and ruffled temper and go
down.
Next we had some of the old-fashioned plays,
and as soon as the moon arose over the moun-
tain, we all adjourned to the baru, which had
been swept and garnished for the occasion,
where we danced till midnight, when all the
boys and givls mounted their horses and rode
home—some of them as far as six miles.
Some of our plays pleased M. Lemoine very
much —"Stage-coach" and "Kitchen Furni-
ture" being of the number. Among the silly
ways of redeeming forfeits, imposed during the
early part of the evening, was this given to M.
Lemoine. lie was to repeat
"Hickory warps and grapevine filling,
I '11 have you if your father and mother's willing,"
calling out the name of the girl and kissing her.
This wai an ordeal to me, for of course /was
his choice. And I know he thought this kind
of play exceedingly silly. I said to him apolo-
getically, that we never played such things now,
but that they had been brought up to-night to
please Aunt Ilitty and Nat, who wanted to show
him a real old time quilting party.
Tin! boys with their violins knew but little
(if modern and fashionable music; only a waltz
or two and the Lancers. But as M. Lemoine
was desirous of seeing all the country dances,
we had them, and joined in tliein; lie being
particularly delighted with the Virginia reel.
Of one dance, however, we remained mere spec-
tators. It is called the "Hugging Eight," and
is nothing but a simple quadrille with the addi-
tion of turning partners by throwing the arm
about tho lady's waist, instead of taking her
hands. It really doesn't deserve the name as
much as the waltz does; as the embraces are
given quickly and promiscuously. Yet the
very name of the dance gives a rough zest to it
which makes it exceedingly lively, to say tho
least. As M. Lemoine and I, with Nat and
Lucy, were all who waltzed, we had plenty of
room and enjoyed it very much; the others
lookin on in wonder at the graceful, waving
movements. For myself I prefer the waltz to
any other dance, but I would not waltz with
everybody.
Night before last we had an apple-butter
boiling. We had many other minor gatherings
through the month, but I will have no room
for them. The evening before the boiling we
had about a dozen young people at the bouse
to assist in paring apples. It was indeed an
"apple bee," on a small scale. W« made no
parade over it, however; merely having cakes
and cider on a table to pass around. We chat-
ted away for awhile, then had several songs,
and at last got upon the subject of ghosts; and
it wasn't long till we frightened each other al-
most out of our wits. I only wish I could tell
you some of the harrowing talcs. But my three
pages are nearly full, and the fourth is not yet
told. So I must hurry through. One old gen-
tleman who lives at Uncle Tom's, and who,
though exceedingly ignorant, thinks he knows
everything worth knowing, told us a tale of the
"Black Slash," as the very truth, which made
some of the girls shiver with fright. He is also
a firm believer in witches, and enriched our
minds with several true witch stories. But by
eleven o'clock we had plenty of apples pared
for the butter, when coffee and cake were par-
taken of, and the young people left. The next
afternoon we got everything ready and had. a
lovely supper-table set; for they were all to
take tea with us. The cider had been "boiling
dowu" all day, and the apples were poured in,
some of them, in the afternoon. It was a most
lovely night. The full moon shone resplen-
dently above the mountain top, while the deep
blue sky was dappled with floating clouds of
silvery white, and peace and calm reigned in
our beautiful valley. We divided our party,
one-half to stir the butter for an hour, and then
the other half to take their places. The pro-
gramme was that those with the idle hour upon
their hands were to play at cards or "Conse-
quences," or anything we chose in the house,
while the others were stirring the butter under
the great old apple-tree in the spring lot. But
it was entirely too lovely to remain in-doors;
and the free party invariably walked down to
the river, and sang or chatted, watching the
magnificent depths of the clouds in the placid
water, and listening to the ripple below and
the music of the frogs, softened by distance.
Did you ever stand by a river at night, where
the trees leaned over, and watch the reflection
of white clouds and dark blue sky in the water
below? It is beautiful and wonderful; almost
sublime. They seem to be miles and railed
below you, and you almost feel as if suspended
in the limitless fields of space, floating between
clouds, yourself a cloud. Such was the im-
pression made upon me that evening as we sat
upon the bended trunk of a slippery elm which
leaned above the water. Ah, such a river as
ours I is there anything in the universe of God
more beautiful?
But to return—not to ray "mouton," but my
apple-butter. It is stirred by a "stirrer" mode
with a long handle, and a board in the bottom
of the kettle, which constantly scrapes its en-
tire surface. If the butter is not continually
pushed back and forth in the bottom of the
kettle, it will scorch, and be spoiled. .It is
quite laborious work, but by constantly chang-
ing hands, we contrive to make it more a pleas-
ure than a toil. Our kettle did not come off
till after one o'clock. Very often they stir the
entire night, but we had ours so far advanced,
to begin the night with, that we got through
early. The peach-butter, being made with
sugar instead of cider, will not require one-
fourth of the boiling. So we will mak£ no
428
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
of interest and comfort. Gradually assimilat-
ing to new scenes and adapting themselves to
new associations, a sense of contentment and
quiet crept over the troubled waters of change
of locality, and a dawning desire for occupa-
tion induced the father to engage in teaching.
An honorable situation in a well established
academy was accepted, and once more the re-
freshing influences of regular occupation were
shed over these new scenes. But as instability
is written on all things here, in time that was
abandoned; leaving a dread apprehension of
destitutiou hanging like a dark clond over those
aged parents, their one daughter, and the son,
now just entering on the study of his chosen
profession—the law. He, a promising young
man, with ardent hopes of a successful prac-
tice in the future, must still go through years
of study and preparation, in which with com-
mendable assiduity he persisted. In the mean
time whence shall supplies come?
This tenderly-reared, this loving daughter,
was betrothed, heart and hand, to a fellow stu-
dent of her brother; but determined on neglect-
ing no duty to her now infirm parents nobly re-
soives^nd steps into the breach! Her strengh,
her energies, her best endeavors shall be given
to this holy purpose. Various are the devices;
the question is viewed on every side. At length,
as the only immediately available resource, the
engaging in a millinery business is concluded
on; the attempt is made, the effort succeeds,
a support is given; and what was in the begin-
ning resorted to as a temporary expedient, is
found to be permanently necessary.
The brother, on whom high hopes were
placed, no sooner completed his term of pre-
paratory study, than, like most young men, he
became entangled in Love's meshes, and soon
married a beautiful girl, much younger than
himself—a petted "only daughter;" conse-
quently having little self-reliance, and leaning
dependently, heart and mind, on him to whom
she had promised "obedience," "honor," and
"love" "until death."
That great vow was but too faithfully kept!
Soon the fair promise of his early manhood
began to yield to the temptations so thickly
surrounding the rising youth of our country,
and the dread cup of intemperance became his
bane; faster and firmer grew the deadly habit,
until a few short years exhibited but a bloated
wreck of the fine intellectual face and head;
the majestic, stately form bending, trembling,
as with tottering steps he still essayed to do
something in the way of business; an object
of fear and wonder to his little lisping daugh-
ter and his three helpless sons. That gentle,
loving wife, with such a presence ever before
her, with such an example for her sweet chil-
dren to imitate, with such a prospect for her and
their whole life, a prospect of privation, shame,
and hunger, as most women would do, sunk
in spirits, and eventually in health; crushed
by such circumstances and unwonted labor, her
delicate organization proved but another victim
to the deadly scourge—consumption! Years
she lingered, so long as to witness her hus-
band's awful conflict with that fearful effect of
intemperance—"delirium tremens"—and to see
him, with all her young hopes of a happy life
here on earth, laid down to his final rest. In
her the work so far advanced was not long in
completion, and ere many months, sad, sad
relatives followed the beloved form they had
so affectionately cherished "to that bourne from
whence no traveller returns," their fond hopes
blighted 1 She on whom they had looked as
the consolation, the joy, the very life of their
old age; she, whom in the pride of their hearts
they had witnessed at the altar giving ber
bright prospects in the keeping of one who
seemed all capable, all worthy of being the
strength of her weakness, her shield from
life's rough blasts, her protector and her guide.
All, all blasted, all concentrated in the narrow
house, no other shall fill that blank to them.
Their friends and neighbors are very kind.
They look upon the daughters of those friends,
receive their thoughtful attentions, and appre-
ciate their society; but alas! alas! Their men
is not, and for that they mourn on, mourn ever;
none but the Heavenly consolation is theirs—
no hope but that of a reunion there.
Meantime the scanty stores in reserve are
exhausted ; sickness takes not long to scatter
the small gatherings of an intemperate man,
and whence shall come the supplies for the in-
valid? whence the delicacies to tempt the ap-
petite? whence the means to meet the attend-
ant's and physician's bills? whence the means
to meet the landlord's demands? the lights,
the wood? aye, the very food for these little
ones? Both grandfathers are aged and infirm,
and illy able to supply these demands. Gene-
rous, manly brothers there were none; nor sis-
ters save one—the heroic, the noble woman of
whom we write. She, uncounselled, unaided,
all alone, neglectful of self, forgetful of her
own wrongs, her disappointments, her heart's
sorrows, asks counsel, aid, support from that
one Friend who never fails those who put their
trust in his arm, and in his strength goes she
forward with an unfaltering heart, resolved
magnanimously to devote her life's energies to
them and theirs.
If, when told that her lover's vows were
broken, and she deserted for one of far less at-
tractive persona] appearance, much deficient in
education and culture, but possessing the pow-
erful attraction of wealth, she felt resentment
or indignation, none heard her express such
feelings; if envy, it was hidden deep, deep,
below the knn of other eyes. If she felt grief
or sadness, it was discerned only by the eyes
of affection, and those most nearly interested
in and connected with her. Sometimes a shade
would creep silently across the well-governed
AN "OLD MAID"—A REAL HEROINE.
429
features, and an almost suppressed sigh would
escape the pent-up wells of feeling; but no
such thought was allowed to interfere with
the self-imposed task now undertaken—the
more than light task of providing sustenance
for all—for parents, for their children, and
grandchildren. How shall it be done? The
wants are pressing, are immediate; teaching
offers, but its avails are slow; and besides, an
almost constant presence is imperative. To
the one resource she clings—the millinery;
that only seems available. No small measure
of heroism is needed to undertake thus much;
but when, in addition, with what some might
call an imaginary sense of duty, another re-
. sponsibility is adopted in the person of an in-
firm, aged relative, from whom that hapless
brother had borrowed many hundred dollars,
the gatherings of years as a hoarded mite for
declining days, and which he was totally un-
able to return, our unselfish one volunteers to
furnish home and support, and all manner ot
attentions on his behalf, we may well pro-
nounce her one among many—one deserving
of all honor. Many might be found who would
divide their ample means with friends less
favored. Noble young men often exert their
manhood's strength for the support of others;
but here behold a young, timid, unpractised
girl, with a great burden of complicated sorrow
hanging over her life, resolutely wrapping
that and every selfish consideration within the
folds of her heart, and assuming to do what
none could ask of her as a claim; giving her
attention, her mind, and her strength to a pur-
suit in itself distasteful and uncongenial, as
affording very little scope for the intellectual
enjoyments she had been reared to delight in.
Now, we ask, is there not heroism in that very
resolve?
But furthermore, when the daily task is
faithfully persevered in, week after week,
month after month, year after year, spring,
summer, autumn, and winter, an unceasing
round of conformity to new styles, to the fickle
changes of fashion, to the inconsiderate te-
diousness of customers, to the awkwardness
and waywardness of learners of the business,
of all the discomforts and annoyances of irri-
tated nerves, and broken health consequent
upon overtasking, of insufficient rest, of want
of change, of variety, that healer of the fa-
tigued, we ask, does martyrdom require any
other spirit? But another argument offers
Itself. There was none of the stimulant, the
incentive given by applause or approbation;
no admiring observers were to echo and re-echo
the fact from mouth to mouth, from valley to
hill-top, that a self-devoted heroine was offer-
ing her whole life, not only for the consolation
and comfort of invalid parents, a brother's
■wife and children, besides the dependant aunt,
but for their actual subsistence; no benevo-
lent societies were publishing this in their
reports; no newspapers were heralding with
winged speed these truths to remote parts of
the world; no fellow-workers in the same
cause were encouraging by their sympathy
the flagging heart; no admiring public were
strengthening those throbbing nerves by flat-
tering utterances of applause; no "testimonial
by a grateful world j" no more substantial
benefit in the way of annuity by the rich or
magnanimous. No, alas I unknown, unseen,
unapplauded, unnoticed, with only an approv-
ing conscience, her work went on.
Nor was this enough. To these three bereft
orphans she gave support, guidance, training,
so far as circumstances would permit; and
time went on; years came apace; they grew
to maturity. And how and when will h«r rest
come? Ah! now, instead, as a true spirit
would, of this eldest son assuming the guar-
dianship of the younger ones, thereby in some
measure relieving the well-tired aunt, and
lightening her burdens, new avenues of anxiety
and distress were opened. This eldest one, so
far from being the beacon of a good example
to them, sad to say, proved but a snare, a blur,
a curse, in developing the same depraved ap-
petite which had destroyed his father, and, in
consequence, his mother. No dread of Am
fate, no fears of a like result, proved strong
enough to deter him, or gave strength to resist
the fatal indulgence. A poor inebriate he be-
came, but not openly in time to prevent a fair
young girl uniting her fate with his; and ere
many years a little group of innocents spring
up, clamoring for bread, and none to hear
their cries with purposes of relief, save an in-
defatigable one—our untiring. Where is her
reward, and whence the relief? Shall the
niece take her place? No, no; she was what
the boys were—not affectionate and grateful,
but seeks only her own aggrandizement in fit-
ting herself to teach music, and removes far
off to a more propitious region, whence she is
seldom heard from. Not even companionship
can she furnish this devoted friend, who in all
her difficulties has never enjoyed the relief of
genial society; for, in truth, time was not at
ner command for such indulgence, even had
not other circumstances prevented. And now
you ask does the third one come up to wipe,
out the dark spots? to pour oil on the troubled
waters? to drown remembrances of sad scenes
by a life of promise, respectability, activity,
and usefulness, a living acknowledgment of
her unwavering kindnfse and protection? Ah,
no! Par different is his course, as if to add
the last ounce to her weight of sorrow, the last
drop to her cup of bitterness. The serpent's
trail is on him also; the direful taste for the
intoxication of strong drink is early developed;
and soon comes the woeful news of crime com-
mitted, crime punished, the law vindicated by
incarceration in the neighboring county jail!
the child of her long loved, only brother; the
430
GODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
boy for whom she has cared, toiled, and prayed.
Deep, deep is her woe, and to whom shall she
look for consolation, advice, or relief?
Alone with her own heart she bears it, toil-
ing on. All claims to the sympathy of him
who could ruthlessly break his vows to her
had been given up when his hand was given
to another. She never mentioned his name,
or alluded to him in any way. In the eye of
the world he was to her as if he were not.
The beloved father who had cherished her
childhood had, many long years ago, been
taken from her loving embrace, her assiduous
attention, her sustaining care, to rest from his
labors, after eighteen months of struggling
with disease of most painful nature. But her
rest was not yet. Now the fell hand is laid
upon that light of her eyes; that only joy of
her o'erburdencd heart; that faithful friend un-
til death; the mother, who reared that blessed
daughter, after two long afflicted years, the
vigorous hand of hopeless disease for all that
time bearing its weight upon her, her weary
head laid itself peacefully on that suffering
daughter's bosom to sigh its last breath away,
and wing its flight to the never-to-be-disturbed
rest—the home on high.
Unflinching still, under all this crushing
weight of accumulated grief, the self-sustained
woman bears life's woes;.and if, as is said,
"life is a school, and trouble the lesson," then
is her education well advanced; or, as is also
said, "the pebbles in the pathway of life make
ns more weary and foot-sore than the rocks,"
then has her pathway been thickly strewn.
Not with pebbles merely, but almost obstructed
by the "shadows of great rocks." Verily,
truth is stranger than fiction.
Many, many old maids are pursuing the
same noble course in a way so quiet as never
to be heard of by the world, but who will each
receive the commendation, "Well done, good
and faithful servant."
EVERY CLOUD HATH ITS
SILVER LINING.
BY B. L. W.
SNOW-BIRDS.
BY JAMES niSTTNE.
Petit little wanderers from a wintry ellme.
Dark heralds of the stormier time,
Again ye loiter through the sterile wood,
Pecking and flitting In a cheery mood;
Clinging to maple sprig,
Chirping on fallen twig,
Or where the purple berry and the lusty green
Of guarding cedar tell of a Christmas yet unseen.
Nor need we suffer the forlorn sad thought
Of howling frost-wind, horror fraught,
To linger long, while we may learn of ye
To hope and gladden In the good we see,
The rosier sunsets still,
Bkies ampler star-beams nil,
And brightening after all the showers of hall and
snow.
The May-ward rounding sun gleams In their ripening
glow.
"See, Aunt Helen, here are the clouds!
rather dark and forbidding, too, they look.
Can you see the silver lining there? Look at
that huge mass, piling up one above the other,
like mountains in the distance. No, I confess
there is none visible now; but have patience,
you will surely see it after a while." As she
spoke, the lightning played along the dark
edges of the clouds, and heaven's artillery
roared among their dark depths.
"You see only the dark side, my dear, a*
present; the bright one will be revealed after
a time. Thus In life, the clouds may be very
threatening, and for a time we may seem to be
enveloped in them, but we shall see the bright
side, even though we wait until we get beyond
them, into the other world."
The threatening storm had passed over while
the ladies were speaking, and the rays of the
setting sun gilded the edges of the distant
clouds, and brightened the earth with its de-
parting glory.
"You leave to-morrow, I suppose, Carrie?
I shall miss you.very much."
"Yes; I almost dislike to go, my visit has
been so pleasant; but mamma writes that she
cannot spare me any longer. I never imagined
before, that I should fancy country life."
At an early hour the following morning the
carriage conveyed Carrie to the depot, from
whence she was soon whirled away to her city
home.
Engrossed, for the first few days, with the
calls of her friends, who gladly welcomed her
to her place among them again, she did not
notice any apparent change in the household.
But she soon perceived that her father appeared
very gloomy and taciturn, and seemed quite
displeased when she asked for money, with
which he had always so liberally provided her.
Grieved and startled, she consulted her mother,
and found her much oppressed with something
she knew not what, a sense of coming danger
she knew not how to avert.
The gay season had fully opened, and one
evening, when Carrie was dressed for a gay
assemblage, she went to the library for her
father's inspection. Instead of complimenting
her on her appearance, as was his wont, lie
looked up with a forlorn smile, and said: "Go,
my dear, enjoy it while you can," and again
busied himself with his papers.
Joining her escort in the parlor, they drove
off to the scene of gayety; but neither the en-
trancing music or the gay dance could remove
from her mind a foreboding of evil.
Returning home at a late hour, Carrie was
surprised to see lights gleaming from the win-
dows. Hastening in, she gathered from the
EVERT CLOUD HATH ITS SIL VER LINING.
431
bewildered servants, the intelligence that her
father had been struck with paralysis, and that
the physician was then with him.
For several days the agonized wife and
daughter watched over the stricken mail, in the
hope of seeing some returning gleam of con-
sciousness, but none ever came; the dim spark
of life flickered and went out, with scarcely a
sign to the heart-broken watchers.
After the sad scenes of the funeral were gone
through, it was necessary to examine into Mr.
Dupont's business affairs. To the astonish-
ment of many, it was found that matters were
In a very critical state. Large speculations had
consumed most of his supposed great wealth,
and there woujd be barely sufficient to satisfy
the demands of creditors.
It was a sore trial to leave the beautiful home,
to which they had been accustomed to all their
lives, adorned, as it was, with all that wealth
and a luxurious taste could suggest; but it
was a necessity, and taking with them the few
effects which the creditors and the law of tho
land had kindly left for them, they repaired to
the home of Aunt Helen, until some other place
could be chosen.
The parting with friends was not the most
severe task, for although the millionaire's fam-
ily had an extensive circle, the friends of the
reduced widow and her daughter had dwindled
down to a very few.
One of Carrie's last acts in her old home had
been to send a number of letters and presents
to the address of one whom she had imagined
a man of sterling worth. But she could not
blind herself to the fact, that with her wealth
had flown what she imagined his love for her,
and pride dictated a release, even though her
heart bled afresh at the new trial.
"Aunt Helen," said Carrie, one morning, on
taking her place at the breakfast-table, " I have
heard of a district school near here, which I in-
tend applying for to-day. My musical educa-
tion will not avail me much here, and I think
I can teach."
"Why cannot you remain here, Carrie? Do
not be so independent. I have plenty for us
all."
"No, aunt, I cannot do that; I will accept
your good wishes for my success to-day, how-
ever."
The application was made, and an examina-
tion passed before a committee, some of whom
Carrie was almost confident were inferior in
intellect to herself. In a day or two Carrie re-
ceived the announcement that she had been
duly elected to the position, and was expected
to enter upon her duties the following week.
And arduous duties she found them. A set
of children of all ages, with talents as various.
To one accustomed to ease and luxury, it was
a hard, hard task; and many a time, as she re-
turned home, she almost longed to lay herself
quietly down to rest at her father's side in
Greenwood.
From her mother she hid her loathing of the
self-imposed task, as she dreaded to add to the
grief of her last remaining parent, whose health
was at best very poor. ,
One day, worn out and dispirited, as the
last pupil disappeared from her sight, she laid
her head on her desk, and gave vent to her
overwrought feelings. Buried in her own re-
flections, she heard nothing until a hand was
laid upon her arm, and, suddenly rising, she
beheld one of her pupils standing beside her,
astonishment depicted in his face at seeing
her thus.
"What is the matter, Johnny?"
"Why, sister is very sick, and wants to see
you, and mother sent me to see if you would
be so kind as to come over to our house."
Wearily gathering together the loose articles
around her desk, and locking them up, she
prepared to accompany the boy, inwardly
chiding herself for having allowed the child
to be absent without noticing it. Finding the
little girl quite ill, and the mother worn out
with watching and the cares of a numerous
household, Carrie offered to remain during the
night, sending the boy to inform her friends
at home of her intentions. The physician
called towards evening, and Carrie was sur-
prised to find, on being introduced to him, a
man lacking none of the world's polish, and
far different from what she had imagined a
country doctor to be. The mother of the child
informed her afterwards that he was a stranger
in the place, but that their old physician, in
consequence of his advanced age, was gradu-
ally allowing his practice to pass into the new
doctor's hands.
Morning found Carrie quite worn out, hav-
ing obtained but little rest. Just as she was
about leaving for school, Doctor Merton called
again, and, pronouncing his patient somewhat
better, requested permission to drive Carrie to
school. Seeing a«look of surprise on her face
at his knowledge of her destination, he said:—,
"The little girl's mother told me you were
her child's teacher. You have secured a warm
friend in her. But you will scarcely be able to
bear the fatnjuc of the school-room to-day."
The ride proved but the commencement of a.
very pleasant acquaintance, and during the
summer the doctor's carriage was frequently
seen standing before the door of Mrs. Ray's
cottage. To Carrie it was unspeakably de-
lightful to find congeniality of tastes in this
strange place. She had few acquaintances in
her new home. As the daughter of the wealthy
merchant, she had moved in the best society in
the city, and her sensitive nature recoiled from
any possible danger of being patronized as the
village school-teacher.
One day, while driving out with Doctor Mer-
432
GODET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
ton, Carrie observed a spot which had evidently
once been a very beautiful place, but which
now bore evident marks of decay. The house
was closed, and the grounds looked wild and
neglected.
"This is a beautiful spot," said Carrie. "I
wonder the owner, whoever he may be, does
not redeem it from decay!"
"Suppose we take a look at it," said Doctor
Merton. "The place is somewhat familiar to
me. The owner is a man without any family
ties, who has spent a large portion of his life
abroad."
As they rambled through the still beautiful
grounds, Carrie exclaimed:—
"I cannot imagine a man absenting himself
all his life from such a beautiful spot!"
"But a man needs something beside a beau-
tiful house and grounds to attract him to his
home; something that will shed a holy influ-
ence about him when mingling with the world
and battling with its cares. His home needs a
presiding genius, to diffuse around it a halo of
sweet influences, making it bloom and blossom
as an oasis in the desert of life." He was
drawing a highly colored picture, and Carrie
trembled. Suddenly seizing her hand, he ex-
claimed, "Carrie, will you not make for me
such a home? You can do it if you will but
consent. I am an orphan, and have never
known, since quite a boy, what it was to have
a settled home. Will you not be the light of
one which I shall make? the guiding star of
my destiny in the future?"
Trembling with excitement, Carrie placed
her hand in his, and was drawn to a close em-
brace. The doubts and troubles of the past
were lost in a sweet sense of shelter and pro-
tection from the future ills of life. She told
him of her life and home in the city, the death
of her father, and her after troubles.
"Poor child! you have suffered severely, but
we will try to forget, in the enjoyment of the
present, past ills and trials." ,
Time passed on, bringing with it the wedding
day, which the doctor had thought entirely too
far in the future, and, after a quiet perform-
ance of the ceremony, the happy pair made a
short tour, Doctor Merton's professional duties
not allowing a very lengthy one.
Arriving at the station on their return, a
carriage was in waiting to convey them to their
new home. Carrie did not notice the direction
they were taking until they had stopped at the
very house she had so much admired. To her
surprise, her mother and aunt were in waiting
to receive them. Astonished beyond measure,
she exclaimed:—
"Why, what is the meaning of all this?
Why have you come here?"
"Have you any objections, Mrs. Merton,"
said the doctor, highly enjoying her astonish-
ment, "to make this your future home?"
Then, drawing her into the library, he told
her how he had planned the pleasant surprise
for her with her mother and aunt, and had re-
ceived their assistance in carrying it out.
Still further to add to her surprise, she
learned that Doctor Merton was the owner of
the place; that, tired out with a life abroad,
he had returned to his native place, and, for
want of something to occupy his time, had
taken up the profession for which he was edu-
cated. Meeting with Carrie at the sick-bed of
the child, he was struck with, a congeniality of
feeling, which was increased by further ac-
quaintance. It was truly love at first sight,
said the doctor, playfully.
"Well," said Carrie, rather doubtfully, "at
any rate, Aunt Helen's pet theory of the silver
cloud is fully substantiated in my case. The
clouds which surrounded me at one time looked
very dark and threatening; but their bright
silver lining almost effaces from memory the
darkness which threatened to envelop me."
THROUGH SUFFERING.
BY HELEN M. GOODWTN.
A lowkuino sky, a train of chilling cold.
Of whirlwinds wild and storms of beating rain:
And icy bands grasp in a deathly hold
Fair nature's life, in snow-crowned winter's rei; n.
But Icy bonds are loosed, when balmy spring;
Earth's cold breast warms to life and blossoming:
Breathes o'er the frozen lake and icy rill.
Finds 'neath the fetters living waters still.
The day is shrouded in a sable cloud.
The strong trees shiver, while the rain and bail.
The lightning's vivid flash and thunder loud.
The elemental war proclaims. The wail
Weaker and weaker grows by slow degrees.
The wild winds soften to a gentle breeze.
And on the far-off hills the sunbeams rest.
Reviving life in nature's humid breast.
A starless night; the darkness to our eyes
Eternal seems. Impenetrable gloom
Pervades the earth and clouds the skies.
And not one ray of light its depths illume.
But soon the first faint dawn of morning light.
Shall gleaming through the shadowy veil of night
Lift up the raven pall; the sun will rise
And gladden with its glory earth and skies.
The way is long, with many cares oppressed.
But leads through suffering to a perfect rest;
Through many thorny paths and deserts wide.
Through seas of sorrow with no ebbing tide.
When weak and faint, to see In fevered dreams
Bright vistas opening lovely mirage scenes
Sweet as the land of Beulah's peaceful shore.
Where heavy burthens drop forever more.
The pilgrimage, though long, and all unblest
With springs of Joy, ungraced by earthly flowers.
Is not unending; the tolling feet shall rest.
The weary head repose In sheltering bowers. *
In affliction's darkest hour, do not despair;
Trust and resign thee to thy Father's care.
E'en though thy star seems quenched in hopeless
night.
The morning cometh which shall bring thee light.
A34
G O DE Y'S LA D Y'S BOOK A WD MAGAZINE.
y
of coldness in this respect, I deeply sympathize
in your feeling for them,” she said, and the
luminous glow of her eyes assured me of her
truth. “In moments of sadness none can
console as they, and when the world is darkest
they are here with their brightness. Even
when, in yon graveyard, I seek my dead, they
are there to reconcile me to the clay which
shuts me out from my loved ones, and, with
their faces turned heavenwards, direct me to
the home of the redeemed, and to Him who
‘doeth all things well.’ You will find no rare
exotics here, but, nevertheless, you of the city
need arrogate no superiority over us on that
score, for we have these not less lovely wood
nymphs; these wayside teachers, which, by
precept and example, inculcate the purest les-
sons the human heart can learn. It is pleasant
to think that He who can send a world into
existence will yet, for the pleasure of man,
turn to the creation of these tiny floral be-
ings;” and her “pansy-dark” eyes, softened
by an inexpressible tenderness, gazed down
into the perfumed hearts of a cluster of violets
whose azure corols, by reflection, received a
deeper tinge.
“Yes,” I rejoined; “but not alone, I think,
for the reason you give did He create them.
“He maketh His works to praise Him,” and
the hozannas would not be complete had these
wee creatures been omitted. They are as ne-
cessary to creation as is a link to a chain, an
arc to a circle. We had as well say that a
Burns was created to immortalize the ‘wee
crimson-tipt daisy’ which he found on a Scot-
tish lea, as that the floweret was placed there
to delight him with its beauty. Then, too, in
support of my assertion, are those flowers
which “waste their beauty on the desert air,”
and the innumerable host which is ‘born to
blush unseen.” But, certainly, to enhance
man's happiness is a part of the task which
the most of them are commissioned to perform.
And it is singular to note the many different
lights in which they have been regarded. Ex-
citing admiration throughout all time, mythol-
ogy has proclaimed them gods and goddesses,
worthy of adoration; national gratitude has
emblazoned them upon the folds of national
banners; science, baffled in their lore, has
often prostrated herself before the mysteries
of their perfections; poets have sought them
in their most secluded dells, and gathered in-
spiration from the sweets distilled from their
honey-cups; Hygeia has hunted them down
till they do her bidding, and the maimed are
healed, the blind are made to see, the deaf to
hear, the lame to walk, and the almost dying
are led away from the gate which opens into
the world of shadows; the artist blends them
with the glories of his masterly creations; they
weave their spells around the coffins and the
grave. That they are used even in religions, we
may see by glancing over to eastern lands, to
“‘Indian glades,
Where kneel the sun-swart maids
On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw F
and how helpful are they in love! how potent
is their influence! I can well believe the tra-
dition which tells us that the arrows of Camdeo
are tipped with flowers, and think that it was
a fine idea of the poetical old Greeks to encase
the souls of unfortunate youths and love-lorn
maidens in the body of a floral beauty. If, in
the transmigration of souls, you were hereafter
to appear as a flower, which one would you
prefer to be?”
She laughed merrily at the abruptness and
quaintness of my question, but her face sobered
as she glanced at each member of our bouquets,
and it was but doubtfully, at last, that she
made her choice.
“You have asked me a difficult question,”
she replied, “and I cannot single out one of
the darlings, to the entire seclusion of the
others. But a violet, I think, or the lily, or
probably a rose would please me.”
“And in either case, as now, you would
rival the boasted treasures of Paesturn, or
Shushan, or the Pangea Mountains,” I re-
joined, somewhat more earnestly than I in-
tended. I repented my fervency as the ready
blood painfully incarnadined her face, and,
fearing that she would punish me by leaving
us, hastened to diverther thoughts by asking,
“Are you a botanist, Miss Roberts? Are you
scientifically versed in that branch of natural
history?”
The flush passed away as rapidly as it came,
and, as if relieved, she lightly said:—
“No. Like Shakspeare's clown, “I am no
great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much
skill in grass.” Women do not wait to appre-
ciate flowers till they are labelled with their
classes, orders, genera, and species; they like
best to class them with the other “good and
perfect gifts” which come “down from the
Father of Light.” Not that I would not plunge
with avidity into the exacervation of botanical
knowledge if I had the opportunity; but, if
this chance be not marked out for me on ‘the
golden scroll of Fate, whereon are writ, in
God's own hand, all things which happen,' I
am not debarred the pleasure of enjoying their
bright hues and delicious aromas, which is a
greater privilege than many others have,” and
for a moment her hands rested from their task
and were folded contentedly on her lap.
I could not help but admire the beautiful
calm of her face, and thought how much hap-
pier was she than any of the avaricious, dis-
contented children of luxury I had left behind
me in the world; and, though dreading to dis-
turb her serenity, I said:—
“You teach me a profitable lesson. Will
you—if I fortunately can make this my home-
will you permit me to repay you by imparting
the little knowledge I have in this or any other
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSB or NE'S Journ A L.
435
branch of learning in which you are deficient?
What were the obstacles in the way of your
advancement?”
“Your kind offer, of which I should like to
avail myself, drives away one of them; but a
slender library and Scarcity of time for such
things still remain. I have not the proper
books, and, if I had them, could not aggran-
dize self at the expense of duty,” she returned,
firmly, as if she would put Satan behind her.
“I will leave you with but one objection,” I
persevered, “for I have the requisite text-books
in the city, and can order them to be sent me.
As to the time, you must gain upon your tasks
and earn an hour now and then. Remember
that threadbare old adage, ‘Where there is a
will there is a way.” Supported by it, I shall
have to condemn you for lukewarmness in the
work, if you do not become my pupil.”
“I shall do that, then, which the angels
themselves can do no more, viz., try,” she re-
joined, laughingly. “But, oh, the chateaua en
espagne which we build! Here you do not
even know whether Squire Hoggins will en-
gage you, and yet we have already, in imagi-
nation, become Gesners, Banhins, Tourneforts,
or even Plinys; have stolen into the ‘wee sma'
hours' of the night in our lucubrations of the
works of Darwin, Linnaeus, Jussien, Mirbel,
and the host of others who have preceded us
in the great work; and have formed countless
herbariums from botanical specimens collected
in pleasant rambles over hill and dale. You,
who seem so fond of aphorisms, have entirely
lost sight of that which, elegantly rendered,
warns us not to “enumerate the juveniles of
our feathered tribes ere they are incubated;’
and I have forgotten, for the moment, the sad
misfortune which befel that Arabian youth
Alnaschar, or that old song which gives us the
information that
“‘Hearts are broken, heads are turned,
By castles in the air.’
Let us put aside the subject, and contemplate
some other more profitable one.”
“I submit for the present,” said I; “but in
the future this topic, I hope, will be a favorite
with us. But, ere we lay it by, one question
more in connection with it. I see you have
here splendid specimens for analysis while we
learn the rudiments of botany. Do they grow
near? Where did you get these ferns and
flowers? There are some I have never seen
before.”
“Minnie and us children culled 'em from
the crags down the river, and we was to crown
Minnie, till you come,” replied Nannie, catch-
ing at my last question as she returned from
stowing her last daisy-chain and buttercup
posy away in the moist grass.
“Hooray! Sho' enough, and he’ll help us !”
shouted all of them, as, being thus reminded
of the forgotten entertainment, they sprang
up wigorously, and, gathering garlands and
posies, they showered them indiscriminately
upon the meek Minnie.
“Softly, softly,” I interposed in her behalf.
“Certainly I will aid you; but all my experi-
ence in the art of decorating tells me to go at
it more leisurely. Miss Roberts, permit me to
rescue you from these Liliputians,” and I en-
deavored to shield her from the flowery ava-
lanche they were hurling at her. “Do it
thus,” I added, selecting the most graceful
anademe and resting it lightly upon the glossy
folds of her hair. “Now, Charlie, take that
long chain and loop it around the rock; fasten
it in the crevices with stakes. This concatena-
tion of buttercups will furnish the orfrays for
her robe. May I pin it"Miss Roberts, around
this—tunic, you term it, I think? Thank you!
Children, scatter flowers about promiscuously,
and conceal the bare places. Come, Lottie,
there is work sufficient for all of you here, and
even your tiny fingers can be employed. O
Miss Roberts, please don't move! It will be so
pretty 1 and we will not detain you long.
There, Charlie, give me that end,” and, draw-
ing the chain over the low branch of the oak
under which she sat, I formed it into an arch
above.
The impromptu coronation was accomplished,
and we drew off some distance, “to admire
the effect,” I told her. How exceedingly lovely
she was, with the blushes blooming and fading
on her cheeks, the opalescent chatoyment of
her eyes, and the smiles which played at hide
and seek about her mouth ! Embarrassed by
our scrutiny, she dashed the garlands away
and sprang up, exclaiming :-
“The sun has disappeared, and the cows are
not here! Run, Charlie, and bring them in ;
Eddie can go with you. Gather up the flowers,
children, and carry them to the house. Come,
Lottie, little one,” and she held out her arms
to the child, but I caught up the roly-poly little
form and swung her up to my shoulder. My
cap fell off, and her plump fingers vigorously
clutched my “tonzie, curly pow;” but Miss
Roberts secured the first, and I “grinned and
endured” the last till we reached the top of
the hill. As I placed Lottie once more upon
terra firma, and received my cap from Minnie,
I plucked several blow-balls from the clusters
of dandelions which decked the sward, and
held them towards her.
“Is anyone of Flora's children more unjustly
dealt with than this?” I asked, giving them
into her extended hand. “Why do we lavish
no caresses upon the dandelion, which comes
to cast its brightness upon our very doorway,
while we tread rough paths and penetrate for-
bidding tangle-wood to obtain the coy creatures
which seek homes there? The latter are no
prettier, not one whit more “fearfully and
wonderfully made.’”
“It is only done by those who prize most
those things they must exert themselves to
43G
00DEY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
obtain. I, for one, have a decided partiality
for this practical and yet poetical little
plant. And there are so many superior minds
which have acknowledged its merits. Though
gifted with the pen of a ready writer, Beecher
never wrote more fluently, more beautifully,
than when welcoming this golden 'harbinger
of Spring;' and the gentle Wordsworth has
testified that a star-crowned scape like those
once allured him back from the pinnacle of
fame he had reached, to the meadows of bis
childhood's home, where they gleamed all
golden and bright amid the verdure; that they
awakened for him thoughts which were 'oft
too deep for tears.' J find myself sometimes
regarding it as 'a thing of life'—of human life,
almost, for at certain stages It surely seems
typical of our existence. For Instance, in the
miraculous construction of these downy bales,
and in their having 'no abiding city here,' as
also in the fragility of the tabernacles which
encase their lives, they are nearly allied to
man. The place that knows them to-day will
soon 'know them no more forever.' And
these egrets, how much are they like the Im-
mortal spirit I A breath severs their connec-
tion with the grosser stem; some remain near,
like those departed friends who
"' Wing about us and wait on us
While yet the hour of enchantment Is;'
they are unseen ; but often, in their wanderings
to and fro, they kiss our cheek; then others
are caught up by the zephyrs, which, like an-
gelic ambassadors, have come to bear them
away to other climes, where they shall begin a
new life."
As she finished speaking, the "far-away
look" which so often overshadows her face
settled down upon it, and for a moment she
seemed unconscious of my presence. While
quietly regarding her, I felt that she, Indeed,
was possessed of those
"Fine Instincts that, like second sight
And hearing, catch creation's undersong,
And see by Inner light."
Like Elsie, the peasant girl, her
"Finer sense perceives
Celestial and perpetual harmonies."
With a half-inaudible sigh, she aroused from
her reverie to exclaim :—
"There! I am at my usual employment-
moralizing, when my brain should be on 'hos-
pitable thoughts intent.' Squire Hoggins is
late this evening, and you must walk into the
house and await him there, while I see that
supper does not fail you."
"One moment more," I begged, as she turned
towards the house. "This little flower is
called the 'oracle of the plain,' I think. Cam
you tell me why, and what is the play In which
it is used? It is a poetical species of divina-
tion; something similar to the buttercup test,
I believe."
She glanced up at me with saucy quickness.
"Yes, I know. They tell you where your
sweetheart is," she said.
"My sweetheart I Do they really? As I
should dearly love to receive that information,
so that I may go see her, will you not work
them for me? Have you been using them in
your own behalf? Is the power of divining
by them general, or confined to individuals of
peculiar temperaments? How do you use
them? Answer in one word," I finally con-
cluded, as I noticed the merry twinkle which,
from her eyes, commented upon the Yankee
rapidity of my interrogations.
"You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth
first; it is a word too great for any mouth of
this age's size. To say aye and no to these
particulars is more than to answer in a cate-
chism," she quoted, vivaciously. "To punish
you for having asked them without giving me
chance to answer them regularly, I shall reply
only to the last two. Like the flower itself,
the gift of divining by it is free to all, and,"
placing a feathery globe in my hand, "you
can be your own chirosophist. In your incan-
tation, no cabalistic hocus-pocus is necessary,
none of the Cabiri or Eleusinian rites are to be
performed. You have merely to stand with
your face to the south, and blow it with all
your might. What are you doing?" she asked,
as I, obeying her instructions, puffed vigorously
in an austral direction.
"Blowing with all my might against the
perfumed breezes of the south. Did you not
so direct me?"
"Ah ! you believe in giving 'sweets to the
sweet,"' she replied, with subtle irony, after
comprehending the mistake. "But, no, 1 do
not think I told you to blow 'against the per-
fumed breezes of the south.' I instructed
you"—
"To blow my face?" I asked, interrupting
her.
"Probably, if, after smiting the one cheek,
you will turn the other also," she replied,
composedly. "But you can defer the castiga-
tion till you have nothing better to do. In the
mean while, will you put aside your obtuseness
and learn the cryptic lore of this floral python-
ess?"
"Yes, ma'am, if you will be more explicit,
or less cruel, in your directions," I answered.
"Well, then, pluck another plumy sphere.
Now be careful; hold it steady, turn with
your face to the south, blow once upon the
aigrettes, and the down will fly to your ' ladye
love,' no matter where she is, bearing to her
faithfully the tender messages with which
your thoughts have gifted them. If every
little feather is detached— Whew 1" she ejacu-
lated, as she drew her handkerchief hastily
across her face to wipe away the shower of
downy filaments which, true to their promise,
had flown to her when I breathed upon them.
"You blew too quickly; you should have waited
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
437
till I was out of the way," she exclaimed, per-
ceptibly embarrassed.
"That would not have shielded you, for they
were to seek my 'ladye-love,' no matter where
she is; were they not?" I asked.
"Yes; but, to make a correct trial, you
should havo been alone. I diverted them from
their true course," she replied.
"No—accept my explanation. Tou were
the centre of attraction, and these aigrettes,
obeying the law of gravitation, freed from tho
Influence of centrifugal force, were drawn
towards you by centripetal inclination—Is not
that so? Well, well, I shall not dispute the
point with you, and am too well satisfied with
the result of the soothsaying of the 'hawk-
weed gowan' to put it to a second trial. But
look!" I continued, "every plumed stipe has
left the button. What were you telling me
about that when my carrier-doves sought you?"
A rebel rose-hue quickly miniated the "silver
Hvery" of her cheek, and with "downcast eyes,
sedate and sweet, and looks demure," she stood
before me making no attempt to reply to my
interrogations.
"Very well, you need not tell me," I laughed.
"My memory is refreshed somewhat, and I
now recollect that, in our childhood, my sisters
and I played at telling dandelion fortunes down
in the meadow at the old homestead. Then, it
was always proven that'my love did ne'er love
me'; now, the^Fates, I hope, have seen proper
to turn over a new leaf in my destiny. But
what of the messages with which my little aero-
nauts were laden? Did they tell you that I
had been 'done to death by Minnie's eyes' and
the 'sweet caprices of her air?'"
"I am an Olivia in that 'I forgive you the
praise,' seeing that, when your fine speeches
are snmmed up, the result is only a cipher,
which cipher is the zero of flattery, and means
nothing," she replied, in a somewhat curt
tone.
"And I a Viola, in that I exclaim, 'Alas! I
took great pains to study it, and 'tis poeti-
cal,'" I demurely replied, and my answer, in-
asmuch as it reconciled her to me, was as well
worth a world-wide reputation as was the rose-
leaf which secured for Doctor Zeb the appoint-
ment in the academy at Amadan.
"Well done!" she cried, clapping her little
hands vivaciously together. "That retort was
a coup d'etat which nearly restored you to my
favor; but, ere you are quite reinstated, prom-
ise me that you will lay aside those 'mock airs
of gallantry' with which you think proper to
fan me. I do not like them."
"'A word to the wise is sufficient,' and the
promise is given. If I am not sincere in my
conduct towards yon in the future, blot my
name off of the list of your acquaintances," I
responded, glad to win my absolution by such
easy penance.
"You forget that it has not yet been written
down, though mine seems well known to you,"
she said, slyly.
"And that you do not even know it. If I
leave it with you, will you promise me to in-
scribe it upon your tablet of amity?" I asked,
eagerly.
"Its claims to a position there shall be con-
sidered," she answered.
"Ah, you do not commit yourself, make no
rash contracts! You women command my ad-
miration—wise as serpents, harmless as doves
are you! Well, I do not blame you; cities that
are often besieged should have walls about
] them. I will withdraw the request pro tern.,
but, in the future, after I have proven myself
a true friend, I shall prefer it again. In the
mean while you shall have the name. I am
Henry, Harry, Hallie, Hal, at your pleasure,
in the first place, and Osborne in the last, the
appellation, in mathematical order, standing
as Henry Wadsworth Osborne."
"Henry Wadsworth I" she exclaimed, glanc-
ing towards me quickly. "You are bribing me
to receive you as a friend by intertwining with
yours the name of one of my library favorites."
"I would that I could farther win upon your
regard by shining in the constellation of his
kin; but no, the name is all of which I can
truthfully boast, and I am strong in my deter-
mination to burnish it equally with his with
honor, though, being less favored by Calliope,
it cannot be the twin of his in the fane of lite-
rature. But there—I do not desire to add an-
other layer of egotism to that I already own,
by so much prating about myself. Will you
not tell your fortune? Here's a ball that looks
as if it would blow off easily," and, believing
that "the gods help those who help them-
selves," I stood behind her that the south wind
might blow her messengers to me. She seemed
to suspect my design, and, turning slightly, so
that her face would be to the southeast, would
have breathed upon the downy globe bad I not
withheld her by my protestations.
"Hold ! youmistake! That is not the south!"
I exclaimed.
"No; but I am a devout believer, and prefer
turning to the holy East when dabbling in nec-
romancy," she persisted.
"All I I fear you are not inclined to deal
fairly with me, Miss Roberts. Let me remind
you that Sliakspeare tells us a good divine fol-
lows his own instructions, and yet, in defiance
of that hint, you have preached to me that
which you yourself do not practise," I said, re-
proachfully.
"And in that same miscellaneous collection
of your author's truths, you will hear Portia
making the assertion,' I can easier teach twenty
what were good to be done than to be one of
the twenty to follow mine own teaching." That
explains my position, in the circumstances."
"Oh, circumstances! 'Tis said that 'cir-
cumstances do alter cases,' and you shall be
438
G O DE Y'S LA. D. Y'S BOOK A ND MAGAZINE.
excused your dereliction from established rules
if the circumstances under which you have re-
treated furnish sufficient protection for you.
To what do you refer?”
“To the fact that the wind, being from the
south, must necessarily bear to you the falling
mantle of this Elijah,” she answered courage-
ously.
“I hope that a guilty conscience warns you
of that result,” I retorted. “But have you not
been taught how utterly futile are all attempts
to thwart the Moerae, that “what is decreed
must be,” and “all unavoidable is the doom of
Destiny?" Now, Miss Roberts, you will please
make no other Fabian evasion; do battle
bravely, with your face southwards, regard-
less of me, no matter at what point of the com-
pass I stand. That’s right! Now blow, and
may the gods favor me!” She blew with
hearty good-will, and in a moment I felt the
feathery particles kissing my cheek. “Bravo!
They come to me!” I exclaimed.
“And to me, too, by your leave,” said a voice
behind us.
We turned hastily, and stood face to face
with “young Jimson,” or “Mr. Jameson,” as
Minnie introduced him. Charles Lamb has
declared that “there may be individuals born
or constellated so opposite to one another in
individual nature that the same sphere cannot
hold them.” I believe this, for a mutual proso-
polepsy sprung up between “young Jimson”
and myself in the first second of our acquaint-
ance, and, ere I had known him ten minutes,
it seemed to me so natural to dislike him that
I could scarcely have traced the emotion back
to its origin. This may have been because his
suit of black associated him in my brain with
“the spruce-looking swain” of Larrie's enmity.
Certain it is, that his animosity towards me
was the twin of mine against him; the snaky
glitter of his steel-blue eyes warned me of this.
But we shook hands politely, and Minnie broke
the awkward silence which succeeded the in-
troductory ceremonies, by handing him her
own little muslin kerchief.
“Take it and brush off the down from your
face,” she said, and the saucy glimmer in her
“well-in eyes” told me that she had reference
to more, and yet to but little more, than the
dandelion down which had found a lodging
there, for Mr. Jameson seems appropriately
“young Jimson,” and his “chin is not yet
fledged,” save by the pale sprouts of a sickly-
looking imperial.
“Thank you ! I will use mine,” he said,
drawing a flaming bandanna from his pocket,
and adding, “I never could bear the creepy
things. What were you blowing them for?”
“Telling fortunes,” replied Minnie, laugh-
ing softly, as in a low tone I quoted—
“A primrose by the river's brim,
A yellow primrose ’twas to him;
'Twas that—and nothing more.”
“Ah! and the egrets are impartially distri-
buted between Mr. Osborne, yourself, and me.
What a hint is given What a revelation is
made l’’ he exclaimed, in a sarcastic tone.
“Hint, revelation, of what?” she questioned,
perceptibly annoyed by his manner.
“It is useless to feign innocence now, for, as
your aruspice has made the blind receive their
sight, your acting would be but “wasting sweet-
ness on the desert air.’”
“”Tis a pity the aruspice has not extended
his kind offices to me in order to give meanin-
sight into the meaning you intend to convey.
In slang parlance, what are you “driving at?"
Lay aside enigmatical language, if you please,”
she commented, vexedly.
“Thus commanded, what can I do but obey?
It is not pleasant to tell a lady”—
“Shades of Van Buren I Mr. Jameson, has
the mantle of that statesman, who drew out the
‘thread of his verbosity finer than the staple
of his argument,’ fallen upon you, that you
thus indulge in this circumlocutory facundi-
ty?” she demanded. “Pray, be reminded that
“brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the
limbs and outward flourishes,’ and try to be
more commatic in relieving my anxiety to know
in what you are a second Columbus, what world
of mystery you have discovered.”
I was somewhat startled by the sharp into-
nation of her voice, but he, probably obtuse
through self-complacency which apparently
envelops him in its hippopotamus' hide, seemed
not to notice it or the angry frown which cor-
rugated her fair forehead. .
“I have your permission, then, to assert that
this little bit of ariolation has yielded “confirm-
ation strong’ to my suspicions that your fem-
inine regard is given to yourself and gentleman
friends,” he said, laboriously.
“Bah! Is that the amount?” asked Minnie,
her rosebud lips wreathing contemptuously.
“One would have thought a greater result
would have been achieved by such altiloquence!
“Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing
more than any man in all Venice. His rea-
sons are as two grains of wheat hid in two
bushels of chaff—you shall seek all day ere you
find them, and when you have them they are
not worth the search 1” But, Mr. Jameson,
why did you take such interest in discovering
upon whom my ‘feminine regard’ is lavished,
seeing that you are the representative neither
of myself nor my friends?”
His eyes, at last, were in a white heat of an-
ger at her candid address, but his manner gave
no indication of the fury which seethed within
him.
“As an exception to your usual rule, you are
candid, very,” he said, in a most provoking
tone. “Does the influence of a more potent
mind cause the vane to veer thus? Be warned
in time, Miss Minnie, that a new friend, like
the future, is uncertain, and, above all, that
440
GODBY'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAOAZINB,
'
day at a neighbor's to-morrow, and Hiram has
a job over to the Merlin Hollow, which will
'ploy him about midday, so I shall hev to leave
word with the young girl up to the house where
you 're to work. It's best, I calk'late, to put
you 'bout the house tell you lam 'nough to
help Hiram with the crap. Will think 'bout it
an''leave word. Step into supper with us;
it's nigh 'bout ready, I guess."
"No, thank you; I will return to the tavern,
and will endeavor to come back in the morning
early. I hope that you will lose nothing by
employing me, sir; I truly appreciate the trust
reposed in me."
"Tut, tut I Lads would fare bad in the
world if old heads'd refuse to help •em," ho
responded, cheerily.
"The favor is none the less to be considered.
But good-evening, sir I"
"The same to you, friend;" and he trudged
homewards, while I walked rapidly towards
town.
Captain Larbins and the good wife were de-
lighted with my success, and spent an hour or
so giving me good advice. But, though I was
grateful to them for the kindness which
prompted their admonitions, I fear I did not
listen to them till Mrs. Larkins drifted into a
more pleasant channel.
"Did you meet Minnie Roberts?" she in-
quired. "Nice gal she is, to have been borned
so poorly. Poor gal I she "s as pretty as a pic-
ter, and lively as a grasshopper. Don't look
much like she 'd ever had any sorrow, and has
come out truly wonderful from the peaked,
half-starved, ill-clothed little mite that fust
come to the square's."
"Where did she come from, madam?" I
asked, with interest.
"Ah! you 've saw her, hev you? I s'posed
'twas likely, from the way you was lookin' so
Innocent-like; but you needn't calk'late 'pon
bein' successful, for young Jimson has hed the
start of you nigh on for two years, outside of
knowin' her before he went to Bostin. Not
that it 'd be unsartaln who 1 'd choose, ef 'twas
me; i>ut then, you know, there's a sight o"
def'rence atween sixteen or eighteen and fifty-
seven. But you asked me where she come
from. Why, from a log cabin that once stood
upon the hollow above the Hogginses farm.
It's tore away sev'ral years ago, but Minnie
was born in it; her father killed hlsself in it,
and her mother, a poor consumpted cretur,
died in it. Her mother was our next last min-
ister's daughter, and her father was old Deacon
Roberts' only child—likely 'nough young man
he was afore he went to the city. They was
married afore he went there to get into busi-
ness, and stayed there two years. Bad tales
was brought back here of Ed's shlftlessness,
and when they come back, no one wouldn't
hev nothin' to do with 'em, so low down hed
his bad habits kerried him. Square Hoggins,
as is as good a soul as ever lived, for the sake
of bein' merciful, and for the memory of the
old deacon and the minister, in that time dead,
he let 'em go into the shanty up in the hollow,
and tried to get work for 'em. But Roberts
never did try to do no good, but just drunk
and ripped 'round, tell at last, when Minnie
was born, he killed hlsself. And Amy Rob-
erts soon passed away, too. Square Hoggins
took little Minnie, and has done his dooty by
her. The dame has larnt her to be thrifty In
work, and the square has let her 'tend the
deestrick school nigh on for four winters.
Then the square jest lives over the hill from
lawyer Jimson's, and she 'sociates with his
gals, who went to a Bosting school for a spell,
and can talk Frenchy and play the pianny, as
also did young Jimson, who is her beau. But
I s'pose you must be sleepy and tired from
your walk. Kezzy, bring a candle here I" and,
furnished with a tallow dip, I came to my
room. But, though much wearied by my un-
usual exertions, excitement, and musing upon
the strange events of the day, have kept me
awake till now I hear the clumsy Dutch clock
in the hall puffing forth the midnight hour,
and, if I would be prepared for the duties of
the morrow, I must seek my couch.
Morning.—Long and persistent was my woo-
ing of the drowsy god last night ere he pressed
down my eyelids. No sooner would I seek to
compose myself than I would be flying on the
Al Borak of imagination hither and thither
with lightning speed. But finally
"All those shari> fancies of down-lapsing thought
Streamed onward, lost their edges, and did creep.
Boiled on each other, rounded, smoothed, aud
brought
Into the gulf of sleep,"
where I was well content to sail, even when
"mom broadened on the borders of the dark."
But, determining to take as few as possible of
my bad habits into my new life, I shuffled off
my drowsiness at an early hour, and pre-
pared my movables for transportation to the
"square's." Notwithstanding the excellent
breakfast with which I braced myself, I felt
poor and lonely as, clad in a coarse working
suit purchased in the village, with my port-
manteau dangling from a rude stick thrown
ever my shoulder, I set forth to enter upon
the duties of my new avocation. So lugubrious
did the prospect seem, now I was finally en-
trapped, that I felt much like playing truant,
and sat down upon this hill, whence I can
overlook the farm, to decide whether or not
the evasion was practicable. Wooed by the
sweet influences of the morning and the en-
chanting landscape spread out before me, per-
severance and inclination came forward and
negatived the proposition to retreat. Hence,
after removing the surplus dust my boots and
clothing have purloined from the turnpike,
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
441
resting a little, and further setting my bouse
in order by making memoranda of my adven-
tures up to the present, I shall prosecute my
masquerade by presenting myself to the in-
mates of the farm-house, who, by the way,
seem actively employed this morning. The
children, working in and out of the wide-open
door, remind me of so many bees in a hive.
Their merry laughter peals out upon the air,
and comes to me like the chimes of memory
bells, whose silvery tones summon me back to
my own innocent childhood. The squire has
not gone upon his neighborly visit yet, for
there he comes from the barn, springing about
in his light wagon like an India-rubber ball.
With eager shouts the little hoydens run to
meet him, and, as he stops, they climb pell-
mell into the vehicle. That rotund body, en-
veloped in a crimson and green shawl, and
surmounted by a huge Leghorn bonnet, who
has come to the doorway to meet them, is the
good dame, I suppose. There comes Minnie,
carrying a large hamper to the wagon, with
'little Charlie's assistance. My worthy friends
will kill two birds with one stone, as they will
probably market their produce during their
visit. And now they are off. Well, a pretty
good weight for you to carry, brave steed, and
it is fortunate that your huge sinews seem so
competent to undertake this job. How that
wagon creaks, and groans, and sways to and
fro with its substantial cargo I There, they
are out of sight, and I am thankful that their
good old craniums adopted the admirable idea
of making a visit this day, for I dreaded their
Puritanical supervision of my inexperienced
attempts at farm work. The children have
gone back to "high and lofty tumbling" on
the lawn, and Minnie to her work. How
gracefully she flits about, doing up her morn-
ing "chores." In such cases as this, I do not
yield credence to Campbell's theory that "dis-
tance lends enchantment to the view," and
think I shall go down and present myself. I
fear the inclination to do my best at blighting
Larrie's "budding affections" is strong within
me, but I have also the Presbyterian faith
that "what is to be, will be," or, as Shaks-
peare, that arrant Calvinist, expresses it, that
"If It be now, 'tis not to come;
If it be not to come, It will be now;
If It be not now, yet it will come;"
so, whether he Is here or in the city his destiny
will be the same. What a pretty scene was
that I A moment since, Minnie rolled out upon
the veranda a commodious arm-chair, and then,
with tenderest care, supported to it an aged,
feeble woman—blind, I judge, from her falter-
ing, clinging manner. Is there any time in
which the perfections of women are more
charmingly displayed than when they are the
ministering angels of the aged and frail? What
does woman mean by desiring to exchange the
present gynecian sphere for one which, though
of increased circumference, is decidedly of di-
minished beauty and utility? Ah I woman
would not be woman if she would desert the
helpless, "put her husband on the shelf" and
"ostracize the baby." That old lady looks
truly comfortable, reclining in her arm-chair,
kindly protected by the thick vines, and knit-
ting with little apparent effort, though, as my
lorgnette encourages me to believe, her eyes are
sightless and do not rest upon the work. And
a prettier picture than thousands of those
which daily fill art galleries with crowds, is
Minnie, sitting on the door-step near her, shell-
ing peas. How charming she is in her simple
pink dress, neatly relieved by snowy apron,
collar, and cuffs! How deftly she strips open
the pods and draws from them the emerald
fruit, to drop It in the dish beside her. Larrle
was right in asserting that Heloise Stanton is
not her peer, and yet she is the toast of New
York; her repose of manner would serve as a
foil to Minnie's animation, and her stately ele-
gance would be overshadowed by Minnie's
simplicity and natural grace. Heloise is but a
faded beauty compared with her, and would
appear awkwardly as a country lassie, while
Minnie could gracefully act the belle in crowded
city salon*. How merrily her laugh rings out
upon the air, like a strain of melody from the
nest of singing birds. It is sent forth by a
happy heart, I feel assured; and oh, my prayep-
for the little one is, that
"Never may a heavier shadow rest,
Than thine own ringlets, ou that brow so fair."
But who and where am 1? Have I forgotten
that I am henceforth to work for my living?
This is truly "burning daylight" for a man in
such "destitute" circumstances.
Night.—So much for the first day In my new
home. When I approached the ladies upon the
veranda this morning, it seemed to me I was
forming two new acquaintances. Minnie In-
troduced me to her companion as "Mrs. Hog-
gins," who, though heavily burdened by her
weight of years and infirmities, is another of
the jewels in the household tiara. If her soul
looked truly forth from her sightless eyes as
she welcomed me, she is one of those who daily
and hourly show how beautiful is life's river
when the spirit of God moves upon the face of
the waters; she Is one who thinks of her
"brother no ill, but draws a veil o'er his fail-
ings;" her gentle face bears the impress of an
acquaintance with sorrow, but to her the an-
gel of Patience, that "meekest one of God,"
seems to have brought the message—
"Bear np! bear on I The end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well:
she is but another Olymplas, living "in per-
petual fellowship With pain," and yet, also,
one of the Pentadias, whose great and lofty
souls "can sail, as with a fine wind, through
many tempests, and, in the midst of the waves,
442
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
enjoy a white calm." I turnad from the beni-
son of her welcome, to extend my hand to Min-
nie with the freedom of an old acquaintance;
but I did not find the Minnie of yesterday, who
had disappeared behind a wall of reserve and
frigidity which, like Jonah's gourd, had risen in
a. single night and as effectually separated me
from her as though it had been moulded of iron
or other resisting material. She selfishly kept
her little hand in her own possession, and coolly
ignored the fact that mine was outstretched
to claim it, so I was fain to content me with
the crum of a bow thrown to me when I first
approached her. "Has the change in my appa-
rel wrought the change in her?" I sensitively
asked myself, as I followed her to the garden
to begin the work appointed me by the 'squire.
I had substituted a rough coat for that worn
yesterday, and was ready to believe that, my
fine feathers being plucked off, I was no longer
esteemed a fine bird. With her lips as tightly
pressed together over her pearly teeth as if,
like Leaena, she would rather bite off her tongue
than utter a' word more than was necessary,
she pointed out the rows of vegetables to be
weeded, called them early beets, and cautioned
me to be careful in digging them. Then, with
a coldly-uttered wish that success might crowu
my efforts to free my charges from their un-
congenial associates, she would have returned
to the house, had 1 not summoned courage to
Interpose a word in my behalf. I delayed her
by the question :—
"Miss Roberts, are you familiar with the
writings of Miss Evans, the Southern author-
ess?"
She seemed surprised at the abrupt interro-
gation, and reluctant to yield a reply, but the
laws of politeness befriended me and overcame
her hesitation.
"I have read them,'.' she tersely replied.
"And admire her as an author?" I persisted.
"Not wholly; many objections can be urged
against her," was the guarded answer.
"True. But, covering these with the reflec-
tion that we are all far from perfect, in con-
sideration of ber many charms, I am her leal
knight It is said that she is a dear little lady
with a true woman's heart, and the assertion
is supported by the testimony of her own writ-
ings. For instance, where she speaks of the
pilgrims who, in the journey of life, assist
each other over the trials which, as dark moun-
tains, loom up in their path, her noble soul
speaks out in the words, 'Ah, these steeps of
human life are hard enough to climb when
each shares his light and divides his neighbors'
burdens. God help us all to help one an-
other!'"
Oh, how cheerily rang out the music of laugh-
ter from her pretty mouth as my meaning
flashed upon her.
"An indirect, or, rather, a most direct appeal
for sympathy," she cried, her eyes twinkling
mischievously. "But indeed you wrong me
by thinking that I have expended no sympathy
upon you when the Fates are so unkind as to
put you at work in this garden such a broiling
day. But, as you seem to desire actions rather
than words, tell me which row to hoe and I
will assist you, as you desire," and, lifting one
of the garden utensils, she approached, as if
ready to fulfil her promise.
"All, now, you are making an egregious
mistake. Do not seek to enter the arena of
man's labor, where you would effect nothing
and give him no assistance. It is not in this
garden that I desire your aid. Your true sphere
Is where
"' Kind hearts are the gardens;
Kind thoughts are the roots;
Kind words are the blossoms;
Kind deeds are the fruits.'
You have a garden of that kind—will you not
cultivate one wee parterre for me? Commence
by shaking hands with me, which you refused
to do a little while since."
A red, red rose bloomed in either cheek, and •
the blue-veined eyelids drooped at my last
words; but, not to be daunted, she cried :—
"Ah, you have forgotten a lesson which
doubtless you once learned, viz., that it was
Patience only, who, when she desired a pickle,
first planted the seed, then, when the seed-
leaves appeared, watched the plant till the
herbage developed, till the blossom was blown,
till the fruit formed and matured, and, finally,
waited till the fruit was preserved. You do
not' with patience possess your soul,' but, with
man's unreasoning haste, desire the fruit ere
the roots have spread or the blossoms blown
in that garden of mine."
With this thrust of poignant candor, she
darted towards the house, and left me to chew
the bitter cud of reflection as her merry laugh
floated back upon the waves of air and taunt-
ed me with the message of defiance it bore.
Truly "beauty flows around her as a robe, and
Innocence, as a precious veil, heightens her
youthful charms." No wonder, then, that I
watched this graceful Agandacca as she moved
"like the music of songs" towards the veranda
and disappeared within the doorway. Then I
turned to my work, but, so long had I lived in
the
"Castle height of Indolence
And its false luxury,"
never had labor been so unpalatable to me. I
do not remember to have experienced much
trouble in performing such tasks when I was
a boy. Many were the garden rows I weeded
in those days, and I am inclined to believe that
the hoe I used this morning was heavier and
the weeds more deeply inrooted than any I
ever dealt with before. Having a modest dis-
inclination to being seen in my shirt sleeves, 1
commenced the task with my coat on, but, as
the rays of the sun became more oppressive, I
444
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Saint Simon Stylites to be my substitute 1 But
until tiie angels do send him, get me your
grandfather's hat, Charlie, that 1 may shelter
myself somewhat beneath its awning. Ah, 'tis
the very thing I need I" and, amid the laughter
occasioned by a view of the hat with Its benev-
ulent brim flapping about my ears and shoul-
ders, I went with a will to toy work. Aided
by it and Charlie, my afternoon labor was
more easily performed than that of the noon;
so that, at the squire's return, I had completed
the job, and was alternately assisting Minnie
to prepare tea, romping with the children, and
conversing with the feeble grandmother.
Mrs. Hoggins welcomed me kindly. Her
face is the very illustration of good-humor,
and rosy and fresh notwithstanding her age
and superabundance of flesh. As her moth-
erly eyes gave me their cordial glances, I felt
that her heart was already sown with the seed
of "good-will to men," and that it would be
easy to make a friend of her. The squire,
also, after critically examining my work, gave
his verdict in my favor.
"Arter a little while, I think you '11 do, my
lad. You seem to know more 'bout it than I
s'posed likely. What business was you en-
gaged at in the city?"
"I had taken up the law, sir; but this is not
my first experience in farming. In njy early
youth I lived in the country, and hope soon to
recall my half-forgotten knowledge and skill."
"I am glad that you bear your reverses of
fortune with so much fortitude, and that you
have a will to work; it makes me all the glad-
der to give you a liftin' hand."
"You have been truly kind to me, sir, and I
hope, by earnest attention to your business, in
part to repay you," I rejoined, gratefully.
"Tut, tut I do your dooty without say in"
what you 're agoin' to do." And, being sum-
moned to supper, wo adjourned to the front
kitchen.
My experience here leads me to believe that
Minnie is the queen of housekeepers. The
neatly-kept fnrniture, the white-sahded floors
and shelves, and the rows of glittering vessels
hung against the walls make this peerless
among farm-houses. Then she is always so
simply yet so exquisitely dressed, and the chil-
dren, much as they roll and tumble, are para-
gons of cleanliness. I know she attends to it
all, but with so little friction, under her gentle
supervision, does the household machinery
move, that I begin to believe she exercises
some supernatural '.(tower. No equal could be
found for the table to which we sat down, this
evening. The highly-polished leaves of the
pretty walnut table were not concealed by a
table-cloth, as is usual in country houses, even
at tea, but were regularly marked off by trian-
gular napkins nnd round mats. The dishes,
though inexpensive, were of charming pat-
terns, and a "floating island" of flowers, as a
centre ornament, was surely not amiss. Then
the food I Those tea-rolls, nearly as light ami
quite as evanescent as snowflakes; the crisply-
browned waffles, indented with pretty figures
and mathematically smooth at the edges; the
juicy ham and chipped beef; the golden cheese
and butter; milk Which could, I verily believe,
have traced its genealogy back to that cele-
brated fountain of the Lactis Mons; coffee and
tea with appetizing odors, and honey over
which that of Hymlttus could have arrogated
no superiority I Not believing, with Elia, that
saying grace at a bountifully-spread table to
"pagan incense, "or "praising the gods amiss,"
my feelings Were in unison with the squire's as
he bowed his head in thankfulness for "this
renewed proof of divine pity and love."
After supper I went with Charlie to bring
up the cows from their campestral wanderings
to the base-court, where I took lessons in milk-
ing, and called forth merry peals of laughter
from the children when they saw with what
vehemence I went to work and how little, after
all, I accomplished. Whether I gathered the
milk or not, the buckets were soon quite full,
and borne to the spring-house to be strained.
Here, in troughs through which water of La-
cratidian coldness flowed, were numberless tins
offering rich coatings of cream to Minnie, who,
with sleeves rolled up to her dimpled elbows,
prepared to skim them, while to me was dele-
gated the task of straining the new supply.
Oh, who would have objected to living in those
weird days when fairies wove their spells and
changed mortals into "stocks and stones," if
it had fallen to his lot to be metamorphosed
into this dairy so daintily presided over by
Minnie, or into a roll of butter to be caressed
by her bands and made to receive any pretty
Image she might choose to press upon it?
But we were recalled to the house by the
intelligence that the Misses Jameson awaited
Minnie there. My exhilaration subsided, and
my heart sunk some fifty fathoms in regret at
the information; but, being introduced to
them, and finding them minus their brother,
who had gone on to town, I pronounced them
pretty agreeable girls, and enjoyed the evening
vastly. The whip-poor-will forgot his sad
song, and listened dumbly to the bursts of
laughter which mocked his melancholy; and
the owl, "shrieking his baleful note," fled
angrily from an oak In front of the house as
the melody of song was borne from our ve-
randa to his unappreciating ears. I listened
as if entranced to the music of Minnie's voice,
which, though uncultivated save by the God
who gave it to her, gushed out in a "dulcet
and heavenly sound." But somewhat after
eight o'clock our pleasure was interrupted by
"young Jimson," who stopped in for his sis-
ters on his return from town. After their de-
parture, I rebelled against Minnie's attempt to
close the doors and shut out the glorious nigJj t,
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
445
and begged for another hour In the moon-
light.
"Only a few moments, instead of an hour,"
she at last assented, resuming her seat. "The
squire enforces the law 'Early to bed and early
to rise,' and we must not infringe upon his
rule. But it Is bard to withdraw from this
Castle Beautiful, which the moonbeams, with
their magic wands, have called into existence."
"And where music sounds as never It does
elsewhere. Sing to me again, will you not?
You have a rarely sweet voice."
She smiled slightly and retorted, "I would
thank you for the compliment, and would
comply with your request, if the essay upon
'Paying for the Whistle,' the fable of Master
Reynard and the Raven, and the moral of
Franklin's 'Turning the Grindstone,* were not
so full of warning."
"Oh, I beg you, desist! Put aside bitter
thoughts and misanthropical Judgments in 'an
hour divine as this.' Speeches expressing
'good-will to men' were more befitting tho
time."
Whilst I was speaking, she had left the
shadows of the vines, and, coming into the
soft light, seemed, in innocence and purity,
like an infant at the baptismal font. And the
priestly night caught up the moonbeams and
sprinkled them upon the fair young brow, till
her hair glittered with them, aud appeared
"Like a ring
Of glory 'round the forehead of a saint."
Iler eyes, dreamy in their depths, gazed upon
the hills which, enveloped in their hazy man-
tles, slept in the distance.
"I accept the rebuke," she said, in gentle
tones. "For the moment I had forgotten that
we are standing beside the bier of the day,
where sarcastic speeches do surely seem inap-
propriate. Rather should my thoughts follow
this day which has gone to God, and try to
remember what it bears to the throne against
me. Oh, how sad it is to think that it is gone
past recall! that it
"' Will wake no more till the all-revealing day.
When, like a drop of water greateued bright
Into a shadow, It shall show Itself,
With all Its little tyrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear 1'
Has the angel who records my evil deeds sealed
his book so fast that no tear, flowing from
penitence, will open it?"
In a voice tremulous with emotion, she sang
that most beautifully pathetic of all songs,
Miss Lindsay's "Too Late." As if pleading
for her own soul, she wailed the prayer of the
improvident virgins, and her tones became
wild with pathos as she lamented their rejec-
tion at the gate they had approached "too
late." My heart was awed and brain chilled
while the sad strain sounded in my ears, and
even when the song ceased I sat as if para-
lyzed, till a Hashing meteor flitted across the
I concave of heaven, and brought me to my feet
with a nervous start.
"Look 1" 1 cried, as another and again
another meteor left their places, and, in quick
succession, followed in the wake of the first.
"Look! even the stars
"' Shoot madly from their spheres
To hear the maiden's song.'"
And now Minnie's laugh was as mirthful as
though she had ever been unacquainted witli
grief.
"I certainly regret having given them the
trouble of a journey," she said, gleefully.
"If they mistake me for an Orpheus, they will
be disappointed when they approach nearer
and discover their error. But I shift all blame
from my shoulders, and am simply surprised
that ears which have hearkened so long to the
music of the spheres should be so deceived.
But see where conceit carries me I There is a
possibility—a bare one, I admit, but, never-
theless, a possibility—that they have flown off
at a tangent thus, in disgust at having their
wise meditations so rudely interrupted, as was
the case witli that great awkward owl I fright-
ened from his haunt a few moments since by
means of the 'Echo Song.' Do you think any
more will come? If so, I think I shall beat a
retreat in time, before the lubberly creatures
fall, as a hailstorm, about my head;" and,
with a pretty affectation of fear, she prepared
to leave me.
"No, no," I hastily rejoined; "no more
will come, I think, and if they do, and the
catastrophe you fear comes to pass, I will un-
dertake your cause and sue them for assault
and battery. You know I am a limb of the
law."
"Yes, and if you were the trunk itself, if
you were Coke and Blackstone combined,
what good could you do me? After such a
rencontre as that feared, I would be so badly
battered as to dread having anything more to
do with assault and battery, and so terribly
damaged as not to care about sueing for fur-
ther damages. And, besides, my conscience
tells me that the case ought to go against me,
and that yon could not sustain me. Those
who endeavor to abate nuisances are supported
by the law, rather-than punished. For in-
stance, if a dog or cat breaks in upon your
dreams with hideous night-cries, you have an
indisputable right to fling a boot-jack or other
movable furniture at him. Then, also, if I
have disturbed those inoffensive planets, they
are justifiable in setting their volcanoes to
work at puffing out red-hot stones upon me.
But the air grows chilly; I must go in, and
advise you to do likewise, lest you furnish the
asylum with another lunatic. You are some-
what 'moon-struck' now, I think."
"No, rather let me say 'awe-struck' with
gazing there where 'the heavens declare the
glory of God, and the firmament showeth bis
446
90DE7-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
handiwork.' I seem to view it all with new
vision to-night," I truthfully interposed.
"Such is too frequently the case," she re-
plied, dreamily. "There is a world of well-
deserved reproach in that passage from Long-
fellow, which reminds us that night after
night those stars, 'the thoughts of God in the
heavens,' shine on our eyes, and yet we do not
'marvel and worship,'
"'Save when a blazing comet Is seen on the walls ol
that temple,
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them
'Uuharsln.""
"I see that, in defiance of those critics who
condemn Longfellow for his great indulgence
in figures, and for having In other respects
swerved from the path Newman, Quackenbos,
and sundry rhetoricians have prescribed for
him, you love his works, and have placed him
upon a lofty pedestal In your admiration and
affection."
"Those whom I defy are hypocrites, who,
with equal sense, would reject a burning opal
because it has a flaw in it, forgetful of the fact
that, without fault, it would not possess a tithe
of its usual beauty. I pronounce Longfellow
nature's poet laureate. His very definition of
a true poet describes himself, for, truly,
"' He can behold Aquarius old.
The fenceless fields of air.
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled,
Scattering everywhere the showery rain
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,
, Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound.
To the dreary fountain head
Of lakes and rivers under ground.
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven,
Climbing up once more to heaven.'
Who, more prettily than Longfellow, has por-
trayed the very scene now before us? in which
(lie moon passes
"' Fortli from the folds of a cloud.
And one star follows her footsteps,
As out of Abraham* tent
Young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.'
There, like the bondwoman and her son, they
wander into the trackless desert of ether, away
from the gloomy tent. I have learned from
him not to look upon those twinkling points
of light simply as stars, planets, constellations,
orbs of greater or lesser magnitude, but to re-
gard them all as beings of different dispositions
and attributes, even to that
"' Blind world, yet unlit by God,
Boiling around the extremest edge of light,'
which, with its six moons, is like the sinner,
who, though enjoying many pleasures, yet
keeps his heart so far from God that his light
does not. shine before men."
"In that I imagine Doctor Dick, with his
matter-of-fact ideas, would take issue with
you," I rejoined.
"Ah! it is in vain that Doctor Dick laments
'that 'the sublime wonders of the evening sky
; have thus been associated with a group of
mean, ridiculous, and imaginary objects, of
which we have scarcely any prototype in na-
ture, and in which there is not the least shadow
of a resemblance to the objects which they are
Intended to represent.' He will not succeed
In erasing from 'juvenile minds' this 'mean
idea of the most august bodies in nature.' I,
for one, love to descry, from among those orbs
sprinkling the vault of heaven with drops of
light, Orien with his bands, Arcturus and his
sons, the star-besprinkled locks of Berenice,
Astraea yet ready with her scales to mete out
justice to mankind, or the Crow, forever thirst-
ing and never relieved, though the brimming
cup is so near. But I have no longer time to-
night to indulge in this penchant. Pray do
not utter one hindering word, for I tmut go.'
"Then, since a 'wilfu'woman maun have
her way,' good-night! May the pilot Sleep
guide us safely to the harbor of another day,
so that we may meet again!"
"Thank you, and good-night!" she laughed.
Then, after locking the doors, she passed
lightly up the stairway, trilling an arietta.
And thus, making "a swan-like end, fading in
music," she passed out of sight as I entered
the little room in the ell of the house which
has been assigned me.
So has passed this first day in my new home.
Will all the rest be as pleasant? If so, then 1
shall adopt this life for my own.
August 3Mh.—The days are passing as swift-
ly as a weaver's shuttle. The moments have
stolen from me much that I once owned; but
have bestowed upon me, as recompense, gifts
which I never hoped to possess. Thanks to
exposure to wind and weather, and to the
manual exercises I have learned to perform, I
am fast becoming a sun-browned, robust la-
borer. Many and ludicrous have been the
mistakes of which I have been guilty, but my
good friends here have borne with them all,
and have truly adopted me into the family.
No son could be freer to come and go at pleas-
ure; indeed, the control of the farm, to a great
extent, has been placed in my hands, and the
squire freely consults me about his business,
which, I grieve to say, is not so prosperous as
I at first supposed. He has bad no stalwart
lads springing up beside him, ready to take
from his enfeebled hands the laboring utensils
which old age has compelled him to resign.
Hence the farm lias deteriorated under scant
cultivation, and for a capsheaf the drought
now reigning threatens to in vol ve him in serious
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
447
difficulty. His crops promise badly; the wheat
and early grains were Injured by the spring
rains, and the corn-fields rnstle crisply In the
burning heat of the sun, as if incessantly cry-
ing out against Robigo for the blight which
has fallen upon them. The impress of heavy
care is stamped upon the faces of the older
members of the family, and last night 1 learned
from the squire that he dreads the foreclosure
of mortgages which nearly cover the farm.
Their payments are due in September, and he
has but little hope of meeting them. Feeling
grateful to these old people even as if they had
really aided me, I have now and then secretly
relieved them by buying up notes held against
the squire, or by making necessary repairs
upon the farm; and, if a crisis really comes,
am ready to help them over it, but will not In-
terfere till the necessity becomes more pressing,
as I am not yet prepared to doff my assumed
character.
After becoming interested in Minnie Roberts,
I persisted in playing my false part, hoping to
gain her for myself unaided by golden allure-
ments. But I am no better satisfied with my
position than I was months ago. She Is as
fickle in her manner towards me as any water-
ing-place flirt of my acquaintance; at one mo-
ment free and easy with me, at another dignified
and reserved; now she encourages me by the
witchery of her coyness, and again repels by
mockery and teasing; one day I am crazed
with happiness, another am fain to exclaim,
"Was ever poor lover so strangely misused?"
In vain do I vow, "I 'II stop mine ears against
the mermaid's song." When the charming
voice is heard again, I yield my barque to the
pilot Hope, who guides it again towards the
dangerous shores. I wonder if Larrie would
have succeeded better than I have done'
Poor fellow I he has never in his letters men-
tioned his meeting with "the country lassie."
His father's death probably drove the incident
from his memory, though I doubt If even so
terrible a calamity would have caused me to
forget her after that first meeting. She is a
charming little fay, notwithstanding her ca-
prices and coquetries. How she has contrived
to amass so much knowledge is a mystery to
me. As housekeeper, no one can form dain-
tier pats of butter or lighter biscuit, or con-
coct more fragrant coffee; and yet her brain
seems teeming with ideas cultivated by a
judicious education and an extensive search
among the standard works of literature. She
has not idled away her spare moments, but has
evidently regarded them as golden opportuni-
ties for improvement. I intend soon daring
my fate. But, pshaw I why should I speak so
presumptuously? Am I not completely at her
disposal? Is not even the very time for telling
my love governed by her? Else I would not
now be in suspense. Since I first became en-
tangled in the treacherous nitsh of love, she
has been C«sar to my Cassius, who "must
bend his body if Ctesar do but nod on him."
Once or twice already have I been upon the
verge of making a full declaration, when her
innocently unconscious face would convince
me of the folly of the undertaking. I feel
that she is aware of my love, but I must wait
her pleasure in telling the tale to her, and how
I will fare even then 1 have no means of know-
ing. In her manner towards me, she is pretty
much the same as with all the gallants around
here, except, perhaps, young Jameson, who
has been a constant visitor since I came to the
farm. When I first settled here, Minnie seemed
interested in his visits, though she often tor-
mented him almost beyond endurance; then
for a time she was apparently annoyed by his
attentions; would disappear suddenly when
he was announced, and excuse herself from
receiving his calls. Now she has again changed;
accepts his gallantries with more dignity, Is
quiet in his presenco, and sad for hours after
his departure. My heart forebodes evil, and I
am trying to be prepared for the worst. What-
ever her choice may be, I can for a time Indulge
in the pleasure of loving her—a pleasure undi-
minished by reflections which, I fain hope,
wrong her. The fear, prompted probably by
Jealousy and vanity, that she will choose him
alone because he throws out the most glitter-
ing bait, frequently torments me. "Walter
Jameson is well-to-do, and you are seemingly
poor in worldly goods;" so an evil genius con-
stantly whispers in my ear. Can It be possible
that one apparently so Innocent and unsophis-
ticated could be influenced by this considera-
tion? How infinitely do I prefer that she
should marry him for love! I could not endure
that my heart's best affections should be trans-
muted into contempt.
September 20YA —How hardly has this valley
home been dealt with during the past month 1
Though no "sun-burned sickle-men" have
gone into our fields to garner the grain which
parched into worthlessness on the rustling
stalks; yet there has been a reaper with us
who, "with sickle keen," has reaped
* The bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grew between."
Yes, Death has been the only harvester this
season. He has gathered into bis garner three
cherished ones of our household, and, retreat-
ing, has left "pale Sorrow weeping by the
hearth." The old arm-chair where, feeble and
aged, but loving and beloved, the grandmother
sat but a month ago, is empty, and, with Lottie
and Eddie slumbering beside her, the good old
dame sleeps peacefully in the little graveyard
where sons, daughters, and many grandchil-
dren had preceded her. She went to her grave
"in a full age, like as a shock of corn in his
season," and they withered away by fever's
scorching breath, like buds stricken by the
LEAVES FROM HARRY OSBORNE'S JOURNAL.
440
picked them up, immediately recognizing them
as belonging to Walter Jameson. "Then he
lias been here!" 1 mused, in much bitterness
of spirit, till, as we passed out from the shadow
into the moonlight, I saw that her face bore
the traces of tears, and noticed that she en-
deavored to keep it turned from me. An irre-
sistible impulse actuated me to take up the
little hand resting upon my arm. She started
violently and glanced up into my face with a
frightened expression, striving the while to
free the trembling captive.
"No, no," I said, as lightly as I could. "I
am going to make you tell me what is troubling
you, and know I must hold fast of you to pre-
vent you from running away.
"What's the matter.
That this distempered messenger of wet—
This many-colored Iris—rounds thine eye ?'"
"Indeed, indeed, there is"—she covered her
face and began sobbing hysterically.
"There is something grieving you," I fin-
ished, In the most fraternal tone I could as-
sume. "Come back into the veranda and tell
me all about It"
She permitted me to lead her hack to the seat,
but for some time would vouchsafe no reply to
my questions, and I waited till her agitation
had somewhat subsided. Then, while drawing
her wrapping closer around her, I found that
it was damp as if saturated with dew, and, In
amazement, abruptly asked—
"Where have you been? Tour scarf is wet
with dew, and is no suitable wrapping for you."
"In a double sense, I have been to the grave-
yard," she rejoined, an intonation of heart-
breaking sadness marking her voice.
"Where we shall have the pleasure of bury-
ing you soon, if you persist in these suicidal
visits there," I said, somewhat savagely, as I
removed the covering and brought another
from the cloak racks in the hall.
HI went to the graveyard, down there, to be
with grandmother and the babies. 1 needed
her loving counsel, which I never sought In
vain when she was with me, and my empty
arms ached to clasp Lottie and Eddie again,"
she moaned, and though my heart was pierced
by her sorrow, I replied with forced calm-
"Do you not recognize the selfishness of your
desire? You wish to recall from her home in
the New Jerusalem one whose head was
"•White as the winter hoar
As It went down the Valley of Shadow;'
a pilgrim, who has reached the shrine and
would not care to take up her staff again; a
laborer who would not welcome a return to the
field from which she has gleaned the sheaves
required of her. And you wish to hear again
the^attering of feet which
"' Now rest by the Jasper sea
In the peace of God's Forever.'
VOL. XCI.—29
The one enjoys 'sleep after toil—port after
stormy seas;' and would you recall the little
lambs who are happier in the fold of the Shep-
herd? O Miss Minnie, it is for your own sake
that I remind you that 'moderate lamentation
is the right of the dead; excessive grief the
enemy to the living.'"
She ceased sobbing, and lifted her head im-
patiently, as if stung to anger by my words.
"What do you, in your selfish manhood, know
of the anguish which rends a woman's heart in
twain when her loved ones are torn from her?"
she cried, sharply. "From earliest infancy,
you seek to dispel tenderness from y'our heart;
you do not even learn the alphabet of love un-
less the knowledge is forced upon you. When
that comes to pass with you, you will hear the
knock of Sorrow at your door also, for my ex-
perience teaches me that the two are insepara-
ble. Think you, your reasoning will be as
philosophical as it was but now to me?"
Her injustice aroused an impulse to tell her
of my love, and I no longer sought to curb it
"If you had but reflected a moment, Miss
Minnie, you would have spared me that taunt,
remembering that, under your tuition, I have
already acquired the knowledge of Love's most
abstruse lore, and, in consequence, have an in-
timate acquaintance with his friend, Sorrow.
I was not preaching that which I do not prac-
tise, for, though my own selfishness and hap-
piness must be crucified to secure It, I would
desire nothing but perfect happiness for my
loved ones."
"I know it, and crave your forgiveness for
my wild words. I am scarcely responsible for
what I do or say to-night, for my heart is wrung
till the bands threaten to burst asunder!" she
replied, slowly, as if the words of apology were
extorted from her quivering lips.
"Then there is something more than yearn-
ing for the happy dead weighing upon your
heart. Will you not tell me what it is, that I
may help you bear it?" I asked, bending down
to catch a glimpse of her averted face. "If
you refuse to tell me because you fear I have
no interest in your sorrows, I can remove the
objection by giving the assurance that what-
ever affects you produces a similar impression
upon me. I love you fervently, and, though
fully conscious that I have nothing to hope,
am earnestly desirous of doing all in my power
to insure your happiness."
"You can do nothing," she said, sadly. "My
burden can be removed only by the relief of
my kind old friend's embarrassment He has
been more than a father to me; I have been
shielded as much as possible from the sorrows
of orphanage, and now, when he is in distress,
I am unable to repay his kindness, and you
cannot assist me to do so. Your sympathy is
pleasant, but your avowal," she faltered slight-
ly, but bravely continued, "your avowal truly
pains me. I would have avoided it If possible.
450
OODBY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
Your offer of assistance Is kindly made, but
beyond that, is worthless, since to lift Squire
Hoggins from his difficulties alone would re-
lieve me, and for that, something more sub-
stantial than good wishes is requisite. They
are good coin, but not available in payment of
doctors' fees and liens upon farms." Her
tone, gentle at first, hardened as she conclud-
ed, and she gazed despairingly out upon the
calm beauty of the night.
"Why does not Squire Hoggins seek assist-
ance from some moneyed friend, from lawyer
Jameson, for instance?"
Even in the shadow I could see that she
started, whilst she hurriedly replied: "I pro-
posed to him to do so, but he declined, posi-
tively, applying to one upon whom he has no
claims."
"Under such circumstances, I should think ho
would have no objection to applying to young
Jameson; he has money in his own right,"
said I, in vain endeavoring to repress my bit-
terness.
"He is my last hope," she replied, in a low
tone after a moment's silence, during which I
could hear my heart's throbs of suspense.
"Tour last hope?" I repeated, sarcastically.
"That is strange. I imagined he would bo
your first!"
"Why so?" Minnie asked, weariedly, evad-
ing my searching glance.
I felt privileged to propound the question
quivering upon my tongue. "Does not love
for him make him the first of all to you?"
"Why ask me such a useless question?
No!" she replied, impetuously; but the an-
swer gave me no relief, for a strange fire burnt
in her eyes.
"But you will marry him?" I persisted, and
shuddered at her reply.
"Yes," she slowly said; "yes, I will marry
him. He at least has the one thing needful,
;and, in the terms of surrender, I shall stipulate
that part.of it shall be expended in Squire
Hoggins' "—
"Then you are not yet bound to him?" I
cried, eagerly, Interrupting her.
"No, not yet. I have to-night to consider,
1)ut I have decided. Conscientious scruples
have hitherto restrained me; but this evening
at the graveyard I had a rare funeral, in which
I buried in one grave hopes, inclinations, and
all deterring fetters, for I decided it was the
easiest way of settling"—
"O Minnie, Minnie, you will not thus sacri-
fice yourself, even to repay the debt of grati-
tude you owe your old friend. I am sure Squire
Hoggins would not permit you to proceed, did
he know about it."
"But ho does not, nor did I intend that you
should. What you have learned is safe with
you, 1'trust."
"Assuredly; but Minnie, I would rather
have lost my right hand than to have learned
this. I was willing to give you to him, believ-
ing that you loved him. But now, with all the
earnestness of my own love, I plead against
him"—
"Stop!" she hastily interrupted. "It is my
only chance to relieve my benefactor, and as
for me, it does not matter. I dare say I shall
do very well."
• "Then you think you will learn to love him?"
1 questioned.
"No," was her positive rejoinder; "no, I
have no such sanguine anticipations. Bat
there is such a thing in my possession as
strength of will, and I can become reconciled
to my position."
"Your thin face testifies to the strength of
your will. But do you not know that the most
stubborn rock will be worn away by the con-
stant pelting of water-drops? So, little one,
will the endeavor, unsupported by love, to per-
form the duties of wifehood, wear into your
life and soon bear it away."
She laughed cruelly. "Do you know that
your simile, of all others, is most encouraging
to me? I confess I was dreading the continu-
ance, through endless years, of my efforts to
blind him. I feared that after a time 1 might
fail to succeed. But you give me the hope that
there will be an end to it some happy day."
"Minnie, this is wicked—pardon me—but
you really should not Indulge in such feelings.
Why do you not rather determine to exercise
your strength of will in the effort to love Wal-
ter Jameson? Your marriage, with this re-
solve, would not be so dreadful."
"There are two things, I believe," she replied,
with nervous haste, "that man's ingenuity has
never effected—they are, to leap to the moon
and to bring life into a dead body. So, also,
there are two things that will cannot perform,
viz., to learn to love a detested object, and to
crush out a cherished love to make room for
an unwelcome one."
"Will there be a necessity for the last in
your ease?" I asked, and felt a new twinge of
jealousy wring my heart.
"Probably," she replied, softly.
"Then why not marry the one you love?"
"That would do no good; he also is one of
the accursed tribe—in other words, he is poor,
and you know the axiom, 'Love is potent, but
money is omnipotent.'"
"And could he not at least work for you and
your friends? If he loves you he surely would
not regard it in the light of a burden, and, if
I he loves you, you do a double wrong to persist
I in your sacrifice. O Minnie, I beg for him, for
j it will lessen my grief to sec you the bride of
I the man you love."
A touch of the old merriment flashed from be-
hind her sadness, as, at my words, she glanced
archly into my face. A wild hope burned in
my heart and thrilled through my words as I
passionately exclaimed :—
POETRY.
451
"Minnie! Oh, my darling, have I been plead-
ing my own cause?"
She sprang away from me, but, throwing my
arm lightly around her, I drew her down be-
side me.
"No, no; you must not! I am so sorry,"
she sobbed, as, trembling with excitement, she
struggled to get free.
"Yes, yes, I must, and I am not a bit sorry,"
said I, persisting in retaining her beside me.
"O Minnie, give yourself to me I I will work
with might and main for the old people, for
they are my friends too."
"But it would not save the farm," she ob-
jected, though she nestled closer to me.
"Because I am 'one of the accursed tribe,'
eh, little one? But, darling, the old squire
would rather lose twenty farms than that you
should do so wrong, and, if you persist in your
sin, I shall become State's evidence and tell on
you. Then, too, if I have you to encourage
me, I may be able to get the old place back
some day."
For a few moments she quietly considered
my words;.then her arm was slipped about my
neck, and I felt authorized to c/aim her for my
own. Bending down till my face touched hers,
"I begged a kiss, I pleaded well,
The rosebud lips did long decline:
And yet, I think, I think 'tis true.
One little minute, they were mine."
But only to you, little confidante, do I tell this,
demanding your silence, for, though, like the
barber of Midas, I must tell my secret to some-
thing, I want no babbling of the tale to the
world.
But "what is left that I should tell?" Do
you want to hear that, to relieve her from far-
ther anxiety, I uncloaked all the deception I
had practised upon her and our good friends?
She listened in amazement and joy, and, ere
the children returned, we had decided that the
farm shall not be publicly sold, if Mr. Jonson
can be bought off; if not, then the money shall
be sent to the squire anonymously, and he may
buy in his home himself.
Thus we planned, until laughing voices her-
alded the children, and, as they drew nearer,
I asked Minnie the last necessary question.
"And what will you tell poor Walter Jame-
son?"
"That you sympathize with him so deeply
as to give your consent to my becoming his
wife when I am your widow," she laughed,
and glided swiftly from my embrace into the
bouse before the children reached the door.
Well, if such is to be her answer, my life-
work must be an earnest endeavor to live as
long as possible. Walter Jameson must seek
a wife elsewhere. And what will Lnrrie do
when he learns my happiness? Poor fellow!
How I do commiserate all those unlucky wights
to whom I am superior in good fortune! But,
according to Benedick's condemnation to Clau-
dius, Larrie should receive a severe castigation,
and my conscience ought not to reproach me
for robbing him of the birdie to which he was
foolish enough to guide me. I will give him
permission to come frequently to the nest
where she will sing her sweetest songs for me.
LOST RIVER.
BY MRS. MABT E. NEALT.
■Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless by man,
Down to a sunless sea.
Coleridge.
Beautiful river! fed by healing fountains
Fresh from the laboratory of our God;
Threading your glorious pathway by the mountains,
Whose misty heights by men are seldom trod.
Rippling and gurgling In the golden sunlight.
Each light step glancing o'er the pebbly stones;
Rolling and murmuring In the elfish moonlight,
What time the owlet alls the air with moans.
Passing the Leafing Oak, the grotto, Kaery,
The Emerald Fountain and the Shadow Pool;
And where the virgin's bower waves, white and airy.
And cardinal blossoms fringe your banks so cool.
On, where the hanging rocks In softened splendor
Keflect their wonderful features lu your breast;
Where lovers meet, and in your hues so tender
See wonderful omens—bidding them be blest
Where artists come, and paint your mystic beauty;
And bear the precious pictures far away,
To prove that in your rugged path of duty
Rise beautiful visions-brighter than the day!
You rush along the bright, enchanted valley.
Like a fair guardian spirit, day and night;
Through meadows green, deep glen and rock-built
alley,
Till, hidden at last forever from the light.
You glide beneath the arching rocks, and vanish ■
From human sight and sound! Ah, me! how sad
To think each glittering wavelet you must banish
From sun and bloom and all that makes earth glad I
And then—I think upon the fate of beauty,
And light and happiness and Joy and love:
And all that gilds the stony path of duty
With radiance, like the sunbeams from above.
They come, to bless ns for a few short hours
Or years at most—ah, then, how brief the years!—
Then leave us, like the evanescent flowers,
Or like your waves—with nothing left but tears.
And then the soul sends out Its bitter walling
For all the light and beauty it hath lost.
Forgetting what remains! while cheeks are paling.
And hearts are driven, uncertain, tempest-tossed!
Till, like to you, we enter the deep shadows
Of utter darkness, with no hope fulfilled:
While all along the rich and fragrant meadows
Grew fairest flowers, for us—if we had willed.
Thus, as we wander onward, backward turning.
We see the blessed Joys that we have missed;
The lamps of love for us kept fondly burning—
The slighted hearts, and lips we might have kissed.
And so, from every hill, we see behind us
An Eden brighter far than beams before;
Until at last, the fateful powers that bind us
Shut out the lights, and close, for aye, the door!
432
BOBBY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
AUTUMN.
The autumnal season is now with us, and
heralds the close of another year. When we
have thought upon all the blessings that we
have received in the time that has passed away,
what grateful hearts should be ours I God, in
his infinite wisdom and mercy, has placed us
here in a world full of beauties; on every hand
we see the fruits of his loving kindness—the
different seasons with their ever-changing
beauty. We glance at the past, and remem-
ber how eagerly and with what Joy we wel-
comed the bright spring-time, how we hailed
with delight the early spring flowers; then
was the time man sowed the seed, knowing
that in due time he should reap his reward in
a bountiful harvest, then also was all nature
jubilant and joyous. We remember, too, the
glad shouts of the children when the first song-
sters came. All that has passed away, only
the memory of that bright time lingers with us
now. The summer-time soon followed, time
of the yearly jubilee of the birds and flowers,
but all its glories have passed away. Many
were the pleasures it brought to us, and while
with us we wished it were always summer;
but it has gone like a dream, it has vanished!
The autumn time now comes, bringing, with
all its brilliant tints, thoughts of sadness; for
we know the flowers will soon die, that all
these brilliant hues only foreshadow the deso-
lation of death. Short is the time we have to
retain these beauties; the leaves are already
fluttering to the ground, to wither and decay;
the trees that hare sheltered us during sum-
mer heat will soon stand leafless and barren,
destitute of their lovely foliage, and the cold
.winter winds shall whistle shrilly around them.
No longer will they afford a home for the birds,
and alone they must brave the winter's storms,
while the birds, which have filled the groves
with their melodies, will take their flight to
warmer climes; for a time we must bid fare-
well to the sweet songsters.
Melancholy, beautiful autumn! whose bril-
liant hues bid us look back to the glory of
summer, and remind us of the approach of
stern winter; speaking to the heart of man-
kind, teaching them the goodness of a loving
Father who is ever mindful of his children.
This is the season when man reaps his reward
for past labors. Those tiny seeds, planted
during the spring time, upon which God has
sent the sunshine and showers, that those tiny
germs might spring forth, have now reached
maturity; the fields are teeming with fruits,
only awaiting the hand of man to be gathered
and stored for winter use. We have seen an
end to the year's perfection when the sun goeth
forth, and the garniture of the earth Is most
glorious.
In our walks abroad we behold a thousand
tints that pencil with beauty the forest and
fields. When the silent night spreads her
mantle over the earth, the moon and stars
seem clearer, seem to have gained a new radi-
ance from the author of their brightness. Man
must become purer and better from thissoothing
influence of nature. It should also strengthen
his faitli; and though we see the beauties of
summer fade and die, yet we know the time
will come when they shall live again. The
warm south winds shall call the flowers from
their long sleep to fill the earth again with
their fragrance and loveliness. Again will the
birds return, and we can but wonder at the
marvellous Instinct that teaches them to mi-
grate yearly to warmer climes; can we not
have firm faith in Him whose wisdom guides
the birds along the pathless coast and through
the Illimitable air to their desired homes?
The autumn soothes and sanctifies the human
heart. Nature! thou can'st sympathize with
all our various moods; when the heart is light
and free, then your glorious sunshine adds joy
to our joy; at times the heart is weary and
mournful, and you too have your times of
gloom, and then the earth looks sad and deso-
late. You are as changeable in your moods,
O Nature, as the human soul itself. How
strangely allied is animate and inanimate na-
ture I
This season gives us many joys; it enriches
the mind with many rare gems of thought, im-
presses with its glory and grandeur, bears oar
thoughts upward on the wings of light to the
eternal throne. If on • earth we have such
tokens of a Father's love, what must be the
glories of heaven? and it is but fitting that we
raise our voice in prayer, thanking God for his
tender mercies and gracious gifts.
"More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of;
Wherefore let thy voice
Rise like a fountain night and day;
For what are men better than sheep or goats.
That nourish a blind life within the brain:
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them
friend t"
With lofty thoughts called forth by God's
great love, we should be kind and charitable
to our fellow creatures; what pity and compas-
sion should we have towards those who behold
nothing but evil in all this glorious universe 1
They should go forth, listen to the voice of na-
ture, look around and about them on every
side—all alike are welcome to the beauties of
nature. If for a season we lose faith in our
fellow man, and are downhearted and weary,
we have only to turn to mother earth, who
leads us through the wisdom of God's lore
back to our faith and trust, restores our faint-
ing spirit, gives us new strength and courage
to go on with our appointed work, finding
blessings in all we behold. When we see thy
tender care, O Father, for all the works of thy
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH.
453
hand, how even the tiniest living things are re-
membered, can we but have faith in thee? If
amid our daily cares we would ouly look upon
the blessings that we have, all the dreary inter-
course of daily life would be no longer dreary,
but full of pleasure, and by happy, joyous
hearts, with a cheerful faith, life would become
a blessing; by being good and true ourselves,
our influence on others must be good; then
shall our life not be proved in vain. Not only
from beings endowed with life do we receive
lessons, but also from inanimate objects. Thus
the seasons teach us lessons of wisdom and of
faith. M. K. D.
MIDNIGHT.
BT ABBIE OLIVER WILSON.
The fleecy clouds are floating by,
The moon is smiling near;
Its soft, light rays are shining down.
My lonely heart to cheer.
The stars are sweetly keeping guard,
On all the earth asleep;
Tliey seem to sympathize with me
As silently I weep.
Tls very soothing thus to gaze
Into the night afar:
It seems as if my eyes could reach
Unto the gates ajar.
And hark I I hear the angel choir
Tuning their harps above:
They softly chant a hymn of praise,
A song of joy and love.
As I listen to their music,
My soul breathes out a prayer
That I these glorious pleasures
In heaven above may share.
What men want of reason for their opinions,
they usually supply and make up in rage.—
TiUoUtm.
At Home.—The highest style of being at
home grows out of a special state of the affec-
tions rather than of the intellect. Who has
not met with individuals wh*se faces would be
a passport to any society, and whose manners,
the unstudied and spontaneous expressions of
their inner selves, make them visibly welcome
wherever they go, and attract unbounded con-
fidence toward them In whatever they under-
take. They are frank, because they have
nothing to conceal; affable, because their na-
tures overflow with benevolence; unflurried,
because they dread nothing; always at home,
because they carry within themselves that
which can trust to itself anywhere and every-
where—purity of soul with fulness of health.
Such are our best guaranties for feeling at
home In all society to which duty takes us, and
in every occupation upon which It obliges us
to enter. They who live least for themselves
ar.e also the least embarrassed by uncertainties.
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH.
BT WALLEA.
'Twas the time—
"Between the dark and the daylight,
That Is known as the children's hour."
Night, that sable mother of earth's weary
ones, was wooing her children home. Anx-
ious men, who bad plotted and planned all
day, were bustling onwards. Bent and weary
laborers rested by their own fireside. Tired
girls sighed with relief as the darkness gath-
ered and their work was nearly done.
Out from the deep bay-window of an elegant
dwelling-house, the firelight cast its cheery
glow on the chill evening of early spring.
Within, where the red blaze added warmth to
the luxurious apartment, and filled the corners
of the grand old room with weird shapes, a
lovely boy was playing, watching the shadow*
as they fell, and chasing them as they danced
away, until now, grown weary, he had thrown
himself down on the rich, warm rug at his
mother's feet.
The lady and the child were the only occu-
pants of the room, and both were strangely
beautiful. She could not have been more than
twenty-five; yet one need not to have been told
that some great sorrow had crushed the glad
light from those dark, mournful eyes. Her
attitude was graceful in its very carelessness;
perhaps the slight figure, the prettily-poised
head, with its even features and fall of rich
brown hair, could not have created a rude out-
line. Certainly the posture was unstudied, for
her thoughts seemed far away. As her boy
came near she started up, then a sweet smile
radiated her face.
"Are you tired, darling?" she said.
"Yes, mamma. Isn't It time for one of our
talks? Please tell me what makes you always
look so sad when I am chasing my shadows?
I 'in eight years old now, you know. Mr. Ste-
phen says I 'in almost a man, and will soon be
a great comfort to you; and when I am grown
wise, mam ma, I mean to make you very happy."
And the little prattler, who had climbed upon
a stool and leaned his head on his mother's lap,
was looking up into those eyes, so like his own,
that were gazing lovingly down into his.
"Herbie, darling, you are my best comfort
now," she said, drawing her white fingers
through his long, loose curls and across the
broad, white brow. "Mamma don't want you
to grow big, for then you will go away, and I
will be all alone," she added, and the voice
had a muffled sound, as If with pain suppressed;
while she clasped, with a feverish tightness, the
little fingers which had stolen Into her own.
"Could we talk about papa to-night?" said
the boy, his face wearing a perplexed look
strange in one so young.
"Yes, dear; mamma promised some time
454
GODEY-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
soon. Can you remember papa? Tou were
four years old When your dear father went
away to live in heaven."
"What made God take him so soon, mamma?
I can remember a splendid tall man who used
to carry me in his arms, and let. me ride on his
horse—I think he was very good. I wish he
could be with us now."
"Hush, Herbie, darling I" and the pale,
sweet face was drawn as if it suffered. "I
will tell, you what you have so often wished to
know. I was a poor orphan girl living with
kind friends, but dependent ou their bounty
for my every want, when, one bright, happy
day, your father and I were married; and I
was brought here to be mistress of a beautiful
home, and the best loved of my dear husband's
heart. Then, when you came to live with us,
our cup of joy seemed full. I never knew sor-
row then, darling; and now you are left me,
:m'J thirty-three of the governors of States and
Territories united to celebrate as Thanksgiving the
last Thursday of November. The few governors
who appointed no day (none of them over any ono
of the original thirteen States) made no objection to
the unity of time. Only the breaking out of the war
prevented unanimous acquiescence. But even if all
the States should join this year upon a single day
(the last Thursday of November), still our festival
will not be secure so long as it depends upon the
yearly Inclination of the Executive, and the varying
customs of the several States. Congress only can
ensure this great boon by enacting that, from hence-
forth evermore, the last Thursday in November
shall be an American Thanksgiving Day. Jt will be
a noble service wldch the I'orty-Fifth Congress will
render to our country, if Its first session shall be
signalized by the establishment of a day which,
more than any in the annals of national festivity,
heralds peace on earth and good will to men.
The coming Congress has the illustrious prece-
dent of the Father of his Country. In 1789 President
Washington appointed the last Thursday In Novem-
ber as a National Thanksgiving. This he did at the
express request of both Houses of Congress. TJie
movement which originated In our National Legis-
lature should by it be conducted to a happy issue.
The unifying influence of such a festival can hardly
be overrated. The pulpits during that day, once In
every year, will be occupied with the stirring inci-
dents of national history, and with a retrospect of
the moral and religious pro -ressof the nation. The
press will recall the early history of our country, the
great deeds of generations long gone by, the endur-
ance and the bloodshed through which the founda-
tions of our civilization were laid. The people of
our country will learn to value the bond of national
union when they know with what mighty labors and
sacrifices it was wrought.
What the Centennial Is doing for us tills year will
be annually repeated in the century to come, and
with the material growth of our country will go on a
growth in charity to all men and in love to the Sute
which will keep us forever a great and happy peopie.
MEMORIALS OF A GREAT TREATY.
A notable addition has been made to the "state-
paper" literature of the United States in six sub-
stantial volumes, which contain the negotiations
relating to what is known as the Alabama Treaty,
and the proceedings of the tribunals established
under that treaty at Geneva, Berlin, and Washing-
ton. They are entitled "Papers Relating to the
Foreign Relations of the United States in 1872 aud
1873." State papers cannot be deemed light reading,
but they often afford the best materials for history.
Of the volume in question, a large portion is, indeed,
historical writing of the best description. Some of
the most eminent statesmen, the ablest jurists, and
the best writers of England and America, have
contributed to their pages—an English and an
American Chief Justice, Sir Alexander Cockburn
and the Hon. M. R. Waite; an Illustrious historian
and statesman, the Hon. George Bancroft, the Min-
ister to Prussia: a great English lawyer. Sir Ronn-
dell Palmer, then Attorney-General, and since Lord
Chancellor; two great American lawyer*, the Hon.
Caleb Gushing and the Hon. William M. Evarts, who
have each held the high office of Attorney-General
and other distinguished positions; the Hon. Charles
Francis Adams, the third of his name and family
who have worthily maintained American interests
at the Court of Great Britain, and whose biography
Is a part of the history of their country: the Hon.
Hamilton Fish and Earl Granville, Secretaries of
State; the Hon. J. C. Bancroft Davis, now Minister
at Berlin; Sir Edward Thornton, British Ambassa-
dor at Washington; the Hon. J S. Frazer, formerly
Judge of the Supreme Court of Indiana; the Hon.
Robert S. Hale, of New York, formerly Judge and
since a member of Congress; the Right Hon. Russell
Gurney, M. P. and Recorder of London—are among
the distinguished men whose names appear as the
authors of papers in these volumes. To these should
bea/ldcd the equally notable names of the arbitra-
tors, appointed by other governments—Count Fred-
erick Sclopis, Minister of State and Senator of Italy;
Mr. James Btsempfll, President of the Swiss Confed-
eration; and the Viscount D'ltajuba, Brazilian
Envoy to France.
In looking through these volumes, one Is Impressed
with a sense of the Immense amount of labor which
has been performed by the individuals who have
taken the most prominent part in the work. The
statements and arguments of counsel, and the opin-
ions of the arbitrators, are embodied in papers often
of great length, written with much clearness a nd even
elegance of style, and comprising historical summa-
ries and legal references which must have involved
long research and very careful consideration. No less
than three hundred closely-printed pages are occu-
pied by the joint "argument" of the three Americaa
counsel, Messrs. Gushing, Evarts, and Waite, pre-
EDITORS' TABLE.
475
sented to the tribunal of arbitrators at Genera, and
the separate "supplemental arguments" of each of
those gentlemen ou special points. That of Mr.
Cushing was presented by Its accomplished author
in French, the "language of diplomacy," and the
language, of course, best understood by all the arbi-
trators. The choice of tills medium of expression is
well vindicated by the vivacity and force with which
the reasonings and facts are set forth in tills admira-
ble composition. The "opinions" of the arbitrators,
and more particularly those of the President of the
Tribunal, Count Sclopls, of M. SUempfli, of Mr. Ad-
ams, and of Sir Alexander Cockburn are long, elabo-
rate, and weighty dissertations, and will be of great
value as settling points of international law, which
have thus been decided by the common cousent of
such eminent authorities.
The negotiations relative to the north-west bonn-*
dary— that is, the boundary which separates the
United States from British Columbia—were con-
ducted by Mr. Bancroft, the American Minister at
Berlin, the arbitrator being the German Emperor.
The " memorial" presented by Mr. Bancroft, which,
by its cogent array of facts and arguments, secured
from the great Jurists of Prussia, to whom the Em-
peror remitted the case, a decision favorable to the
American claim, is in every respect worthy of its
distinguished author. It is remarkable that the
original boundary treaty, which this arbitration was
appointed to explain and enforce, was made in lWf>,
wliile Mr. Bancroft was a member of the American
Cabinet as Secretary of the Navy. To this fact lie
refers in the opening paragraph of the memorial, in
affecting terms:—
"The treaty of which the interpretation Is referred
to your Majesty's arbitrament was ratllied more
than a quarter of a century ago. Of the sixteen
members of the British Cabinet which framed and
§ resented it for the acceptance of the United States,
Ir Kobert Peel, Lord Aberdeen, and all the rest but
one are no more. The British Minister at Washing-
ton who signed it is dead. Of American statesmen
concerned in it, the Minister at London, the Presi-
dent and Vice President, the Secretary of State, ami
every one of the President's constitutional advisers,
except one, have passed away. I alone remain, and,
after linishiug the threescore years and ten that are
the days of our years, am selected by my country to
uphold its rights."
The proceedings of the "Mixed Commission" at
Washington, which, under the treaty, settled the
claims of private individuals against the United
States, were less conspicuous than those at Geneva
and Berlin; but required not less labor and ability,
and perhaps even more extensive and varied legal
research. Mr. Hale, who hail the sole charge of this
work on behalf of the United States, observes, in his
letter to the Secretary of State, that the two years
and more of his connection with the commission had
been years of severe and unremitting labor. "The
nearly five hundred claims presented to and passed
on by the commission involved an immense range of
Investigation, proofs, and arguments." These claims
amounted altogether to about ninety millions of
dollars, and the effect of the labors thus referred to
appears In the reduction of this large sum to the
modest aggregate of less than two millions awarded
by the tribunal to all the claimants.
Political questions are In general beyond the
province which we have prescribed to ourselves: but
it has seemed to us that some memento of a great
treaty, now l>ecome historical, which reconciled two
kindred nations, and set the noble example of
referring international differences to the peaceful
settlement of arbitration, would be entirely appro-
priate In these pages. The services rendered to the
country by military heroes in the field, and by
statesmen In the legislature, are performed on a
conspicuous stage, and are recognized by all. But
the achievements of diplomatists and Jurists, which
are often equally useful, are only known in a vague
and general way by their results. When these re-
sults are so valuable as they are iu the present case,
it is well that we who benellt by them should know
by whom and by what exertions they have been
attained. There is also, in this instance, a special
reason for gratitude. It may be affirmed that. If
cordial good-will between England and America
had not been restored as it was, the eelebratiou of
our nation's Centennial anniversary, if iml prevented
altogether, would have taken place under very dif-,
ferent and far less happy auspices. Thanks to the
manner in which our statesmen have carried out
the wise and Just policy bequeathed to them by tlio
founders of the Republic, there is every reasou to
hope that our country will welcome its hundredth
year of Independence without au enemy or an ill-
wisher among the nations of the earth.
A Ladt Battle Painter.—Miss Thompson, who
acquired celebrity last year by her painting of tho
"Roll-call after Inkermann," has lately finished a
new picture, designated "The Twenty-eighth Regi-
ment at Quatrebras." This regiment, formed In
square, was repeatedly assaulted by French cuiras-
siers and lancers, whose " iron charges foamed them-
selves away," to quote the graphic figure ofTennyson.
The picture is said to be " remarkable for the variety
of character delineated in the faces of the men form-
ing the square, and the excellent grouping of so many
figures within so small a space." As was remarked
in speaking of Miss Thompson's former painting,
battle pictures are usually anything but attractive.
The narrative of the conflict may be interesting, from
the varied incidents, the changes of fortune, and the
display of heroism, but in the picture all that Is com-
monly shown is a confused mass of furious combat-
ants, Intent on slaughtering one another. A lady
artist, of Miss Thompson's talent, should be able to
find some more appropriate and agreeable Held for
the exercise of her powers.
A Woman's Temperance Home. —A Canadian
lady, Mrs. Hardy, has set an excellent example, in
forming a self-sustaining refuge for women and chil-
dren. The "Women's Temperance Home," estab-
lished by her in Ottawa, is doing valuable work. A
local paper mentions that "at the present time there
are twenty young women In the Home and fourteen
children. The rules of this place of refuge are that
all applying for admission must take a pledge to ab-
stain from all spirituous liquors. They must work
when their health will permit, so as to make the es-
tablishment self-sustaining. They are also Instruct-
ed in the rudlmentsof education, and attend prayers
night and morning. Mrs. Hardy state:-, that she lias
sent out four completely reformed, and who are now
In service with some of the best citizens of Ottawa."
Girls' Scnooi-s in the East.—It would almost
seem that the lands of the Orient, in all of which wo-
man lias been systematically degraded from her true
position, are to owe their redemption from ignorance
and heathenism mainly to the exertions of women.
Here, from an English paper, Is an account of what
lias been done in this cause by one energetic lady:—
"Mrs. Watson, an English ladv, now at Shemlan,
Mount Lebanon, for thirty vears has devoted herself
and her fortune to the work of education her sex In
the East. She has conducted schools In Athens. Can-
dla. Valparaiso. Smyrna, Beyrout, Sldon. and Mount
Lebanon. At the latter place she established a num-
ber of schools for the natives, including Roman and
HEALTH DEPARTMENT.-LITER ART NOTICES.
477
seed, thyme, and pepperml u t, Is also Indicated by the
professor as a source ot ozone, though the supply of
this pleasant aerial condiment is In the case of these
less considerable. Dr. Mantegazza recommends ac-
cordingly the large and sedulous cultivation of ozone
producing plants In all districts and localities where
the atmosphere Is liable to be corrupted, marshy
places in particular, In which last, according to Dr.
Cornelius Fox, in his recent comprehensive work
upon ozone, It Is impossible for any better sanitary
agent to be Introduced than the common sun dower.
Bishop Whipple recommends harvest home festi-
vals In Mlunesota this year, to give thanks for the
unparalleled productions of the soil
\inltl} lUpitritiuni.
CLOTHING FOR THE YOUNG.
Are the little children whom we meet during
three out of the four quarters of the year, under the-
guardianship or their nursery-maids, dawdling about
the streets, In our public walks or squares, properly
protected from the cold? Are the fantastically-at-
tired children whom we see "taking an airing" In
carriages In our own parks sufficiently and properly
clad? If these questions can be truly answered In
the affirmative, then, and then only, our remarks
are needless. There can cuter into the parent mind
no more baneful Idea than that of rendering children
"hardy" by exposing them unnecessarily to cold,
and by clothing them Inefficiently. I have known
Instances wherein parents acting on this principle
have entirely failed in rearing their offspring. Does
nature treat her progeny thus? Does she not, first
of all, Insure the birth of her young only at a kindly
season, and then provide them with downy cover-
ings, warm nests, and assiduous protectors? And
we must Imitate nature, if we would give to our
country a race capable and worthy of maintaining
her independence and honor. The little denizens
of a warm nursery must not be subjected, without a
carefully-assorted covering, to the piercing and re-
lentless east or northeast wind; they must not he
permitted to Imbibe the seeds of that dreadful
scourge of this climate, consumption, In their walks
for exercise and health; they must be tended as the
future lords of the earth, with Jealous care and Judi-
cious zeal. One-sixth of the deaths of young chil-
dren. It must be remembered, result from cold.
RIDING AND WALKING.
For preserving health, there Is no kind of exercise
more proper than walking, as it gives the most gene-
ral action to the muscles of the body; but, for vale-
tudinarians, riding on horseback Is preferable. It is
almost Incredible how much the constitution may be
strengthened by this exercise, when continued for a
considerable time; not so much In the fashionable
way of a morning ride, but of making long Journeys,
in which there Is the farther advantage of a perpet-
ual change of air. Numbers of people, reduced to a
state of great weakness, have, by this means, ac-
quired a degree of vigor and health, which all the
medical prescriptions In the world could not other-
wise have procured. But It Is of Importance, In tra-
velling for health, that one should not employ his
mind in deep reflections, but enjoy the company of
an agreeable companion, and gratify his sight with
the prospect of the various objects around him. In
this exercise, as well as In every other, we ought al-
ways to begin gently, and to finish gradually, never
abruptly; and proportion the exertion to the strength.
Exercise Is hurtful immediately after meals, par-
ticularly to those of nervous and Irritable constitu-
tions, who are thence liable to heartburn, eructatloits,
and vomiting. Indeed, the iustiuct of the inferior
animals confirms the propriety of this rule; for they
are all inclined to indulge themselves in rest after
food. At all events, fatiguing exercise should be de-
layed till digestion is performed, which generally re-
quires three or four hours after eating a full meal.
Nightmare. — Nightmare—or, as It is called in
medical works, Incubus—Is au affection of the chest
coming on during sleep, in which the person experi-
ences a seuse of great pressure on the breast and an
inability to move. In cases of great or regular fre-
quency, It is indicative of some chronic disease or
disorder; and especially Is this truo ot heart disease.
It is also frequent in cases of fever, and after a per-
son has experienced mental excitement. Ordinarily
it occurs in the first sleep, especially if the person is
in a constrained position or has eaten heartily. By
some, nightmare Is believed to be a disease resulting
in the spasmodic contraction of the muscles of the
chest, and by others it Is supposed to be the result of
severe chronic or temporary physical derangement
It rarely terminates life, although it is the cause of
great bodily suffering.
^iitrntg ijoticcs.
From Br.idi.et, Garretson, & Co., Phllada,:—
WOODS BIBLE ANIMALS. By the Kev. J. O.
Wood, M.A., F.L.S., etc., author of "Homes Without
Hands," etc. To which are added articles " On Evo-
lution," by Kev. James McCosh, D.D., and "Research
and Travel In Bible Lauds," by Rev. Daniel March,
D.D. The author of this work Is already well known
as one of the most popular writers of our time on
subjects connected with natural history. The pres-
ent volume well sustains the reputation he has ac-
quired. It is a description of the habits, structure,
and uses of every living creature mentioned in the
Scriptures, from the ape to the coral. In it also are
given explanations of all those passages in the Old
and New Testaments In which reference Is made to
beast, reptile, fish, or insect. It is liberally illus-
trated with engravings of more than ordinary art-
istic spirit of design and elegance of finish, ami all
taken from real life. The American publishers seem
to have spared neither pains nor expense to bring
out the present edition In the most splendid style
compatible with their design of making It a book for
the people. Sold only by subscription. Price 84.75.
From J. B. Lippixcott & Co., Philadelphia:—
THE RAILROAD SCENERY OF PENNSYL-
VANIA. Surely no State In the Union furnishes
better material for the artist's pencil than Pennsyl-
vania. Her rivers and mountains unite In a wonder-
ful degree the beautiful and the sublime. Whatever
direction the tourist may choose to tako there Is to
be found the romantic and the picturesque. This
book, which Is profusely Illustrated with finely-exe-
cuted wood engravings, will prove of exceeding ad-
vantage to the tourist, showing him where he can
find that beauty for which he seeks.
From T. B. Peterson & Brothers. Phllada. :—
THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or. The Chil-
dren of the Isle. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South-
OODEY-S ARM-CHAIR.
479
lobeg's jlrm-i^air.
NOVEMBER, 1875.
One more number (a fine one It will be, too) aud
we close for the year 1875. Our subscribers know
there has been no deviation from the plan and prom-
ises that we started on In January. The plates, the
reading, the instruction, have all been kept up to the
standard. Our premium gave universal satisfaction.
If we had published all the notices of praise we have
received from our exchanges, they would have filled
a dozen pages of our Book.
Premiums for 1876!—All our arrangements are
complete for furnishing to our subscribers for 1876
as premiums the best Chromos that we have ever
offered. When we commenced the premium busi-
ness, we assured our friends that no expense would
be spared to lead In this feature, and it did not take
us long to succeed. Our principal Cliromo is always
an original one, as we purchase the subject from
the painter, at a heavy cost, and then have It repro-
duced in Cliromo. By this our subscribers will per-
ceive that there is no other way to procure it but by
subscribing to the Lady's Book. In addition to the
Chromos as premiums, we have collected In a form
like the Lady's Book a number of historical pictures
(printed from steel plates in our possession) bearing
on events that took place In this country over 100
years ago; also views of the principal Centennial
buildings. The whole forms an elegant gallery of
engravings for the centre-table during the Centen-
nial year.
See advertisement on colored slip for the terms at
which these elegant premiums can be procured.
Tbub Enouoh.—"Are you a subscriber to Godey's
Lady's Book? If not, you ought to be." This Is
what the editor of the News, published at Union,
N. Y., says. And the editor of the leader, published
at Burton, Ohio, gives a good reason why you should
subscribe for It when he says: "Its attractiveness
will make any family happy, and the family circle
able to afford it, that does not now enjoy its well-
fllled pages, knows not the treat it misses monthly."
Blemishes that for ten years may have been ac-
cumulating on the face of a lady, are removed by
"Laird's Bloom of Youth," and her complexion
rendered fresh and fair. Sold by all druggists.
artesian Wells.-In Philadelphia and Its sur-
roundings there are some fifteen artesian wells,
some of them yielding on an average 150 gallons a
minute. The temperature of the water obtained
from these wells Is uniform the year round, at from
46 to 52 degrees, while the average temperature uf l
the Schuylkill In summer is from 80 to 90 degrees.
Complete Encyclopedia :—
Godey's Lady's Book Is a complete encvclopedla I
of Information to every lady In the land, as it has the
fullest particulars in relation to the fashions, the
prevailing mode of dress, personal adornments, do-
mestic accomplishments, rules for the kitchen, the
nursery, and household management generally.—In.
qulrer, Dover, N. H.
There Is not a dull page between Its covers.—Re-
ligious Herald, Hartford, Conn.
Millions of Intelligent women say that Dobbins'
Electric Soap (made by Cragln & Co., Philadel-
phia) is, In every respect, the best soap ever made,
and will do three times the work of any other. Try It.
Make up Your Clubs according to the terms found
on our colored slip in the Book. The popularity of
the Lady's Book Is such that ladles can have little
difficulty In getting parties to unite In forming clubs.
Remember to impress upon your friends, that, al-
though there is a small difference in our club price
with that of the low-priced magazines, we give one-
third more reading matter and engravings, besides
more numerous and expensive embellishments than
a low-priced magazine can afford to give. And
then, in addition to all this, there are the premiums.
Now is the time to commence.
Always In the advance, and always the most wel-
come:—
Godey's Lady's Book.—It Is always among the
first of the monthlies to make Its appearance, and
always the most welcome. Godey is a household
word, and Is looked for each month in the year by
thousands with eager, anxious pleasure. Its bright
pages not only please the eye, but Instruct In all the
duties of life. Its fashion-plates, patterns, and house-
hold hints help the careful housewire to expend her
means tothe best ad vantage. Take itall in all Godey
stands in the advance.—American, Albion, N. Y.
New Sheet Music, published by J. Starr Hollo-
way, 811 Spring Garden St., Philadelphia:—There's
a Letter In the Candle, 30. Wait Till the Moonlight
Falls on the Water, 30. You Have Taken Hack the
Promise, pretty song by Brocard, 20. He'll Come
Again To-morrow, by Stewart, 30. Also Autumn
Polka, very pretty, with fine picture title, 40. First
Meeting Waltzes, medium difficulty, by Caranann,
50. Lottie Mazourka, easy. Mack, 30. Flower Queen
Eedowa, easy, Ingleside, 20.
Ilolloway's Musical Monthly, for November, has
the usual fine variety of music for both beginners
and those more advanced. Send 40 cents for single
number, or 81 for the last three numbers. New
subscribers remitting $4 for 1S76 will receive Novem-
ber and December numbers free. Address Mr. Hol-
loway, as above.
Extravagance in Churcti Music—It has been
estimated, that, among the 350 churches of all de-
nominations In New York City, there are expended
annually more than $500,000 for church music. The
Episcopal churches take the lead In extravagant
figures. The music of Trinity Church costs $15,000
a year; St. Bartholomew's, 89000; the Holy Trinity,
87300; and St. Paul's, one of the brandies of oid
Trinity, S5700. The Broadway Tabernacle Congre-
gational pays 86850, and there are about a dozen dif-
ferent churches in addition where the cost of the
music is about 84000 or upwards. Christ P. E. Church
was the champion In this business while its choir was
under the patronage of Ruins Hatch, he contributing
810,000, and the church swelling the amountto $16,000.
At present these good people getalongatan expense
of $1500 & year. Dr. John Hall's 81.000,000 church
contrives to be happy with a precentor at a salary
of $1500. Mr. Arthur H. Messiter, the organist of
Trinity Church, gets a salary of $3500, and there is
another organist who receives 83000, and three who
command $2500 each. There are three soprano sing-
ers who receive $1500 each, and one contralto who
runs up to$120a The hluhest-toned tenor commands
81200, and the loudest basso $1250 a year. At Beech-
er's church, over In Brooklyn, only $7850 are spent lu
music, $2500 of whleh goes to Mr. Henry Camp, the
basso and head of the musical organization.
The colored fashion-plates In this number are
ahead or all others. We are without a rival In this
particular. In fact, no magazine makes the attempt
to compete with them.
490
OOBET'8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
A Tradition of the Tyrol.—Perhaps the pret-
tiest and most poetical tradition of the Tyrol Is that
of the "Sallge Fraulein." Their very name Is de-
scriptive, for "Salig" is, in all probability, derived
from "Selig"—" blessed," or " happy." Popular be-
lief depicts them as lovely maidens, clad In snow-
white robes, with flaxen curls and blue eyes beaming
with sweetness. Their sovereign is the beneficent
and gracious goddess Hulda, the especial patroness
of the flax culture, which may account for the chief
home of the legend being in South Tyrol, where flax
Is most cultivated. There have always been many
superstitions connected with flax. It Is supposed
that It will only flower at the time of day at which It
was originally sown. He who sows It must first seat
himself thrice on the sack, turning to the east-
Stolen seeds mingled with the rest cause the crop to
thrive. Flax, when in bloom, acts as a talisman
against witchcraft, and sorcery can be practised
even with the dry stalks. When the threads are
spun, or woven Into shirts under certain Incanta-
tions, the wearer is secure from accidents or wounds.
It was Hulda who first taught mortals the art of
growing flax, of spinning and of weaving it. Her
habitation is in the caves of the mount-tins; there
she dwells with her maidens and their attendant
dwarfs, in splendid palaces and grottos, the walls of
which sparkle with Inlaid gold and jewels, while the
domed roof is of transparent crystal. Moreover,
there are beautiful gardens, leafy woods, and even
verdant meadows, on which feed countless wild
animals, particularly the chamois, the especial I;v-
vorites of the Sallge Fraulein.
However, the Sallge Fraulein did not always re-
main In seclusion. In olden times, before they dis-
appeared from the earth, the friendliness of their
dispositions drew them to the haunts of mankind,
for their character was as attractive as.thelr appear-
ance, ami its chief feature was an unselfish benevo-
lence. Legends of their numerous good deeds abound
In the Ober Inn Thai, the Oetz Thai, and the Vinsch-
gau, which are the poorest districts In TyroL—All
The Year Bound.
Therb certainlycan be no better corset worn than
Thomson's Patent Glove-fitting. It has attained a
world-wide reputation. The success that lias at-
tended the sale of It has caused many imitations to
spring up. There Is no corset made that can com-
pare with It in the support It gives to the wearer.
See the advertisement of the Arm, who are the sole
importers and patentees for the United States.
Tt.B First Finoer-Ring.—An amusing myth Is
told of the origin of the finger-ring. When Jove re-
leased Prometheus from the bonds by which he had
been confined, he condemned him, as a sort of pen-
ance—perhaps somewhat after the fashion of a mod-
ern tlckct-of-leave—to wear upon his finger as a ring
a link of the iron chain that bound him to the Cau-
casian rock, in which was set a fragment of that rock
itself. In this way, so fable goes, the custom of the
finger-ring originated. There Is every reason to be-
lieve that this use of the engraved stone began with
the Greeks, and from them was copied by their ser-
vile Imitators, the Romans. It is every way a con-
venient and a natural one, and our grandfathers'
custom of wearing their seals at the fob, as It was
called, or hanging from the side-pocket, was a recur-
rence to old Assyrian usages, which did not long
hold Its ground.
We are told that nothing was made In vain. But
how about a fashionable girl; Isn't she maiden
vain?
Can Birds Converse ?- Dr. Charles C. Abbott cites
the following occurrence, to show that birds possess
some mode of conveying ideas to one another :—
"In the spring of 1872, a pair of cat-birds were
noticed carrying materials for a nest to a patch of
blackberry-briers hard by. To test their Inge unity. 1
took a long, narrow strip of muslin—too long for oDe
bird to carry—and placed It on the ground In such
a position as to be seen by the birds when searching
for material. In a few moments one of the cat- birds
spied the strip, and endeavored to carry It off. But
Its length and weight Impeded his flight; however
he took hold of It, and he tried many times, and,
after long worrying over it, the bird flew off for as-
sistance. In a few moments he returned with his
mate; and then, standing near the strip, they ap-
peared to hold a consultation. The chirping, twitter-
ing, murmuring, and occasional ejaculations, were
all unmistakable. In a few moments these ceased, and
the work commenced. Each took hold of the muslin
strip, at about the same distance in each case from
the ends, and, taking flight simultaneously, bore it
away. Soon there was much Jabbering at the nest-
The birds could not agree how to use the strip, and
it was finally abandoned. But so, too, was the nest;
and the birds left the neighborhood."
There arc three lady editors In California—Mrs.
Russell, of the Santa Barbara Index; Mrs. Gordon,
of the Stockton Leader; and Mrs. Lynch, of the Men-
docino Dispatch. During the last election campaign
Mrs. Gordon temporarily retired, fearing it would
be too boisterous for a lady to take part In.
The comic faculty of Sydney Smith was magnifi-
cent. It must have been glorious In his conversa-
tion; for, apart from the enchantment of delivery,
it Is glorious in his writings. It foams and flashes
through his graphic pages like an exulting river
through a picturesque landscape. It now and then
occurred that he fell in with a dullard, who failed
to perceive at once the aim and purport of the Ca-
non's humor. This is a "damper" to most men;
but Sydney Smith always turned it to good account.
How very funny is this !—
"A Joke goes a great way in the conntry. I have
known one to last pretty well for seven years. I
remember making a Joke after a meeting of the
clergy In Yorkshire, where there was a Rev. Mr.
Buckle, who never spoke when I proposed hK health.
I said that he was a buckle without a tongue. Most
persons within hearing laughed; but my next neigh-
bor sat unmoved and sunk in thought. At last, a
Quarter of an hour after we had all done, he sud-
enly nudged me, exclaiming, 'I see noicwhat you
meant, Mr. Smith. You meant a Joke.' 'Yes, sir,' I
said, 'I believe I did.' Upon which he began laugh-
ing so heartily that I thought he would choke, and I
was obliged to pat him on the back."
John Gut Vassar, nephew of the founder of Vas-
sar College, is unquestionably the greatest traveller
the world has ever known. He first crossed the
ocean In the British Queen in 1840, and has been
almost constantly on the go during the Intervening
thirty-five years, returning home every year or two,
only to remain a few months, and then take a new
start for a tour around the world, or to some remote
quarter of the globe—almost every Inhabitable part
of which he has visited once or oftener.
A Lovtko Wife and Sister.—The Princess Zenab
Hamoum, daughter of the Khedive, aged seventeen,
died at Alexandria, August 18. She grieved at the
departure of her husband and brother for Paris, and
died from cerebral congestion on the third day of
their absence.
IT Is believed that crocodiles live to be hnndreds of
years old. The ancient Egyptians embalmed them.
Naturalists say that a single swallow will devour
six thousand flies a day. No wonder they are called
swallows I
4-2
GODETS LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.
Drawn expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hobus & Son, Architects, 804 North Eigldlt Street,
formerly 0/809 and 811 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
The above design was organized for Mrs. Stabler,
of Lynchburg, Virginia. It contains many desirable
points architecturally, anil will be, when construct-
ed, a bright and beautiful home, containing inter-
nally all modern Improvements. It is designed to
be built of bricks, hollow walls: the sash frames
will have our new method of hanging them. They
are so superior to the old methods that all of our
customers order them to be in their buildings. All
rattling of sash, and cold and dusty windows, are pre-
vented by the introduction of them. Parties build-
ing without the aid of an architect, and desiring
detail drawings, and privilege of using these sash,
FIRST BTORT.
would do well to obtain the samp, which are furn-
ished at a small figure. This building will cost, when
finished, between 16000 and Sfioon.
Upon the receipt of S3, we mail "Hobbs' Architec-
ture," a book of rural and suburban residences, con-
taining a large variety of designs for ornamental
monuments.
All architectural work done with great dispatch
at moderate rates. Having a large number of as-
sistants, we are ready to fill all Centennial orders for
decoration.
First Stnry.—\ parlor. 18 bv IS feet: B hall, 9 feet:
C chamber, 13 by 20 feet; D dining-room, 18 by IS
feet: E smoking-room, 13 bv 13feet: F nursery, 16
feet 6 inches by 23 feet: (i kitchen, 14 feet 0 inches,
by 14 feet; H oath-room, 6 by 6 feet; I store-room.
SECOND STORY.
10 feet by 4 feet 3 inches; J China closet, 4 feet by 4
feet 3 inches.
Second Story.—Lchambers; M sewing-room.
Gold in Ancient Times.—Whatever may hare
been the source whence the ancieut.s obtained their
gold there is abundant evidence that this metal was
admired and valued by them as much as it is at the
present day. Many of the accounts given by early
writers dazzle us with the supposition that the
stores of gold in those days were much larger than
can be commanded at present. Thus. Semiramis is
said to have erected statues of Jupiter, Juno, and
Rhea, fortv feet in height, and made of beaten gold.
Drinking vessels made of gold, and weighing twelve
hundred talents, are also spoken of. The sumptuous
display of precious metals In the palaces of the great
are frequently alluded to. But it has been aptly
observed that the quantity diffused among the bulk
of the English population of the present dav would
make a sum total far outbidding the golden wealth
of those earlier days, though less obvious and gut-
tering from being so much more diffused.
486
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
silk In Iront of the waist The brocade sleeve
opens over one of plain silk. Lower skirt of silk,
trimmed with puffs and plaiting*.
The form of wrap which so far appears to be the
most popular Is the Dolman shape, long, ample, and
with short, broad sleeves, scarcely more than cuffs,
covering the arm from the elbow down, or else they
are without any sleeves, and merely fold over the
arm. The back is shaped simply by one seam, and
resembles the back of French sacques. They are
made of matelasst, repped silk, twilled silk, camel's
hair cloth, ordinary cloth, and Cashmere. They are
trimmed with feather bands, with fur, fringe, braid-
ing, and embroidery; fringe is, however, the favorite
trimming, as It is used even when fur is the trim-
ming.
{Slack velvet jackets are seen In Jaunty shapes,
quite short behind, with loose pointed fronts that
fall open from tho throat. Walking Jackets are by
no means out of fashion. The double-breasted Eng-
lish walking jacket Is the style worn; they are made
of Scotch cheviots, diagonal cloths as finely twilled
as vigogne, and other soft wool cloths. The trim-
mings are broad Titan braids, loosely woven, like
Panama canvas; the buttons are covered with this
braid. Black is the prevailing color.
Silk braid, mixed with gold and silver, Is one of
the nouvcautls of the season; but it is suitable only
for very rich toilets. Open work passementerie
braids ate also very fashionable. Plafts in crochet
work, and handsome fringes of two shades, are very
much used on costumes. The long silk fringe, with
deep network heading, is the prettiest of all. Silk
network is also used for neckties, for hat trimmings,
for fichus, and even for entire overdresses, edged
with deep'fringe, and worn over plain silk skirts.
Felt bonnets are very popular; In fact, felt and
velvet are worn almost to the exclusion of all others.
Light cream color and gray are the favorite shades
for tho felt ones, and they are stylish enough to
wear witli the handsomest toilets. Black felts are
not as much shown, brlt all tho dark shades are seen
to matcli costumes; they will be worn all through
the fall and early winter. The edges of them are
not bound as In previous seasons, but are left" raw;"
that Is, merely cut smoothly.
The most conspicuous novelty of the season Is tho
(cru Cashmere lace with which bonnets are trimmed.
This is a fine wool lace in thread patterns like those
of black Chantilly. It Is of that creamy whiteness
that Is so effective with dark velvets. Parisian mil-
liners use It both on felt and velvet bonnets. Felt
bonnets were usually trimmed plainly, but now they
are trimmed with lace, flowers, and feathers. A
great deal of soft ribbon Is used In trimming bon-
nets; some are twilled, others twilled on one side,
with a satin gloss on the other; some have diagonal
stripes an inch wide by reversing the twill. Oros
grain ribbon Is very little used. Felt round hats
are very much worn at this season: the shapes are
very large toques, worn low down on the forehead,
and have soft crowns much lower than have been
worn; another shape has the brim rolled up on one
side, down on the other, and the slouch hat, with
soft fur beaver hriin, worn far back on the head.
An exceedingly pretty felt bonnet is of gray, with an
arching scooped front; above the forehead are blue
velvet puffs, supporting moss roses and forget-me-
nots. Outside all Is gray velvet and silk In long
loops, with three gray tips curling out from the
crown. Among velvet bonnets is one of dark brown
velvet, trimmed around the crown with a scarf of
cream-colored silk and (cru lace. A merle bronzl
Is on top of the crown, gilt braid Is near the edge of
the brim, (cru lace Is quilled inside the brim, and a
touffe of red and tea roses is just above the forehead.
A navy blue velvet bonnet has Inside the brim a
great bow of velvet and twilled silk holding a cluster
of moss roses. Outside are two long natural (gray)
ostrich feathers that begin low behind, pass upward
on the sides, and their curled ends cross each other
in front Low at the back to hold the plumes is a
velvet bow in wldch is a pigeon's head. Navy blue
velvet Is also much trimmed with IC terms free. TRUE & CO., Augusta, Maine.
AGENTS WANTED
NIGHT SCENES II
FOR DR. MARCHES
GREAT WORK,
IN THE BIBLE,
Aud a magnificent NEW BOOK lust from the press.
Address J C. MclTJRUY i. CO., Philadelphia fc
Ty/.s BASKS or WOMEN, by Geo. H. Tatlok,
JLr M. D., 318 pages, contains Hew Methods, with-
out Drugs, for Home Treatment and Radical Cure.
Mailed for 81.50. Circular on receipt of stamp.
N. E. WOOD, 17 East &8th Street, New York.
lerilay at home. Samples worth 51
ree. Stinson&Co., Portland, Maiue
$5to$20F
EXXITIFL^- NOTICE.
Having a few copies remaining on hand of the following
popular Chromos, we will furnish them to our subscribers and
their friends at the low prices given below, and pay the postage:—
ASKING A BLESSING - - - $2.50
THE OLD MILL - 2.00
THE OFFER ----- 1.50
THE ACCEPTANCE - - - 1.50
THE SINGING LESSON - - - 1.00
MY PET ----.- 1.00
OUR DARLING - 1.00
TRUE TO NATURE - - - 1.00
Address i. A. GODET,
N. E. Cor. Sixth and Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia, Pa.
J*. ZHZ. G-A-IkCIF',
609 Chostnut, and 610 Jayno Street.
LITHOGRAPHIC ENGRAVING, PRINTING, „.*,
IN ALL ITS BRANCHES.
A PREMIUM GIVEN TO EVERY SUBSCRIBER.
QODEY'S
LADY'S BOOK
Tla.© Oldest IMCa&etzlxio lxx America,
18VS. Volume 92. 18*7G.
flf^DDITION TO OUR
SPLENDID STEEL ENGRAVINGS
AND
BtUtMt Qolwti VmIuw I
WILL BE GIVEN FROM TIME TO TIME
CHROMO ILLUSTRATIONS.
THESE ILLUSTRATIONS GIVE UNIVERSAL SATISFACTION. NO OTHER MAGAZINE HAS
VET ATTEMPTED THIS FEATURE.
Stories by Celebrated Writers.
We have on file several line stoics for 1876, from the pens of the follow*
popular writers :—
Mrs. C. A. Hopkinson, Ino Churchill, H. Vickery Dumont,
Louise S. Dorr, S. Annie Frost, Montgomery C. Preston.
Arrangements have been made with others of like popularity.
OXJR OTHER DEPAETMENTS-
INVALUABIjE receipts,
Designs for the Work-table. Knitting, with
Colored Engraving? of the same.
Netting, Model Cottages, Original 3Iusic, Etc.
ABE ALL RETAINED.
A PREMIUM CHROMO
WILL BE GIVEN
To every Subscriber, whether Single or in a Club, who pays in
Advance for 1876 and remits direct to this office,
See Colored Slip for Terms, Clubbing, and List of Chromos.
º, DECEMBER. -
Look ºf the Splendia Chronº, Premºn */
Sºle or Cº. Sºº, for the y 876, a
- .
(MRS, SARAH J. HALE,”
L. A. GODEY
-
* -
- *
-
- - -
- s - -
-
º
* -
- -- - - - -
k
-
V
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i -N
A/..
n \D¥1VFMW£M!
h /
~~~~ ~ ~)
sº
-
ºf
First PATTERN.
FANCY COVERLET FOR A CRADL
(see Description, Work Department.)
º º º
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ºº
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tº tº ºn tº sº tº
ºº:
ºº:
Fº Fº - - -
arcox1) PATTERx.
SIBn %)£im
15
Merry Christmas Schottische.
Composed and arranged for the Piano Forte, for Godey's Lady's Book,
CIHI.A.S. NIEIILSON.
As published by J. STARR HOLL0WAY, 811 Spring Garden St., Philada.
--~
r
:**.*.*.*. * : * . - a
A
MERRY CHRISTMAS SCHOTTISCHE.
...R.
Embroidered Netting for Infant's Cradle.
INFANT'S CRADLE, WITH FANCY COVERLET.
(See Plate Printed in Slue in Front of Book.)
GODEY'S
abg's Jook atiir ipagasnu:
VOLUME XOL-NO. 546.
PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 18T5.
THE HOLLY WREATH.
BY INO CnURCHTLL.
"Ip you will only let me, mamma I Several
of the young gentlemen are going out to Forest
Dell to-morrow to gather evergreens for the
grand festival; and Rollin Manvers told Dick
that if any of the boys wished to supply their
sisters with Christmas bushes, they were wel-
come to go."
"Yes," spoke up Dick, "and there'll be
plenty of room, for he said they meant to take
wagons enough to bring the whole country in."
"So you see, good mother, that I should have
all the material without cost, and I would take
only my own evening times to work in. I
know I could make lovely parlor decorations,
and old gentlemen are so generous and jolly
the holiday weeks, and love so to take pretty
things home, that they 'd never begrudge me
the fip-penny-bit they paid for their pleasure;
and fip-penny-bits, mamma, you know how
they count up to dollars. Now please to say
yes, as there's only a little time to decide."
Sirs. Spencer looked tenderly on the flushed,
eager face of the pleading girl, feeling that it
was almost cruel to dampen her enthusiasm,
as she said :—
"But, my dear, I should shrink from having
you*offer articles for sale on the public streets.
I am sure it would never do. Such an act
would subject you to remark, If not to ridi-
cnle."
"But, mamma, people do all sorts of unheard-
of things at Christmas times—nuder things that
are nice, I mean. Why, Santa Claus himself
is just as queer as he can be; and it Is not as
If I was a young lady—I "m only sixteen, you
know, and, besides, Dick is to be my armor-
bearer. Such wares might be thought weapons
under the reign of the Prince of Peace, might
they not? I have had such dreams about wrap-
ping a sweet little woman around with a warm,
fleecy shawl, and of filling a boy's great, crav-
ing heart brimful of delight. And other things,
that—that—I cannot tell even to you. And
oh, mamma, don't you remember about those
children last year? how their poor little limp
stockings looked, hung so beseechingly up by
the chimney-piece, just full of nothing but
emptiness? Oh, I don't want it everto happen
again." And the tears welled up to the soft
brown eyes.
Yes, Mrs. Spencer did remember, and how
the unselfish girl gave Up her own few treas-
ures, that the forlorn little hearts might not
seem singled out from every comfort amid so
much of plenitude and joy.
A week later, and anybody might have
known that Christmas was a-coming. The
rounded days, like great white pearls upon a
silver cord, stood out in conscious beauty. Na-
ture had put her ermine garment on, and
pinned it fast with crystals; and, if storms
were treasured, they were held until such sol-
emn time as of an old year's dying. And all
the radiant nights the stars with awe looked
eastward. What cared they for the levelled
glass that sought to spy God's wondrous work-
ings out? They knew, those eighteen centu-
ries since, that no one orb from their bright
ranks had ranged itself to signal glory I but,
that a strange, new light was hung that hour
over Bethlehem.
But far below the stars were they for whom
such miracle was wrought. Crowding human-
ity, hurrying through earthly avenues, jostling
each other in pleasant haste, aud, laughing
anon, in the lightsome atmosphere. "Peace
and good-will toward men," long ago had been
uttered: good cheer from each to every other
was now the acknowledged password. Even
In the great city, where at other times one's
neighbor is a stranger, there was gay comming-
ling. Gruff, stern men smiled Into childish
611
To Subscribers for 1876.
One copy, one year ....
Two copies, one year
Three copies, one year
Four copies, one year
Five copies, one year, and an extra
copy to the person getting up the
club, making six copies
Eight copies, one year, and an extra
S3 00
5 00
7 50
10 00
14 00
copy to the person getting up the
club, making nine copies . 821 00
Eleven copies, one year, and an ex-
tra copy to the person getting up
the club, making twelve copies . 27 50
Twenty-three copies, one year, and an
extra copy to the person getting up
the club, making twenty-four copies 55 00
CLUBS:
e loved, to give and
to receive, to forgive and to be forgiven.
Take the first. Of all the joys open to hu-
manity, ..out! is greater than that of loving
and being loved. In fact, there can bo no true
happiness outside the nffections. There may
be, and is, a placid contentment in the faithful
performance of duties, especially if they are
disagreeable, whereby the moral nature gains
a victory over the baser part of us; the spirit
is cheered by the elaboration of noble thoughts;
and the acquisition of knowledge gladdens the
intellect, and puts a soul into the day of gain.
But love alone gives real personal happiness,
and love alone enables one to meet the ills of
life with a light heart and a calm countenance.
Vulnerable as It is in itself—ah! what else so
easily wounded?—love makes an impenetrable
shield against every other sorrow. Though
troubles fall thick as hail, if they but leave us
love and the beloved, we can bear them with-
out wincing; but if they strike us through the
beloved, or take from us love, nothing can
make up for the loss, and henceforth our life
is but a broken one, with all its sweet music
turned to discord. Henco love, besides being
delightful in itself, blunts the stings and arrows
of angry fortune, and wraps us in a panoply
which nothing but itself can pierce.
But of the two, which is the better—to love,
or to be loved?
It is very sweet to bo loved—to know that
one's coming rejoices the heart and brightens
the eyes, and that when we go where we are
beloved wo scatter light and joy, and make
the dark chambers of the soul radiant with
sunshine. The reserve imposed on us by so-
ciety forces us to control any very turbulent
expression of our feelings, even the most inno-
cent; but, for all the artificial coat of ice in
which it is considered the correct thing to wrap
our words and looks, those must be mightily
stupid who cannot see clearly where they are
loved; and if they do not take pleasure from
the knowledge, they must be as hard as so
many nether millstones, or the traditional
brickbats which fly about an author's stock of
similes; and, if so, they are of no account to
us. But the greater number of fallible mortals
do take pleasure from the knowledge. Be-
sides, to feel one's self loved by people who
are not disagreeable to us, is pleasant as a kind
of tribute paid to the inner worth which every
man and woman is conscious of possessing, no
matter what the world thinks, or what his
deeds may have justified the world in thinking.
We are all intimately acquainted with our own
merits, if not always with our own faults; and
only the exceptionally humble accept the ad-
miration of outsiders as beyond their deserts.
To the great mass of mankind no admiration
seems excessive, and no amount of love Ill-
bestowed, when they themselves are the ob-
jects; so that, in every way we take It, being
loved Is very delightful. But again, it is odd
how many people are loved, and no one but
the lover knows why; while others are passed
over whom it would seem so much more natural
to adore. You sometimes see in a family the
family favorite, whom every one agrees to
love, and every one conspires to spoil. And
you, not being of the family, cannot under-
stand why; and think others, who are passed
over disregarded, much more fit to be adored.
For the favorite, as a rule, loves no one, but
simply offers himself or herself as a kind of
domestic deity, without taking any trouble to
deserve attentions which more often bore than
charm. And almost always he or she is selfish
and exacting, as well as cold and what we
mean by "spoilt." What might have been
originally a fine nature, and what would have
been a good heart If not choked with a sur-
plusage of love, has got put^all wrong, and
family favorites, though demanding by long
right the homage which all those dear, affec-
tionate simpletons have been eager to pay,
return not even so much as a farthing rush-
light for the floods of love with which they
have been deluged and buoyed up artificially
ever since the beginning. These floods do not
make them happy; but those who love are in
the courts of heaven, and never see, dear souls!
that they are doing their best to ruin the pretty
creatures they adore, and that, while they
think they are only loving, they are in point
of fact destroying.
Of the two misfortunes, to love and not to
be loved in return is a better state, if so infi-
nitely sad, than to be loved by one you cannot
love. Nothing in life is much more painful
than this, for few people are able to receive
unwelcome affection stoically, indifferently,
not caring whether it is given or withheld, but
for the most part break out into a savage
hatred for those who bore them with their un-
desired love, or else fall into a sickening re-
pulsion, which embitters their very existence.
Women who are what is called "good matches"
know this better than any one else. Ask them
what they think of the pleasure of being loved
by men they do not care for, or actively dis-
like.; ask them how they feel while they are
crawled after with that abject humility which
nothing can affront or beat off, or persecuted
| in a more determined manner, with that off-
handed obtuseness to rebuffs, that pertinacity
of assurance, which sends the more sensitive
of them half mad. Sometimes men have to
undergo the same thing from women; but not
often, save by their own fault of fickleness
when they have ceased to love and the woman
OF CERTAIN GOOD THINGS THE BEST.
521
has not, and does not mean to relinquish her
hold, but sticks like a burr, and drops none of
the endearments born of the day of hallucina-
tion. But sometimes, if very rarely, they are
besieged by a love-lorn damsel for whom they
have no more tenderness than they have for
Beatrice in marble, and against whom they
must protect themselves if they would not be
entrapped. Well, it is very bad for the love-
sick damsel, but it is ten times worse for the
unloving man.
Again, if it is better to love than to be loved,
it is better to give than to receive. It is so
good to give! "Yes, but it is so nice to re-
ceive I" says some young curly-head, without
as yet independent possessions, or the means
of having any, save by the free gift of the
elders and the well-endowed. So it is—very
nice to receive, especially if you get the thing
you want, and neither a white elephant with
which you do not know what to do, nor just
the thing you do not want, or that you most
particularly dislike, but the gift of which will
stand in your way of getting what you desire.
Barring these mishaps, it is nice to receive;
but for all that, the hand that gives knows the
greater pleasure. Glad moment as it is to
have a want satisfied, a blank filled up, it is
one yet more glad to the person .who is the
cause of this content. To go among the poor
and starving, and to see the bright faces that
are left where such sad ones were met, to know
the comfort that has been bestowed and the
happiness created by our gifts, most assuredly
turns back on the heart of the giver a fuller
stream of Joy than that which he has poured
forth. Even if it is only the pleasure one gives
the young—mere pleasure without any vital
good in it—a toy, a trinket, the boy's first
knife, the girl's first fan—there is more happi-
ness to the donor than to the recipient; grant-
ing always that the gift has been made with a
full heart and an unbiassed intention, and not
impelled by fancied necessity: "1 must give
Emily that," and "I ought to give John this,"
and "What a nuisance it is, one's friends
having so many children I I must give all the
little cormorants presents this Christmas, and
I am sure I do not wish to do sol" By the
look of things with some people, giving would
seem to be a species of self-inflicted torture; a
thing to be accomplished with as little agony—
that is, expenditure—as possible, and to be
undergone as seldom as may be. It is a ne-
cessity; but a necessity only from the outer
law of manners, not from the inner impulses
of the heart. There are certain people who
never give. They pay their bills with scrupu-
lous exactness, they owe no man anything,
and would as soon be guilty of forgery as of
debt and extravagance; but when It comes to
giving—to a voluntary offering beyond the
strict measure of legal necessity—they are as
if made of wood, and you might as well at-
tempt to make a graven image live and lovo
as to get generous gifts out of your close-fisted
friends. Perhaps, if they could be made to
see generosity in the light of a religious duty,
they might be up to the mark—in a way, car-
rying their disbursements as a cross; but
nothing short of that would move them. And
even then they would have to hope that the
Lord would forgive that matter of the meth-
eaten flannel, which was a few pennies a yard
cheaper than that which was whole; and that
the doubtful note in the plate last Sunday
might not be scored against them heavily.
Such minds, of course, know nothing of the
pleasures of giving, if something of its pain;
but, setting these aside, we say again that of
those who give, and those who receive, the
former know the greater pleasure, and get the
more lasting good.
So of forgiveness. We all have to go through
the fire of trespasses and sins—botli those
which we commit against others, and those
which others commit against us; and we all,
therefore, have need of forgiveness on tho ono
hand, and are required to forgive on tho other.
And, deep as is the peace which falls on us
when we are forgiven, the exquisite rest of
soul that comes "like a brooding dove" when
we forgive is greater. But then it must be a
real forgiveness—not that self-contradictory
sham of which some people are so fond: "I
may forgive, but I can never forget." It must
be a forgiveness that has sought for excuses.of
the offence committed, and has found them; as
they can always be found when looked for—a
forgiveness that does honestly wipe the whole
thing away as if it had never been, make a
tabula rata of all the causes of resentment, and
start fresh with a new score. And any ono
who has raised himself to this level out of the
low-lying bogs of brooding and resentment, or
the boiling springs of wrath, has come out into
an upper air of security and contentment, such
as we imagine gives a slight forecast of heaven.
To nourish anger and unforgiving displeasure
is the worst thing we know. We might as
well act out the old fable and warm a viper in
our bosom ; for we may be sure that some day
this unforgiving displeasure will do us more
harm than the object, and that the viper's
fang will fasten inward and not outward.
Of all these good things, then, the active Is
the best. To love is better than to be loved,
dear as it is to be adored and admired; to give
is better than to receive; for all that, gifts are
pleasant accidents in the dull day; and to for-
give is better than to be forgiven, sweet as Is
the consciousness that the trespass we have
committed against our friend is blotted out
from its remembrance forever.
A good conscience is a continual feast.
Convkubation is an index to the mind.
8 WEET AD VERSITT.
523
grapes, or exquisite flowers. And the little
pule face brightened when she came and spread
the perfumed treasures out on the white coun-
terpane, making the bed a mass of glowing
color. Great blushing pink roses, and pale
misty heliotropes, breathing odors of the al-
mond ; sprays of deep green jessamine, crowned
with their pure white stars; fuchsias, with
their pendent bells of purple and scarlet;
heart's-ease, with its velvet flecked with gold.
And the curate, standing by, saw the sweet
face transfigured by a divine pity, until it
seemed to his longing heart like that of some
fair ministering angel by his side.
The child, too, gazed into the lady's face
with a certain awe, for the glitter and sheen
of her garments were new and wonderful to
her; the sparkle of the jewels on her slender
fingers, the rustling of her silken dress, and
the gleam of gold around her throat, marked
her a denizen of some other world. Yet, as
Mabel came more frequently, her awe changed
into the most clinging devotion, and Bessie
loved no one on earth as she did "her beautiful
Miss Mabel."
And now on this Christmas Eve Mabel steps
quickly into the little room where the curtains
are drawn and the lamp is turned down, and
there is a smothered sob from the pale woman
who sits by the little cot. Yes, Bessie is dying;
the little face is thin, and white, and wasted;
yet over it seems to float nn unseen halo of
peace and joy. The young clergyman stands
beside her, the mother yields her place to Ma-
bel; the young lady takes the little hand in
hers, the clergyman reads of the holy child,
Jesus; how the star appeared at his birth, and
the angels shouted for joy, "Glory to God in
the highest; on earth peace, good-will towards
men." Then arose, in the pause that followed,
the sweet, clear voice of Mabel singing the
'Christmas anthem, and Myrvin joined with his
deep, full baritone, and the child lay still and
smiled between them both. When the last
notes of the hymn had died away, her blue
eyes turned toward the window, where, on the
ledge, stood a row of growing plants.
"Darling Miss Mabel," the child whispered,
"my geranium is for you; it is a little cutting
-that Mr. Myrvin brought me one day with
some (lowers, and I planted it for you, and
every day 1 watered it, until I got so tired, and
now mother waters it, for 1 meant it for your
Christmas gift, and now look how large and
beautiful it is. Take it, darling Miss Mabel,
and remember poor little Bessie."
The young lady bent down over the child to
hide her agitated face. The voice had grown
very weak as she exerted herself for this last
effort.
"Lift me up," she whispered, and clasped
her small, waxen hands. "Oh, how beautiful!
Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace"—
The voice sank, the little head drooped on Ma-
bel's breast, and, with a long drawn, quiet
sigh, the child fell into her last, long, un-
troubled, painless sleep.
The tears rushed to Mabel's eyes as she laid
the motionless little form back among its pil-
lows, and stole gently from the room. Tho
clergyman soon followed her, bearing in his
hands poor Bessie's last gift, and leaving the
poor worn mother alone with her dead.
The young couple walked onward very si-
lently, until they reached the gate of Fernly
Park. The earth was wrapped in the soft,
gray mantle of twilight; the sun had set; and
far away on the horizon a pale gleam of day-
light stretched across the western sky. A
dark bank of clouds rose nbove it, and on its
edge glittered.ln radiant splendor a single bril-
liant star.
"Glory to God in the highest; on earth
peace, good-will towards men!" burst from
the lips of both, as for a moment they stood as
if speil-bound at the sight.
Then they entered the park, and walked si-
leutly up the main avenue. They ascended
the portico, and Myrvin rang the bell, placing,
at the same time, the geranium plant in Mabel's
hands.
"This is my dearest Christmas gift of all,"
she said; "I shall value none as I do this part-
ing legacy of my poor little Bessie. I would
not give away a leaf."
"Not one?" the young man cried, thrown off
his guard by the lingering, tender effect of the
scene which both had witnessed. "Not one!"
he exclaimed, fixing his dark eyes suddenly
upon her, glowing with all the intensity of re-
pressed emotion. "Give me one," he cried,
with a longing he could not master, all the fire
of passion glowing iu his eyes; "I shall never
ask you again 1"
The girl raised her soft eyes to his face in
surprise at his unwonted tone, then a wave
of color swept over her fair, delicate features.
In that moment the page was turned, the veil
was lifted, the story was told. In that moment
Mabel Vane acknowledged that she loved
Douglas Myrvin. Acknowledged to herself
alone, for no other word was spoken between
them. She only broke a branch of the gerani-
um and laid it gent ly on his outstretched palm.
His hand closed upon her own, and with an
eager, farewell clasp, the curate stepped quick-
ly down the steps and disappeared along the
path.
The young lady passed into the hall as the
servant opened the door. Site noticed the
man's frightened face, and arrested her steps.
"What is the matter, Watkins?" she asked.
"Master has had a stroke," the man an-
swered, reluctantly, "and he don't know no
one where he's lying, in the east room."
Yes, it was true. No tender words, no soft
caresses, no pleading cries could call back con-
WILL WRAYBURG'S CHARGE.
527
or taken a fancy to his handsome young face.
These thoughts were followed by vague specu-
lations as to what changes these four years'
absence had wrought in my old playfellow and
friend, and what kind of a person this Clem-
ence Janin would prove; making up my mind
to unite with Ginnie in an utter distrust of her.
At last I rose from my unsatisfactory musings
and lighted my candles to make my toilet for
the evening. Being still in mourning, this was
an easy task, consisting In smoothing a few re-
fractory crimps, and adding a jet necklace,
which Captain Montague had once told me was
very becoming. I did not know why I cared
to look particularly well that evening, but I
certainly gazed at my reflection in the glass
very critically, turning away to go down stairs
at last, with a sigh of regret that it was not
unquestionably beautiful.
Every one was in the parlors, awaiting the
expected arrivals, and, when I joined them, a
place was assigned me near Captain Montague,
as a matter of course, he having reserved an
easy chair for me, at a convenient distance
from the rest, without appearing to have with-
drawn from the general circle of friends. His
manner, though earnest and interested, had a
certain amount of indifference about it, which
seemed to constantly challenge one's powers
of entertaining, and I had yielded to the temp-
tation, until my conscience whispered that this
little flirtation of ours was becoming far more
serious than I, at least, had intended it should.
I quieted ray scruples with the thought that he
■was young and would probably go through
many such love tilts before his heart was
touched by the genuine fire, and, having a
weakness for good looks, let myself enjoy, for
the time, his playing at love making, fearing
little danger to either of us. So, continuing
the little comedy, I took the seat his fore-
thought had provided, and for the next half
hour listened to and returned his several softly-
spoken speeches, meantime awaiting anxiously
for the sound of sleigh-bells. Justas I thought
I heard them in the distance, Mrs. Wrayburg's
voice recalled me to myself.
"Eleanor, my dear, will you order tea placed
at once? I think I hear them coining."
I hastened to obey her order, and as I passed
her chair, felt she gave me a look of reproof.
When I again returned to the parlor they
■were all crowding the doorway and hall, wel-
coming home the head of the house. Above
the buzz of voices I could hear the old familiar
tones—a little deeper now, but with the same
pleasant ring in them, which spoke of music
and laughter. I saw Ginnie, my pet, friend,
mid.confidante, ascending the stairs with a tall,
slight figure, enveloped in cloaks and furs, and
I knew from that moment that I should dislike
Will Wrayburg's charge!
"I suppose my place will now be given to
this new hero," said Captain Montague, quite
pathetically, and whom I had not noticed was
standing beside me.
"Mr. Wrayburg and I are very old friends,"
I replied; "we have known each other from
childhood. But then 1 was a guett in Uis moth-
er's house—not the governess."
"I didn't think Will Wrayburg was one of
that kind," he said, with an air of superiority.
"I only meant to say that you would find no
one anniaus to take your place."
While he was murmuring some reply which
I did not heed, the others pressed back into
the room, and I caught my first glimpse of the
"new hero." In my heart I could not blame
that French girl for falling in love with that
tall, noble-looking fellow, whose face told of a
true, honest heart. With outstretched hand,
and the winning smile of old, which was now
half concealed by the heavy dark moustache,
Will Wrayburg came eagerly across the parlor
to where 1 was standing. I went forward to
meet him, trying to speak the words of wel-
come which filled my heart. He pressed my
hand warmly, saying :—
"Nell, I am right glad to find you here.
The old home would not have seemed natural
without you."
Then he gave a quick glance at my black
dress, and, pressing my hand again, gave me
a look which was better tliau any words of
sympathy he could have uttered. Then he
was placed in the seat of honor by his mother's
side, and underwent the usual clamor of ques-
tions which beset a traveller on his return.
Presently Miss Janin entered, leaning on
the arm of her new-found friend—my Ginnie.
As I said before, she was a tall, slender girl,
certainly two years my senior; and, though
not handsome, had a certain fascination about
her which was equally attractive. One could
hardly tell whether it was In the large gray
eyes, the finely-cut mouth, whose smile dis-
played teeth of dazzling whiteness, or graceful,
pretty manner; but the power of attraction
was undeniably there. In the first ten min-
utes of our acquaintance, I had to confess that
I had done her injustice when accusing her
of naivete. And this new discovery did not
inspire me with greater confidence in Miss
Janin. Her manner was that of a well-born
woman of the world, though quiet and un-
demonstrative. When presented to me, her
pale face lighted with some interest, and she
smilingly gave me her soft little hand, allow-
ing it to rest in mine for a moment in such a
way that I was obliged to hold it against my
will, while 1 felt her gray eyes were studying
not alone my features, but my very heart and
soul.
"Ah, this is Miss Nellie I" she said, turning
to Will, with the air of one to whom a confi-
dence has been given.
"I have spoken of you to Clemence," he
said, with evident embarrassment, "as one of
023
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
the family circle, with whom I was going to
make her acquainted."
"I ought to feel highly honored," I said.
At that moment we were summoned to sup-
per, and, as they turned away together, I
slipped off a little turquoise ring which now
only fitted my little finger, and let it drop to
Hit; bottom of my pocket. Miss Janin did not
favor me with her special notice again that
evening.
Glnnie seemed quite delighted with her new
acquaintance, apparently forgetting that two
hours ago she had determined to "distrust this
French girl." But, then, Ginny is young. I
could see that Mrs. Wrayburg, though all
kindness and hospitality, had not yet decided
either for or against the new comer.
Every one seemed to understand that the
family would prefer spending this first evening
by themselves; and so, without appearing to
do so intentionally, little groups were formed
apart from that end of the room where sat the
hero of the hour, surrounded by his ardent ad-
mirers. I alone seemed forgotten by all. I
was not asked to join those with whom I de-
sired to be, and some way 1 could not do so,
uninvited, tlu night, and the others left me,
1 suppose, to Captain Montague. He had not
been sufficiently devoted to forego his cigar.
As I stood by the table, reading a book of
'which I did not see one word (I was too proud
to appear neglected), I fully realized for the
first time that I was only the governess I But
for one circumstance, I might have borne my
fate patiently. Clemence Janin formed part
of the family group, taking her place among
them as a right, just as I afterwards discovered
she did everything that she wanted. Once in
a while fragments of their conversation reached
me, in which I would find myself unwillingly
interested, until recalled to my own dignity
by hearing her strange Tolce, with its foreign
accent, reminding Will of some detail of ad-
venture he had forgotten, as if their lives had
been one during these four long years. Then
I would return to my own thoughts, which
were not very enlivening.
Through all my sorrows, I had looked for-
ward to meeting Will Wrayburg again, and
finding strength in his tender sympathy, which
would be a consolation In my loss, forgetting
that it was home and fortune, as well as father.
For four years I had lived in the dream of this
moment, and how had it been realized? I had
been sent on a message at the very moment of
his coming; I had been the last to bid him
welcome; and then he had only spoken a few
words in return, and I now stood alone, apart
from all, forgotten 1 I could not bear it longer,
and left the parlor, intending to spend the
remainder of the evening in my own room. At
the foot of the stairs a hand detained me, and
Will's voice, with no self-reproach in its tone,
said :—
"Where are you going, Nell? You surely
will not run away so early the first night of
my return?"
"1 have- promised to finish something for
Daisy this evening," I said.
"Oh, Daisy can wait till to-morrow! and I
have not had a chance to talk to you yet."
I thought, had he desired the chance, he
might have found one; so answered, quite
coldly :—
"There will be plenty of time for that in the
future. You know I am a fixture in the house
now; that is, so long as I give satisfaction."
His face flushed for an instant, and then he
said, quietly:—
"Of course, if you have no wish to remain
yourself, I cannot urge it."
I felt bow contemptibly I had returned all
their kindness by that speech of mine, and
tried to smooth it over by saying :—
"I have duties which must be attended to
to-night."
lie bowed and returned to the parlor, while
I passed on up to my own room, where, fling-
ing myself upon the bed, I cried and scolded
myself by turns for the next twenty minutes.
Presently my door was pushed open, and a
tiny figure glided across the room to my side.
"Please, Miss Nellie, Captain Montague
sends his comperlaments, and would you please
come down again?"
"Where did you see him, Daisy?"
"He was lookin' all over for you, and sent
me in here to find you."
"Tell him I have a headache, Daisy. Or
no," I added, quickly, fearing that such a
message might lead to investigation from some
of the others. "Ask him please to excuse me;
and, Daisy, come back and tell me what he
says," I whispered, half ashamed of myself.
The child glided silently away, but in a few
moments I heard the patter of little foi-t ont-
Bide my door, and she was with me again.
"He says won't you please come out in the
hall just one moment?"
I do not think that I was vainer than any
other girl of my age, but the devotion of a
good-looking young fellow, who could com-
mand the homage of any young lady from
whom he had chosen to accept it, was a grati-
fication to me at the moment, when I felt oth-
ers had slighted ine, and—need I add?—1 rose
and went out into the broad, brightly-lighted
hall, where he stood patiently waiting, leaning
against the balusters with folded arms.
"I know you cannot be so cruel as to doom
me to a miserable evening," he said, earnestly.
"You would find me very stupid company,
Captain Montague. 1 feel out of sorts this
evening."
ne said a great many foolish things in reply,
and I knew them to be so, but they pleased
the weaker side of my nature, and the result
of his soft pleadings was that fifteen minutes
WILL WRATBURG'S CHARGE.
531
congratulations arrived, and I doubt if Joan
of Arc went to the stake with nobler feelings
than I suffered from at that moment. "I am
going to tell her all. May I?" I heard Clem-
ence say, and she must have looked towards
me, for Will turned suddenly, and, seeing me,
blushed like a girl, while stammering some-
thing about "being late for the train," and
left the room hurriedly. Miss Janin was as
self-possessed as ever. She came and stood
beside me, resting her clasped hands on the
mantle, while I felt that, in the fulness of her
triumph, she was about to give me her confi-
dence.
"Is Mr. Wrayburg going to the city?" I
jerked out, thinking I might as well begin my
martyrdom at once.
"Yes, for a few hours," she answered, rather
abstractedly.
Then came a dead pause, which it seemed to
me impossible to break; all my fine speeches
had deserted me. At last I tried another topic.
"How very well you speak English, Miss
Janin. Did you know very many Americans
abroad?"
She gave me a look of surprised gratification
"Do I? I am so glad I Mr. Wrayburg is the
only person with whom I have spoken it for
years; but then I was anxious to learn the
language, as I hoped to make my home here."
Then came another pause, out of which I
could not extricate myself, and Miss Janin did
not come to my aid. I heard Will come down
stairs and go into the dining-room for his early
lunch before taking the train. Dreading to
witness a lover's parting, and knowing they
would wish me miles away, I went back to my
room, now my only refuge, disappointed at my
ill success, and half blaming Clemence Janin's
selfishness for my failure. At luncheon time
I sent down an excuse, hoping they would all
leave me alone, and then pitying myself that
they did so. At last there came a gentle knock
at my door, and, retracting my uncharitable
feelings towards poor little Ginnie, I hurried
to open the door for her, ushering in instead—
Miss Janin.
"May I come in?" she asked, at the same
time entering with an air which took imme-
diate possession of all I had.
"If. you can find anything here to interest
you," i said, trying to sustain my dignity in
the midst of my amazement.
"It is a pretty room," she said, sinking into
my own easy chair with a grace I could never
hope to imitate. "But I want to talk to you."
I seated myself on a low ottoman by the fire,
pressing my head against the cool marble man-
tle, silently waiting for her to begin. With
her first words, I clasped my hands tightly to-
gether.
"You spoke about my English, and I want to
tell you all about the way I learned to speak it."
Then she told me how, six years before, when
she was hardly more than a child, she had come
to this country with he'r father to visit his sis-
ter. How her first love had been won by a
young artist, then poor and unknown to fame.
Her lover was rejected for her scornfully, and
her father hurried back to Paris lest his jewel
might be stolen from him. How they had re-
mained faithful to each other through all these
years, until she was free to come back to him.-
She had received a letter from him that morn-
ing, in which he begged to see her, and Will
Wrayburg had gone now to bring him to her.
"Imagine! I shall see him again, after all my
long waiting," she exclaimed, and her happi-
ness seemed to transform her well-regulated
affability into positive enthusiasm. "But I
forgot to tell you the part of my life which will
please you most," she added. "Dear papa
took a great liking to Mr. Wrayburg, and
thought that if I wanted to marry or be in
love, he could not select a better person. 1 did
not doubt this, but you see I had already prom-
ised my heart, so I had nothing to do, to save
myself, but to tell him my little secret, and beg
of him to refuse me," and she laughed over the
remembrance of her strategy. "Do you know
what he told me?"
"No;" I answered, mechanically.
"He told me of a love as true as my own,
which he had long felt for one he had left in his
own home, and her name was Nellie Peyton I"
While she was speaking the sound of her
voice grew fainter and fainter, till at last it
seemed as if she only whispered my name;
then for an instant all was dark and still. It
could only have been for an instant, for when
everything returned to me again, I was lying
on the floor, my head resting on the seat from
which I had slipped, while Clemence Janin
bent over me tenderly, endeavoring to rub
some warmth into my cold hands. It seemed
so strange—she whom I had looked upon as my
enemy had proved herself my best friend all
the time.
"OI», I am so glad!" she exclaimed, with
genuine sympathy; "I thought I had killed
you."
Then she told me how her gratitude to Will
had prompted her to tell me all, he had been
so unhappy about the captain. What a foolish
waste of time the past week appeared 1 We
sat talking over our lovers and making mutual
confessions, until Ginnie came to warn us of
the lateness of the hour; then we three sat
talking a little longer in the twilight, discuss-
ing a project of Ginnie's for the evening's'
amusement, all firm friends for life. Will was
right after all.
The New York train did not arrive till ten
o'clock; so, but for Ginnie's project, the in-
tervening hours would have passed wearily
enough for two of us at least. The river was
one smooth sheet of ice, and it was a clear
532
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
moonlight night, tweace-
f ul and more refining pursuits of industry, has
fortunately passed away, and with it the many
ideas and speculations which were character-
istic of a period abounding in fable and super-
stition, and often, in its splendor and magnifi-
cence, ignorant and degraded.
In no respect is the character of a nation
more clearly and faithfully portrayed than by
its literature. A writer has said: "Give me
but the bafrads of a people and I will give you
their character." We estimate, no less, the re-
ligious convictions of society from the writings
of its literary men, than from the history itself;
for to write of a people at all is to write their
history, and to express one's own thoughts is
to give likewise the ideas of the people of his
time. To be a scholar one must be familiar
with every kind of literature, and he must be
able to give information on subjects embraced
in every kind of learning. Says Doctor John-
son: "To talk in public, to think in solitude,
to read and to hear, to inquire and answer in-
quiries, is the business of a scholar," and there
exists no reason why the professional man, the
man of business, and the man of leisure, should
not all be scholars, able to understand and ap-
preciate learning not embraced in their own
pursuits, and willing to contribute their part
toward the advancement and dissemination of
knowledge.
There Is a tendency among the business and
common class of people to neglect the higher
varieties of literature; the one not considering,
in the anxiety and care of their pursuit, their
debt to society, the other, not thinking of it or
caring for it. But there is, however, a daily
improvement, which, though slow in its ad-
vancement, is, nevertheless, producing a re-
formation among the classes of people most
needing it.
Our literature may be divided into three
heads—history, poetry, and fiction. Of the
three, the first is obviously the most impor-
tant. History, it has been said, is philosophy
teaching by examples; its readers learn of the
causes and means by which nations increase
in power and become renowned, the results of
religion, philosophy, or science upon them, the
means by which they retain their power, or,
finally, the causes which tend to undermine
their strength and make them the reproach of
nations.
It is difficult to determine upon the historical
works which should be especially read, although
those giving events with their causes and effects
with the greatest clearness and elegance are
undoubtedly the most beneficial. The histo-
rian may choose his subject from the wide field
presented to his labor; he may describe the
great events which have changed the aspect of
a people or of the world; or, on the other hand,
he may record that onward course of a nation
or of mankind which usually succeeds every
great social change, for "to write history re-
spectably," says an English writer, "is very
easy, but to be a really great historian is per-
haps the greatest of intellectual distinctions."
Among writers of the above class must cer-
tainly be included Gibbon, Hume, and Macau-
lay. Ancient history and mythology should
also receive a large share of attention from the
student, the latter, from its close connection
with the religion of the ancients, the former,
from the fact that it is likewise a record of the
deeds of our ancestors. A knowledge of Latin
and Greek is not absolutely necessary for the ap-
preciation of the classics; our English versions
serve to give us a knowledge of the literature
of that time which, in turn, never fails to in-
fluence our own composition. Poetry can be
no better defined than by the words of a poet.
"As imagination bodies forth the forms of
things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to
A PLEA FOB LEARNING.
533
shapes and gives to airy nothing a local habi-
tation ami a name.'"
We often peruse it as a pastime, and there is
none, indeed, more pleasant and instructive,
and none more productive of good results;
from the time of Homer to the present day it
has ever exerted its influence; among barba-
rous nations from its sublimity and the cele-
bration of their favorite occupation—warfare,
and among the people of the present day from
its intelligence, philosophy, or eloquence. It
is common for well known poets to write at
times verses which, to many of us, betray net
ther beauty nor elegance in composition or
thought, while there exist many in our own
country as well as elsewhere whose produc-
tions are always ad mired and quoted by people
of almost every nation. This results simply
from diversity of taste. In eloquence and poe-
try the Asiatics at no time relished anything but
what was full of ornament and splendid in a
degree we should characterize as gaudy ; while
the Greets admired only chaste arid simple
beauties, and despised the ostentation of the
Asiatics. In our own country how many writ-
ings that were much admired a few centuries
ago, are now fallen into discredit and oblivion.
Without quoting instances of antiquity, how
very different is the taste of poetry which pre-
vails in Great Britain at the present from what
prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of
James II., which the authors, too, of that time
styled an Augustan age; where the simple
grandeur of Milton was overlooked, when
"Paradise Lost" was entirely forgotten, and
when Cowley's labored and unnatural con-
ceits were admired as the very quintessence of
genius. The question is, what conclusion are
we to form from these facts? Is it possible
that the writers of that time and the present
were, and continue to be, entirely ignorant of
the art of refined composition? Most certainly
not; but it proves, as I have said before, a di-
versity of tastes, the variations of which are so
great and so frequent, as to create in some the
suspicion that it is grounded on no foundation,
but wholly dependent on changing fancy.
Again, authority or prejudice may, in one age
or country, have caused people to disregard
the works of a really good author, but when a
foreigner or their posterity examine his pro-
ductions, his beauties are discerned and his
faults overlooked.
Another class of literature, which we desig-
nate as fiction, occupies an important place in
our reading matter, not so much from its worth
as from its abundance. It is read by all classes
of people; from the pages of the dime novel as
well as the productions of celebrated authors.
The working class of people are generally loath
to spend their leisure hours in study, and natu-
rally choose this class as requiring the least
application and affording the most excitement
Of the different varieties, there are some which,
by their elegance in style and composition, their
historical or their religious tendency, exert a
beneficial influence over the community by
civil or social reform. The works of Johnson,
Walter Scott, and Dickens never grow old,
but ever live to amuse us; and the writings of
Bulwer, Thackeray, and Goldsmith have al-
ways been acceptable to us, and serve to ren-
der instructive the passing hour.
Our people have been called a reading peo-
ple; and if we are superior to many other races
in intellect, culture, or perseverance, we owe
that pre-eminence, in a great measure, to our
literature. When ancient nations have risen
to eminence and power, it has been invariably
through the medium of religion or learning,
while luxury and indolence have rendered
weak and tottering the foundations of mighty
empires. With such past records before us, it
is but natural that we should read and reflect,
that we should think less and less of the re-
wards of victory, that the bloodshed of the
arena should long since have ceased to give us
pleasure, and that our lives should be more
productive of good results. The fact that evil
is less prevalent in our community at present
than it was one hundred years ago, is yet to be
proved; yet the tendency to cultivate the higher
class of English composition has, without doubt,
greatly increased. Some one has remarked,
"For general information read anything and
everything." Such advice may be good, but
it is not, however, the opinion of our reading
men; the exploits of criminals and the writ-
ings of unprincipled authors may benefit the
community and exert a beneficial influence
upon our children, but past examples refute
the opinion. The mind of youth receives too
readily and with too little consideration pro-
ductions of this nature; erroneous ideas, when
once accepted, are not easily eradicated. Says
Doctor Arnold: "The hold which a man's af-
fections have on him is the most dangerous be-
cause the least suspected; and one may become
an idolater almost before he feels the least
sense of danger." Were the good impressions
we receive retained with half that tenacity
which characterizes our notions of evil, the
change would be great both in our lives and
doctrines.
As the range of an individual is generally con-
fined to narrow limits, it is extremely rare that
everything necessary to be known comes within
our reach; language is an admirable invention
for supplying that deficiency, for by language
every man's perceptions may be communicated
to all, and the means which nature has afforded
us suffice to create ideas without number, and
provide every person with a sufficient supply
to answer even for the elegances of life;
through its influence we free ourselves from
the distasteful influences which surround us;
and in the midst of adversity find in it a resort
of peace and comfort.
534
OODET'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
THE BROKEN PITCHER.
FROM THE GERMAN OP ZCHOKKB.
MABIETTE.
La Napoule is, indeed, but a small place in
tlie district of Cannes, yet it is well known
throughout the whole province. It lies in the
shadow of evergreens and pomegranates. But
it is not for that that it is famous. It is said
that there grow the richest clusters of grapes,
the sweetest roses, and the most beautiful
maidens. I do not know it, but am willing to
believe it. A pity that La Napoule is so small
that of the rich grapes, sweet roses, and beau-
tiful maidens, it cannot produce enough that
we, too, might have some of them with us.
Since tho building of La Napoule, all its wo-
men have been fair, so that, beyond all doubt,
the little Mariette must have been a wonder
of wonders, because the chronicle makes espe-
cial mention of her. She was called, indeed,
the little Mariette, yet she was not smaller
than maidens of sixteen usually are.
The chronicle had good reason to speak of
Mariette. I should have done the same if I
had been in the place of the chronicle; for
Mariette, who, with her Mother Manon, had
been living in Avginon, turned her native place
nearly topsy-turvy upon her return. I do not
mean the houses, but the heads of the people;
not the heads of all the people, but pre-emi-
nently the heads of those whose heads and
hearts are always in danger in the vicinity of
soul-full eyes. I know that in such cases it is
not well to joke.
Mother Manon would have done better had
she remained in Avignon. But she had in-
herited a small property in La Napoule. She
received a small estate with some vineyards
and a pretty house in the shadow of a rock,
between olives and African acacias. No poor
widow refuses such a thing. Now was she, in
her own opinion, as rich and fortunate as if
she were Countess of Provence, or the like.
It went so much the worse with the poor La
Napoulese. They had not foreseen such ill
luck, and had not read in Homer that a pretty
woman could bring all Greece and Asia Minor
into discord.
HOW THE MISFORTUNE CAME ABOUT.
Scarcely had Mariette been a fortnight in the
house between the olives and acacias, before
each young La Napoulese knew that Mariette
lived there, and that in all Provence dwelt no
more charming maiden than in that house.
Went she through the market-place, moving
like an angel in disguise, in fluttering cloak,
pale green bodice, on her bosom orange-blos-
soms and rosebuds, and flowers and ribbons
waving on the gay hat that shaded her face;
then, indeed, wero the old persuaded, and the
young dumb. And right and left opened a
window or a door along the way. "Good-
morningl" they said, or "Good-evening, Mari-
ette 1" And she nodded right and left, smil-
ingly.
If Mariette came into church, all hearts (I
mean young ones) left Heaven, and all eyes
turned from the holy man, and fingers went
astray among the pearls of the rosary. That
surely must have caused great pain, particu-
larly to the pious.
At this time, without doubt, were the maid-
ens-of La Napoule particularly pious, for they
were the most offended. And they were scarce-
ly to blame for being offended. For, since
Marietta's arrival, more than one bridegroom
had become cool, and more than one devoted
lover had forsaken his beloved. There was
much contention and reproaching everywhere,
and many tears and refusals. Weddings were
no longer spoken of taut separations. Pledges
of constancy, rings, and ribbons were sent
back. The old mixed themselves in the quar-
rels of their children. Contention and strife
ran from house to house. It was a deplorable
state of things. "Mariette is the cause of it
all," said the pious maidens. The mothers
said the same; then the fathers, and, at last,
even the young men.
But Mariette, enveloped in her modesty and
innocence, like the opening glow of the rose-
bud in the dark green of the calyx, suspected
nothing of the great misery, and remained
friendly to all. This moved first the young
men, and they said, "Why trouble the friendly,
harmless child? she is innocent." Then the
fathers said the same, then the mothers, and
at last even the pious maidens. For who ever
spoke with Mariette without loving her? And
before a half year passed all had spoken with
her, and to each she was dear. But she did
not know that she was so beloved, as before
she had not Ttnowu that she could be bated.
Does the violet, oft trodden down in the grass,
suspect its worth 1
Now each man and woman wished to atone
for their injustice to Mariette. Sympathy in-
creased the tenderness of their affection. Ma-
riette found herself greeted more friendly,
smiled at more friendly, and more friendly in-
vited to the country plays and dances.
OF THE MALICIOUS COLTS.
Yet have not all the gift of sweet sympathy;
but some have hearts as hard as Pharaoh's.
This comes, without doubt, from the natural
depravity of man since the fall.
A remarkable example of such hard heart-
edness was young Colin, the richest farmer and
landed proprietor in La Napoule, who could
scarcely in a day run through his vineyards
and olive gardens, citron and pomegranate
woods. Even this showed the natural deprav-
ity of his heart, in that he was nearly seven
and twenty years old, without having once
THE BROKEN PITCHER.
535
questioned why a maiden was created. It is
true that all people, particularly maidens of
an age when they willingly forgive sins, held
Colin for the best young man in the world.
His figure, his frank, ingenuous manner, his
look, his smile, had the fortune to please the
above-mentioned people, who would have for-
given him, if need be, for all the sins that cry
to Heaven. But it Is not well to trust the de-
cisions of such judges.
While old and young had forgiven Mariette,
and compassionately sought her company,
Colin was the only one who had no sympathy
for the poor child. Was Mariette spoken of,
he became as dumb as a fish; met he her on
the street, he became red and white from scorn,
and threw withering glances at her. When at
evening the young people met for a frolic, or
for a country dance on the shore of the sea
near the ruins of the old castle, Colin failed
not to be there. But as soon as Mariette ar-
rived, the spiteful Colin became silent, and
would not sing again for all the gold in the
world. It was a pity, for his voice was so
sweet. Every one liked to hear him, and his
songs were inexhaustible.
All the maidens liked Colin, and he was
friendly with all. lie had, as has been said, a
roguish look, which maidens fear and love,
and when he smiled he was worthy to be paint-
ed. But naturally, the oft-injured Mariette
cared not for him. And there she was per-
fectly right. Whether he laughed or not, it
was the same to her. She did not like to
hear his roguish look spoken of. And there
she was right again. If he told stories, and he
knew many, and all listened, Mariette would
tease her nearest neighbor, and pelt, now
Peter, now Paul, with uprooted weeds, and
laughed and chatted, and would not listen to
Colin. That offended tho. proud man. He
broke off in the midst of the story, and went
away with dark looks.
Vengeance is sweet. The daughter of Manon
had, then, good cause to triumph. But Mari-
ette was all too good, and her heart was ten-
der. She was sorry when he became silent,
and when he became sad she lost all desire to
laugh. If he went away, she wished to remain
no longer, and when she was home she wept
more tears than Magdalene; and yet she had
not sinned as much.
THE PITCHER.
The pastor of La Napoule, Father Jerome, a
gray-haired man of seventy years, had all the
virtues of a saint, and his only fault was, that
because of his great age he was very hard of
hearing. But yet he preached to the edifica-
tion of those whom he had baptized when chil-
dren, and whose Father Confessor he was. It
is true, he preached continually from only two
texts, as if his whole religion dwelt in them.
Yet truly therein lay so much of faith, hope,
and charity, that they might well make one
blessed. Either, "Little children, love one an-
other," or, "The dispensations of Heaven are
mysterious." The children, wholly obedient,
loved one another, and hoped on the dispensa-
tions of Heaven. Only Colin, with the stone-
hard heart, would not attend.
The La Napoulese are fond of going to the
yearly fair. There is joyful life, and although,
perhaps, but little gold, yet many wares. Ma-
riette was there with her mother, and Colin
also was there. He bought for bis friends
many dainties, but for Mariette not a sou's
worth. And yet he was always near. But he
spoke not to her, nor she to him. One could
well see that he was brooding over some evil
designs.
Mother Manon stopped before a shop and
said: "O Mariette! See that beautiful pitcher I
A queen need not be ashamed to touch it to
her lips. Only see I the rim is of shining gold,
and the flowers on it bloom as fair as those in
the garden, and yet they are painted. And
the Paradise — see, Mariette, how invitingly
the apples laugh from tho tree. One longs for
them. And Adam cannot withstand, as the
lovely Eve offers him one to taste, and see yet
how the little lamb skips around the old tiger,
and the snow-white dove with the yellow-green
neck stands before the vulture as if she would
caress him."
Mariette could not look at it enough. "If I
had suchapitcher, mother," said she, "Iwould
put my flowers in it, and look continually at
the Paradise. It is much too beautiful to drink
out of. We are in the market-place, and yet
when I see the picture, it seems to me as if I
were in Paradise."
So spake Mariette, and called all her young
friends to her to admire the pitcher; and soon
all the young folks, and finally nearly all the
inhabitants of La Napoule stood before it.
And it was indeed wonderfully beautiful, of
the most costly porcelain, with gilt bands and
bright colors. Occasionally some one would
ask how much it was worth. And the mer-
chant answered, "A hundred livres is its low-
est price." Then they became silent and went
away.
When no one else stood before the shop,
Colin came stealing in, threw the merchant a
hundred livres on the table, had the pitcher
laid in a box with cotton around it, and carried
it away. No man knew what was his evil plan. ,
Near La Napoule, on his homeward way,^
when it was already dark, Colin met the old
Jacques, the servant of the judge, who came
from the field. Jacques was a good man, but
very stupid. ,
"I will give you some money for a drink,
Jacques," said Colin, "if you will take this
box to Manon's house. And if any observes
you and questions you, say that a stranger
538
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
everybody cried, "He has it of Mariette;" and
all the maidens said, angrily, "The repro-
bate!" and all the youths who loved to look
at Mariette repeated, "The reprobate 1"
"Now, Mother Manon!" cried Herr Haut-
martiti—and he cried so loud that it echoed
wonderfully in his nose—"Now, why do you
permit my bride to present the young farmer
Colin with her hat ribbon? It is high time for
our wedding. When that is over, I shall have
a right to talk."
"You are right," answered Mother Manon;
"if the matter stands thus, the wedding must
soon take place. When that is past all is past."
"But, Mother Manon, your daughter still re-
fuses her consent."
"Prepare the wedding feast."
"But she will not give mo one friendly look;
and when I attempt to sit by her the wild little
thing runs away."
"Prepare you the wedding feast, Herr Haut-
martin."
"But if Mariette resists?"
"We will take her unawares. We will go to
Father Jerome. To-morrow morning, while
all is quiet, he shall perform the ceremony.
We will make him understand. I am the
mother, you are the first magistrate in La Na-
poule. lie must consent. Mariette need not
know. Early in the morning I will send her
to Father Jerome with an errand, so that she
will suspect nothing. Then the pastor shall
exhort her. Half an hour later we two will
arrive. Then quick to the altar; and if Mari-
ette there says no, what matters it? The old
pastor cannot hear, you know. Be silent mean-
time to Mariette and all La Napoule."
This was the agreement between them. Ma-
riette did not dream of the happiness that
awaited her. She thought only of the knavery
of Colin, which had brought her to be the talk
of the whole place. Ah! how she repented of
her thoughtlessness with the ribbon; and yet
with all her heart she forgave the criminal his
offence. Mariette was much too good. She
said to her mother, she said to all her compan-
ions, "Colin has found my lost ribbon; I have
not given it to him. He wishes to vex me.
You all know that Colin has always been un-
friendly to me, and has always sought how he
could annoy me."
Ah, poor child! She little thought what
atrocity the malicious man was planning.
THE BROKEN PITCHER.
In the morning early Mariette went out with
the pitcher to the spring. No flowers were
lying on the rock. It was, indeed, too early—
the sun was scarcely yet risen out of the sea.
Footsteps approached. Colin came; in his
hand the flowers. Mariette's face became crim-
son. Colin stammered, "Good-morning, Ma-
riette !" but the greeting did not come from his
heart—he could scarcely bring it over his lips.
"Why do you wear my ribbon so openly,
Colin ?" said Mariette, and set her pitcher down
on the rock. "I did not give it to you."
"Did not give it to me, Mariette?" asked he,
and turned pale with suppre'sscd wrath.
Mariette was ashamed of her falsehood,
dropped her eyes, and said, after a pause,
"Well, I have given it to you, but you should
not wear it to show. Give it back to me."
He untied the ribbon slowly. His vexation
was so great that he could not conceal the tears
In his eyes nor the sighs of his heart.
"Mariette, let me keep the ribbon?"
"No!" answered she.
Then his suppressed wrath turned to despair.
He looked with a sigh towards Heaven, and
then towards Mariette, who, with downcast
eyes and innocent look, stood quietly at the
spring. He wound the violet-colored ribbon
around the stems of the flowers, cried, "So,
then, take all!" and hurled the flowers so ma-
lignantly at the pitcher, that it fell from the
rock and was broken. Colin fled.
Mother Manon, watching from the window,
had heard and seen all. But when the pitcher
broke, she lost the power of seeing and hear-
ing. She was scarcely able to speak for terror.
And, as she pushed herself through the little
window to cry after the criminal, she tore it
out of the decayed framework, so that it fell
to the ground with a crash and was broken.
So much ill-luck might well have destroyed
the self-possession of any woman. But Manon
soon recovered herself. "A luck that I was a
witness of his evil deed," she said to herself.
"He must go before the Judge. He shall repay
me for the pitcher and for the window. That
will give Mariette a good outfit."
But when Mariette brought the pieces of the
pitcher—when Manon saw the lost Paradise,
the good Adam, with but the legs remaining,
and Eve without a head; the serpent, undis-
turbed, triumphing; the tiger uninjured; but
of the little lamb, nothing left but the tail, as
if the tiger had devoured him; then she broke,
howling into imprecations of Colin, and said:
"One can well see that the throw came from
the devil's own hand."
THE TRIBUNAL.
And she took the pitcher in one, and Mari-
ette by the other hand, and went about nine
o'clock to Judge Hautmartin, who was accus-
tomed to hold court at that hour. With loud
cry, she brought forward her complaint, and
showed the broken pitcher and the lost Para-
dise. Mariette wept bitterly.
The judge, as he saw the broken pitcher, and
his beautiful bride in tears, fell into just indig-
nation against Colin, and his nose becamo as
violet-colored as Mariette's famous ribbon.
He ordered the officers to bring the evil-doer
immediately before him.
Colin came in deep distress. Mother Maoon
THE BROKEN PITCHER.
539
repeated her complaint before the judge, the!
beadles, and the clerks. But Colin heard no-
thing. He stepped to Marietta's side, and I
whispered, "Forgive me, Mariette, as I forgive
thee. I have broken thy pitcher, but thou, |
thou hast broken my heart."
"What is that whispering there?" cried
Judge Hautmartin, with magisterial dignity.
"Listen to your accusation, and defend your-
self."
"I do not defend myself," said Colin. "I
broke the pitcher, although without intending
it."
"That I believe myself," said the sobbing
Mariette. "I am as guilty as he; for I had
offended him and made him angry; then he
threw me the ribbon and the flowers without
taking care. He was not to blame."
"Eh, see there, now I" screamed Mother
Manon. "Will the maiden be his advocate?
Here, judge, speak! He has broken the pitcher,
that he does not deny; and I, on his account,
have broken the window. If he denies that,
he can see it for himself."
"You cannot deny it, Herr Colin," said the
judge. "I therefore require of yon that you
pay three hundred livres for the pitcher, for so
much is it worth; and then for"—
"No," cried Colin, "it is not worth so much;
I bought it at the fair for one hundred livres."
"You bought it, you shameless man?" cried
the judge, and his whole countenance became
the color of Mariette's hat ribbon. Yet more
he could not and would not say, for he feared
opposing testimony in the matter.
But Colin was angry at the reproach, and
said: "I sent this pitcher to Mariette on the
evening of the fair by your own servant.
Yonder he stands at the door; he is witness.
Jacques, speak I Did I not give you the box
to carry to Frau Manon?"
Herr Hautmartin wanted to break in upon
them witli thundering voice. But the simple
Jacques said: "Bethink yourself, master; you
took Colin's box and carried it for me yourself
to Frau Manon. The box lies there yet under
the papers."
The beadle was ordered to thrust out the
simple Jacques, and Colin was also dismissed
until he should be again summoned.
"Very well, Herr Judge," thought Colin;
"but this trick shall be your last in La Xapoule.
I know more than this; that with my property
you have sought to bring yourself into favor
with Frau Manon and Mariette. When you
seek me, you would do well to ride to Grasse,
to the high bailiff."
Herr Hautmartin was sorely perplexed over
the business; and in his perplexity knew pot
what he did. Frau Manon shook her head.
The matter had become very dark and suspi-
cious. "Who will now repay me for the broken
pitcher?" said she. "To me," thought Mari-
ette, with glowing countenance, "to me it is
already well repaid."
MYSTERIOUS DISPENSATIONS.
Colin rode the same day to Grasse to see the
Lord High Bailiff. Herr Hautmartin laughed,
and talked Mother Manon out of all suspicion,
and swore he would let his nose be cut off if
Colin was not obliged to pay the three hundred
livres for the broken pitcher. He also went
with Frau Manon to Father Jerome to tell him
about the wedding. He endeavored to impress
well upon the mind of the pastor that he must
earnestly place before Mariette her duty, as an
obedient daughter, not to oppose the will of
her mother.' The good old man promised, al-
though he had not understood the half of what
they had screamed in his ears.
Mariette took the broken pitcher into her
bed-room, and it was now for the first time
really dear to her. It seemed to her as if
Paradise had entered her breast since it had
disappeared from the pitcher. When Monday
morning came, Mother Manon said to her
daughter :—
"Dress yourself well, and carry this myrtle
wreath to Father Jerome; he wishes it for a
bride."
Mariette dressed herself in her Sunday
clothes, took the wreath without suspicion,
and carried it to Father Jerome. On the way
she met Colin, who greeted her in a friendly
though shy manner, and when she told where
she was going, Colin said :—
"I am going the same way, for I must take
the tithe money to the pastor."
And, as they went, he took her hand silently.
Then they both trembled, as if they had a
crime upon their consciences.
"Hast thou forgiven me?" whispered Colin,
anxiously. "Ah, Mariette! what have I done
that thou art so cruel to me?"
But she could say nothing but "Be quiet,
Colin. You shall have the ribbon again, and
I will keep your pitcher. I hope it was, indeed,
from you."
"Mariette, canst thou doubt it? All that I
have I would willingly give thee. Wilt tnou
be in future friendly to me as to others?"
She answered nothing; but, as they entered
the parsonage, she glanced at him sideways,
and when she saw that his beautiful eyes were
wet, she whispered, "Dear Colin!" Then he
bowed himself and kissed her hand. The
door of a room opened, and Father Jerome
stood before them, with venerable aspect.
The young people must have been dizzy, for
they held fast to one another. Whether it was
the effect of the hand-kissing, or of their ven-
eration for their aged pastor, I know not
Mariette reached him the myrtle wreath. He
placed it on her head, and said, "Little chil-
dren, love one another," and exhorted the
maiden, in the most moving and toughing
POETRY.
543
Then, clinging to Ills mother's baud he climbed
Vesuvius' sides,
O'er whicli iu oldeu time down swept death-dealing
lava tides.
With boyish wonder oft he listened to the direful
tale
Of human life burled beneath that fearful, fiery hall.
The young, the beautiful, the fair, proud mauhood,
strong and brave,
Engulfed in one short hour within a burning, voice-
less grave I
Full oft he M steered his bright boat o'er strong arch
and bauquet room,
Where youths and lovely maids had met in all life's
glorious bloom.
Not dreaming that the mount denned agaiust the
drifting cloud
Would e'er enwrap their great, proud city In a molten
shroud.
He'd sojourned in imperial Kome where crime and
power stalked, .
Where lust of gold and hydra - headed persecution
walked;
Had mused on Monte Cavo's height—by Tiber's flood
had stayed
Where centuries agone a band of humble Christians
prayed.
He 'd walked in Quintian meadows and along the
Applan Way,
Where e'en the breezes whispered of vain pomp's
swift, fleeting day;
At Padua, swept his harp and sung of Godfrey's
wondrous feats
Before the Moslem oped to him the Holy City's gates.
He'd lingered long in Tuscany, whose lovely grape-
hung bowers
Him softly wooed to spend his life In that fair laud
of flowers;
The sunny, vlne-clad vales shut in with towering
mountain chain.
To which It seemed grim, adverse fate might en-
trance seek in valu.
Upon the purling streets of that great city on the
isles,
Where the sea doth ebb and flow 'mid massive mar-
ble piles,
He 'd floated and had stood upon the fearful Bridge
of Sighs,
Above which men had passed to cells where hope
could never rise.
And often he had mused beneath the silent, sliver
moon
In St. Mark's square, where all night long the gon-
dolier's quaint tune
Eesounded—sometimes faint, then loud, along each
floating street,
Now stealing into palaces where pomp and fashion
meet.
But all the charms of gay, grand cities him could not
enchain,
His footsteps to Terrara turned again and yet again;
Drawn by the mystic cords of love, for Este's princess
fair.
Sweet Leonora, best and loveliest of the land, dwelt
there.
Grim, iron-browed Misfortune e'er since his boyhood
days
Had dogged his track e'en while he sung his love-
liest, sweetest lays:
And now, an air of prescience lingered round his
noble brow,
Dim adumbration of that fate 'neath which his soul
1 must bow.
His home a noisome prison was, and he had bribed
that night
His keeper to withdraw his bars and let him drink
the light
Of heaven once more. Cosandoll's green graves he
quickly sought.
Within whose bosky shades revolved the poet's every
thought
Hi9 grave eye never left the casement where out on
the glooms
The yellow lances softly flickered In the acacia
plumes.
Flickered through the silken, purple curtains hang-
ing there,
From whose lustrous folds looked forth Tcrrara's
daughter fair.
Through vines upon the marble floor the ghostly
moonbeams coil.
And in the golden censers burn a costly, perfumed
oil;
Rich works of art—9tatues and pictures rare adorn
the room,
And over all there hovers low a heavy, brooding
gloom.
Her quick ears catch the pulsing strains that from
the garden rise,
Her deep eyes brighten like the stars that glow In
southern skies;
Across the tesellated floor her robes of velvet glide.
With beating heart she swift descends the marble
stairway wide.
Deep witlilu the dusky grove sepulchral breezes
moan,
Alway upon their hapless love a baleful star hath
shone;
They seek a grotto where the purling river, darkling
lies—
With furtive glances backward cast—they fear the
palace spies.
The viewless hours swiftly speed—they part to meet
no more
'Till they have crossed the mystic Styx and reached
the shining shore;
He to his noisome cell returns—she to the palace,
where
Amid the draper'd walls there lurks the demon of
despair.
The earth once more her orbit tracked on time's
swift, rushing wheels,
When on the princess' waiting ear Death's welcome
summons steals;
Seven years he pined In dungeons dank, 'mid clank-
ing chains and lone,
The child of genius asked for bread—alas, received
a stone.
When chilling dissolution fell upon his gracious face,
They bore him to the Vatican—crowned him with
glowing bays;
Oh, mockery! the quivering leaves with death's cold
dews were dim!
Ah, one more prophet man had stoned that Heaven
had sent to him.
He who does a good turn should never re-
member it.
Many take less care of conscience than their
reputation.
UNTO THE END.
upon liim; and poor Aunt Esther felt her
brave heart "shrink from the burden, and in
very weakness she prayed to die, too.
But it is through suffering that we are taught
how to live, and more than earthly hands were
about her in her hour of utter need, when she
cried out in bitter agony, and as gold from tho
crucible she rose from her sorrows purified.
The twelfth anniversary of her marriage, which
occurred only a few wdeks after her husband's
death, John Eathburn came from the nearest
railway station, and put in Aunt Esther's arms
his little motherless baby.
"Keep the child forever, Esther, and if you
can, give her the place your own baby would
have filled, 1 know you will be good to her;
better than ever I could be; for every time I
look at her, I cannot help thinking that my
precious wife gave up for this puny morsel of
humanity a life infinitely dearer to me than
my own. It's neither kind nor fatherly, but
just now I can't help it, when my heart is cry-
ing so sorely for Eunice."
And dear Aunt Esther cuddled the little one
up to her soft neck, and with tears in her eyes
looked up and understood that the good Father,
who never forgets us, and never afflicts us
willingly, had remembered the day, and early
had sent the sweet little comfort that was to
be her sunshine in all the years to come.
"God's own gift to me," she said that night,
as she reverently opened the family Bible, and
wrote the baby's name Dorothy. It had a
place there, you see, for John had been her
husband's youngest and favorite brother.
And so the years rolled on, and her great
sorrow was lightened; and now her little Dor-
rie, from being her darling, had become the
pet and beauty of the neighborhood ; and great,
tall, handsome fellows were beginning to think
that she would grace their homes a great deal
better than she did her own.
Harvey Densmore had been Dome's cham-
pion since her first day at school, when she
talked out loud, and ran across the room in
school-time to sit with him; and he was no
laggard in love in later years, when other
young men began to admire the piquant little
beauty, and to think that he was appropriating
her altogether too much to himself. Aunt
Esther liked him; his farm joined hers, and
he was Dome's first offer; and so it happened
that before she thoroughly understood what
love meant, or what it was to be free, she was
his promised wife, and now in a little more
than a year she was chafing over bonds that
should have been flowery.
It was only a girlish discontent, Aunt Esther
thought, and to brighten tho steady monotony
of their country life she opened her house to
summer boarders, much as 6he dreaded the in-
road upon the quiet that was so peaceful to her.
They only offered their two front chambers,
however, and, in reply to their advertisement,
VOL. XCI.—35
two gentlemen cnnu> in a quiet, unassuming
way, to settle for the summer, causing no re-
mark, and creating no furore in the country
around about; but to traitorous Dorrie, a side
door had been opened, and she had caught a
glimpse of the wonderful treasures the beauti-
ful world contained.
Oliver Randall was a scholarly man—a book-
worm, almost; and his constant studies had so
worn upon him that he sought to renew his
health from the fountain of pure ah- that only
the country could afford. But he was gray,
and sixty; kind always, but absent and for-
getful, and the last person in tho world to
apprehend danger from.
Richard Osmund was a different man alto-
gether, and might have heen anywhere from
twenty-five to forty. Evidently from the world
and of it, he was courteous, deferential, digni-
fied, an entertaining conversationalist, and a
man too well bred to be forgetful of any one.
His health was perfect, and the trout that filled
the streams were his attraction.
Careful of Harvey's interest, and with an in-
stinctive dislike of his handsome face, Aunt
Esther turned resolutely away; but in spite of
all her resolutions, his trunk was carried to
the pleasant southwest chamber, and he was
domiciled for the summer.
"1 really could not help it," she said to nar-
vey, when he remonstrated with her, "he was
so pleasant, and 1 could offer no excuse for not
taking him after the advertisement. My house
was not full, you know?"
"No, of course not; but if you found him
irresistible, what will he be to Dorrie, with his
white hands and polished ways? I never
thought of gentlemen, when I seconded so
warmly your plan of taking boarders, last
spring."
"Don't be jealous, narvey, without any rea-
son, and give Dorrio credit for a little sense.
She will not forgot that she is your promised
wife, I assure you," replied Aunt Esther, se-
verely.
And this same quiet Aunt Esther had a way
of her own, that people understood and re-
spected; and Harvey, much as he knew she
thought of him, felt the rebuke, and went his
way home troubled and perplexed.
Dorrie did not say very much, but life for
her that summer was a most exquisite pleas-
ure; and every enjoyment seemed to centre
around Mr. Osmund.
As for that gentleman, he trouted enough to
keep up the reputation, but all the long sum-
mer afternoons he spent with Dorrie, teaching
her to love the poets that he loved, and to reach
up and grasp thoughts that she might other-
wise have read and never noticed. Scott and
Holland and Whittier and Tennyson, and
scores of writers who have given us rare gems,
whose lustre shall never grow dim, had cotno
to seem like friends to her; and Richard Os-
M8
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
And this first day was but a poor sample of the
days that were to fill up her life, and a recital
of half her trials would fill a volume. Every
one said that Mr. Osmund was a most courteous
husband, and he certainly dressed his wife
elegantly; but the charm of her sweet face
was gone when his aunt's sneers condemned
her, and lie doubted his wisdom in being so
hasty; yet she bore his name, and not many
times did he have occasion to rebuke her for
any unfortunate contretemps. He liked to
see her admired, for it did credit to his good
taste, and in his home lie never in the least
suffered his will to be gainsaid; and Dorrie
suffered patiently, too proud to complain of
her husband, though in utter sadness she longed
for the home she was forbidden ever to visit.
Once Aunt Esther came to her; but, though
no words were spoken to that effect, she under-
stood that she was not welcome by the master
of the house ; and, though her darling's heart
was breaking, she dared' not go again. Poor
Dome's parting had been in her own room,
where, clasping her aunt convulsively, she
said :—
"Tell Harvey I did not know my own heart.
I sought the kernel of life's best joys, and
found only an empty shell. My happiness lias
turned to dust and ashes. Ask him to forgive
me, and may God's best blessings be in store
for him, while 1 look afar off unto the end."
CONVOLVULI.
by e. s. liOPKISS.
Blow open bugles of bloom,
O beautiful bugles of bloom!
Wake to life at the kiss of the dew,
Untwist in the odorous gloom;
Wake to die at the death of the dew,
O beautiful bugles of bloom I
Blossom in purple and white.
In crimson, and scarlet, and white,
Tempt the kiss of the amorous sun,
Bloom of the midsummer night;
Lift your lips to the amorous sun
In crimson, scarlet, and white.
Blush into roseate red,
From pink into roseate red,
Tremble and droop at his hot caress.
Till faded, and withered, and dead:
Dead for the love of his hot caress,
Mingle your purple and red.
ALICE'S SUMMER IN HER
VALLEY HOME.
All useless misery is certainly folly, and he
that feels evils before they come may be deserv-
edly censured; yet surely, to dread the future
is more reasonable than to lament the past.
The business of life is to go forward; he who
sees evil in prospect meets it in his way; but
he who catches it by retrospection turns back
to find it. That which is feared may sometimes
be avoided, hut that which is regretted to-day
may be regretted again to-morrow.
LETTER V.
Dear Mr. Godey: We have had quite a gay
month, considering that, we are shut off from
the world by a range of mountains, and are
thirty miles from a railroad. It is true that
for a whole week I was deprived of the society
of Alphonse (as he insisted that I should call
him, and I have gotten accustomed to it now).
The boys took htm to the Alleghenies on a
grand hunting excursion, where he killed one
fine deer, lots of turkeys and pheasants, and
even saw a bear. "1 reckon" he didn't try
much to kill that. Nat, Cousin Jeb, and half
a dozen other of our cousins, made up the
party, and they had a great time. I almost
wish ladies could go a-hunting; I always
longed to camp out. Over in Shenandoah,
where Aunt Mildred lives, I used to see
"movers"—as they were called there, "emi-
grants" you would call them—going from the
Atlantic counties to Kentucky. They were
sometimes so poor that they packed their chil-
dren on a cow ; one on each side, like hampers.
There was a beautiful creek about a hundred
1 yards .from the house, down the old lane, on
the banks of which they used to "camp;" and
when they would come up to the house, as
they invariably did, to ask for a few vegetables
and some milk, I would always go to the camp
with the hired boy auntie would send down
with bread and all kinds of nice things. Dear
old auntie! she always said that such poor
people needed all the help they could get on
their long journey, especially if there were
young children or old people along with them.
Now, no matter how poor they seemed to be,
I somehow always envied them a little—their
Bohemian life, the al fresco supper, the strong
lights and shades, and the knowledge that
they were constantly shifting scenes, yet al-
ways lodged, during the long, long journey,
"under the greenwood tree." I think there
must be a little of the gypsy in my nature, I
am so fond of the free, wild woods. There is
one of Burns' songs I sang to Alphonse one
day we were in Harper's Glen—it seemed that
the description is so apropos to the scene, and
every time we walk in the woods he has me
repeat it. It is the "Bilks of Aberfeldy."
You know the two stanzas—
"The braes ascend like lofty wa's.
The foaming stream deeproariug fa'g,
O'erliung wi' fragrant spreading shaws.
The hirks of Aberfeldy.
The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers.
While o'er the linns the biirnle pours,
And, risin', weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy."
These two stanzas describe our glen exactly.
Well, when I am there, with friends and a
f>50
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
"Oh, yes! 1 seed a-plenty of 'em when I
was out in I-o-wy," he replied, with the great-
est nir of sincerity.
We looked at each other, choked a little,
jumped up and run to Lucy's room, where we
had our laugh out. I really think the old man
entirely believes he has seen all these things.
Being ignorant of all we learn from books, his
imagination magnifies all that is in the past,
and especially what he saw in that famous
journey to "Iowy"—which, in his opinion,
comprises the entire universe. But he is good,
kind, aiid thoughtful, and a very valuable per-
son about the house. Perfectly honest, trust-
worthy, and economical, the pure gold far out-
weighs the tinsel, and Nat and Lucy value him
highly, and would not hurt his feelings for the
world. Having no relatives worth speaking
of, their house makes him a pleasant home,
while he fully compensates them for his board
by taking almost the entire supervision of the
farm and stock.
Aunt Mehitable is getting almost homesick
for Washington, or will be, I'm sure, as soon
as the leaves begin to lose their beauty. 1
caught her the other day reading the society
items in Nat's city papers, and she is entirely-
posted upon theatrical topics. She says she's
real sorry the Delanos are going out; not that
she knows anything about the Secretary, only
he looks real nice and old-fashioned. But she
docs like Mrs. Delano and her daughter, Mrs.
Ames, ever so much, and would be sorry not
to meet them this winter. She can tell me all
about those who have returned from the water-
ing-places, and who are married, and the gene-
ral news of the city, of which I have taken
little note this summer, I assure you. She has
all the jams, Jellies, and preserves set aside
that she means to take to Washington with
her; for she says she has as much right to take
some as Lucy has; but Nat insists that she
only takes them because she knows everybody
will praise them so. The dear old lady seems
unusually well and strong. She has been with
us for a fortnight, and attended us in our nut-
Sings, grape hunting, and huckleberrying, of
which I have not yet said a word.
The huckleberry party was made up a few
days after I sent my last letter. We rode up
the mountain in a large, two-horse wagon, with
hay in the bottom for seats. We had a won-
derful luncheon; for Aunt Hitty said, "It's
astonlsliin' how much you can eat when you 're
on the mountains." We had a boiled ham, a
roast turkey, and fried chickens, besides pies,
pickles, and preserves. We brought a large
bottle of cream and plenty of coffee, with a
coffee-pot to make It in. Our dinner service
consisted altogether of tin pie-plates, tin cups,
and iron knives and forks. But we had a large
and glossy "bird's eye" linen table-cloth, and
plenty of napkins neatly hemmed, made by my
economical mother from the outer parts of worn
table linen, which, the older it grows, the more
satiny it looks when freshly ironed. And the
table we laid on that old mountain top would
have done your eyes good to look upon. In
the first place the tins were scoured as bright
as silver. Then, where it Is so high, the leaves
had already turned beautifully, and many of
the ferns were bleached to a pale corn-color,
looking as delicate as skeleton leaves. 1 got
Alphonse to split several pieces of wood par-
tially through, and fix in wedges to hold them
apart. I then arranged the ferns with a few
bright leaves in the crack, some of the ferns
very pale, and some a dark, rich green. The
wedges were then removed and our pretty or-
naments placed in a double row up the centre
of the table (a large, flat rock). The wood
was then concealed with great fleeces o'f the
moat beautiful moss, and the first florist of
New York could not have surpassed our table
ornament. We also had a bunch of flowers
here and there among the dishes, and bright
leaves laid under each plate all about the edges,
making stars of crimson and gold with discs of
silver (?) There were sixteen of the party—
aunts, uncles, neighbors, and cousins—and a
more merry set of people never made the old
mountain-top ring with shouts and laughter.
The huckleberries grew as thickly as beans in
a patch, and it was only fun to gather them.
We filled bags with them until we had no more
to fill. Then Aunt Hitty made another pot of
her delicious coffee, and we made a second
meal upon the remnants of our noonday feast,
after which we came home, charmed and de-
lighted with our trip. As for the view from
the mountain top, no tongue could tell, no pen
could describe its beauty. A gauzy vail of
blue seemed to hang between us and the broad
valley below, while the mountains on the op-
posite side appeared hundreds of miles away in
the haze; and I could not help thinking that
they stood guard over some valley as happy
as that of Rasselas, where the people knew
neither poverty, pain, nor death.
Aunt nitty has been helping us prepare
autumn leaves for the parlor, and also to fill a
box which Alphonse is going to send to his
mother in France. We have worked several
days upon these beautiful gifts of the autumn,
Aunt Hitty always selecting the loveliest for
the box, as she says she wants the French
folks to know something about our October
woods. We have sewed many strips of white
paper full of them for garlands, and others in
bouquets; and, as I wanted Alphonse to see
the effect, we have decorated the walls of the
old parlor. He is never weary of admiring
them, and says ho knows his mother will be
delighted with her box. We have ferns also,
of many varieties, tacked iu bouquets under
our pictures.
5..-'
G0DE1-S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
OUT OF THE CLOUD.
BY ORIBSA SCKL'OIIAM HOPKINS.
"O God!" and with an almost breaking
heart the girl turned away from the pine coffin
where her father lay. Men had done their
worst, and now ho was resting.
In a drunken spree a few months before, a
man had been killed, and it was decided that
Richard llaight had fired the fatal shot. Justice
is sure and swift to the poor, and soon the sen-
tence in all its cruelty was passed. The girl
with the set white face was his daughter. She
had hung around the jail doors till she was
admitted to his cell. She shrank at first from
the cowering mortal whose groans were so
pitiful, for the strong man dreaded a felon's
death. Everything that could be done to save
him without the ever-potent dollar she had
done, but in vain. When the sentence was
pronounced, she had risen in the court-room,
and, facing the jury, had exclaimed, in clear,
ringing tones: "Men, you are murderers, and
may God make you see the woes you have
caused the innocent!"
The fatal day had come, and she had been
in her father's cell since the doors of the jail
were opened. A Bible lay on the floor, and
the father had turned comforter.
"There may be a God, but he hates us," she
said, bitterly.
The pastor of her mother's church came to
the cell, but she drove him away fiercely.
"Leave us alone! You can soon gloat your
eyes on the man you are murdering. What
devil from Hades taught man of a death so
fiendish?"
But the summons had come, and, rising
from the low cot, he gazed for a moment at
the tortured girl. The folly and dissipation of
his life had left few traces, and the hours of
meditation and repentance of the last few
months had added a dignity to his face that he
had never before possessed.
"It is just, daughter," he said, sadly. "I
have wasted the years I have had, and now
God withholds the others that might have been
mine. I trust him, and am saved 'as if by
fire.' Of this crime lam innocent, but I can
meet death; and yet, my child, what a heritage
is. yours! But"—
The attendants were growing impatient, and
the man left the cell forever. Throwing her-
self on the narrow bed, burying her head In
the pillow, yet warm with her father's life, she
lay moaning for hours, it seemed—not even
mercifully unconscious, till some one roused
her.
"Lois, the body is ready."
Body I And so they had driven the spirit
away.
Who were the Haights? I knew that Mrs.
Ilaight's father was the president of some
eastern college, and that Richard llaight had
been sent there, and had led a dissipated, idle
life, and was finally expelled, taking with him
ns his wife a fair young girl, the only child of
the stately president, who never spoke her
name after the tidings were brought him. A
handsomer man than Richard llaight I never
saw. I used to wonder sometimes whether
some of the old heathen gods, with their mar-
vellously perfect forms, had come back to
earth to dwell, and had received the names
of mortals, when I saw the wild, dashing
Haights.
Well, Richard brought his bride home to his
father's, and one morning a few months later
they were shocked to find the old man dead in
his bed; murdered, perhaps, by some of his
own slaves. Then the crash came, and it was
found, after the creditors were satisfied, that
there remained scarcely a dollar. The boys
wandered away, and Richard rented a part of
the old home-place. For awhile he lived in-
dustriously and soberly, and seemed trying to
retrieve his fallen fortunes; but the tempter
came, and the old career began.
One child was born to them. She inherited
all the beauty of the Haights, and the pride
and strong will of her grandfather Tracy.
She made few friends; for, while sweetly gra-
cious to her inferiors, she could not endure the
patronizing of those who would have recog-
nized her for what the Haights once were.
They had gradually sunk lower and lower, till
at the time of her father's death they were liv-
ing in a little cabin on my father's place.
How keenly she felt the disgrace of her father's
course! Shut off from the companionship of
those of her own age, she lived only in books.
All her leisure hours were spent in my father's
library, and she delighted in the studies that
were my aversion, for I took more pride in my
well-kept house and well-spread table, and
cared more for my dairy, which was the envy
of half the housekeepers in the county, than
for all the Greek and Latin authors that ever
died. True, I should never be remembered
after death, but I would make some of my
own household comfortable, and that was
more than could bo said of some celebrities.
But I am wandering from my story. They
had given her the body, and the hearse was
waiting at the jail door. They buried him,
not in the graveyard, but under the trees in
the cool, quiet woods, whose leaves, swept by
the night winds, seemed to murmur requiems
to the silent dead. And now what should
they do? Mrs. Haight had seemed to sink
into a kind of settled melancholy from which
nothing could arouse her. They could make
but a bare living off of the place. My father
had died a few years before, leaving the farm
so heavily encumbered by debts that it would
be years before I could justly help them.
OUT OF THE CLOUD.
553
One morning Lois camo over with more
animation in her looks than I had seen since
the fatal day.
"1 have decided what to do. I have rented
the place on shares, with your sanction, and
it will support us, I think. I went yester-
day to see Doctor Dawson, and, as he is very
much in need of help, he is willing to take me.
I have four recitations, of three-quarters of an
hour each, and I am to work all the time that
Is not spent in the recitation-room. I com-
mence at six o'clock in the winter, and five in
the summer, and my labors are ended after an
early tea. My lessons must be prepared at
home. I am to hold myself as much aloof
from the girls as possible," she added, bitterly.
"Why, child, you can never stand it; you
will breakdown." But before she could reply
I remembered the saying in our neighborhood,
"You had to kill a Haight; he would never die
of his own accord."
"The taunts will be the hardest to bear,"
she said, "but I can endure them all."
In the plain calico dress, that fitted the su-
perb form so perfectly, there was a grace that
others well might envy. Mind now. With a
pride that matched their own, she compelled
the respect of the brilliant, ambitious girls, who
knew that, no matter what efforts they might
make, pale Lois Haight was sure to distance
them.
And the last school day had come. I deter-
mined that for once she should be well dressed,
and the soft, flowing robes of white well suited
her stately beauty.
Her subject was " My Own," and never had
those walls echoed the sound of an appeal so
fearless and burning In behalf of wounded hu-
manity. Said a noble old gentleman, "Had
she been her father's pleader, he would not
now be mouldering under the grasses."
She applied for a situation in the school she
had attended, but she was refused. "I couldn't
have my children taught by the children of a
murderer," thought the women who had always
known her. The failure hurt her. "Aunt,"
she said, for so I had taught her to call me, "I
wanted to teach them by example, that we are
what we make ourselves, that our own charac-
ters may be noble and pure even if disgrace
does cast shadows over us."
"I shall have to turn farmer," she said,
laughingly, one day; and she did, with such
success that at the close of the year she threw
in my lap, one day, the rent and five crisp one
hundred dollar bills. "I shall double it next
year," she said. "I want to buy the old place,
aunt, and a few acres of the land. I shall buy
more as I am able."
Our planters stared aghast at a woman who
could mate money. Another year later, as I sat
in the beautiful room where she had enshrined
lier mother, who seemed to revive in the atmo-
sphere of peace and comfort by which she was
surrounded, Lois said: —
"Aunt, 1 am going to commence my school
next week. Come with me to my school-room."
I followed her. An old log cabin had been
transformed into a plcasaut little cottage of
two rooms. "My school-room and my study,"
she said, briefly, as she turned the key and
we entered the school-room. A pleasant, airy
room, with pictures on the walls and flowers
in the windows; comfortable desks of oak, and
a dark ingrain carpet on the floor.
"Who are your pupils?" 1 asked. And she
named rapidly about thirty of the poorest, most
abject creatures in the neighborhood; some
lame, some scrofulous, and all with a look, it
seemed to me, scarcely human. I glanced in
dismay at the neat room.
"Yes," she said, in answer to my look, "I
know all you would say, but I have procured
suitable clothing, and more than half the pu-
pils have honestly earned, working for me this
summer, the clothes they will wear. I want
to lift them up, teach them what a glorious
world this is, and how much happiness in it for
those who will only work for it, to bring them
up out of the squalor and wretchedness of their
own homes, and show them how many things
God gives us for our comfort if we will only
strive for them. They know me. Only a few
years ago poor almost as themselves, and now
able to help them to a better life. O aunt, it
will be almost like giving them new souls I"
We passed into the pleasant little study, and
as I glanced through the open window I no-
ticed a slender marble shaft. Lois' gaze fol-
lowed mine, and I saw the^old expression creep
back that the girl had .worn as she spread the
covering over the swollen and disfigured fea-
tures in the pine coffin. "I can't think of it
yet without the old hatred of my kind," she
said, bitterly.
The years passed on till she was thirty, and
she wore the years as a crown. More beauti-
ful than ever, she yet lived a life of seclusion.
She had achieved a wonderful reputation. Her
name was almost a household word. How many
hearts she had cheered by the tender words she
had written will never be known till the unreal
world becomes the real. And yet our people
could not forget that she was Lois Haight and
her father had been hung, and, though they
were proud of her, she was never one of them.
That summer our neighborhood became very
fashionable. Springs, that possessed rare me-
dicinal properties, suddenly bubbled into no-
toriety, and the new hotels were crowded with
guests, and Lois was forced from her seclusion.
The high-bred people knew her history, but in
the world of letters she had won a noble place,
and they welcomed her gladly.
It was a new experience to Lois to be received
as an equal by cultured people. And in her
554
00DET-8 LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
own home, for she was rich now, and her ex-
quisite taste had made the old place like a
dream of Paradise, she seemed a new creature.
"O Aunt Margaret," she said, one day, "1
am wiping the old stain off," and the old set
look that had clouded the beautiful face for so
many years was disappearing.
And what of her proud old grandfather?
Sitting in the grand, solitary library one day,
he read a criticism of one of her books. The
name chafed him. "Height, Haight!" he re-
peated impatiently; but he never dreamed it
was the name of his own grandchild, for his
daughter was as dead to him as though sods,
instead of his own hand, had formed the bar-
rier. But the stern man was growing more
tender. Old and alone, he thought often of
the fair young girl who had brightened the
dreary old house. The terrible death of Rich-
ard Haight had wounded his pride, for, ignore
the fact as he might, he was the husband of his
daughter, and he reproached her more bitterly
than ever; but now, standing so near the
threshold, what mattered the scorn of his fel-
lows? But his physician had entered the room.
"I see," said he, briskly, "that this cold, raw
weather is too much for you. I shall send you
to the Delta Springs. Robert Barnard is there
with his sister Grace and Judge Dalton and his
wife, so you will not be lonely even if I forbid
a single volume for companionship during your
stay."
One afternoon we had been calling, Lois and
I, at the hotel. Lois was dressed richly and
becomingly. The stage drew up just as we
were leaving. Only one passenger that day, a
stately gray-haired«man. Where had I seen
that face? I looked at Lois inquiringly, and
then I knew. But the old man had reached
the piazza, and, raising his eyes, he saw Lois.
He paled suddenly, and would have fallen had
not Robert Barnard's strong arm supported
him. Sadder than I had ever known her she
seemed that afternoon. "Even my proud old
grandfather despises me, another of his race to
bear the hnted name. Better, he thinks, to die
witli him than to live after him so dishonored.
Oh, my father I" she said, as she stood at the
study window, "I can't live it down, but I shall
bo the last."
That evening Lois' parlors were thronged
with guests, for on Thursdays she was always
at home to her friends. Attired as she always
was now, richly and elegantly, she moved a
very queen among them. From every side one
heard the congratulations on the book that had
added other triumphs to the noble brow. I saw
the eyes I knew so well flash and then suddenly
grow humid, and I knew Lois was thanking
God, not for fame, but for the friends he had
given her.
Late in the evening Robert Barnard entered
the room, and leaning on his arm was Lois'
grandfather. I saw Lois glance quickly at her
mother, who was talking animatedly with a
group of friends near the centre of the room.
The old gentleman walked directly to ber,
stooped and kissed her tenderly, and then
moved towards Lois, but she had taken my
arm and stepped lightly through the low,
French window.
The moonlight showed me a face stern and
unforgiving. "Hated and scorned all these
years, and now, when I have gained honor and
wealth to hide the old stains, he comes to us.
Old age creeps on, he cannot buy love, so the
daughter he had cast off is taken to his heart
again. Oh, my father! the few hundreds 1
begged so humbly for would have kept you
from the earth-worms and this blackness from
my life. Forgive him? Never!"
After a few weeks Lois' mother accompa-
nied her father North for a long visit. Lois had
persistently avoided the old man, and he felt
her scorn keenly, for very proud was he of this
noble granddaughter.
So Lois was left alone, except the servants,
in the great house. I went to make her a long
visit, and dreary it was for me sometimes. Lois
was a hard student, and the mornings were al-
ways spent in the library.
"Lois, your reputation is established, why
spend so many hours over a set of musty
books?" said I, one afternoon, when she
emerged from the room just as the shadows
drove away the daylight.
"When the grass breathes its low, mournful
melodies over me, it will matter naught that I
am forgotten, for a nobler one will stand in my
place; but while 1 live, dear, I want to make
my work worthy the age."
The weeks went by, and I learned to know
the letters that brought the brightness to Lois'
face. She had few secrets from me, and I knew
the letters were from Robert Barnard. I was
glad, for a nobler man I never knew. The
shame that had darkened her life only served
to show him still clearer her character in all its
grand whiteness, and he loved her as even Lois
Haight deserved to be loved. And when I re-
membered my own loves that the earth had
sheltered for so many years in her tender,
brown bosom, and thought of the happiness
that was mine while Jthey were with me, I re-
joiced that my darling was coming into this
goodly heritage.
Standing one night at the study window, the
moonlight falling on the sweet, pale face, and
showing us the marble shaft gleaming out cold
and white, she said, slowly :—
"Aunt Margaret, Robert Barnard has asked
me to In" his wife; but I cannot bring to an
honorable name this blackness. Even with
his kisses falling on my lips, would come the
memory of the dead face that haunts me al-
ways. How can I give to others an inheri-
tance that has been so bitter to me? My race
must die with me."
JiJG
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
There is no room for sadness, we have no
thought of sorrow, when we are rambling
through the mountains on a clear, calm, au-
tumn day, one of those quiet, tranquil, beauti-
ful days, when the soul seems only fit for
sweet dreams, and all creation is surrounded
with a bright halo bespeaking rest. It is sweet
to turn to such in days of distress and be re-
vived by a ray of its soft sunshine, which
streams in upon us through the portals of
memory. Halleck truly says:—
"There are some happy moments In this lono
And desolate world ot ours that will repay
The toll ot struggling through It; and atone
1'or many a long, sad night and weary day."
THE STOLEN KISS.
BT MARY E. KELLY.
It is said that all organic nature is sexed,
from the tiny flower up to man—the acme of
creation.
Those traits iu which each sex excels claims
from the other the highest admiration. The
young athlete is to the lady perfection of grace,
while her modest loveliness is to him as the
beckon of an angel's hand to a higher and bet-
ter life; he sees nothing this side of heaven
that he so reverences as he does a good woman.
Two peach trees in an orchard waved their
glossy leaves beneath the torrid rays of nn
August sun. The one tall, graceful, and lithe
of limb, bore nothing but foliage, and that of
the darkest, richest green ; while his near neigh-
bor bended wearily under her load of luscious
fruit.
Upon one of the extending branches that
was nearest to him, was a large, beautiful
peach, that he had watched ever since she was
a sweet, pink blossom until now, when the
rains, the hot suns, and the gentle dews had
nurtured her to the perfection of maturity, and
It seemed as if the longer he watched her the
whiter grew the lily of her brow, the deeper
grew the flush upon her cheek, that vainly
strove to conceal its loveliness beneath a deli-
cate veil of snow-white velvet down.
Perhaps it was the magic of his eyes that
made her cheek to grow so wondrous fair, for
his gaze had grown so constant and so ardent.
The thought came to his heart that she was
made for him alone, and he sighed to think
that he might not even kiss her cheek, for she
hung just beyond his farthest reach.
He whispered the wish that was in his heart
just loud enough for her to hear. The blush
upon her cheek deepened, and she said: "It
cannot be; you would take something of my
soul upon your lips."
The zephyrs upqn which his prayer was borne
arose to a breeze, and as he bent beneath their
sway he stole the coveted kiss; when lo! upon
bis lips he took the down from her cheek.
Alasl there was something of her delicacy
gone that nothing could restore; nut even the
dew-drops that the evening air was fast distil-
ling there.
Ah, woman, so fair, so beautiful 1 Let none
betray thee witli a kiss, to inhale aught of thy
soul from off thy lips. No bearded lip but thy
aflianeed's may touch thy cheek, none but thy
liege husband may lavish upon thee his caresses
lest something of thy pure loveliness be di-
vorced.
LORA AND I.
BT B. ELLISON WABKER.
The waves flashed bright. Heath the gem-starret
night,
As we wandered down by the river—
Lora and I, with none else nigh.
And willing to wander forever.
The pale moon shone from her misty throne
As we strayed by the restless river.
Smiling and sweet, from the lofty seat.
And causing our love-life to quiver.
We breathed of love 'neath the stars above.
While our hearts more madly throbbing.
Keeping swift time in a rhythmic rhyme
To the restless river's sobbing.
Why did we sigh, my Lorn and I,
As we wandered so seeming gladly T
Soon we must part, and, alas! our hearts
Beat time with the river sadly.
In the Are of youth we swore love's truth
Should never by us be blighted:
Whether sun or rain, our hearts the same
Would ever by love be lighted.
Thus from the side of my bonny bride.
My dark-eyed Lora, I wandered,
Wlille the hazy light or the moon-lit night
From the twilight softly sundered.
Long years have passed, and again at last
We're wandering slowly together,
Our hair grown white through life's lonr night.
And the frosting ol autumn weather.'
Fainter heart throbs, and wilder wave sobs.
Than years ago by the river;
But as loving hearts, despite all darts
That rudely threatened to sever.
No parting pain will we feel again
This Bide of the golden river;
But, hand in hand, we will pace the strand.
Awaiting the dim forever.
Genuine modesty Is the sense of Imperfec-
tion common to the wise and good, impossible
to the fool and villain.
Simplicity of purpose begets simplicity of
life. This is manifested not in one way merely,
but in every way. There is no double dealing
in business. There is no praying for the sa!
vatlon of souls, and then, for the sake of mak-
ing money, helping them down to hell in the
ordinary avocations of life.
WORK DEPARTMENT
559
the silk. Darn a piece of net with double em-
broidery cotton as shown in Fig. 2. Cover the
top with it. The pincushion is made about
three inches square, covered with white silk,
and ornamented with silk cord. This pin-
cushion is fastened firmly to centre of cushion.-
For the border, made in knitting, cast on
thirty-six stitches, purl and knit four rows al-
ternately; then reverse the rib by knitting and
Fig. a.
BASKET FOR WOOD, ORNAMENTED
WITH DRAPES.
The finished basket is of strong wicker-
faam
purling four rows alternately; repeat until
you have sufficient to go around the cushion.
This may be edged with any simple pattern in
crochet or knitting at the bottom, which can
be sewn on. The border is sewn to the top of
the card-board about half! an inch from the
edge. Place a cord over the stitches, and finish
on both sides with a bow of ribbon. The hair-
pins are pushed through the net.
chine-work will answer perfectly well for the
purpose. Cloth or reps is suitable for the
foundation. The narrow stripes and centre
pattern of broad stripe are an applique of cloth
or velvet. The colors of the ground and orna-
mentation should be chosen to suit the drapery
of the room. When the drapes are finished,
each point is ornamented with a woollen
tassel.
work, painted black or brown, according to
taste. It is then ornamented with drapes in
cloth, applique, and braid; chain-stitch or ma-
BORDER FOR QUILT IN nONEYCOMB
KNITTING.
A SIMPLE AND EFFECTIVE BOHDEK.
The pins should be a larger size than those
used fof the quilt. Cast on 12 stitches, lot
row. Slip 1, knit 2, make 1, knit 2 together,
pass cotton twice around pin, knit 2 together,
knit 5. 2d. Slip 1, knit 6, purl 1, knit 2, make
1, knit 2 together, knit 1. 3d. Slip 1, knit 2,
make 1, knit 2 together, knit 2, pass cotton
twice around pin, knit 2 together, knit 4. 4th.
Slip 1, knit 5, purl 1, knit 4, make 1, knit 2 to-
gether, knit 1. 5th. Slip 1, knit 2, make 1, knit
2 together, knit 4, pass cotton twice around
pin, knit 2 together, knit 3. 6th. Slip 1, knit
4, purl 1, knit 0, make 1, knit 2 together, knit
1. 1th. Slip 1, knit 2, make 1, knit 2 together,
kuit 10. 8th. Cast off 3, knit H, besides the
one on the right hand pin, make 1, knit 2 to-
gether, kuit 1. Repeat from 1st row.
EMBROIDERED WORK-BASKET.
Basket of gilt reeds, ten inches long by six
wide, and fitted with rings of gilt reed. The
560
QODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
cover and lining are made of pink taffetas,
edged with a vandyked border of white cloth.
In Fig. 2 we give in the original size the design
for the border. The flowers are formed in
Fig. 2.
CASE FOR KNIVES.
The case is of chamois leather. The edge is
bound with scarlet braid. The scallops are
colored cloth, and sewn on to the ground in
point russe and feather stitch, with different
colored purse silk, the stems being embroid-
ered in overcast stitch. On the lid is a puffing
of pink silk, with a strip of embroidery on
each side. The sewing on is hidden by a box-
plaited niching of pink ribbon, and a bow of
the same material, arranged as shown in the
illustration.
CORNER FOR POCKET HANDKERCHIEF.
buttonholed. The divisions are stitched down,
and ornamented witli coral-stitch in red silk.
A little embroidered flower is worked in each
division of the wash-leather. The case shown
is intended for six small and six large knives.
A ribbon or tape string to wind around the
case when closed is required. The outside of
the case may be ornamented like the inside.
CASE FOR KNIVES.
564
OODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
separately. Add together all the ingredients, and
beat for a few minutes.
Hard Gingerbread.—T&ub half a pound of butter
into one pound of Hour, then rub iu half a pound of
sugar, two tablespoonfuls of ginger, and one table-
spoonful of rose-water; work it well, roll out, and
bake in flat pans in a moderate oven. It will take
about half an hour to bake. This gingerbread can
be kept some time,
Washington Cake.—Beat together one and a half
pounds of sugar and three-quarters of a pound of
butter; add four eggs well beaten, half a pint of
sour milk, and one teaspoonful of saleratus, dis-
solved in a little hot water. Stir in gradually one
and three-quarters pound of flour, one wineglassful
of wine or brandy, and one nutmeg grated. Beat
all well together. This will make two round cakes.
It should be baked in a quick oven, and will take
from fifteen to thirty minutes, according to the thick-
ness of the cakes. »
Common Crullers or Twist Cakes.—Mix well to-
gether half a pint of sour milk, or buttermilk, two
teacupfuls of sugar, one teacupful of butter, and
three eggs well beaten; add to this a teaspoonful of
saleratus dissolved in hot water, a teaspoonful of
salt, half a nutmeg grated, and a teaspoonful of
powdered cinnamon; sift in flour enough to make a
smooth dough, roll it out not quite a quarter of an
inch thick, cut iu small oblong pieces, divide one
end in three or four parts like fingers, and twist or
plait them over each other. Fry them in boiling
lard. These cakes may be cut in strips, and the
ends Joined to make a ring, or in any other shape.
Richer Crullers.—Beat to a cream a quarter of a
pound of fresh butter, and mix with it the same
quantity of pounded and sifted loaf-sugar, and four
well-beaten eggs; add flour till thick enough to roll
out; cut the paste into oblong pieces about four or
five inches in length, with a paste-cutter divide the
centre into three or four strips, wet the edges, and
plait one bar over the other, so as to meet in the
centre, throw them into boiling lard or clarified suet,
when fried of alight brown, drain them before the
Are, and serve them in a napkin, with or without
grated loaf-sugar strewed over them.
EGGS.
There is only one opinion as to the nutritive
properties of eggs, although the qualities of those
belonging to different birds vary somewhat. Those
of the common hen are most esteemed as delicate
food, particularly when "new-laid." The quality of
eggs depends much upon the food given to the hen.
Efgs in general are considered most easily digestible
when little subjected to the art of cookery. The
lightest way of dressing them Is by poaching, which
is effected by putting them for a minute or two into
brisk boiling water; this coagulates the external
white, without doing the inner part too much. Eggs
are much better when new-laid than a day or two
afterwards. The usual time allotted for boiling
eggs in the shell is three to three and three-quarter
minutes; less time than that In boiling water will
not be sufficient to solidify the white, and more will
make the yelk hard and less digestible; It Is very
difficult to guess accurately as to the time, fireat
care should be employed in putting them into the
water, to prevent cracking the shell, which inevita-
bly causes a portion of the white to exude, and lets
water into the egg. For the purpose of placing eggs
In water, always choose a large spoon in preference
to a small one. Eggs are often beaten up raw in
nutritive beverages.
The eggs of the turkey are almost as mild as those
of the hen; the egg of the goose is large, but well-
tasted. Duck's eggs have a rich flavor; the albumen
is slightly transparent, or bluish, when set or coagu-
lated by boiling, which requires less time than hens'
eggs. Ouineajoicl eggs are smaller and more deli-
cate than those of the hen. Eggs of wikl fowl are
generally colored, often spotted, and the taste gen-
erally partakes somewhat of the bird they belong to.
Those of land birds that are eaten, as the plover,
lapwing, ruff, etc., are iu general much esteemed;
but those of sea/owl, have, more or less, a strong
fishy taste. The eggs of the turtle are very nume-
rous; they consist of yelk only, without shell, and
are delicious.
When fresh eggs are dropped into a vessel full of
boiling water, they crack, because the eggs being
well filled, the shells give way to the efforts of the
interior fluids, dilated by heat. If the volume of hot
water be small, the shells do not crack, because its
temperature is reduced by the eggs before the inte-
rior dilation can take place. Stale eggs, again, do
not crack, because the air Inside is easily compressed.
CONTRIBUTED.
A C/iristmas Pudding, with or without Eggs.—
Take two pounds of hread-crums that have been
well sifted through a colander, two tablespoonfuls
of flour, half an ounce of ground allspice, and one
pound of moist brown sugar; rub these Ingredients
together thoroughly; chop one pound of suet very
line, and thoroughly mix in with the other things.
Wash well in tepid water a pound and a half of
raisins, and stone them, or two pounds of Sultana
raisins, which require no stoning, but are more ex-
pensive; chop these, not too line, and mix in well;
then one pound of well-washed currants, and one-
quarter of a pound of candled peel cut into lumps,
not slices. Having mixed all this together, make the
whole sufficiently moist with a little ale; well butter
one or more large basins, press the mixture firmly
into the bottom of each (or they will not turn out
well), and when filled to a trifle above the brim of
the basin, spread some flour on the top, and tie the
basin down with a wetted cloth; place the pudding
in boiling water, let it boil up rapidly, and so con-
tinue for four hours; then take it up, remove the
cloth, but do not turn it out-of the basin. The next
day, or when wanted for use, put the pudding to
warm, with the basin still on, for two hours in a
moderately warm oven, then take it outturn it from
the basin on to the dish in which it is to be sent to
the table. With the handle of a teaspoon or blade
of a fruit knife make incisions in different parts of
the pudding, and pour on brandy or wine, and sift
powdered white sugar over. It is obvious that this
pudding must be made the day before it is required
for use, and it is much better for being so. Eggs are
not necessary to give either richness or flavor or to
"bind" the pudding, as the ale and flour will do that.
However, if the ale is objected to, eight eggs well
whisked may^be substituted. Great care is neces-
sary in all puddings of this kind, not to make them
too wet, or they will be heavy, and to thoroughly mix
the ingredients.
Rich JVew-Vear's Cake, {lllack.)—Beat ten eggs
separately and well, cream one pound of sugar and
one pound of butter together, add one pound of sifted
flour alternately with the eggs, and beat the whole
very hard; then add four pounds of raisins, four
pounds of currants, one pound of figs, one pound of
citron, one cup of molasses, one teaspoonful of soda,
one wineglass of brandy, one tablespoonfu! each of
pulverized ginger and allspice. Seed the raisins,
chop the figs and citron, and dredge all with flour.
566
GODEr'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.
International reunions, like that which is to signalize
the coming year in our country. We may, therefore,
look forward to the occasion with special pleasure,
not only for its own sake and for the national bless-
ings it will bring to mind, but as one of the ineaus
through which the gracious-prophecy of "peace on.
earth," proclaimed eighteen centuries ago to the
Judean.shepherds, Is gradually working Its own ful-
filment.
THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE.
We have occasionally in the Table referred to the
progress of the new science of Philology, and to its
Importance as a branch of study. A work recently
published by Appleton & Co., from the pen of an
American scholar, presents the latest results of that
science in so lucid and compact shape that we will
call to it the attention of our readers. The author
is Professor Whitney, of Yale College, the first of
American philologists. The boqk is called "The
Life and Growth of Language," and aims to give in
a readable, simple, but condensed volume of three
hundred pages, an outline of linguistic science.
Professor Whitney avoids controversy, and dwells
as far as possible upon what has been ascertained,
and is beyond question. But he Insists with great
earnestness upon one or two vital facts which are
apt to be lost sight of in our loose modes of expres-
sion.
Thus, for instance, we sometimes hear that lan-
guage is not made, but grows. Its life is compared
to the organic processes by which a seed becomes a
plant, or an oak springs from an acorn. But these
metaphors lose sight of the fact which meets us
everywhere: that each word Is taught to the child
by those around 1t; that he takes his whole language
from outside, and makes himself, if any change, a
small and inconsiderable change, In his mother
tongue. To use our author's own words,
"The mass of each one's language is acquired by
him by a process of learning, ofdirect acquisition of
what is put before his mind by others; each one,
however, is at the same time a partner In the work
of changing the language; contributing, indeed,
only an Infinitesimal quota toward It, yet doing his
part In a sum which is all made up of such infinitesi-
mal parts, and could not exist without them. The
tradition of speech is carried on by him and such as
he is; its modification is due to no other agency.
Every item or difference between new speech and
old, whether in the way of alteration or of addition,
has its separate origin, beginning In the usage of
individuals, and spreading and seeking that wider
acceptance which alone makes language of it: and
It has Its time of probation, during which it is trying
to establish itself."
The process of name-conferring, and of the subse-
quent slow transit ion by which the name passes
upon the most remote classes of things, according to
the current ideas and feelings of each age, is well
illustrated by the naming of the planets. The as-
tronomers, or astrologers, in christening these bodies,
"took the names of gods, since Sun and Moon were
already names of gods as well as of luminaries; and
they distributed the names—Jupiter, Saturn, Mer-
cury, Mars, Venus—under the guidance of motives;
Mercury, for example, the swift messenger of the
divinities, had the most rapidly-moving and change-
ful of the class called after hi in. Then, by a like
transfer, the alchemists gave the name to the most
mobile of the metals And now, though the god
Mercury Is only a inemorv of a state of things long
cone by, Mercury and mercury are still words of
familiar use In our vocabulary; we even shut up
mercury in a tube, and bid him, as Jupiter used to
do, go up and down, to tell us what the weather is.
The same words, moreover, have been made to an-
swer other purposes; the astrologers held that a
person born under the special Influence of a certain
planet was characterized by a corresponding dlsposl-
tlon; and those dispositions we still call mercurial,
jovial, saturnine."
We wish the space at our command would allow
us to quote Prof. Whitney's account of figurative
language, his analysis of alphabetic sounds, and
especially his striking illustration of the gradual
change in our speech, from a passage In the Anglo-
Saxon gospels. Then, too, there is an admirably
clear section upon a question which Is often dis-
cussed: whether the word or name Is necessary to
the idea; whether the idea precedes the name, or
they arise simultaneously in the mind. The author
shows conclusively that the idea must first arise,
and that the name is then chosen, more or less
quickly, with more or less deliberate selection, to fit
the conception. Thus, when a new shade of red
had been produced by chemical skill, magenta was
pitched upon for its name by a perfectly conscious
process, because historical causes had at that time
given celebrity to the town Magenta. On the other
side, the naming may follow the conception instantly,
and appear to be but one act; and, having been con-
ferred, may react upon the conception by endowing
it with some quality before attached in our minds to
that name.
Prof. Whitney's book abounds In such points of
interest, while it is at the same time a thorough and
careful treatise upon the historical origin and con-
nection of tongues. No one who aspires to attain
clear ideas of the past of our race, or who desires to
secure its progress in the future, can afford to be
ignorant of philology. Especially is the science
adapted to the study of women. They have especial
opportunities for observing the language of children
and of servants, two important sources and con-
stituents of our common tongue. A mother who
trains herself to observe her child's first effort at
speech, its imitation of her movements of lips and
tongue, its tendency to uniformity in syntax, its ina-
bility to distinguish between organic and inorganic
nature, has the key to much of primitive history.
and can make important contributions to that useful
and delightful science which has been the growth of
this century.
FRUITFUL AGE.
We are all either old or growing old, and we are
all therefore interested in the question, which is of-
ten discussed, whether the faculties of the mind may
go on increasing In strength to the last, or whether
they must necessarily partake of the gradual failure
of the bodily powers. A writer In Blackwood's
Magazine, in whose graceful periods we recognize a
distinguished American author and artist, enume-
rates many striking instances of the display of great
intellect in advanced life. Sophocles, he reminds
us, composed one of his finest tragedies—the "CSdipus
at Colonus"—when ho was nearly ninety. .Eschylus,
at seventy-three, wrote his "Orestes." Simonides
gained in his eightieth year the crown of victory
over all competitors, by his "Dithyramblc Chorus."
Pindar, the greatest of lyric poets, wrote with undi-
minished powers till past eighty. Metastasio lived
and wrote till he was eighty-four; and Goldoni, who
died at eighty-seven, wrote, after he had passed his
fourscore years, some of his happiest plays. Words-
worth lived to eighty, and Goethe to eighty-three,
with unfailing poetic power. To this list of great
poets is added an equally notable catalogue of illus-
trious artists :—
"Titian, whose pencil only dropped from his hand
when he was stricken by the plague at nearly a hun-
dred years of age. Michael Angelo, whose fervid
brain carried him on with ever fresh creative {tower
and Imaginative capacity to ninety. Leonardo da
EDITORS' TABLE.
567
Vlncl, master of all arts and sciences, the fullest and
ablest man in all directions thai perhaps ever lived,
and who died at his easel, with undiminished facul-
ties, at seventy-five. Tintoretto, whose unwearied
pencil worked until he was eighty-two. Palma Gio-
vine, who lived and exercised his art until be was
eighty-four. Feruglno, whose skill bad not fallen at
seventy-eight. Rubens, who was irrepressible as
ever at seventy. Tenlers, who elaborated his groups
and interiors until ho was eighty-four; and Claude,
whose pictures were still as charming as ever when
he died at eighty-two."
The truth evidently is that the different faculties
of the mind come to maturity at different periods
of life. Memory and perception, for example, are
strongest in youth. A child will learn a new Ian-
guage more easily than a grown person. A boy of
fifteen will discover a bird's nest, or commit a list
of names or dates to memory, more readily than a
man of fifty. Those Intellectual powers which are
most needed in early life are most vigorous while
the body is still Immature and weak. It is therefore
to be expected that In the decline of years other
faculties of the mind, appropriate to that season of
existence, should gather strength, even while the
physical powers are failing. Especially reflection,
which combines the results of long experience, to
deduce from them general truths, and imagination
which frames new creations out of materials stored
in the mind, should at this time have their widest
scope of action and their greatest energy.
Why this is not always the case is unfortu-
nately too evident All faculties rust and perish by
disease. The love of ease, which all feel more or
less, Is apt to grow with years, and, unless resolutely
resisted, leads to a weak, repiniug, and useless old
age. But those whose sense of duty, or love of their
fellow-creatures, or zeal for improvement, lead them
to resist this insidious and fatal influence, have their
reward, not only lu the respect and affection which
wait on them—the "honor, love, obedience, troops
of friends"—but In the sense of usefulness, and tho
gratifying assurance that the products of their men-
tal exertions at this period may be the most valuable
of all, as the best fruits of our orchards are those
which rip en latest In the year.
THE BEARING-REIN CRUELTY.
Some severe comment has been made of late upon
the fact that whilo societies for tho prevention of
cruelty to animals are becoming numerous and ac-
tive, one particular kind of cruelty is gaining preva-
lence among the very class from which these societies
are chiefly recruited. Tho tight bearing-rein is a
source of torture to the horse, as well as of serious
Injury, while its only possible use—if use it can be
called—is to minister to the owner's vanity. A
spirited horse, when not engaged In drawing a
weight, naturally holds its head high, with a grace-
ful curve of the neck, thus presenting a picturesque
and attractive appearance. But In drawing a car-
riage, the head is just as naturally thrown forward,
to gain greater power. The bearing-rein prevents
this natural action; and the tighter tho rein and tho
more rapid the pace, the greater, of course. Is the
pressure on the mouth, and the consequent suffer-
ing. Yet though this might seem self-evident, and
though the injurious effects \ipon the animal aro
well known to every groom and horso dealer, the
senseless demands of fashion have lately caused tho
Introduction of a more refined and powerful engine
of torment, called the " gag bearlng-rcin." Itseffects
are forcibly described In an excellent work, entitled
"Bits and Brldle-Relns," lately published In England
by Mr. E. F. Flower, a gentleman who, as a noted
hunter, has been familiar with horses from his
youth:—
"The pain thus occasioned to the horse Is Intense.
The action of every muscle is Impeded. If a false
step Is Uiken, recovery is rendered difficult. Dis-
comfort makes the poor animal restless. The impa-
tient movements occasioned by his distress are not
unfrequently visited by a cut from the whip of an
Ignorant coachman; the horse is called unruly and
Ill-tempered, when he is only miserable. Some new
instrument of torture is forced into ids mouth, in the
shape of a bit devised for the very purpose of Inflict-
ing pain: until, with temper and mouth both ruined,
he passes Into the hands of a bus-driver or cabman,
when his bearlng-relu is cast aside, and for the first
time he Is treated withcommon sense and humanity."
We trust that every kind-hearted reader of the
Ladt's Book will follow the example which, it ap-
pears, lias been given by that pattern of true wo-
manly excellence, Lady Burdett Coutts, and see that,
as far as her Influence will prevail, this "Instrument
of torture," as Mr. Flower properly terms It, Is ban-
ished from use.
A HYMN FOR THE YOUNG FOLK.
THE SHEPHERDS.
Radiant from the world of light.
Swift as burning meteor's flight,
Comes the angel messenger,
Sent by Love Divine to bear
Tidings of great joy to earth—
Of the blessed Saviour's birth—
Of the good which He will teach us—
Of the hope through Him will reach us—
Peace on earth and joy in Heaven,
By the blessed Saviour given. ■
Whither speeds the messenger,
Charged this glorious news to bear?
World-crowned Roman doth he seek?
Or the wisdom-loving Greek?
Or the Eastern Magi meet,
Come the Saviour's birth to greet?
Or to schools of learning bear It?
Or let wealth and greatness share it?
Peace on earth and joy lu Heaven—
Who shall hear this Gospel given?
Whither speeds the angel's flight?
'Tis a dreary, moonless night:—
Bethlehem's shepherds, while their flocks
Slumber 'neath the sheltering rocks.
Must their watch untiring keep,
Lest the wolf invade their sleep;—
Hal what glory o'er them bcudeth?
'TIs a form of light descendeth I
List I the mercy tone of Heaven—
"Lo, to you a Saviour's given!"
When the flower on Alpine height.
Or the gem In cave of night,
Or the date, 'mid arid sands,
Ripens, brightens, and expands,
Who but God our reverence claims?
So when He exalts the names
Of the poor, oppressed, neglected,
'TIs His wondrous love reflected:—
Thus the tidings, sent from Heaven,
To the Shepherd train were given.
Ye who feel life's burden press.
Poor, and bowed in abjectness.
Raise your grateful songs on high,
Your redemption draweth nigh I
Shepherds first the Gosnel heard.
Lowly seamen preached tho Word,
And its holy truths will gather.
Men as children, to one Father—
And the world will then be given
To the worshippers of Heaven.
The Porcelain Mania.—The notable " tulip ma-
nia" which prevailed in Holland during the last cen-
tury, when fortunes were made by the sale of rare
bulbs, has Its counterpart in what maybe termed the
porcelain or pottery mania which rages at present In
England, and has extended in a milder form toother
countries. At a late sale, it is staled. Sir A. de Roths-
child gave $9700 for a paifof Sfcvres vases, which had
originally cost 81000. The Marquis of Hertford gave
$6750 for a single vase. Lord Dudley, not long ago,
FASHIONS.
lighter blue silk with darker feather trimming
through the centre of It
Fig. a—Bonnet or hat of black velvet, turned up
at one side and faced with rose-colored silk. Rose-
colored feathers and black velvet trim the outside,
a rose and foliage inside.
CHITCHAT
ON FASHIONS FOR DECEMBEB.
As the season advances we find that the Princess
dress Is, and will be, decidedly fashionable. Still,
we must reinember.it does not suit all figures, and
be thankful it is not to be an exclusive mode. The
Princess dress really suits none but well-propor-
tioned figures; those, however, whose fault is being
too thin, can easily conceal it by means well known
to our modistes; but the opposite extreme is more
difficult to deal with. Let us, however, for the pros-
ent, suppose the Princess dress to be admissible. It
Is an elegant shape, especially as now modified, gored
in front, and with all the fulness thrown at the back.
It does not admit of being short or evenrowterre;
but now all dresses are more or less trained. Thick
materials are those which make up best into Princess
dresses—cloth, double Cashmere, beige Cashmere,
cheviot, and tartan will be chosen for walking dress-
es; velvet, faille, and gros grains for visits and re-
ceptions. Theveryclose knife plaitlngs are the trim-
mings most used in such materials: braid is also
employed In great quantity, and velvet for woollen
materials. The front and sides are usually the parts
trimmed; the full, ample train should be left uu-
trlmmed. The front part may be striped with braid
or velvet of various widths: the sides with a plaiting
or bias band of the material. If that be woollen, or
ruffles and ruches It it be silk. Trimmings put on in
tabs, and tapering to the waist, are also once more
fashionable, and are sometimes worked In braiding
and raised embroidery. Forelegantevenlngdresses,
a separate train of velvet or silk Is sometimes added.
Ladies who have any objection to the Princess
dress will And a resource In the jacket bodice, which
is made In various ways. First, the cuirass bodice,
with deep, plain basque, almost as trying to wear as
the Princess dress; then the fancy Jacket, the basques
of which may be cut in any shape that may be pre-
ferred—square, round, or pointed: and the corsage
habit, with coat lapels, upon which are large pockets.
The skirt is cut very much like the Princess dress,
with the deep box-plait down the back, an exact copy
of the mode of making this we will give In our next
number. The newest oversklrt is the square front,
gathered up at the baijk under large bows, without
ends, but even that is now frequently exchanged for
a scarf drapery, tied at the back into a sash, bow,
and ends. The most fashionable trimming for such
scarf draperies is a tassel fringed, with a deep net-
worked heading. The bodice is often made either
in part or entirely of the same material as the scarf
drapery.
Oversklrts have not gone out of fashion: far from
this. They are very long in front, aud loosely draped
at the back. Sometimes the oversklrt Is made In the
Princess shape In front and the Watteau plait at the
back; in that case the underskirt is cut plain. Some-
tiincsthe skirt Iscut separate from the bodice, which
is fitted to the waist at the back only, and has loose
fronts. The Julve, or Moyen Age tunic Is more fan-
ciful. It Is loose, and has wide armholes, continued
Into a point as far as the hips. It is made of Cash-
mere, to wear over a silk underdress; or of grena-
dine or lace, for evening wear, over a low dress,
forming an elegant costume. The Joan ot Arc bell
Is fashionable to wear over this; it is composed of a
VOL. xci.—37
number of steel, silver, or gold rings strung upon a
silk or velvet ribbon, and loose enough to fall over
the hips. To this Is fastened the chatelaine, ot metal
to correspond, and which serves to suspend the fan,
scent-bottle, or other trifle. So far the chatelaine is
both a pretty and useful bagatelle; but it is an exag-
geration In very bad taste to wear it large enough to
hold, besides the fan or other small knlcknack, an
umbrella, an opera-glass, and travelling-bag.
There Is no doubt that the new skirts and over-
skirts are arranged to drape the figure more closely
than even during the past season. There has been
much good-natured satire about fashionably-dressed
women not being able to sit on their chairs except
sideways, and with extreme- caution, otherwise the
elastic, strings, and other cunning devices for tying
back,would suddenly break away. But with the ne w
skirts the difficulty does not rest with the sitting
down; the problem Is how to walk at all. There Is
not the slightest fulness anywhere, except In the
train. The plaited muslin flounce inside the train
should never be omitted, otherwise the drapery about
the ankles Is most uncomfortable.
No dress is now sent home without an outside pock-
et ot some kind, as the extreme narrowness of the
skirt quite precludes Inside pockets being available.
Handkerchiefs, and other Important trifles which a
lady Is accustomed to carry about with her, are now
deposited in the outside pocket. Fashion has pro-
vided for the difficulty by devising a variety of re-
ceptacles, which are usually made of the same mate-
rial as the dress, and are gathered at the top with
an elastic, which stretches as the hand Is introduced
into them. When pockets are worn on the front of
plain, long basques, they are flat and square; but on
the front of oversklrts they are gathered like old-
fashioned reticules, and have a bow for an ornament.
Polonaises apparently never will go out of fashion,
and, indeed, they are such convenient garments, and
can be made to look so stylish, that their abandon-
ment would be a matter of regret. The most varied
forms are given to the new winter polonaises. The
newest and prettiest form Is very long and stralcht
In front, with a small cape over the shoulder; it is of
dark brown cloth, and trimmed with two crossbands
of chestnut-brown silk, with gold and brown braid
edging them. Two pockets of cloth, encircled with
braid and ornamented with faille bows, are placed
at the sides; the back of the polonaise Is slashed up
to the waist, and fastened with wide brown faille
loops. The Greek sleeveless polonaise Is also very
fashionable; It Is made of white Cashmere or em-
broidered crtpe de Chine, and of black Cashmere,
trimmed wltli gold braid. Gold braid trimming on
any black Cashmere polonaise Is very fashionable
with aristocratic ladies. Polonaises without sleeves
are made clinging to the figure, and, when possible,
are fastened up the back by various methods. Many
of those, on the contrary, with sleeves, are worn
loose In front, like a blouse.
Marguerite dresses are now being fashionably
made of blue aud gray Cashmere. They are looped
up at the side through asilk sash, which is tied round
the middle of the figure. Ladles who wear this style
of dress generally wear their hair in long plaits at
the back. Fair-haired ladies especially, patronize
this mode. But a Marguerite dress-does. not always
make a Goethe's heroine. However, It Is very be-
coming to young girls, but only to young girls.
Kibbons are very much worn on dresses now. Bows
are worn in front ot the neck, at the back of the neck,
at the waist, on the shoulders, on the elbows, and
down thesldesof the skirt when there is no oversklrt.
All the bow* have long ends, and this, If not overdone,
adds a graceful appearance. A bow and ends on one
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