34845	----	The Evolution of Fashion BY FLORENCE MARY GARDINER _Author of "Furnishings and Fittings for Every Home," "About Gipsies," &c. &c._ [Illustration: SIR ROBERT BRUCE COTTON.] London: THE COTTON PRESS, GRANVILLE HOUSE, ARUNDEL STREET, W.C. TO FRANCES EVELYN, COUNTESS OF WARWICK, WHOSE ENTHUSIASTIC AND KINDLY INTEREST IN ALL MOVEMENTS CALCULATED TO BENEFIT WOMEN IS UNSURPASSED, THIS VOLUME, BY SPECIAL PERMISSION, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY THE AUTHOR. IN THE YEAR OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA'S DIAMOND JUBILEE, 1897. [Illustration: _Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland._ _Princess Henry of Pless._ _The Countess of Warwick._ _Lady Marjorie Greville._ _Lady Eva Dugdale._ THE WARWICK BALL.] PREFACE. In compiling this volume on Costume (portions of which originally appeared in the _Ludgate Illustrated Magazine_, under the editorship of Mr. A. J. Bowden), I desire to acknowledge the valuable assistance I have received from sources not usually available to the public; also my indebtedness to the following authors, from whose works I have quoted:--Mr. Beck, Mr. R. Davey, Mr. E. Rimmel, Mr. Knight, and the late Mr. J. R. Planché. I also take this opportunity of thanking Messrs. Liberty and Co., Messrs. Jay, Messrs. E. R. Garrould, Messrs. Walery, Mr. Box, and others, who have offered me special facilities for consulting drawings, engravings, &c., in their possession, many of which they have courteously allowed me to reproduce, by the aid of Miss Juliet Hensman, and other artists. The book lays no claim to being a technical treatise on a subject which is practically inexhaustible, but has been written with the intention of bringing before the general public in a popular manner circumstances which have influenced in a marked degree the wearing apparel of the British Nation. FLORENCE MARY GARDINER. _West Kensington, 1897._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. I. THE DRESS, B.C. 594--A.D. 1897 3 II. CURIOUS HEADGEAR 15 III. GLOVES 25 IV. CURIOUS FOOTGEAR 31 V. BRIDAL COSTUME 39 VI. MOURNING 51 VII. ECCENTRICITIES OF MASCULINE COSTUME 61 VIII. A CHAT ABOUT CHILDREN AND THEIR CLOTHING 71 IX. FANCY COSTUME OF VARIOUS PERIODS 79 X. STAGE AND FLORAL COSTUME 89 THE EVOLUTION OF FASHION CHAPTER I. THE DRESS, B.C. 594--A.D. 1897. "Fashions that are now called new Have been worn by more than you; Elder times have used the same, Though these new ones get the name." _Middleton's "Mayor of Quinborough."_ A hard fate has condemned human beings to enter this mortal sphere without any natural covering, like that possessed by the lower animals to protect them from the extremes of heat and cold. Had this been otherwise, countless myriads, for untold ages, would have escaped the tyrannical sway of the goddess Fashion, and the French proverb, _il faut souffrir pour être belle_, need never have been written. [Illustration: EARLY EGYPTIAN.] The costume of our progenitors was chiefly remarkable for its extreme simplicity; and, as far as we can gather, no difference in design was made between the sexes. A few leaves entwined by the stalks, the feathers of birds, the bark of trees, or roughly-dressed skins of animals were probably regarded by _beaux_ and _belles_ of the Adamite period as beautiful and appropriate adornments for the body, and were followed by garments made from plaited grass, which was doubtless the origin of weaving, a process which is nothing more than the mechanical plaiting of hair, wool, flax, &c. In many remote districts these primitive fashions still prevail, as, for example, in Madras, where, at an annual religious ceremony, it is customary for the low caste natives to exchange for a short period their usual attire for an apron of leaves. In the Brazilian forests the _lecythis_, or "shirt tree," is to be found, from which the people roll off the bark in short lengths, and, after making it pliable in water, cut two slits for the arm-holes and one for the neck, when their dress is complete and ready for use. The North American Indian employs feathers for purposes of the toilet, and many African tribes are noted for their deftly-woven fabrics composed of grass and other vegetable fibres, while furs and skins are essential articles of dress in Northern latitudes. Perhaps the earliest specimen of a modiste's bill in existence has recently been found on a chalk tablet at Nippur, in Chaldea. The hieroglyphics record ninety-two robes and tunics: fourteen of these were perfumed with myrrh, aloes and cassia. The date of this curious antique cannot be less than two thousand eight hundred years before the Christian era. In ancient times it must be remembered that the principal seats of civilisation were Assyria and Egypt, and upon these countries Western nations depended for many of the luxuries of life. The Jews derived their fine fabrics from the latter place, which was particularly noted for its linen manufactures and for magnificent embroideries, of which the accompanying illustration will give some idea. Medes and Babylonians, of the highest class, partially arrayed themselves in silk, which cost its weight in gold, and about the time of Ezekiel (B.C. 594) it is known to have been used in the dress of the Persians. It is a remarkable circumstance that this animal product was brought to the West manufactured in cloth, which was only half silk; and it is said the plan was devised of unravelling the stuff, which was rewoven into cloth of entire silk. Owing to its high price, the Romans forbade its being used for the entire dress by men, complete robes of silk being reserved for women. It is numbered among the extravagant luxuries of Heliogabalus that he was the first man who wore a silken garment, and the anecdote is well known of the Emperor Aurelian, who refused, on the ground of its extravagant cost, a silk dress which his consort earnestly desired to possess. Monuments still in existence show that the Egyptians, owing to the warmth of their climate, were partial to garments of a semi-transparent character, while those living on the banks of the Tigris, who were subjected to greater extremes of temperature, wore clothing of similar design, but of wool, with heavy fringes of the same as a trimming. In some cases this feature of Assyrian costume is shown in double rows, one pendent, while the other stands out in a horizontal direction. [Illustration: GREEK.] The early Greek dress, or chiton, was a very simple contrivance, reaching to the feet. If ungirdled, it would trail on the ground; but generally it was drawn through the zone or waistbelt in such a manner that it was double to the extent of about thirty inches over the vital organs of the body. The great distinction between male and female dress consisted in the length of the skirt. The trimmings were of embroidery, woven diapers, figure bands with chariots and horses; and, in some cases, glass ornaments and thin metal plates were applied. Among the working classes the chiton was, of course, homespun, or of leather. [Illustration: ROMAN.] The stola was the Roman equivalent for the nineteenth century robe or gown, and in many respects resembled the Greek chiton. The fabrics employed were wool and linen up to the end of the Republic, though at a later date, as has already been stated, silk was imported. Colour, under the Emperors, was largely used, and at least thirteen shades of the dye obtained from the murex, which passed under the general name of purple, could be seen in the costume of both sexes. When the Roman Empire was dismembered (A.D. 395) a style of dress seems to have flourished in the important towns of the Mediterranean, which was similar to that worn in mediæval times in Britain, and which may be examined in the specimens of statuary adorning tombs of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The semi-tight under-dress and sleeves appear to have been elaborately embroidered, and the loose mantle of plain material was edged with a border. [Illustration: BYZANTINE.] One of the earliest descriptions of the female dress in Britain is that of Boadicea, the Queen of the Iceni, whom we are told wore a tunic woven chequerwise in purple, red, and blue. Over this was a shorter garment open on the bosom, and leaving the arms bare. Her yellow hair flowed over her shoulders, upon which rested an ample cloak, secured by a _fibula_ (brooch). A torque, or necklet, was also worn; a pair of bronze breastplates as a protection from the Roman arrows, and her fingers and arms were covered with rings and bracelets. [Illustration: ANGLO-SAXON.] The costume of the Anglo-Saxon ladies consisted of a _sherte_, or _camise_, of linen next the skin, a kirtle, which resembled the modern petticoat, and a gunna, or gown, with sleeves. Out of doors a mantle covered the upper portion of the body, and with the coverchief, or head rail, formed a characteristic feature of the dress of the day. Cloth, silk, and linen were the favourite materials for clothing, and red, blue, yellow, and green the fashionable colours. Very little black and white were used at this period. Saxon women were renowned for their skill with the needle, and used large quantities of gold thread and jewels in their work. Among other instances quoted, Queen Editha embroidered the coronation mantle of her husband, Edward the Confessor. For some years after the Norman Conquest, women retained the costume of the Anglo-Saxon period, with certain additions and modifications. Fine coloured cloths and richest furs were used by both sexes, and sleeves and trains were such a length that it was found necessary to knot them, so that they should not trail upon the ground. The next important change was the surcoat and tight bodice, which was fastened in front to fit the figure. There are evident traces that as civilisation advanced the love of dress and the desire of the fair sex to appear beautiful in the eyes of all beholders increased in like proportion. From ancient MSS. and other sources, we have ample proof of this. St. Jerome calls women "_philoscomon_," that is to say, lovers of finery, and another writer states: "One of the most difficult points to manage with women is to root out their curiosity for clothes and ornaments for the body." St. Bernard admonished his sister with greater candour than politeness on her visiting him, well arraied with riche clothinge, with perles and precious stones: "Such pompe and pride to adorne a carion as is youre body. Thinke ye not of the pore people, that be deyen for hunger and colde; and that for the sixth parte of youre gay arraye, forty persons might be clothed, refreshed, and kepte from the colde?" The increased facilities for travelling offered to those engaged in the Crusades, and the necessary intercourse with other nations, caused considerable quantities of foreign materials to be imported to England during the Middle Ages: and this had a corresponding effect upon the costume of the period, which was chiefly remarkable for its richness and eccentricity of form. Among the materials in use may be mentioned diaper cloth from Ypres, a town in Flanders, famous for its rich dress stuffs; tartan, called by the French "tyretaine," meaning _teint_, or colour of Tyre (scarlet being indifferently used for purple by ancient writers, and including all the gradations of colour formed by a mixture of blue and red, from indigo to crimson). There was a fine white woollen cloth called Blanket, named after its inventor, Sarcenet, also from its Saracenic origin, and gauze which was made at Gaza in Palestine. Ermine was strictly confined to the use of the Royal Family and nobles, and cloth of gold, and habits embroidered with jewellery, or lined with minever or other expensive fur, could only be worn by knights and ladies with incomes exceeding 400 marks per annum. Those who had not more than 200 marks were permitted to wear silver cloth, with ribands, girdles, &c., reasonably embellished; also woollen cloth not costing more than six marks the piece. [Illustration: 12TH CENTURY.] The tight forms of dress now in common use among women were an incentive to tight lacing, an injurious practice, from which their descendants suffer. A lady is described "Clad in purple pall, With gentyll body and middle small," and another damsel, whose splendid girdle of beaten gold was embellished with emeralds and rubies, evidently, from the description, had a waist which was not the size intended by Nature. [Illustration: 14TH CENTURY.] During the Wars of the Roses both trade and costume made little progress, and after the union of the Houses of York and Lancaster by the marriage of Henry VII. with his Queen, Elizabeth, their attention was chiefly concerned in filling their impoverished coffers, which left them little opportunity for promoting new fashions in dress. Henry VIII. afforded ample facilities for the revival of the trade in dress goods, and there is little difficulty in tracing female costume of the sixteenth century when we remember that in the course of thirty-eight years he married six wives, besides having them painted times without number by all the popular artists of the day. [Illustration: 16TH CENTURY. _From Portrait of Mary Queen of Scots._] J. R. Planché in his "History of British Costume," says: "The gowns of the nobility were magnificent, and at this period were open in front to the waist, showing the kirtle, or inner garment, as what we should call the petticoat was then termed." Anne of Cleves, who found so little favour in Henry's eyes, is said to have worn at their first interview "a rich gowne of cloth of gold made round, without any train, after the Dutch fashion;" and in a wardrobe account of the eighth year of this Bluebeard's reign appears the following item: "Seven yards of purple cloth of damask gold for a kirtle for Queen Catherine of Arragon." The dress of Catherine Parr is thus described by Pedro de Gante, secretary to the Spanish Duke de Najera, who visited Henry VIII. in 1543-1544: "She was robed in cloth of gold, with a 'saya' (petticoat) of brocade, the sleeves lined with crimson satin and trimmed with three-piled crimson velvet. Her train was more than two yards long." Articles of dress were often bequeathed by will. In one made on the 14th of August, 1540, William Cherington, yeoman, of Waterbeche, leaves "To my mother _my holyday gowne_." Nicholas, Dyer of Feversham, 29th October, 1540, "To my sister, Alice Bichendyke, thirteen shillings and ninepence _which she owed me_, and two kerchiefs of holland." John Holder, rector of Gamlingay, in 1544 leaves to Jane Greene "my clothe frock lined with satin cypress." These entries are from wills in the Ely Registry. [Illustration: 17TH CENTURY.] A peculiar feature in the costume of both sexes was sleeves distinct from the gown, but attached (so as to be changed at pleasure) to the waistcoat. Among the inventories we find three pairs of purple satin sleeves for women, one pair of linen sleeves paned with gold over the arm, quilted with black silk and wrought with flowers; one pair of sleeves of purple gold tissue damask wire, each one tied with aglets of gold; one pair of crimson satin sleeves, four buttons of gold being set on each, and in every button nine pearls. We are all familiar with the distended skirts, jewelled stomachers and enormous ruffs which adorned the virgin form of Good Queen Bess. In the middle of her reign the body was imprisoned in whalebone, and the fardingale, the prototype of the modern hoop, was introduced, as it was not to be supposed that a lady who is said to have left three thousand dresses in her wardrobe would remain faithful to the fashions of her grandmother; and Elizabeth's love of dress permeated all classes of society. The portrait of Mary Queen of Scots, who was considered an authority on matters of the toilet, and whose taste for elegance of apparel had been cultivated to a high degree during her residence at the French Court is given. There is a subtlety and charm about it which is wanting in the costume of her cousin Elizabeth, and it may be considered a fair type of what was worn by a gentlewoman of that period. The full skirt appears to fall in easy folds, and the basqued bodice, with tight sleeves, is closely moulded to the figure and surmounted by an elaborately-constructed ruff of muslin and lace. [Illustration: 19TH CENTURY. BALL DRESS, 1809.] To the great regret of antiquarians, the wardrobes of our ancient kings, formerly kept at the Tower, were by the order of James I. distributed. At no period was the costume of Britain more picturesque than in the middle of the seventeenth century, and we naturally turn to its great delineators Velasquez, Van Dyck, Rembrandt, and Rubens, who delighted in giving us such fine examples of their work. Women had grown tired of the unwieldy fardingale, and changed it for graceful gowns with flowing skirts and low bodices, finished with deep vandyked collars of lace or embroidery. A studied negligence, an elegant _déshabillé_ prevailed in the Stuart Court, particularly after the Restoration. Charles II.'s bevy of beauties are similarly attired, and the pictures in Hampton Court show us women whose snowy necks and arms are no longer veiled, and whose gowns of rich satin, with voluminous trains, are piled up in the background. Engravings and drawings which may be seen in every printseller's window make special illustrations of this period unnecessary. [Illustration: 18TH CENTURY. WALKING COSTUME.] Dutch fashions appear to have followed in the wake of William and Mary. Stomachers and tight sleeves were once more in favour, and fabrics of a rich and substantial character were employed in preference to the softer makes of silk, which lent itself so well to the soft flowing lines of the previous era. An intelligent writer has remarked "that Fashion from the time of George I. has been such a varying goddess that neither history, tradition, nor painting has been able to preserve all her mimic forms; like Proteus struggling in the arms of Telemachus, on the Phanaic coast, she passed from shape to shape with the rapidity of thought." In 1745 the hoop had increased at the sides and diminished in front, and a pamphlet was published in that year entitled "The enormous abomination of the hoop petticoat, as the fashion now is." Ten years later it is scarcely discernible in some figures, and in 1757 reappears, extending right and left after the manner of the court dress of the reign of George III. For the abolition of this monstrosity we are indebted to George IV., and ladies' dresses then rushed to the other extreme. Steel and whalebone was dispensed with, and narrow draperies displayed the form they were supposed to conceal, and were girdled just below the shoulders. [Illustration: 19TH CENTURY.--TEA DRESS, 1830.] These were in time followed by the bell-shaped skirts worn at the accession of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, during whose reign fashion has indeed run riot. The invention of the sewing machine was the signal for the appearance of frills and furbelows, and meretricious ornament of every kind. In the middle of the present century crinolines were again to the fore, skirts were proportionately wide and generally flounced to the top. The bodice terminated at the waist with a belt; but in some cases a Garibaldi, or loose bodice of different texture, was substituted. The next change to be noted was that hideous garment the "polonaise," which was a revival of, and constructed on similar lines to, the "super froc" of the Middle Ages. For many years English ladies, with a supreme disregard for the appropriate, wore this with a skirt belonging to an entirely different costume. But at last people got nauseated with these abominations, and under the gentle sway and influence of "Our Princess" a prettier, more useful and rational costume appeared. In 1876 the graceful Princess dress, which accentuated every good point in the figure, was generally worn; and though this costume in the latter part of its career was fiercely abused by the rotund matron and Mrs. Grundy, for clinging too closely to the lines of the human form, it was distinctly an advance as regards health and beauty on the varying styles which preceded it. [Illustration: 19TH CENTURY.--THE POLONAISE, 1872.] The æsthetic movement has also had a marked influence on our taste in all directions, but more especially in the costume of the last few years; and though the picturesque garb of the worshippers of the sunflower and the lily may not be adapted to the wear and tear of this workaday world, it is beautiful in form and design, incapable of undue pressure; and for children and young girls it would be difficult to imagine a more charming, artistic, and becoming costume. [Illustration: TAILOR-MADE DRESS, 1897.] Once more we are eschewing classical lines for grotesque which makes caricatures of lovely women, and drives plain ones to despair. The subdued and delicate tints which a few seasons since were regarded with favour have been superseded by garish shades and bright colours, which seem to quarrel with everything in Nature and Art. Unfortunately, we English are prone to extremes, and possess the imitative rather than the creative faculty. Consequently, our national costume is seldom distinctive, but a combination of some of the worst styles of our Continental neighbours, who would scorn to garb themselves with so little regard for fitness, beauty, and the canons of good taste. [Illustration: TEA GOWN, 1897.] [Illustration: AN ARTISTIC DRESS, 1897. _After a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds._] [Illustration: MODERN EVENING DRESS.] Two dominant notes, however, have been struck in the harmonies of costume during the last twenty-five years--the tailor-made dress, which may almost be regarded as a national livery; and the tea gown, that reposeful garment to which we affectionately turn in our hours of ease. How well each in its way is calculated to serve the purpose for which it is designed, the simple cloth, tweed, or serge costume moulded to the lines of the figure, adapted to our changeful climate, and giving a _cachet_ to the wearer, not always found in much more costly apparel, a rational costume in the best sense of the word, and one which women of all ages may assume with satisfaction to themselves and to those with whom they come in contact. The tea gown, on the other hand, drapes the figure loosely so as to fall in graceful folds, and may be regarded as a distinct economy, as it so often takes the place of a more expensive dress. Beauty, which is one of Heaven's best gifts to women, is useless unless appropriately framed, and a well-known exponent on the art of dressing artistically, has laid down the axiom that harmonies of colour are more successful than contrasts. If we turn to Nature we have an unfailing source of inspiration. The foliage tints, sunset effects, the animal and mineral worlds all offer schemes of colour, which can be readily adapted to our persons and surroundings. And to look our best and, above all, to grow old gracefully, is a duty which every daughter of Eve owes to humanity. The manner in which so many women give way early in life is simply appalling. While still in the bloom of womanhood they assume the habits and dress of decrepitude, submit to be placed on the social shelf without a murmur, and calmly allow those slightly their junior, and in some cases their senior, to appropriate the good things of life, and to monopolise the attention of all and sundry. Mothers in their prime willingly allow anyone who can be persuaded to do so, to chaperone their daughters, and to pilot them through the social eddies and quicksands of their first season, and through sheer indolence fail to exercise the lawful authority and responsibility which maternity entails. The unmarried woman, conscious that she is no longer in her first youth, and indifferent to the charms of maturity, takes to knitting socks in obscure corners, and assumes an air of self-repression and middle-agedness which apparently takes ten years from her span of existence, and conveys to the casual onlooker, that she has passed the boundary line between youth and old age. Why should these women sink before their time into a slough of dowdyism and cut themselves off from the enjoyments civilisation has provided for their benefit? Equally to be deprecated are those who cling so desperately to youth that they entirely forget the later stages of life have their compensations. Women who in crowded ballrooms display their redundant or attenuated forms to the gaze of all beholders, whose coiffure owes more to art than nature, and who comfort themselves with the conviction that in a carefully shaded light rouge and pearl powder are hardly distinguishable from the bloom of a youthful and healthy complexion. A variety of circumstances combine to bring into the world a race of people who cannot strictly lay claim to beauty, but who nevertheless have many good points which might be accentuated, while those that are less pleasing could be concealed. A middleaged woman will respect herself and be more respected by others if she drapes her person in velvet, brocade, and other rich fabrics which fall in stately folds, and give her dignity, than if she persists in decking herself in muslin, crepon, net, and similar materials, because in the long since past they suited her particular style. Gossamers belong to the young, with their dimpled arms, shoulders of snowy whiteness, and necks like columns of ivory. Their eyes are brighter than jewels, and their luxuriant locks need no ornament save a rose nestling in its green leaves, a fit emblem of youth and beauty. With the education and art training at present within the grasp of all classes of the community there is nothing to prevent our modifying prevailing fashions to our own requirements; and common sense ought to teach us (even if we ignore every other sentiment which is supposed to guide reasoning creatures) that one particular style cannot be appropriate to women who are exact opposites to each other. If each person would only think out for herself raiment beautiful in form, rich in texture, and adapted to the daily needs of life, we should be spared a large number of the startling incongruities which offend the eye in various directions. CHAPTER II. CURIOUS HEADGEAR. "Here in her hair The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs." _The Merchant of Venice._ [Illustration: ANCIENT JEWISH HEAD-DRESS.] Holy Writ simply teems with allusions to the luxurious tresses of the fair daughters of the East, and there is little doubt that at an early period in the world's history women awakened to the fact that a well-tired head was a very potent attraction, and had a recognised market value. Jewish women were particularly famed in this respect, and employed female barbers, who, with the aid of crisping pins, horns, and towers, prepared their clients for conquest. These jewelled horns were generally made of the precious metals, and the position denoted the condition of the wearer. A married woman had it fixed on the right side of the head, a widow on the left, and she who was still an unappropriated blessing on the crown. Over the horn the veil was thrown coquettishly, as in the illustration. Assyrian women delighted in long ringlets, confined by a band of metal, and the men were not above the weakness of plaiting gold wire with their beards. Rimmel, in "The Book of Perfumes," relates a curious anecdote of Mausolus, King of Caria, who turned his people's fondness for flowing locks to account when his exchequer required replenishing. "Having first had a quantity of wigs made and stored in the royal warehouses, he published an edict compelling all his subjects to have their heads shaved. A few days after, the monarch's agents went round, offering them the perukes destined to cover their denuded polls, which they were delighted to buy at any price". It is not surprising that Artemisia could not console herself for the loss of such a clever husband, and that, not satisfied with drinking his ashes dissolved in wine, she spent some of her lamented lord's ill-gotten revenue in building such a monument to his memory that it was counted one of the wonders of the world. [Illustration: EGYPTIAN HEAD-DRESS.] The Egyptians were also partial to wigs, some of which are still preserved in the British Museum. Ladies wore a multitude of small plaits and jewelled head-pieces resembling peacocks and other animals, which contrasted with their dark tresses with brilliant effect; or a fillet ornamented with a lotus bud. The coiffure of a princess was remarkable for its size and the abundance of animal, vegetable, and mineral treasures with which it was adorned. In Egyptian tombs and elsewhere have been discovered small wooden combs resembling the modern tooth-comb, and metal mirrors of precisely the same shape as those in use at the present day, as well as numerous other toilet appliances. [Illustration: ANCIENT GRECIAN.] Grecian sculpture affords us the opportunity of studying the different modes in favour in that country, and it is astonishing to find what a variety of methods were adopted by the belles of ancient Greece for enhancing their charms. A loose knot, fastened by a clasp in the form of a grasshopper, was a favourite fashion. Cauls of network, metal mitres of different designs, and simple bands, and sometimes chaplets, of flowers, all confined at different periods, the luxuriant locks of the Helens, Penelopes, and Xantippes of ancient times. [Illustration: ANCIENT ROMAN.] It was a common custom among heathen nations to consecrate to their gods the hair when cut off, as well as that growing on the head, and it was either consumed on the altar, deposited in temples, or hung upon the trees. A famous instance of the consecration of hair is that of Berenice, the wife of Ptolemy Evergetes. It is related that when the king went on his expedition to Syria, she, solicitous for his safety, made a vow to consecrate her hair (which was remarkable for its fineness and beauty) to Venus, if he returned to her. When her husband came back she kept her word, and offered her hair in the temple of Cyprus. This was afterwards missing, when a report was spread that it had been turned into a constellation in the heavens, which constellation, an old writer tells us, is called _Coma Berenices_ (the hair of Berenice) to the present day. Another remarkable instance is that of Nero, who, according to Suetonius, cut off his first beard, put it in a casket of gold set with jewels, and consecrated it to Jupiter Capitolinus. [Illustration: ENGLISH HEAD-DRESS OF THE 13TH CENTURY.] The hair of the head and beard appears to have been held in great respect by most nations, and perhaps we may trace the use of human hair in spells and incantations to this fact. Orientals especially treat the hair which falls from them with superstitious care, and bury it, so that no one shall use it to their prejudice. [Illustration: HORNED HEAD-DRESS OF 15TH CENTURY. _From Effigy of Countess of Arundel in Arundel Church._] Roman matrons generally preferred blonde hair to their own ebon tresses, and resorted to wigs and dye when Nature, as they considered, had treated them unkindly. Ovid rebukes a lady of his acquaintance in the plainest terms for having destroyed her hair. [Illustration: STEEPLE HEAD-DRESS OF 15TH CENTURY.] "Did I not tell you to leave off dyeing your hair? Now you have no hair left to dye: and yet nothing was handsomer than your locks: they came down to your knees, and were so fine that you were afraid to comb them. Your own hand has been the cause of the loss you deplore: you poured the poison on your own head. Now Germany will send you slaves' hair--a vanquished nation will supply your ornament. How many times, when you hear people praising the beauty of your hair, you will blush and say to yourself: 'It is bought ornament to which I owe my beauty, and I know not what Sicambrian virgin they are admiring in me. And yet there was a time when I deserved all these compliments.'" [Illustration: EARLY TUDOR HEAD-DRESS.] It would puzzle any _fin de siècle_ husband or brother to express his displeasure in more appropriate words than those chosen by the poet. The Britons, before they mixed with other nations, were a fair-haired race, and early writers referred to their washing their auburn tresses in water boiled with lime to increase the reddish colour. Boadicea is described with flowing locks which fell upon her shoulders; but after the Roman Invasion the hair of both men and women followed the fashion of the conquerors. [Illustration: HORNED HEAD-DRESS OF EDWARD IV.'s REIGN.] From Planché's "History of British Costume," we learn that "the female head-dress among all classes of the Anglo-Saxons was a long piece of linen or silk wrapped round the head and neck." It appears to have been called a head-rail, or wimple, but was dispensed with in the house, as the hair was then as cherished an ornament as at the present day. A wife described by Adhelm, Bishop of Sherborne, who wrote in the eighth century, is said to have had "twisted locks, delicately curled by the iron;" and in the poem of "Judith" the heroine is called "the maid of the Creator, with twisted locks." Two long plaits were worn by Norman ladies, and were probably adopted by our own countrywomen after the Conquest. During the Middle Ages feminine head-gear underwent many changes. Golden nets, and linen bands closely pinned round the hair and chin, were followed by steeple-shaped erections and horned head-dresses in a variety of shapes, of which the accompanying sketches will give a better idea than any written description. During the sixteenth century matrons adopted either a pointed hood, composed of velvet or other rich fabric, often edged with fur, a close-fitting coif, or the French cap to be seen in the portraits of the unhappy Mary Stuart. Those who were unmarried had their hair simply braided and embellished with knots of ribbon, strings of pearls, or Nature's most beautiful adornment for the maiden--sweet-scented flowers. [Illustration: ELIZABETHAN HEAD-DRESS.] The auburn tresses of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth, were always _bien coiffée_, if we may judge from her various portraits. She scorned the hoods, lace caps, and pointed coifs, worn by her contemporaries, and adopted a miniature crown or jaunty hat of velvet, elaborately jewelled. Her fair complexion and light hair were thrown into relief by ruffles of lace, and this delicate fabric was stretched over fine wire frames, which met at the back, and remotely suggested the fragile wings of the butterfly, or the nimbus of a saint, neither of which ornaments was particularly appropriate to the lady in question. The front hair was turned over a cushion, or dressed in stiff sausage-like curls, pinned close to the head, and was adorned with strings and stars of flashing gems and a pendant resting on the forehead. [Illustration: A BEAUTY OF THE COURT OF CHARLES II.] That splendid historian, Stubbs, who has left us such minute particulars of the fashions of his time, quaintly describes the coiffure of the ladies of the Court. He states: "It must be curled, frizzled, crisped, laid out in wreaths and borders from one ear to the other, and lest it should fall down, must be underpropped with forkes and weirs, and ornamented with gold or silver curiously wrought. Such gewgaws, which being unskilful in woman's tearms, I cannot easily recount. Then upon the toppes of their stately turrets, stand their other capital ornaments: a French hood, hatte, cappe, kircher and suchlike, whereof some be of velvet, some of this fashion and some of that. Cauls made of netwire, that the cloth of gold, silver, or tinsel, with which their hair was sometimes covered, might be seen through; and lattice caps with three horns or corners, like the forked caps of popish priests." The Harleian MSS., No. 1776, written in the middle of Elizabeth's reign, refers to an ordinance for the reformation of gentlewomen's head-dress, and says: "None shall wear an ermine or lattice bonnet unless she be a gentlewoman born, having Arms." This latter phrase, we may conclude, refers to armorial bearings, not to physical development. The wearing of false hair and periwigs was left to the sterner sex for some years after the restoration of the House of Stuart, and women were satisfied with well-brushed ringlets escaping from a bandeau of pearls, or beautified by a single flower. The hair was often arranged in small, flat curls on the forehead, as in the sketch of a Beauty of the Court of Charles II.; and this fashion had a softening effect on the face, and was known as the "Sevigné style." [Illustration: END OF 17TH CENTURY.] Dutch fashions naturally prevailed in the Court of William and Mary, and this queen is represented with a high muslin cap, adorned with a series of upright frills, edged with lace, and long lappets falling on the shoulders. Farquhar, in his comedy "Love and the Bottle," alludes to the "high top-knots," and Swift, to the "pinners edged with colberteen," as the lace streamers were called. About this period the hair was once again rolled back from the face, and assumed enormous dimensions, so much so, that in some cases it was found necessary to make doorways broader and higher than they had hitherto been, to allow fashionably-dressed ladies to pass through without displacing the elaborate erections they carried. Stuffed with horsehair, clotted with pomade and powder, and decked with every conceivable ornament, from a miniature man-of-war in full sail, to a cooing dove with outspread wings, presumably sitting on its nest, or a basket of flowers wreathed with ribbons. Naturally, the aid of the barber was called in, as ladies were incapable of constructing and manipulating such a mass of tangled locks. We may imagine, on the score of expense and for other reasons, the hair was not dressed so frequently as cleanliness demanded, for in a book on costume a hairdresser is described as asking one of his customers how long it was since her hair had been opened and repaired. On her replying, "Nine weeks," he mildly suggested that that was as long as a head could well go in summer, "and, therefore, it was proper to deliver it now, as it began to be a little _hazarde_." Various anecdotes of this nature make us feel that personal hygiene was a matter of secondary importance to our ancestors. Planché, in his work on British Costume, informs us that powder maintained its ground till 1793, when it was discarded by Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, Consort of George III., and the Princesses. [Illustration: FASHIONABLE COIFFURE OF AN ELDERLY LADY IN THE 18TH CENTURY.] [Illustration: FASHIONABLE HEAD-DRESSES IN THE TIMES OF THE GEORGES.] Varied, indeed, have been the fashions of the 19th century, the close of which is fast approaching. Only a few of the styles adopted can be briefly touched upon, and, naturally, those will be selected which form the greatest contrast to each other. The belle of 1830 was distinguished by upstanding bows of plain or plaited hair, arranged on the crown of the head, and the front was generally in bands or short ringlets, held in place by tortoise-shell side-combs. The simplicity of this coiffure was compensated for by the enormous size of the hats and bonnets generally worn with it. These had wide and curiously-shaped brims, over which was stretched or gathered silk, satin, aerophane, or similar materials. Garlands and bunches of flowers and feathers were used in profusion, and bows and strings of gauze ribbon floated in the wind. In this bewitching costume were our grandmothers wooed and won by suitors who evidently, from the impassioned love letters still in existence, believed them to be perfect types of loveliness. Towards the middle of Queen Victoria's reign, the hair was dressed in a simple knot, and the front arranged in ringlets, which fell gracefully on the chest and shoulders. Even youthful married ladies, in the privacy of their homes and for morning dress, were expected, by one of those potent but unwritten laws of the fickle goddess Fashion, to wear muslin or net caps, with lace borders, embellished with ribbons. [Illustration: 1830.] [Illustration: 1855.] [Illustration: BIRD'S-NEST CHIGNON, 1872.] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY, 1894.] The labours of Hercules would be mere child's play compared to giving a faithful record of the chameleon-like changes which have affected that kaleidoscope, public taste, during the last forty years, and a very limited study of this fascinating subject at once convinces us that, whatever peculiarities may appear, they are certain to be revivals or modifications of styles favoured by our more or less remote ancestors. In 1872 loomed upon us that ghastly horror the chignon, which bore a faint resemblance to the exaggerated coiffures of the 18th century. Upon this monstrous edifice, with its seductive Alexandra curl, were tilted bonnets so minute that they were almost invisible in the mountains of hair that surrounded them. These were replaced by hats _à la Chinois_, like shallow plates; while for winter wear, others of fur or feathers were introduced, with an animal's head fixed firmly on the brow of the wearer, and resembling nothing so much as the fox foot-warmer, with which ladies now keep their pedal extremities at a proper temperature when enjoying an airing. Besides these, there were pinched canoes turned keel uppermost, and flexible mushrooms, which flapped and caught the wind till it was necessary to attach a string to the edge, to keep them snug and taut; such hats as Leech has immortalised in his sketches. Turbans and facsimiles of the delicious but indigestible pork-pie, Gainsborough, Rousby, and Langtry hats, all named after styles worn by their respective namesakes; and hats made of straw, leghorn, crinoline, lace, satin, and of silver and gold tissue, of every shape and size that fancy could devise, or the heart of the most exacting woman of fashion could desire. The hair beneath was dressed like the frizzy mop illustrated, in plaited wedges flowing like a pendant hump half-way down the back, or in a cascade of curls reaching from the crown of the head to the waist. These were followed by gigantic rolls at the back of the skull, Grecian knots, varying from the dimensions of a door handle to those of a cottage loaf, and latterly by that hideous monstrosity, the "bun." Another turn of the wheel of fashion has given us a simple mode of dressing the hair, which is well adapted to the average English head, and which is fully explained by the accompanying sketch. It may be taken as a safe rule, when the forehead is low and face small, that the hair may be drawn back with advantage, but a long face is generally improved by arranging the hair in soft curls on the forehead, and by waving it slightly at the sides, which adds to the apparent width of the countenance. But whatever style is in fashion, it is sure to have its admirers, for has not Pope left on record: "Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us by a single hair." CHAPTER III. GLOVES. "Gloves as sweet as damask roses."--_Shakespeare._ "See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek." --_Romeo and Juliet._ The glove as an article of dress is of great antiquity, and among the fossils of the cave-dwellers of pre-historic times, which have been recently discovered in France, Belgium, and Switzerland, there is ample proof of its existence. Probably the first gloves were formed of skins, sewn with bone needles, and were long enough to reach above the elbow. [Illustration: GLOVE OF HENRY VI] Xenophon, speaking of the Persians, gives as an instance of their effeminacy "that they not only covered their head and feet, but guarded their hands from cold by thick gloves." Homer, describing Laërtes at work in his garden, represents him with gloves on his hands to protect them from thorns. Pliny the younger, in speaking of his uncle's visit to Vesuvius, states that his secretary sat by ready to write down anything that was remarkable, and had gloves on his hands that the coldness of the weather need not impede his work. Varro, an ancient writer says:--"Olives gathered with the naked hand are preferable to those plucked in gloves;" and Atheneus speaks of a glutton who wore gloves at table so that he might handle the meat while hot and devour more than the others present. That the Anglo-Saxons wore gloves we gather from their being mentioned in an old romance of the seventh century known as the "Poem of Beowulf," and according to the laws of Ethelred the Unready, five pairs of gloves formed part of the duty paid to that Prince by certain German merchants. In Planché's "History of British Costume," an Anglo-Saxon lady appears to be wearing a glove with a separate division for the thumb but without fingers, and exactly resembling an infant's glove of the present day. In 1462 Edward IV. forbade the importation of foreign gloves to England, a law which remained in force till 1826. [Illustration: HAWKING-GLOVE OF HENRY VIII.] In the early Christian Church gloves played an important part. In A.D. 790 Charlemagne granted an unlimited right of hunting to the Abbot and monks of Sithin, so that the skins of the deer they killed could be used in the manufacture of gloves, girdles, and covers of books. In some cases it was commanded that the clergy should wear gloves in administering the Sacrament, and a writer in the "Antiquary" states:--"It was always looked upon as decorous for the laity to take off their gloves in church where ecclesiastics alone might wear them. It was perhaps regarded as a proof of clean hands, for to this day persons sworn in our law courts are compelled to remove their gloves." In the ancient Consecration Service for the Bishops of the Church, a blessing was invoked on the gloves they wore. Those of William of Wykeham preserved at New College, Oxford, are adorned with the sacred monogram in red silk, and ecclesiastical gloves were often lavishly decorated with embroidery and jewels, and were bequeathed by will with other valuables. [Illustration: GLOVE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS] Formerly judges were forbidden to wear gloves when engaged in their official duties, but are no longer bound by this restriction, and receive as a memorial of a maiden assize (that is, when there are no prisoners to be tried) a pair of white kid gloves from the sheriff, and during the time fairs were held their duration was marked by hanging a glove outside the town hall. As long as it remained there all persons in the place were exempt from arrest, but directly it was removed it was the signal for closing the fair, and the privilege was at an end. Throwing down a glove was regarded as a challenge to combat, and this curious old custom is still retained in the English coronation ceremony. Kings were also invested with authority by the delivery of a glove. As _un gage d'amour_ it has for centuries been esteemed, and in the days of chivalry it was usual for knights to wear their ladies' gloves in their helmets, as a talisman of success in arms. In old records we also meet with the term "glove money," a sum paid to servants with which they were to provide this portion of their livery, and till quite recently it was the custom to present those who attended weddings and funerals with gloves as a souvenir. Shakespeare often mentions gloves, and some assert that he was the son of a glover. A pair which belonged to the dramatist is still preserved. They are of brown leather, ornamented with a stamped pattern, and are edged with gold fringe. They were presented by the actor Garrick to the Mayor and Corporation of Stratford-on-Avon at the Shakespearian commemoration in 1789. [Illustration: GLOVE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.] Many royal gloves have found a place in private collections. Henry VI.'s glove has a gauntlet, is made of tanned leather, and is lined with deer-skin, and the hawking glove of Henry VIII. is another interesting relic of a bygone age. The King kept his hawks at Charing Cross, and in the inventories taken after this monarch's death we read of "three payre of hawkes' gloves, with two lined with velvet;" and again at Hampton Court there were "seven hawkes' gloves embroidered." The hawking glove, of which an illustration is given, may be seen in the Ashmolean Museum. It is of a simple character, evidently intended for use rather than ornament. Gloves were not generally worn by women till after the Reformation; but during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries their use gradually extended to the middle classes. Queen Elizabeth's glove may be seen at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, and is believed to have been worn at the visit of the Virgin Queen to the University in 1566. It is fringed with gold, and is nearly half a yard in length; it is made of white leather worked with gold thread, and the cuff is lined with drab silk. Mary Queen of Scots' glove in the Saffron Walden Museum is of light buff leather, wrought with silver wire and silk of different colours. It is lined with crimson satin, edged with gold lace enriched with sequins, and the opening is connected with bands of satin finished with lace insertion. This glove was presented on the morning of her execution to a member of the Dayrell family, who was in attendance at Fotheringay Castle. In happier days Queen Mary gave an exquisitely embroidered pair of gloves, with a design in which angels' heads and flowers appear--her own work--to her husband, Lord Darnley; and the gloves generally of the Tudor period were more ornate than those which adorn beauty's hands on the eve of the nineteenth century, and were, in most cases, wrought with the needle. Though the history of gloves savours of romance, there is every reason to believe that they have sometimes been used with sinister motives, as a large trade was done at one time in poisoned gloves, delicately perfumed, to conceal their deadly purpose. [Illustration: GLOVE OF JAMES I.] Some gloves which were the property of James I. are of brown leather lined with white, and the seams are sewn with silk and gold thread. The embroidery is in gold and silver thread on crimson satin, with a lining of red silk. They are finished with gold fringe, and have three loops at the side. A glove of chaste design, worn by Charles I. on the scaffold is made of cream-coloured kid, the gauntlet embroidered with silver and edged with silver fringe. Queen Anne, on the other hand, wore highly-decorated gloves of Suede kid, with raised silken flowers on the gauntlet, and three loops of rose-coloured ribbon, to allow them to be slipped over the hands. They are further enriched with gold lace and embroidery. A yellow Suede Court glove of George IV. gives the impression that the first gentleman of Europe had a fist of tremendous proportions. Her Majesty Queen Victoria generally wears black kid gloves, except for Court functions, when white glacé kid gloves are invariably used. Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales has a delicately-formed hand with tapering fingers, and her size is six and a-half. Her Royal Highness adapts her gloves to the occasion and toilette, and is always _bien ganté_. The first Napoleon gave an impetus to this branch of industry by insisting on gentlemen wearing gloves on State occasions and at festive gatherings, and the fashion spread through the countries of Europe with astonishing rapidity. CHAPTER IV. CURIOUS FOOT-GEAR. "A tasteful slipper is my soul's delight." --_Milman's "Fazio."_ A well-shaped foot has been considered from the earliest times one of Nature's kindest gifts, and sober history and fairy lore have combined to give us many interesting particulars respecting this portion of the human anatomy. The similarity of the foot-gear of both sexes makes it impossible to treat the matter separately, and as the subject is practically inexhaustible, I propose only to illustrate the most curious and notable examples. One of the finest collection of shoes in the world is that at the Cluny Museum, Paris, formed by the eminent French engraver, the late Jules Jacquemart. This was enlarged by the purchase of the collection of Baron Schvitter. The Queen of Italy has also acquired a large number of historical boots and shoes; and to Mr. Joseph Box, another enthusiastic collector, I am indebted for some of the drawings used for illustrating this article. A quaint story is told in a rare book, entitled "The Delightful, Princely, and Entertaining History of the Gentle Craft of Crispin, the Patron Saint of Shoe Makers, and his Brother Crispianus." According to this authority, they were the two sons of the King of Logia (Kent), and lived in the city of Durovenum, otherwise Canterbury, or the Court of the Kentish men. Having embraced Christianity, during the Roman invasion, they were in considerable danger, and at their mother's instigation, to conceal their identity, adopted humble attire, and devoted themselves to the modest craft of shoemaking, under the auspices of a shoemaker at Faversham, to whom they bound themselves for seven years. This industrious citizen appears to have received the appointment of shoemaker to the Court of Maximinus, whose daughter Ursula fell in love with Crispin. After removing the usual obstacles (which, even in those remote times, seem to have obstructed the paths of those who had fallen under the sway of Cupid), this energetic lady engaged the services of a neighbouring friar, and cut the gordian knot by marrying her faithful adorer. When primitive man first conceived the idea of producing some contrivance to defend himself from cold, sharp stones, or the heated sand of the desert, his first effort was to fasten to the bottom of his feet soles of bark, wood, or raw hide, which were followed, in due course, by more elaborately made sandals of tanned leather. These were fastened in various ways, but generally by two leathern straps, one round the instep, while the other passed between the first and second toes. Egyptian sandals were sometimes prolonged to a sharp point, and occasionally were made of papyrus, or some flexible material; but the commoner kinds were, as a rule, of wood or leather. Often they had painted upon them the effigy of the wearer's enemy, who was thus literally trodden underfoot. Owing to their proximity, the habits and customs of the Egyptians and Jews were in many respects similar. The same Hebrew word denotes both a sandal and a shoe; and it has been concluded that shoes were probably confined to the upper classes, while sandals were used by those compelled to work; and slaves went barefoot. It will be seen from the sketches of Grecian and Roman shoes that they eventually became an elaborate article of dress, bound to the foot and leg with lacings, and ornamented in different ways. The senators had boots of black leather, with a crest of gold or silver on the top of the foot; and soldiers wore iron shoes, heavily spiked, in a similar manner to those now used for cricket, so as to give the wearers a better hold when scaling walls in the attack of fortified places. An iron boot was also used for torturing Christians. As an instance of the luxury so characteristic of the age, it is stated that Roman soldiers often had the spikes on their shoes made of gold. According to the testimony of Seneca, Julius Cæsar wore shoes of the precious metal, a fashion emulated by Cardinal Wolsey many centuries after; and Severus was fond of covering his with jewels, to attract the attention of the people as he walked through the streets. The Emperor Aurelian forbade men to wear red, yellow, white, or green shoes, reserving these colours for women; and different shapes were prescribed by legal enactments to be worn for the easy distinguishment of various trades and professions. In the reign of Domitian, the stalls of shoemakers in the public streets were so numerous as to necessitate an edict for their removal. [Illustration: FOOT-GEAR OF DIFFERENT PERIODS.] Our own ancestors, the Anglo-Saxons, wore shoes of raw cow-hide, reaching to the ankles; and the hair turned outward. Those used by ecclesiastics were a kind of sandal fastened with bands of leather round the instep. The Norman half-boots had soles of wood, while the uppers were of a more pliable material. Those worn by the Crusaders were of chain, and later of plate armour. Very pointed toes were in fashion during the Middle Ages, and these were carried to such a ridiculous length that the dignitaries of the Church considered it necessary to preach against the practice. However, this did not result in its abolition, for we find the courtiers of the day improved upon the prevailing mode by stuffing their shoes, and twisting them into the shape of a ram's horn; the point of which was attached to the knee by a chain. The common people were permitted by law to wear "the pykes on their shoon" half-a-foot, rich citizens a foot, while nobles and princes had theirs two-and-a-half feet long. During the Plantagenet period it was usual to wear two shoes of different colours, and they were often slashed on the upper surface, to show the bright hose beneath. These were superseded by a large, padded shoe, gored over the foot with coloured material, a fashion imported from Italy, and exaggerated as much as the pointed shoe had been. Buskins were high boots, made of splendid tissue, and worn by the nobility and gentry during the Middle Ages, generally on occasions of State. They were also largely adopted by players of tragedy. They covered the knee, and were tied just below. The sock, or low shoe, on the other hand, was the emblem of comedy. One of the greatest follies ever introduced was the chopine, a sort of stilt which increased the height of the wearer. These were first used in Persia, but appeared in Venice about the Sixteenth Century, and their use was encouraged by jealous husbands in the hope of keeping their wives at home. This desire, however, was not realised, as the ladies went out as usual, and required rather more support than hitherto. Chopines were very ornate, and the length determined the rank of the wearer, the noblest dames having them half-a-yard high. Shakespeare refers to them when he makes Hamlet say:--"Your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine." He also alludes to the general use of shoes for the left and right foot, when he speaks of a man:--- "Standing in slippers which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet." [Illustration: GREEK AND ROMAN SHOES.] The exercise of the gentle craft of shoemaking was for a long time carried on in monastic institutions, and increased the revenues of the clergy. Richard, the first Abbot of St. Albans, objected to canons and priests of his era associating themselves with tanners and shoemakers, not one of whom, in his opinion, ought to be made a bishop or an abbot. It is said, however, that Pope John, elected in 1316, was the son of a shoemaker at Cahors; and in the description of Absalom, the Parish Clerk, Chaucer tells us, "the upper leathers of his shoes were carved to resemble the windows of St. Paul's Cathedral," which inclines one to believe in their priestly origin. [Illustration: ANGLO-SAXON AND NORMAN SHOES.] [Illustration: MEDIÆVAL SHOES.] From various sources, we have descriptions of royal shoes. Richard C[oe]ur de Lion had his boots striped with gold; those of his brother John were spotted with gold in circles. Henry III. had his boots chequered with golden lines, and every square enriched with a lion. In the splendid Court of Edward III., the royal shoes were elaborately embroidered. The coronation shoes of Richard III. were covered with crimson tissue cloth of gold. Henry VIII. is described as wearing square-toed shoes, which were slashed with coloured silk, and exposed a portion of the foot. Some worn by his daughter, Queen Elizabeth, of brocaded silk, are remarkably clumsy in appearance, and have lappets which fasten over the instep. They form a striking contrast to those used by the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots (now in the possession of Sir James William Drummond), which are of kid, embroidered with coloured silks; the toes are somewhat squarer, but in other respects resemble those in fashion at the present day. [Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH'S BOOTS.] [Illustration: SHOE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.] [Illustration: SHOE WORN BY CHARLES I.] [Illustration: A. CHOPINE; B, BUSKIN; C, PEAKED SHOE; D, TUDOR SHOE.] [Illustration: MILITARY BOOTS AND SPURS USED AT THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.] In speaking of curious foot-gear, the under covering of the leg and pedal extremities must be briefly referred to. Ancient works on costume frequently mention hose, socks, and stockings, which were made of woollen cloth, leather, or linen, and held in place by cross-bands of the material twisted to a little below the knee, either in close rolls, like the hay-bands of the modern ostler, or crossing each other sandal-wise, as they are now worn in some districts of Europe, particularly in Russia and Spain. Cloth stockings, embroidered with gold, are among the articles of dress ordered by Henry III. for his sister Isabel; and of a woman mentioned in the "Canterbury Tales," it is said: "Hire hosen weren of fine scarlet redde, ful streite yteyed (tied), and shoon full moist (supple) and newe." [Illustration: ANCIENT SHOES--A, B, C, D, E, EGYPTIAN; F, PERSIAN; G, H, GREEK; I, J, K, L, PHRYGIAN AND DACIAN.] In the reign of Henry VII. clocks on stockings are discernible; and the Poet Laureate of this king, describing the dress of the hostess of an inn, gives an indication of how boots were cleaned: "She hobbles as she goes, With her blanket hose, Her shoone smeared with _tallow_." It is supposed that hose or stockings of silk were unknown in this country before the middle of the 16th century. A pair of Spanish silk hose was presented by Sir Thomas Gresham to Edward VI., his father never having worn any but those made of cloth. In the reign of good Queen Bess, nether socks or stockings were of silk, jarnsey, worsted crewel, or the finest yarn, thread, or cloth, and were of all colours, "cunningly knit and curiously indented in every point, with querks, clocks, open seams, and everything else accordingly." Planché states, in the third year of Elizabeth, Mistress Montague, the Queen's silk-woman, presented Her Majesty with a pair of black silk knit stockings, made in England; and from that time she wore no others, in the laudable desire to encourage their home manufacture by her own example. The Queen's patronage, and the invention, in 1599, of a weaving frame, by William Lee, Master of Arts, and Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, gave a great impetus tus to the stocking trade, which has been carried on with considerable success ever since, particularly in the Midland counties of England. Spurs can be traced back to the Anglo-Saxon period, which is quite far enough for this purpose. They had no rowels, but were made with a simple point like a goad, and were fastened with leathers. Early in the 15th century spurs were screwed on to a steel shoe, instead of being fastened with straps. They were long in the neck, and the spikes of the rowels of formidable dimensions. From a sketch of a spur worn at the Battle of Naseby, in the reign of Charles I., it will be seen that, as progress was made in armour and military gear, considerable attention was paid to this portion of the soldier's outfit; indeed, it was more elaborate in design than is now considered necessary. From a very early period spurs have been used by both sexes. A curious custom was in vogue at the beginning of the present century for ladies to make their own indoor shoes. This fashion was inaugurated by Queen Charlotte, who was particularly deft in handling a beautiful set of shoemaker's tools, mounted in silver, with ivory handles. Tradesmen bitterly complained that worktables in boudoirs were strewn with the implements of their craft; but, like many other feminine fads, it soon passed away. About this period clogs were also used. These were made of wood, and served as a protection to shoes out of doors. A similar contrivance, with the addition of an iron ring, leather strap and toe-cap, is still sometimes worn by farm servants, and is called a patten. Another form of clog, consisting of a laced leather boot with wooden sole, is extensively used by the working classes in the North of England, and the sabot, a wooden shoe, is the ordinary foot-gear of peasants on the Continent. It is well known that Chinese women of high rank deform their feet by compressing them in such a manner that it is afterwards almost impossible to walk; and in Davis' interesting description of the Empire of China, he relates that whenever a judge of unusual integrity resigns his post, the people accompany him from his home to the gates of the city, where his boots are drawn off with great ceremony, and are afterwards preserved in the Hall of Justice. In Japan a peculiar wooden sandal, having a separate compartment for the great toe, is in common use. Straw slippers are also worn, and a traveller starting on a journey will strap a supply on his back, so that he may have new shoes in case of need. They are lefts and rights, and only cost a halfpenny the pair. Here one never finds those deformities of the feet so common in China, and even in our own country. A graceful carriage depends so much upon the shoes worn. Heavy and stiff ones oblige the wearer to plant the foot solidly at every step. If the toes are very pointed it is at the sacrifice of elasticity, and if the heels are too high the muscles in the ball of the foot are little used. Orientals indicate reverence by uncovering their feet, and do so on all occasions when Western nations would remove their hats. Their heads, being generally shaven, are always covered, and are surmounted by a head-dress which could not be replaced without considerable trouble; while for the feet they have loose slippers, with a single sole, made of coloured morocco or embroidered silk, which are easily thrown off. Few things inspire them with greater disgust than for anyone to enter their rooms with shoes on. They think such conduct an insult to themselves and a pollution to their apartment; and it is considered the height of irreverence to enter a church, mosque, or a temple without removing them. Even classical heathenism affords instances of this usage. The Roman women were obliged to go barefoot in the Temple of Vesta; the same rule existed in that of Diana, at Crete; and those who prayed in the Temple of Jupiter also followed this custom. In the East, the public removal of the sandal or shoe, and the giving it to another, accompanied by certain words, signifies a transfer of authority or relinquishing possession. We are told in the case of Ruth and Boaz, when her kinsman gave up his right to marry her, in favour of her second husband, "he drew off his shoe." Among the Bedouins, when a man permits his cousin to marry another, or divorces his runaway spouse, he generally says, "She was my slipper; I have cast her off." Again, when shoes are left at the door of an apartment, they denote that the master or mistress is engaged, and even a husband does not venture into a wife's room while he sees the slippers on the threshold. The idea is not altogether unknown among ourselves, as it is expressed in the homely proverb, "to stand in another man's shoes;" or when we speak of coming into a future inheritance as stepping into a "dead man's shoe." Also in flinging the slipper after a departing bride, signifying that the father transfers his authority to the husband. CHAPTER V. BRIDAL COSTUME. [Illustration: MARRIAGE PROCESSION OF A BRIDE IN LEBANON.] Certain curious customs have been associated with the Ordinance of Marriage from a very early period, and among others may be mentioned the union of near relations in barbaric or semi-barbaric tribes; the providing of husbands and wives for a family according to seniority (so that the younger members had to possess their souls in patience till the elder ones were disposed of); the paying of an equivalent for the bride's services to her father in money or kind; and festivities often lasting over several days to celebrate the nuptials. The Rabbins acquaint us with the fact that seven days' feasting was an indispensable obligation on all married men, and that the bride was not consigned to her husband until after the days of feasting had expired. They were generally spent in the house of the woman's father, after which she was conducted in great state to her husband's home. When the bride was a widow, the festivities only lasted for three days. Customs in the East are perpetuated from one generation to another, and we now find among the inhabitants of the Orient the same mode of life as was adopted by the patriarchs of old. The description of the wooing of Isaac and Rebekah, for example, so graphically told in Genesis, differs in few respects from that of a young couple of the same rank in the present day. Handsome presents, consisting of jewels, apparel, &c., are presented to the woman and her family, and form part of her dower in case of divorce. Rich shawls, fine dresses, personal ornaments, money, and a complete outfit of domestic utensils are always included in such a gift. Among some of the Arab tribes the dower received on such occasions, and called the "five articles," consists of a carpet, a silver nose ring, a silver neck chain, silver bracelets, and a camel bag. Matrimonial overtures are generally made by the parents of the contracting parties in Persia, but after all has been concluded, the bride-elect has nominally the power, though it is seldom exercised, of expressing her dissent before the connection receives its final sanction. Among many Bedouin tribes the woman is not suffered to know until the betrothing ceremonies announce it to her who is to be her husband, and then it is too late to negative the contract, but she is permitted to withdraw from her husband's tent the day after her marriage, and to return to her father; in which case she is formally divorced, and is henceforward regarded as a widow. On the value of her ornaments the Eastern bride bases her claim to consideration; and though the Arab, as a rule, cares little for his own dress, he decks his wife as richly as possible, that honour may be reflected upon himself and his circumstances. The leg ornaments and bracelets are often enormously thick, and have no fastenings, but open and compress by their own elasticity. It is not unusual to wear several on the same arm, reaching to the elbow. They form a woman's sole wealth, and are not treasured up for special occasions, as is usual among Western nations, but are used as part of of the daily costume. Various materials are employed in their manufacture; gold is necessarily rare, silver less so, while others are composed of amber, coral, mother-of-pearl, and beads. [Illustration: ANCIENT EGYPTIAN BRIDAL COSTUME.] [Illustration: FESTIVITIES AT AN EASTERN MARRIAGE.] We are told, when Rebekah approached her future home and saw a man walking in the distance, she evinced a curiosity, natural under the circumstances, and inquired about him; and on discovering that it was Isaac, "she took a veil and covered herself." It is still almost universal in the East for a woman, whose face is not concealed on other occasions, to envelop her head and body in an ample veil before she is conducted to her husband, and it is considered an indispensable part of the bridal costume. The details of the home coming are modified by the local usages and religions of the different countries. In Syria, Persia, and India, the bridegroom, in person, brings home the bride; in some other countries this duty devolves on a near relative, and he remains at home to receive the lady on her arrival. From various sources, but particularly from indications in Scripture, we may gather that the Jews employed either of these methods, according to circumstances. Again, in Egypt the bridegroom goes to the Mosque when his bride is expected, and returns home in procession after she has arrived. In Western Asia the procession usually walks, if the bride's future house is at no great distance in the same town. In such cases she is often partially covered by a canopy, and in Central and Eastern Asia it is the rule for her to be mounted on a mare, mule, ass, or camel, unless she is carried in a palanquin. Much, of course, depends on the social position of those married. Music attends such processions, and often dancing; the Jews certainly had the former, and some think the latter also, at least, in the time of our Saviour. [Illustration: A GREEK BRIDESMAID.] In Halhed's translation of the Gentoo Laws, and in Mr. Roberts's "Oriental Illustrations," reference is made to the custom of marrying the elder sister first, and the same usage is observed with regard to the brothers. When, in India, the elder daughter happens to be blind, deaf, dumb, or deformed, this formality is dispensed with; and there have been cases when a man, wishing to obtain a younger daughter, has used every means in his power to promote the settlement of his future sister-in-law, so as to forward his own nuptials. Fathers, too, will sometimes exert their powers to compass the marriage of the elder daughter, when a very advantageous offer is made for the younger one. It is generally believed that Psalm xlv., commonly known as "The Song of Loves," was composed on the occasion of Solomon's marriage--probably to Pharaoh's daughter; and here we find the Egyptian bride's dress described as "all glorious within and wrought of gold, a raiment of needlework." Both expressions refer to the same dress, and imply that the garment was embroidered with figures worked with threads of gold. The Egyptians were famous for their embroideries, and some mummies have been found wrapped up in clothing curiously ornamented with gold lace. At the present day, both in Egypt and Western Asia, it is usual for ladies of the highest rank to employ much of their time in working with the needle linen and cotton tissues in gold and silver thread and silk of different colours. [Illustration: MODERN GREEK BRIDAL COSTUME.] The use of nuptial crowns is of great antiquity. Among the Greeks and Romans they wore chaplets of flowers and leaves, and the modern Greeks retain this custom, employing such chaplets, decorated with ribbons and lace. Modern Jews do not use crowns in their marriage ceremonies, and they inform us that they have been discontinued since the last siege of Jerusalem by the Romans. The information which Gemara gives on this subject is briefly that the crown of the bridegroom was of gold and silver, or else a chaplet of roses, myrtle, or olives, and that the bride's crown was of the precious metals. There is also some mention of a crown made of salt and sulphur, worn by the bridegroom, the salt transparent as crystal, the figures being represented thereon in sulphur. Crowns play an important part in the nuptial ceremonies of the Greek Church; they are also still used by Scandinavian brides. The ring in former days did not occupy the prominent position it does now, but was given, with other presents, to mark the completion of the contract. Its form is a symbol of eternity, and signifies the intention of both parties to keep the solemn covenant of which it is a pledge, or, as the Saxons called it, a "wed," from which we derive the term wedding. The Jews have a law which proclaims that the nuptial ring shall be of certain value, and must not be obtained by credit or gift. Formerly they were of large size and elaborate workmanship, but now the ordinary plain gold hoop is used. [Illustration: A, JEWISH WEDDING RING, GERMAN, 17TH CENTURY; B, MODERN ITALIAN; C, ITALIAN, 14TH CENTURY; D, VENETIAN, 16TH CENTURY; E, ENGLISH, 1706; F, ENGLISH BRONZE BETROTHAL RING, 17TH CENTURY.] A wedding ring of the Shakespearian era has a portrait of Lucretia holding the dagger, the reverse side of the circle being formed by two clasped hands. This is a very common shape, and is shown in the illustration of the English wedding-ring E, dated 1706, where white enamel fingers support a rose diamond. The modern Italian peasant wedding-ring B is of gold in raised bosses, while C is of silver; F, bearing initials on vezet, is of bronze. A is a handsome Jewish wedding-ring, bearing the ark, and D also has a Hebrew inscription. The gimmal betrothal ring was formerly a favourite pattern, and consisted of three circlets attached to a spring or pivot, and could be closed so as to appear like one solid ring. It was customary to break these asunder at the betrothal, the man and woman taking the upper and lower ones, and the witness the intermediate ring. When the marriage took place these were joined together and used at the ceremony. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries it was a common practice to engrave these emblems of affection with some appropriate motto. It was from Pagan Rome that European nations derive the wedding-ring, as they were used in their betrothals long before there is any trace of them elsewhere. [Illustration: AN EASTERN BRIDE.] In describing the bridal costumes of different nations, it should be distinctly borne in mind that a large majority of the upper classes wear on such occasions the traditional white satin and orange blossoms with which we are all familiar. Many, however, prefer the picturesque national costume associated with the land of their birth, and it has been my principal object, in selecting the illustrations, to make them as typical as possible. [Illustration: GARMENT FORMERLY WORN BY GREEK BRIDES. (_From South Kensington Museum_)] The Greek marriage service is full of symbol, and the sketch gives a good idea of the bridal costume. The bridesmaid is attired in a gold embroidered jacket, a skirt of brilliant colouring, and the crimson fez--the usual head-gear of a Greek maiden. She is depicted scattering corn, an ancient rite always performed at the conclusion of the ceremony. As she gracefully sways backwards and forwards, to the accompaniment of the jingling coins, which do double service as dowry and trimming, it is a pose and dress at once graceful and free. Formerly a wedding garment was often passed down from mother to daughter, and such an example is given in the soft yellow silk robe, lined with white and enriched with elaborate embroidery. Tiny stars in delicate shades of red, blue, and green, divided by black lines form the design and proclaim the industry and skill of the worker. These robes, however, have not been used in Greece since the beginning of the seventeenth century. In Japan, the beautiful land of the lily and chrysanthemum, the bride usually takes little more to her husband's home than her trousseau, which is ample enough, as a rule, to satisfy even a woman's passion for dress. The nuptials take place in the evening, and the bride is garbed in virgin white robes, figured with a lozenge design. These garments are the gift of the bridegroom, and in them she passes from the home of her girlhood to that of her husband. The household gods of both families are assembled before an altar decked with flowers and covered with offerings. Near stands a large table, with a dwarf cedar; it also holds the Japanese Adam and Eve, and the mystic turtle and stork. The two special attendants of bride and bridegroom are called butterflies, and in their dress and colouring rival these beautiful insects, which in this country are the symbol of conjugal felicity. The most solemn part of the marriage ceremony is the scene of the two-mouthed vase. At a signal, one butterfly fills the vase, and the other offers it to the kneeling couple, the husband drinking first, and afterwards the wife. This draught signifies that henceforward they are to partake equally of the bitters and sweets of the coming years. Rice is thrown from either side, so as to mingle, and the wicks of two candles are placed together, to symbolize the joining of body and soul. The marriage processions of other Oriental nations have already been referred to, and in India it is customary to perform the ceremony under a species of canopy richly ornamented and lighted by lamps. The bride wears, in addition to the native costume, a curious veil composed of strings of gold beads and tassels. In Hindu marriages the sacred fire or _oman_ (which is constantly renewed by throwing upon it scented oils, sandalwood, incense, and other aromatic perfumes) is a prominent feature, and the union of a couple is consecrated by sprinkling a handful of saffron, mixed with rice flour, on their shoulders. Finally, the husband presents his wife with a little golden image called _talee_, a substitute for the wedding ring, and worn by Indian women as their symbol of matrimony. A missionary thus describes a Buddhist marriage:--"The bride, loaded with jewellery, accompanied by women richly attired, entered the room, and sat down with the bridegroom on the floor. A number of candles were then lighted, and the company saluted and congratulated the happy couple, and expressed their kind wishes by blowing smoke towards them, while a band of string instruments discoursed sweet music. Two cushions were placed before the bridegroom, on which a sword was laid, and food was also near them. Next the hands of each were bound together, then the two to each other with silken threads. This act was performed by the nearest relative present, and completed the ceremony." Brief, indeed, are the forms of marriage indulged in by the people of Borneo. Each of the contracting parties chews a betel nut; an elderly woman mutters some sort of incantation, and brings the heads of bride and bridegroom in close contact, after which they are declared man and wife, and are no longer regarded as twain, but one flesh. The Cherokee form of marriage is perhaps the most simple. The two join hands over a running stream, emblematic of the wish that their future lives, hopes, and aspirations, should flow on in the same channel. A peculiar custom of the Lascars is the putting of a ring on the great toe when they marry. Mrs. Bishop, who has explored Tibet and studied the habits and customs of the people, informs us that polyandry is favoured by the women of that country. The heir of the land and eldest son appears to be the only member of the family who can contract a marriage in the legal sense as we understand it, but all his brothers are accepted by the wife as inferior or subordinate husbands. By this means they are kept well under the control of the superior husband, whom they regard as the "Big Father," and, as a matter of form, any children who may be born are accepted by him. [Illustration: HINDU BRIDEGROOM'S PROCESSION.] Thus the whole family are attached to the soil, and seem to work in concord, and the women have the satisfaction of knowing that in the average course of Nature they can never become widows, and that there will always be someone to work for them and their offspring. "It is the custom for the men and women of a village to assemble when a bride enters her home with her husbands, and for each of them to present her with three rupees. The Tibetan wife, far from spending these gifts on personal adornment, looks ahead, contemplating possible contingencies, and immediately hires a field, the produce of which is her own, and accumulates from year to year, so that she may not be portionless should she desire a divorce." The African tribes, of course, differ materially in their marriage customs, but some form of exchange for the services of the woman are insisted on, and often take the shape of a present of cattle to the bride's father. On the West Coast, in the neighbourhood of Gaboon, where slavedom is recognised, there is an understanding that a wife may be purchased for a slave bundle, valued at about £6 in English money, and there appears to be no sliding scale as to youth, beauty, form, or degree. A bundle contains specimens of every article sold by a general storekeeper. The most important features of a slave bundle are a Neptune, or brass pan used for making salt, which is a current article of commerce, and a piece of native cloth, manufactured by these people for dress purposes, from a species of palm which grows on the river banks in great luxuriance. Both sexes anoint themselves with palm oil and other greasy substances, and no greater compliment can be paid to an African belle than to say she looks "fat and shining." [Illustration: VEIL OF HINDU BRIDE.] [Illustration: HINDU MARRIAGE CEREMONY.] Mr. Hutchinson, in his interesting work, "Ten Years in Æthiopia," gives a quaint and amusing account of the toilet of a Fernandian bridegroom: "Outside a small hut, belonging to the mother of the bride expectant, I soon discovered the happy bridegroom undergoing his toilet at the hands of his future wife's sister. A profusion of Tshibbu strings being fastened round his body, as well as his legs and arms, the anointing lady, having a short black pipe in her mouth, proceeded to rub him over with Tola pomade. He seemed not altogether joyous at the anticipation of his approaching happiness, but turned a sulky gaze now and then on a piece of yam which he held in his hand, and which had a parrot's red feather fixed on its convex side. This was called 'Ntshoba,' and is regarded as a protection against evil influences on the important day. The bride was borne down by the weight of rings and wreaths and girdles of Tshibbu. Tola pomatum gave her the appearance of an exhumed mummy, save her face, which was all white; not from excess of modesty, for the negro race are reported to blush blue, but from being smeared over with a white paste, the emblem of purity." What a hideous substitute for the classical wreath of orange blossoms, and what a contrast must be offered when the cosmetic peels off and displays the dusky skin upon which it is laid! According to Russian law, no man can marry before he is eighteen years of age, or a woman before she is sixteen; nor after he is eighty, and she is sixty. Priests are permitted to marry once. Secret marriages without witnesses are regarded as invalid, and both bride and bridegroom must be baptized persons. If a Russian takes a foreigner for a wife, she must bind herself in writing to bring up any children she may have in the Greco-Russian faith. According to an ancient custom the bridegroom presents his bride with the costume and jewellery worn at the marriage. The dowry comes from her family, and consists of a complete wardrobe, silver, linen, and household furniture of all kinds. The hair of an unmarried woman of the peasant class in Russia is dressed in a single plait hanging loose upon the shoulders, and tied with ribbon. After marriage it is arranged in two braids coiled round the head, covered with a cap tied behind, or with a cotton or silk handkerchief and a little lappet of linen rests on the forehead, and is considered an inevitable symbol of marriage. Marriages are performed after banns, and much of the finery used by the lower classes is hired for the occasion; and the crowns used in the Russian ceremony are generally the property of the Church. Formerly they were worn for a week, but this practice has been discontinued. [Illustration: A RUSSIAN BRIDE.] [Illustration: NORWEGIAN PEASANT BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.] There are three distinct periods in the life of a Norwegian woman, and each one has marked characteristics, particularly as regards dress. During girlhood, up to the time of confirmation, a solemn occasion for which there is much preparatory training, girls do not usually go from home to work, or earn their own living. Among the poorer classes this ceremony takes place when they are about fifteen. Their petticoats are short and their hair is arranged in two long plaits. After confirmation they are supposed to regard life from its more serious aspect, and to engage themselves with various duties, according to their station. The third stage, of course, is married life, and it should be stated that neither men nor women can enter upon the holy contract unless they can bring proof of their confirmation, and can show ample evidence of sufficient means to provide for a household. The marriage is preceded by a betrothal ceremony, when the young couple go to the church, accompanied by their friends, and exchange rings of plain gold and presents of jewellery and apparel, which must be worn on the wedding day. At her marriage the peasant bride wears the crown. It has a rim of brass to fit the head, and the upper portion is of silver and gold, sometimes embellished with precious stones. Such crowns are generally heirlooms, and it is not uncommon for all the brides of one family for centuries to wear the same adornment for the head. A very usual dress on such an occasion is a plain skirt of some woollen material, with a bodice and full sleeves of snowy linen, a corselet of red and green, ornamented with bands and buckles, and a white apron trimmed with embroidery. A silver-gilt breast ornament is worn by Swedish brides. The band is wrought with bosses, and depending from it are small beaten discs, and a medallion bearing the sacred initials I.H.S. The bridegroom's hat in the illustration was probably an heirloom too, from its shape and fashion. He wears a red waistcoat cut short and fastened with brass buttons, and a loose cloth coat ornamented with embroidered revers. The black small clothes show to advantage a well-shaped leg, and on the feet are low shoes. Usually the festivities in connection with a peasant wedding in Norway are kept up for three days, and during the time there is much feasting and merrymaking among the friends of bride and bridegroom. [Illustration: ORNAMENT WORN BY SWEDISH PEASANT BRIDE.] [Illustration: A BRIDEGROOM'S TOILET AT FERNANDO PO.] Gipsies are, as a rule, married at a very early age. A girl is generally betrothed at fourteen, and becomes a wife two years later. The marriage ceremony is performed by a priest wearing a ram's horn as a sign of office, and, as becomes a nomadic race, the four elements--fire, air, earth, and water--take a prominent position. The horn is the symbol of authority, and is often made use of in Scripture. So much were rams' horns esteemed by the Israelites that their priests and Levites used them as trumpets in the taking of Jericho; and modern Jews when they confess their sins announce the ceremony by blowing a ram's horn. In ancient Egypt and other parts of Africa, Jupiter Ammon was worshipped under the figure of a ram, and to this deity one of these animals was sacrificed annually. It seems to have been an emblem of power from the remotest ages. It would therefore appear that the practice of the gipsy priest wearing a ram's horn suspended from a string round his neck at a marriage is derived from the highest antiquity, and undoubtedly points to the Oriental origin of the gipsy race. Various expedients have been resorted to by different rulers of sparsely populated kingdoms to encourage men to enter the married state. In ancient Rome the law forbade that a bachelor should inherit any legacy whatever, and in Sparta, under the rule of Lycurgus, they were not permitted to have a part in the government, nor might they occupy any civil or military post. They were excluded from participation in public festivals, except on certain fixed occasions, and then the women had the right to lead them to the altars, where they were beaten with rods to the sound of scornful songs. As late as the reign of William and Mary, widowers were taxed in England at the following rates:--Dukes, £12 10s.; lower peers a smaller sum, and commoners one shilling each, if they elected to remain in a state of single blessedness. Widows also, especially those of high degree and fortune, were encouraged to dip again in the matrimonial lottery, and children were betrothed at a very tender age. [Illustration: AN ENGLISH BRIDE.] Bridesmaids in Anglo-Saxon times attended on the bride, and performed specified duties, particularly in the festivities which usually followed on such occasions. Even during the earlier portion of the present century it was a common custom for one to accompany the bridal couple on their honeymoon; and it was also her duty to prepare and present the "benediction posset," which is referred to by Herrick in "Hesperides:"-- "A short sweet prayer shall be said, And now the posset shall be made With cream of lilies not of kine And maiden blush for spiced wine." The fashion of brides wearing spotless white is a comparatively modern one. From accounts of bridal gowns in bygone times, we find rich brocades, golden tissues, and coloured silks were employed for this purpose; and at the present day white is considered only appropriate to the virgin, and is absolutely dispensed with by those women who have been married before. Of modern marriage customs in England there is no occasion to speak, for what woman is there among us who has not made an exhaustive and complete study of this vital matter? It may, however, comfort those who are beginning to wonder if marriage and giving in marriage is going out of fashion, to know that during the first quarter of 1894, 95,366 persons were joined together in the British Islands, an increase of 18 per cent. over the first three months of the previous year, 1893 and 9 per cent. over the mean rate for the same quarter for the preceding ten years. Figures are incontrovertible facts, so our ears need no longer be assailed by the bitter cry of "DARKEST SPINSTERDOM." CHAPTER VI. MOURNING. "The air is full of farewells to the dying And mourning for the dead."--_Longfellow._ [Illustration: ANCIENT JEWISH FUNERAL PROCESSION.] [Illustration: LAYING OUT AND MOURNING THE DEAD.] The signs of mourning in ancient times were by no means confined to the apparel. Fasting, laceration of the flesh, throwing dust on the head, and shaving the hair, were outward and visible signs of grief, accompanied by piercing cries of the most heartrending description. It was also customary to abstain from ornaments, to rend the clothing, and to put on filthy garments of sackcloth. This fabric was, and is still in the East, made of hair, which has an irritating effect upon the skin, and was for this purpose adopted as a penitential dress by the early Roman Church. The covering of the head was another manifestation of sorrow--a practice indicated by the hoods worn by female mourners, and the flowing hat-bands for men, so common at funerals a few years ago. In "A History of Mourning," by Richard Davey, from which many interesting facts on this subject may be gathered, we learn that the Egyptians, over three thousand years ago, selected yellow as the colour for mourning garments. The Greeks chose black as the most appropriate--a fashion followed by the Romans. The women of Rome had robes of black cloth, with veils of the same shade; but by a wise dispensation, young children were not compelled to adopt the symbols of woe. A year was the usual period for mourning a husband, wife, father, mother, sister, or brother; but relations who had been outlawed, imprisoned, or bankrupt, were not accorded this mark of respect. Numa published certain laws for the guidance of mourners, including one forbidding women to scratch their faces, or to make an exceptional display of grief at funerals. The Emperor Justinian (A.D. 537) also turned his attention to this subject, and regulated the expenses at funeral ceremonies, so as to secure those who remained from the double calamity of losing their friends and, at the same time, incurring heavy pecuniary liabilities on their account. Provision was made for burying each person free of cost, and for protecting the survivors from various extortions. Funds were appropriated for the purpose of interments, which were conducted by those appointed for the purpose. All persons were to be buried in the same manner; though those who desired to do so could, at their own cost, indulge in certain display, but this additional expense was limited. On state occasions, as, for example, on the death of an Emperor or a great defeat, the whole nation assumed the mourning garb. The defeat of Cannæ, the conspiracy of Catalina, and the death of Julius Cæsar, were all considered of sufficient importance for the observance of this custom. Private mourning could be broken among the Romans by certain domestic events, as the birth of a son or daughter, the marriage of a child, or the return of a prisoner taken in war. Both sexes were expected to abstain from going to public ceremonies and places of amusement; and women were not allowed to marry till a year had elapsed from the husband's death, without the special permission of the Emperor. History, however, does not record that their lords and masters applied this rule to their own conduct. [Illustration: THE MODE OF ENFOLDING THE DEAD.] The Greeks buried their dead before sunrise, so as to avoid ostentation. Mourning women took part in the procession, and accompanied the chief female mourner in her visits to the grave, on the seven days following interment. This custom, which was derived from the East, was a usual feature in Jewish, Roman, and Egyptian, as well as in Greek funerals. [Illustration: THE CUP OF CONSOLATION.] The funeral feast was a common practice among the classical ancients, and was kept up to a comparatively recent period, in various European countries. The Cup of Consolation consisted of light refreshments prepared and sent in by the friends of mourners, who were not supposed to busy themselves with domestic affairs at such a time. The illustration gives a good idea of the mourning habit adopted by the immediate family of the deceased. Caves were used for the disposal of the dead, as well as elaborately constructed sepulchres, of which many remain to this day. Earth burial was in favour with some nations, but in time of war or pestilence cremation was resorted to. The practice of embalming we owe to the Egyptians, who carried it to a great state of perfection. One of the earliest embalmments on record is that of Joseph, whose body accompanied the Israelites on their journey through the Wilderness. He was placed in a coffin, a distinction in the East only accorded to those of the highest rank, the usual mode being to simply swathe the corpse closely in wrappers and bandages, thus retaining the shape of the human form. The Jews largely used spices and perfumes, which were employed both for anointing and for wrapping up the body--a very necessary precaution in hot climates. The Egyptians, on the death of a relative or sacred animal (the cat, for instance), attired themselves in yellow garments and shaved off their eyebrows. Their funeral processions were magnificent. When a king quitted this mortal sphere, the temples were closed for seventy-two days, and there were no sacrifices, solemnities, or feasts. Companies of two or three hundred men and women, in mean attire paraded the streets, singing plaintive songs and reciting the virtues of him they had lost. They ate no meat, or food dressed by fire, and omitted their customary baths and anointings. Every one mourned as for the death of a favourite child, and spent the day in lamentations. The Pyramids, those wonderful monuments to Egyptian monarchs, are memorials of the reverence and industry of the nation, whose high state of civilization is attested to by their works. [Illustration: AN ANGLO-SAXON WIDOW.] [Illustration: PRIEST OF THE 10TH CENTURY, WEARING A BLACK DALMATIC EDGED WITH FUR, READY TO SAY REQUIEM MASS.] Burial clubs were common among the Anglo-Saxons, and heavy fines were inflicted on those who did not attend the funeral of a member. The corpse was placed on a bier, and on the body was laid the book of the Gospels, a code of belief and a cross as a symbol of hope. A silken or linen pall was used, according to the rank of the dead person. The clergy bore lighted tapers and chanted the psalter, the mass was performed, and a liberal offering made to the poor. [Illustration: HIRED MOURNERS.] From a 9th century MS. in the National Library, Paris, is given a sketch which clearly defines the mourning habit of that period. The gown is evidently of black woollen cloth, trimmed with black and white fur; and a gauze veil of the same sombre tint envelops the head. From the same source a drawing of an Anglo-Saxon priest is given, on account of his wearing a black dalmatic, edged with fur, a vestment only adopted when a requiem mass was performed. [Illustration: MOURNING IN SACKCLOTH] [Illustration: WIDOW'S DRESS OF QUEEN KATHERINE DE VALOIS, IN THE YEAR 1422] In the Middle Ages black was used for mourning as a rule, though purple and brown were occasionally substituted. Chaucer, in "The Knight's Tale," speaks of "clothes _black_ all dropped with tears," and, again, of "widdowes habit of samite _brown_." In many cases, on the death of her husband, the wife retired for a year to a convent, when she assumed the nun's dress, of which the widow's weeds of the present day are a symbol. The mourning adopted by Katherine of Valois, wife of Henry V., the hero of Agincourt, who died at Vincennes in 1422, may be regarded as the typical widow's dress of that period. It consisted of a black brocade cote hardi, edged with white fur, and further embellished with black glass beads, which were also used for ornamenting the winged head dress. Her black woollen gown has a deep bordering of white fur. Some mourning habits of this period are represented in a splendid manuscript "Liber Regalis," still preserved in Westminster Abbey. They are composed of black fabrics in the prevailing fashion, and are furred with ermine. Froissart relates that the Earl of Foix, on hearing of the death of his son, Gaston, sent for his barber, and was close shaved, and clothed himself and his household in black. At the funeral of the Earl of Flanders, all the nobles and others present were attired in black gowns; and on the death of John, King of France, the King of Cyprus clothed himself in black mourning. [Illustration: COSTUMES WORN BY KING PHILIP II. OF SPAIN AND HIS ATTENDANTS AT THE FUNERAL PROCESSION OF HIS FATHER.] At the end of the fifteenth century, it was considered necessary in England to pass sumptuary mourning laws, owing to the extravagance of the nobility in the superfluous usage of cloth and other items at funerals. Habits and liveries were limited to certain quantities. Planché tells us dukes and marquises were allowed sixteen yards for their gowns, sloppes (or mourning cassocks) and mantles; an earl, fourteen; a viscount, twelve; a baron, eight; a knight, six; and all inferior persons, two yards only; but an archbishop had the same privilege as a duke. Hoods were only permitted to those above the degree of esquire of the king's household. [Illustration: GENTLEMAN'S MOURNING--TIME OF HENRY VII.] Margaret, Countess of Richmond, the mother of King Henry VII., issued, in the eighth year of his reign, an ordinance for "the reformation of apparell for great estates of women in the tyme of mourninge." "They shall have their surcottes with a trayne before and another behynde, and their mantles with traynes. The queen is to wear a surcotte, with the traynes as aforesaid, and playne hoode, and a tippet at the hoode lying a good length upon the trayne of the mantell, being in breadth a nayle and an inche. After the first quarter of a year, the hood to be lined with black satin, or furred with ermine; and all ladies down to the degree of a baroness, are to wear similar mourninge, and to be barbed at the chin." The surcotte, with trayne, hood, barbe, and tippet, are visible in the sketch of a lady of the sixteenth century, taken from Pietro Vercellio's famous work on costume. The gentleman's mourning of black cloth and fur, is reproduced from a contemporary MS. [Illustration: FRENCH LADY OF 16TH CENTURY IN WIDOW'S WEEDS.] Among the obsolete funeral customs, may be mentioned the Death Crier, the lying-in-state of all classes, and the waxen effigies of those of royal rank. Before newspapers published obituary notices, it was customary for the Death Crier, armed with a bell and attired in a black livery, painted or embroidered with skulls and cross-bones, to announce to the townspeople, and inhabitants of surrounding villages, that another had gone over to the majority. This functionary was in the employ of the Corporation, or civil authorities, and on the death of a member of the Royal Family, he was usually accompanied by the Guild of Holy Souls, who walked in procession, bearing lighted tapers and other religious emblems. Lying-in-state usually lasted for three days, by which time the arrangements for a simple interment were completed, and the body was placed reverently in the ground. The obsequies of kings and queens, however, were carried over a protracted period, consequently a waxen figure was prepared, which was dressed in regal robes, and substituted for the body as soon as decomposition set in. This fashion was in vogue till the time of William and Mary, and in Westminster Abbey there is a collection of waxen effigies, which may be viewed by permission of the Dean. As likenesses they are interesting, and they are also useful as costume studies. [Illustration: GERMAN WIDOW'S DRESS OF TO-DAY.] Of late years, in this country, mourning has been considerably modified, particularly for the male sex, who often content themselves with a black hat-band and another on the left sleeve of dark-coloured clothes. By Scotch law, whether a man dies solvent or insolvent, his widow may claim out of his estate, sufficient for mourning suitable to her rank, and the same privilege applies to each of her children, who are old enough to be present at their father's funeral. This right takes precedence over any debts the dead man may have contracted, and is a distinction not accorded to English, Welsh, or Irish widows. [Illustration: THE DEATH CRIER.] In most European countries black is the accepted colour for mourning; though in different parts of the globe white, yellow, red, brown, and even blue garments are prescribed by custom as the emblem of death. These shades have been selected for the following reasons:--Black is symbolical of the gloom which surrounds one when those who are nearest and dearest are taken. Black and white express sorrow mixed with hope, and white alone the light which follows the night of mourning. Blue, the tint of the heavens, to which it is hoped the spirit forms have taken flight. Yellow is typical of the dead autumn leaf, and brown the earth to which the body returns. Violet, a royal colour, is generally used for the mourning of kings and high dignitaries of the Church. Scarlet is also used for royal mourning occasionally.[A] [Illustration: ENGLISH WIDOW'S DRESS OF TO-DAY.] [Footnote A: For permission to reproduce some of the drawings from Davey's "History of Mourning," I am indebted to Messrs. Jay, Regent Street, London.] CHAPTER VII. ECCENTRICITIES OF MASCULINE COSTUME. "The fashion wears out more apparel than the man." --_Much Ado about Nothing._ "Through tattered clothes small vices do appear, Robes and furred gowns hide all."--_King Lear._ [Illustration: BRITON CLAD IN SKINS.] [Illustration: BRITON AT THE TIME OF THE ROMAN INVASION.] "Vanity, thy name is woman," "As vain as a woman," and similar epithets, are hurled at our defenceless heads by our teachers and masters; yet how few of them pause for a moment to consider whether they are altogether free from this human weakness or exempt from that love of dress which they so strongly condemn in others. It does not require a deep study of the history of costume to reveal some curious anomalies in this respect, and the sketches chosen for the purpose of illustrating this chapter will only give a faint idea of what has been considered appropriate and becoming to the manly form at different epochs. In Pelautier's "Histoire des Celtes," we learn that "the toilet of the ancient inhabitants of Britain, somewhat resembled that of the North American Indian of the present day, and consisted of a series of elaborate paintings over the whole surface of the body, which were no doubt originally intended to protect the skin, from the inclemencies of the weather, but were afterwards used as a mode of embellishment and a means of distinguishing the different classes, for it was reserved to freemen, and strictly forbidden to slaves. The lower classes confined themselves to small designs drawn at a considerable distance from each other; but the nobles had the privilege of ornamenting their persons with large figures, chiefly of animals, subsequently transferred to their shields, after they adopted a less scanty costume, and this may be looked upon as the origin of family arms." The Picts, who inhabited the north of Britain, were remarkable for their pictorial decorations, hence their name, derived from an ancient word, _picti_, which signifies painted. Our remote ancestors also added to their other charms (which were doubtless irresistible to the belles of that period), by deepening the tone of their naturally ruddy locks, by washing them in water boiled with lime. Their clothing was of skins of animals killed in the chase, and they were armed with implements of bone and flint. The Tyrian traders taught them how to construct various weapons of war from a composition of copper and tin, and their flat wicker shields were superseded by those of metal ornamented with concentric circles. After the Roman Conquest of Britain, the skin garments were laid aside for dyed tunics and close trousers. Over the tunic was worn a sagum, or short cloak, so named by the Romans from _saic_, a word of Celtic origin, which signified a skin or hide. When the head was covered it was with a cap, from the British _cab_, a hut, which, from its circular shape, it somewhat resembled, for the dwelling-places were composed of wattles firmly fixed in the ground and fastened together at the top. A curious remnant of this fashion is the horn-like cap of rushes still made by Welsh children. The hair was usually long and flowing. Men of rank shaved the chin and allowed the moustache to grow to an extraordinary length. [Illustration: CANUTE.] The Saxons and Danes are spoken of as wearers of "scarlet, purple, and fine linen," and the latter combed their hair once a day, bathed once a week, and frequently changed their clothing. By these means they found favour in the eyes of the women, and delighted the wives and daughters of the nobility. In a curious MS., written in the reign of King Canute, the monarch is represented in a tunic and mantle embellished with cords and tassels. The tops of his stockings are embroidered, but he wears simple leather shoes. A vestment presented by Canute to Croyland Abbey was of silk, embroidered with golden eagles, and the rich pall which he ordered to be laid over the tomb of Edmund Ironside, was "embroidered with the likeness of golden apples and ornamented with pearls." From this, we see that the needle played an important part in the ornamentation of clothing, and to it we also owe the splendid Bayeux tapestry, worked by Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror. This priceless curiosity is not only remarkable as a magnificent piece of workmanship, but affords a good idea of the dress of that period--the 11th century. A tunic reaching to the ankle, leg bandages and shoes, a flowing mantle and flat cap, were the chief characteristics of the civil dress of this and succeeding reigns. The Normans, however, were clean-shaven. [Illustration: WILLIAM THE NORMAN, FROM BAYEUX TAPESTRY.] [Illustration: GENTLEMAN OF THE 14TH CENTURY.] [Illustration: PARLIAMENT ASSEMBLED IN THE REIGN OF RICHARD II.] [Illustration: A CAPUCHON OR HOOD, TIME OF EDWARD II.] During the Middle Ages extravagance prevailed in both male and female costume. Handsome furs were in great request, and several times sumptuary laws were passed. Men wore eight indispensable articles of dress, the shirt, breeches, stockings, shoes, coat, surcoat or cotehardie, mantle, and head dress. The coat or under-dress corresponded with the tunic of the ancients, and was entirely hidden, with the exception of the sleeves, by the surcoat. There were two kinds of mantles, one open in the front, the two sides connected by a strap resting on the chest, the other was open on the right side and had one end thrown over the left shoulder. Head coverings were of various descriptions; but many adopted hoods with long points, which were used to attach them to the belt when not in use. The assembling of Parliament in the reign of Richard II. gives the lay, spiritual, and legal peers in their usual costumes, and is reproduced from Planché's "History of British Costume." The Bishops are in cowls near the throne, the judges in coifs and furred robes, the Earls of Westmorland and Northumberland stand in front. The Duke of Hereford, in high cap, is to the left of the throne, and Exeter, Salisbury, and other peers are seated opposite the judges. During the reign of Richard II., which lasted over twenty years (1377 to 1399), there were many curious fashions in masculine attire. The peaked shoes, chained to the knee, were not more ridiculous than the deep, wide sleeves commonly called pokeys, which were shaped like a bagpipe and were worn by all classes. Many writers refer to them as the devil's receptacles, as whatever could be stolen was hidden away in their folds. Some were wide and reached to the feet, others to the knee, and they were full of slits. Hose were often of different colours. Parti-coloured suits were also in favour, and these were frequently scalloped at the edges and embroidered with mottoes and other devices. Chaucer, who wrote the "Canterbury Tales" towards the end of Richard's reign, describes in the most graphic manner the apparel of his contemporaries. "The haberdasher, carpenter, weaver, dyer, and tapestry worker, all wealthy burghers of the City of London, were clothed in a livery, and the handles of their knives, pouches, and girdles were ornamented with silver. The clergy were not to be distinguished from the laity, and rode on horseback, glittering with gold, in gowns of scarlet and green, fine with cut work. Their mitres embellished with pearls like the head of a queen, and staffs of precious metals set with jewels." Even the parish clerk is said to be "spruce and foppish in his dress." The author of an anonymous work called the "Eulogium," of this date, says:--"The commoners were besotted in excess of apparel. Some in wide surcoats reaching to their loins, some in a garment reaching to their heels, closed before and sticking out at the sides, so that at the back they make men seem like women, and this they call by the ridiculous name _gowne_. Their hoods are little, and tied under the chins. Their lirri-pipes (tippets) pass round the neck, and hanging down before, reach to the heels." Towards the end of the 14th century men began to wear short clothes made to fit the body so closely that it often required the assistance of two people to remove them, and it is from this period we can distinctly trace the difference between ancient and modern dress; in fact, our present fashions--masculine and feminine--resemble to a certain extent those worn during mediæval times. Then, as now, men wore overcoats with tight sleeves, felt hats also with feathers, worn over a skull cap, and slung behind the back, and closely-fitting shoes and boots. The Tudor monarchs paid considerable attention to the adornment of their persons, and were responsible for stringent legal enactments calculated to encourage home manufacturers. Felt hat-making--one of our oldest industries--was introduced into this country from Spain and Holland. A great impetus was given to this branch of trade by a law passed in 1571 which enjoined "every person above the age of seven years to wear on Sundays or holidays a cap of wool, knit made, thickened, and dressed in England by some of the trade of cappers, under the forfeiture of three farthings for every day's neglect." In 1603 the felt makers became a Corporation with grants and many privileges. Throughout the Middle Ages the upper classes frequently engaged in commerce. Bishops, abbots, and nobles personally superintended the disposal of the produce of their estates, and a considerable number of the younger sons of good families were the leading traders of the 15th and 16th centuries. [Illustration: COSTUME OF THE REIGN OF HENRY VII.] The "frocke" frequently mentioned, and of which the modern frock coat is the degenerate descendant, was a sort of jacket or jerkin made occasionally with skirts, a style associated especially, with Holbein's portraits of Henry VIII. and his contemporaries. The uniform worn at the present day by the Yeomen of the Guard stationed at the Tower of London, gives us the military costume of the Tudor period. It is the oldest corps in her Majesty's service, and was instituted by Henry VII. as the bodyguard of the sovereign. In the dress of the Bluecoat Boys at Christ's Hospital we have that of the citizens of London during the reign of Edward VI. and Mary, when blue coats were habitually used by apprentices and serving men, yellow stockings also were in common use. The badges on the jackets of firemen and watermen date from this time; they were made of metal and placed on the sleeve, in the 16th century, instead of being embroidered on the back or breast of the garment as they had been previously. Retainers in the households of the wealthy, were provided with surcoats and mantles twice a year, of their patron's favourite colour, and this was called the _livrée_, from a French word signifying to distribute. Trade guilds and members of the learned professions, also adopted a distinct style of costume. Lawyers, who were originally priests, of course wore the tonsure; but when the clergy ceased to interfere with secular affairs the lay lawyer continued this sign of office, and also wore a coif. Their gowns were capacious and lined with fur: and the Justices of the King's Bench were allowed liveries by the King, of cloth and silk. Budge, or lambskin, and miniver were provided for the trimming thereof, and the colour appears to have varied in different reigns, but for a long time green prevailed. [Illustration: COURTIER IN THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH.] The courtiers of Elizabeth discarded the "frocke cote" for quilted and stuffed doublets and trunk hose, slashed and ornamented in the most quaint and extravagant manner. Below these were worn stockings embroidered with birds, beasts, and other devices, "sewed up close thereto as though they were all of one piece." Trunk hose were appropriately named, as they were often filled with wool, bran, and other materials. At last they became of such enormous size that it was necessary to construct swings in the Houses of Parliament in place of the ordinary fixed seats, for the accommodation of those wearing this singular article of attire. Enormous ruffs of muslin and lace encircled the necks of dandies of the Elizabethan era, and they appear to have had waists which would excite the envy of the belles of the latter part of the 19th century. In fact, the gallants of that day were even in advance of the fair sex, in their love of fantastic costume; and as Hollingshead, in _The Chronicle_, justly states in reference to the fashions of the period: "Nothing was more constant in England than inconstancy of attire." [Illustration: EARL OF SURREY, TIME OF HENRY VIII.] A few years since, behind some ancient panelling at Haddon Hall, Derbyshire, was discovered a washing bill (with other things appertaining to the 16th and 17th centuries) which gives us a good idea of the various articles of dress then worn. Reference is made to the _ruff_, which is too well known to need description; to _bandes_ made of linen and cambric, from which those now used by the clergy took their origin, and from which we derive the modern word bandbox. There were three kinds--some that stood upright, others were allowed to lie flat upon the shoulders, as shown in the drawings of Charles I. and II., and those which were embroidered and trimmed with lace. The _shirt_ applied to the under-garment of both sexes, and the half-shirt referred to the stomacher over which the dress was laced. _Boot hose_ were made of a variety of materials, and were occasionally called nether stocks; _socks_ were sometimes put over them; and _tops_ were of Holland linen or lace, and formed the lining of the full hanging boots of the Cavaliers. [Illustration: CHARLES I.] During the Civil War the dress worn by the King's adherents, consisted of a doublet of silk or satin with loose sleeves, slashed up the front; the collar was generally of point lace, and a short cloak rested carelessly on one shoulder. The hat was a broad-brimmed beaver with a plume of feathers, and trunk hose gave way to breeches. The Roundheads or Republican Party went to the opposite extreme. They cut their hair close, avoided lace and jewels, had plain linen or cloth suits of a grey or brown tint, with a hat somewhat resembling the modern chimney pot. [Illustration: CHARLES II. AND HIS QUEEN (1662).] [Illustration: WILLIAM III. (1694)] [Illustration: GENTLEMAN AND LADY OF 18TH CENTURY.] * * * * * About this period we also hear of the waistcoat, which was cut high at the neck, and was made with sleeves. Neckcloths and cravats of Brussels and Flanders lace were tied in a knot under the chin, and had square ends. Another peculiar feature of masculine costume towards the end of the 17th century consisted of petticoat breeches with drooping lace ruffles, such as adorn the nether limbs of Charles II. Patches and perukes were also adopted, and the former fashion, a revival of an old Roman custom, had political significance according to where they were placed on the face, and were bitterly ridiculed by numerous satirical writers. "I know many young gentlemen," says Middleton, in one of his plays, "who wear longer hair than their mistresses." The beard was worn in different ways, but the most usual shape was what Beaumont and Fletcher, in their "Queen of Corinth," call the T beard, consisting of a moustache and imperial:-- "His beard, Which now he put i' the form of a T, The Roman T; your T beard is the fashion, And two-fold doth express the enamoured courtier." Shakespeare also tells us, it was often dyed different colours. [Illustration: WALKING DRESS, 1830.] Everyone tried to rival his neighbour in the size of his peruke, till they became so preposterous that Charles II. showed his disfavour by writing a letter to the University of Cambridge forbidding the members to wear periwigs, smoke tobacco, or read their sermons. History does not relate what effect the King's censure had upon the head-gear of students attending the colleges, but it is absolutely proved that they paid no heed to his latter commands. It was the fashion for men to comb their perukes in public, and curiously-chased combs of bone and tortoise-shell, were carried in the pocket with the snuff-box, another indispensable appendage of a fine gentleman. In the 18th century the broad hat brims were turned up at the sides, and, in the racy vernacular of the day, "each gallant cocked his hat according to his fancy." Shoe buckles became general in the reign of Queen Anne, and displaced the ribbon rosettes formerly worn. Planché accurately describes the fashions of that day. "The square-cut coat was stiffened with wires and buckram, and the long-flapped waistcoat with pockets almost met the stockings. There were hanging cuffs with lace ruffles, square-toed shoes with red heels, and hats laced with gold or silver galloon." At the beginning of the 19th century many important changes took place. Excepting for Court dress, cloth was substituted for velvet and other rich fabrics. The coat was open, displaying an elaborate shirt-front, stock and flowered waistcoat; and the skirt, though full, fell in natural folds. Trousers were very tight, and held in place by a strap beneath the foot, and hats displayed narrow curved brims. We have only to cast our eyes down the vista of ages to find that British costume has been suited to the needs, habits, and customs of the people, and periods at which it was worn. Skins of animals were appropriate to the hardy cave dwellers who inhabited this country at an early period in the world's history. The simple dress of the Anglo-Saxons fulfilled the requirements of a primitive race; and the furs and rich fabrics brought home by the Crusaders were adapted to the higher state of civilization which prevailed in the Middle Ages. In the 16th century the Renaissance (of art and culture) was specially noted for richness of attire. During the 18th century a mixture of styles which had found favour with previous generations was the most marked feature in the costume of that period, and this equally applies to the two first decades of the present one. Masculine attire at the present day, though simple and practical, has few points of beauty to recommend it. Briefly, it resolves itself into a series of woollen cylinders which changeth not from generation to generation. CHAPTER VIII. A CHAT ABOUT CHILDREN AND THEIR CLOTHING. "The childhood shows the man, As morning shows the day."--_Milton._ Of children's dress in olden times we have singularly few details, and, as a rule, it may be concluded that their raiment was fashioned on similar lines to that worn by the men and women of the country in which they lived, and was more or less ornamented, according to their station in life. [Illustration: CHILDREN OF CHARLES I. (_After a painting by Vandyck._)] One or two biblical references enlighten us as to Eastern customs. On the authority of St. Luke, our Saviour in infancy was wrapped in swaddling clothes. "Samuel," we are told, "being a child, was girded with a linen ephod," which appears to have been a close robe or vest reaching from the shoulders to the loins, and confined by a girdle. Considering the climate and the habits of the people, it was probably the only garment used in summer, but in cold weather was supplemented, we presume, by the little coat his mother bought him from year to year, when she and her husband came to offer the annual sacrifice, at Shiloh, where Eli, the High Priest, lived. A coat of many colours was also presented to Joseph in his youth as a mark of Jacob's affection for the child of his old age. Greek and Roman children of the gentler sex are usually represented in the chiton, or loose classical gown, combined with a shawl or himation weighted at the four corners, so as to assist the wearer in adjusting it. How to put on this garment was carefully taught as part of a girl's education. The long end was first thrown over the left shoulder. The front part was arranged in folds across the body, passed under the right arm and over the left shoulder or forearm. The girdle sometimes consisted of a cord, at others of metal bands, and by drawing the chiton over it, a double thickness of the fabric covered the vital organs of the body. Boys wore the tunic and toga, and the latter is supposed to have been oblong, with the corners rounded off, so as to give a semicircular effect. Hats were not commonly worn, except by the poor or when on a journey, a fold of the toga or mantle serving for a head covering, and sandals protected the feet. The Egyptian labouring classes allowed their children to be nude, and infants were unfamiliar with swaddling clothes. The working man and boy had simply a loin cloth and girdle, and the girl a loose tunic fastened with strings at the neck and reaching to her feet. On the other hand, children of the upper classes in Egypt were repetitions of their elders on a small scale. Girls wore a linen skirt embroidered in colours and fastened with a bright sash, or suspended from the shoulders, and over this a loose transparent robe with long sleeves. The male costume consisted of a loin cloth, and a full robe with short sleeves, or a tunic, and both sexes had elaborately curled or plaited wigs, as the natural hair was only allowed to grow in times of mourning. The Roman occupation of Britain left its impress for a long period on the costume of the Anglo-Saxon race. The long-sleeved banded tunic was the usual habit of the industrial classes through the Middle Ages and leg bandages and cross gartering preceded breeches. Quite young boys appear in this dress, and little girls are seen in ancient MSS. in the kirtle and gunna, the equivalents of the modern petticoat and dress. Their hair, however, was allowed to fall naturally, or was dressed with two pendant plaits, and was not concealed, as was so often the case with adult females, by means of the head-rail. The materials used in clothing were to a great extent the produce of household industry. The women servants were employed in spinning, weaving, and sewing, and ladies of the highest rank did not disdain to participate in such labours. Several articles of dress were derived from the tanner, who worked up his leather into shoes, ankle leathers, and leathern hose. The art of tanning skins with the wool or hair on, was also practised, and dyeing was in great request, for in a rude age a love of gaudy colours is a natural characteristic of the people. The most skilful artificers were found in the religious houses, but under each landowner serfs were trained in the mechanical arts. Silk was worn by the wealthy, but the common materials for wearing apparel in this country were cotton, linen, and woollen. [Illustration: CHILDREN'S COSTUME, PRESENT DAY.] Among the Anglo-Saxons and their pagan ancestors the desertion of children sometimes occurred, but as the influence of Christianity increased, it was regarded as a crime, and a law was passed for its repression. For fostering a foundling the State allowed 6s. the first year; 12s. the second; and 30s. for the third year; and afterward the foster parent was to receive a sum varying according to the appearance of the child. Children bereft of their father, remained under the mother's care, but until the eldest child became of age were subject to the guardianship of the husband's relations. Mothers usually nursed their own children, cradles were used, and for the first few months their clothing was swathed with a bandage. In this compact form they were more easily carried, though the constraint to which they were subjected, probably prevented that free development of the limbs, which we now consider so essential to health and beauty. If very poor, the father was allowed to sell his son into slavery for seven years, providing the consent of the child was obtained, and one ten years old could give evidence. Until a daughter was fifteen years of age, her father could marry her as he pleased, but afterwards had no power to do so. A boy of fifteen could enter the monastic life if so disposed, and a girl at a somewhat later period. Monasteries offered the best education then procurable, and the clergy were directed to "teach youth with care, and to draw them to some craft." Schoolboys appear to have been kept in order, by the dread of personal chastisement, and great respect and reverence was exacted by their elders. [Illustration] In the dress of the Blue-coat School (Christ's Hospital), we see the ordinary costume of boys of the Tudor period. It consisted of a long coat reaching to the heels and knee-breeches, a striped vest, yellow stockings, and a small round cap placed on the side of the head. The dress of little girls may be found on various monumental effigies, in which they appear like their mothers, in full skirts, sometimes distended by a fardingale, the body imprisoned in whalebone to the hips, a folded ruff encircling the neck, and their stockings (according to Stubbs) were of the finest yarn, silk, thread, or cloth that could possibly be had, of changeable colours, cunningly knit, with curiously indented points, clocks, and open seams. The shoes were of black, green, white and yellow velvet, or of leather stitched with silk and embroidered with gold and silver all over the foot. [Illustration] The paintings of Vandyck bring graphically before us the picturesque elements of the dress of the Stuart era. There is an air of richness and refinement about the long skirted silken frocks embellished with lace, the pointed collars, and beaver hats with trailing feathers universally worn, and the quaint lace caps, which, by a turn of fashion's wheel, have been remodelled for the children of today. [Illustration] At no period in the history of costume were the styles so offensive to those with a true conception of colour and form than in the first half of the nineteenth century. We have only to turn to the sketches of Leech and contemporary artists to find bare necks and arms, conspicuous underwear, very short skirts distended by a stiffened petticoat or crinoline, white cotton stockings, low shoes fastened by a strap and single button, mushroom hats, aprons and pinafores devoid of elegance and grace, and the hair cut close to the head or arranged in rows of stiff ringlets. Nor did the boys of England, in trousers buttoned high on short jackets, or with tunics worn with frilled linen collars and leathern belts, show to greater advantage. Queen Victoria inaugurated a new system of clothing for boys, when she dressed the young Princes in Scotch and sailor suits, and the wardrobes of all classes have been considerably extended of late, by the open-air life and outdoor sports in which every self-respecting lad indulges. Cricket, tennis, boating, football, and cycling, all imperatively demand appropriate apparel, and tailors now give reasonable attention to this important branch of their business, and provide fabrics and designs suited to the needs of the rising generation. [Illustration] Habits of personal cleanliness and the influence of dress on the minds of growing girls is hardly realized except by those directly concerned in education. Many a sensitive child's character has been warped by the thoughtless jeers of schoolfellows, who were quick to perceive that her clothing was not up-to-date or of such good material as their own. On the other hand, vanity, envy, and uncharitableness have been engendered by foolish mothers, who have provided their daughters with inappropriate and extravagant outfits. [Illustration] Though many advocate uniforms with distinctive trimmings for girls' colleges, there are drawbacks to the scheme being adopted. Such a course would probably destroy the individuality which we all desire to see applied to the choice of clothing, and it would leave no field for original ideas. Children must be _trained_ to select and wear their clothes to the best advantage, and it is folly to think that they will do so by intuition. Some may possess naturally an artistic sense and a keen eye for colour, but they are certainly in the minority, and rational dress reformers have pushed sensible ideas to the verge of absurdity, till now the name is almost regarded as a term of reproach. [Illustration] [Illustration] How much we owe to pioneers of children's dress reform, and especially to Messrs. Liberty, who evolved what is generally known as the æsthetic style in dress. From sketches courteously placed at my disposal, I am enabled to put before the reader examples of children's clothing which are artistic in form, light of texture, and which in no way impede the physical development. Those who have the care of children should remember what a sacred charge is imposed upon them, and that their future health mainly depends, upon the manner in which they are clothed during the first few years of life. There must be no tight bands, belts, or garters to prevent circulation and to cause organic troubles; and where corsets are dispensed with, as happily they are in many cases where growing girls are concerned, the weight of the clothing should be borne by the shoulders, not the waist, and this is ensured by cutting undergarments in the princess or combination forms. Many young people suffer from being carelessly shod, and hideous malformations of the feet arise in consequence, while obscure diseases of the brain can sometimes be traced to heavy head-gear, and the strain of over-study. Hats should be of light construction, and afford a grateful shade to the eyes, if that far-reaching ailment of civilisation, short sight, is to be successfully combatted; and special attention must be paid to infants, who may often be seen in public thoroughfares with a hot sun beating down upon them, and the nurse oblivious to the fact. The sight of a tender infant entrusted to the care of a young woman, who has not the glimmering of a notion of how to look after its fragile body, must fill any right-minded person with indignation. Is it unreasonable to expect those who undertake the charge of children to acquaint themselves with at least an elementary knowledge of the construction and functions of the human body? The ignorance of the average nursemaid is appalling; and though a board school education may have acquainted her with the mysteries of the First Book of Euclid, or the rudiments of music, the curriculum rarely includes the simplest instruction on the healthy training of children; and, in consequence, the high rate of infant mortality in this country is a national disgrace. CHAPTER IX. FANCY COSTUME OF VARIOUS PERIODS. "The dome, where pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here richly decked, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare." During the Roman occupation of Britain, many sports and pastimes, with their appropriate costumes, were introduced into this country from Southern Europe and the East, and at a very early period mummings were popular with the people. These were primitive masquerades, where the actors, if we may judge from antique illuminations, generally mimicked the brute creation rather than human beings. They often appeared between the courses at banquets, and on important occasions elaborate pageants were arranged. Ships filled with mariners were sometimes introduced, or towers garrisoned with armed men, while the actors portrayed some allegorical lesson or historical incident. A well-known event intimately connected with masking was the narrow escape from death by fire of Charles VI. of France, on January 29th, 1392. The king, with eleven of his knights, for the amusement of the Court, dressed like savages, in tight-fitting garments of linen covered with flax, and were dancing before the Queen and the Duchess de Berri, when the Duc d'Orléans with a torch accidentally ignited the inflammable costume of a masker, who was chained to four others. The Duchess protected the King by wrapping him in the train of her mantle, but four persons died in great agony. Edward III. issued an ordinance against vagrants who exhibited scandalous masquerades in low ale-houses, and directed that such persons should be whipped out of London. The Feast of Fools was one of the most singular of these exhibitions. It somewhat resembled the Roman Saturnalia, and was enacted at Christmas. In England the celebration of this festival does not appear to have been attended with the same excesses as were commonly practised on the Continent, but it was nevertheless a season of licence, in which order and discipline were reversed. The churl was elected to represent the Pope; the buffoon was made a cardinal; and the lowest of the mob assumed for the time being the garb of the priesthood, and took possession of churches, where they parodied every part of the sacred service, and sang masses composed of obscene songs. Dramatic representations were so tainted by the grossness and licentiousness of the age, that priests were prohibited from attending them, till the Church introduced religious plays, founded on scriptural incidents, and which were known as miracles and mysteries. For these the actors were trained by the clergy, and sacred edifices and vestments were placed at their disposal, to give truth and lustre to the representations. There were frequent tournaments after the Norman Invasion, and these were patronized and encouraged by Richard C[oe]ur de Lion. From this era they occupied a prominent place in the national institutions and history, and afforded many opportunities for the display of picturesque costume. Ladies on these occasions were conspicuous, and sometimes rode in parti-coloured tunics with short hoods and tippets wrapped about their heads. Their girdles were decorated with gold and silver, and they carried small swords. The space marked out for the combat was surrounded by raised seats for high-born dames, princes, and the judges of the conflict. Knights wore their ladies' colours on their helmets, emblazoned on their clothing, and on the trappings of their horses; and throngs of troubadours, heralds, and minstrels dressed in gorgeous attire, were present to discharge their duties, and to give importance to the spectacle. The ancient English Morris Dance, performed with other quaint usages on the 1st of May, is supposed to be of Moorish origin. It is depicted on an antique stained glass window at Betley, in Staffordshire. The May-pole and the Man with the Hobby Horse (who represents a Moorish King, and is the consort of the May Queen), occupy a prominent position. The other characters are the Fool, the Lesser Fool, Tom the Piper, a Spaniard, the Franklin or private gentleman, a Churl or peasant, the May Queen, a Nobleman, and a Friar. The dresses were adorned with bells, intended to sound the measure of the dancers. They were of different sizes, and were called the fore bell, the second bell, the treble, the tenor, and the great bell. Planché, in his valuable work, the "Cyclopædia of Costume," states the earliest illustration of a _bal costumé_ is in a MS. of the fifteenth century, in the Ambrosian Library at Milan, and he gives a reproduction from an old painting on wood dating from 1463, representing a dance by torchlight at the Court of Burgundy. Each person holds a long lighted taper, and this dance, up to the sixteenth century, was usually reserved for wedding festivities. In England masked balls were rare before the reign of William III., and in France they first took place during the regency of Philip, Duke of Orleans, when the Opera House was converted into a ball-room. Father Sebastian, a Carmelite friar, devised a means of elevating the floor of the pit to the level of the stage, and of lowering it at pleasure. Ranelagh and Vauxhall Gardens, and Belsize House, Hampstead, were also places of popular resort, and scenes of many entertainments during the eighteenth century. There were pyrotechnic displays, bands of music, frequent balls, and facilities for dinner and supper parties. The lawns were dotted with arbours, lakes, and artificial cascades; the trees were festooned with coloured lamps, and the costumes of those who frequented these gatherings were elaborate and costly. From the writings of Horace Walpole and others, we learn that private open-air galas were of common occurrence among the aristocracy, and he gives a description of a _festino_ at Northumberland House in honour of the Marquess of Tavistock and his bride; when arches and pyramids of lights alternately surrounded the enclosure, and festoons of lamps edged the railings. In 1761 Her Majesty Queen Charlotte surprised her husband on his birthday with a splendid garden party, followed by fireworks, a cold supper of a hundred dishes, and an illuminated dessert. The Duke of Richmond celebrated a similar occasion with a masked ball and music--the vocal parts performed by many of the nobility, in fancy dress. Here, too, there was a display of fireworks in the garden and from the river. Almack's new Subscription and Assembly Room was opened in February, 1765, under distinguished patronage; and Gibbon mentions a masquerade at a rival establishment, the Pantheon, which he states was above par in magnificence, and below par in humour, and cost £5000. Five o'clock was the dinner hour of fashionable people during the eighteenth century, and three for those of lower rank. At eleven p.m. supper was usually served, and breakfast was from nine to eleven a.m. The House of Commons commenced sitting at two, and the Opera began at seven. At this period the domino (evolved from the priestly cowl) was in great request, and was used in the boxes of theatres for purposes of concealment, and by those of questionable morals. Though the large hoop towards the close of the eighteenth century was only worn at Court, or in full dress, the pocket hoop for distending the panniers was still in vogue. For the abolition of the Court hoop, we are indebted to George IV., whose taste in dress was unimpeachable. Powder and patches maintained their ground till 1793, when they were discarded by Queen Charlotte and the Princesses. Aprons were regarded as a necessary item of a fashionable costume up to 1750, and the watch and etui adorned the waist, necklaces sparkled on the bosom, and bracelets were worn over long gloves. The French Revolution affected masculine costume; and in 1789 were introduced into this country the muslin cravat, in which the chin was partially concealed, stand-up collars, Hessian boots, and round hats of beaver. Scarlet coats were much in vogue about 1784, and an anecdote in "The Life of Sir Astley Cooper" represents him as returning from a dancing academy in a scarlet coat, a three-cocked hat, a black glazed stock, nankeen knee-breeches, and silk stockings. This may be regarded as the ordinary costume of a gentleman at that period. Wigs had begun to go out of fashion as early as 1763, in which year the wigmakers petitioned King George III. to support the trade by his example. "The hair," says Malcolm, "was dressed high on the head, whitened with powder, and alternately plaited and turned up or queued behind." When the hair powder tax--one guinea per annum--was enforced in 1795, thousands of heads reverted to their natural colour. Some brilliant fancy dress balls (with a view to encouraging home trade) have taken place during the Victorian era. Of the first, which was given by the Queen and Prince Consort at Buckingham Palace in 1842, a permanent memorial exists in two handsome volumes compiled by J. R. Planché, containing carefully coloured illustrations of the various dresses, and autograph portraits of the wearers. They form an invaluable book of reference for those desiring accurate representations of the costume of the period of Edward III. (1327-1377). A special feature of this ball was a series of costume quadrilles, arranged by ladies of the Court and others of high rank. They were danced in the following order:-- French quadrille, led by H. R. H. the Duchess of Cambridge. Spanish quadrille, led by the Duchess of Buccleuch. German quadrille, led by the Duchess of Sutherland. Crusaders' quadrille, led by the Marchioness of Londonderry. Waverley quadrille, led by the Countess de la Warr. Scotch quadrille, led by the Duchess of Buccleuch. Cossack quadrille, led by Baroness Bremon. Greek quadrille, led by the Duchess of Leinster. [Illustration: PRINCE ALBERT AS EDWARD III.] Prince Albert, as Edward III., wore a costume copied from the effigy of that king in Westminster Abbey. It consisted of a long tunic of gold and blue brocade, reaching to the ankles. The collar, which fitted close round the neck, was bordered with purple velvet, thickly studded with jewels. The tunic, which had an opening up the centre to the height of the knee, was bordered and enriched with jewels to correspond with the collar, as were the wristbands. The hose were scarlet, also the shoes, which were embroidered with gold. Over the tunic, His Royal Highness wore a mantle reaching to the heels, composed of the richest scarlet velvet, bordered by a broad gold figured lace, set on each side with large pearls. It was lined with ermine, and connected across the breast by a band of purple velvet, studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, and in the centre was a turquoise of immense size and perfect colour. The band was fastened to the mantle on either side by a massive gold ornament enriched with precious stones. [Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA AS PHILIPPA, WIFE OF EDWARD III.] Her Majesty the Queen as Philippa of Hainault, wife of Edward III., was attired in a demi-trained skirt of crimson velvet, edged with miniver. Over this was worn a surcoat of blue and gold brocade, trimmed with fur to match, and embellished with a stomacher of jewels valued at £60,000. The other portions of the costume were also studded with jewels. The mantle was of gold brocade, with a floral design in silver. The hair was encased in a gold net, enriched with precious stones, and was surmounted by a crown. Princess Augusta of Cambridge personated Princess Claude, daughter of Anne of Bretagne, Queen of France. Her dress of silver tissue was bordered with ermine, and the tunic was of light blue velvet, worked with the fleur-de-lis in silver. The low bodice was bordered with diamonds. The sleeves of silver tissue reached to the wrist, and were trimmed with rows of pearls. The gloves were jewelled, and a white tulle veil with silver embroideries depended from a turquoise and pearl diadem. By Her Majesty's command, her own dress, that of Prince Consort, and most of the costumes worn at this ball, were manufactured by the silk-weavers of Spitalfields. For the second royal ball in June, 1845, the period of George II. (1727-1760) was selected, and 1200 guests were invited. The Queen looked extremely well in powder, and her dress is described as of cloth of gold and cloth of silver, with daisies and poppies worked in silk, and shaded in natural colours. The trimmings and ruffles of exquisite point lace--had belonged to Queen Charlotte--and the stomacher was trimmed with lace and jewels. The sacque was ornamented with ribbons, caught with diamonds. On the powdered coiffure was a diamond crown; Her Majesty's white shoes had red rosettes with diamond centres, and she wore the star and ribbon of the Order of the Garter. Prince Albert had a costume of the same period, with the Star of the Garter, and the Order of the Golden Fleece in brilliants. The Marchioness of Douro, the Duke of Wellington's daughter-in-law, was the acknowledged belle of this ball, and wore £60,000 worth of diamonds. Miss--now the Baroness--Burdett Coutts was also present, her dress trimmed with jewels once the property of Marie Antoinette. In 1871 the Princess of Wales attended the Waverley Ball at Willis' Rooms, with several other members of the Royal Family, and was much admired in the character of the ill-fated Mary Stuart. On July 22nd, 1874, a fancy dress ball was given by their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough House, for which some beautiful costumes were prepared. The Princess wore a handsome Venetian dress, and danced in the first quadrille with the present Duke of Devonshire. The Prince in a Cavalier costume opened the ball with the late Duchess of Sutherland. The chief costume quadrilles on this occasion were the Venetian, the Vandyck, Characters in Fairy Tales, and a Pack of Cards. Another historic _bal costumé_ was given in February, 1895, at Warwick Castle, by the Earl and Countess of Warwick. No more fitting background for such a function can be imagined than this stately mansion, which has been a centre of hospitality for countless generations, but has never been presided over by no more gracious and popular châtelaine than the present Countess. Lady Warwick looked very beautiful as Marie Antoinette (the consort of Louis XVI. of France) in a petticoat and corsage of exquisite English brocade, with a design of shaded roses, enriched with gold thread on a pearl-coloured ground. The train of royal blue velvet, embroidered in gold thread with the fleur-de-lis, was attached to the shoulders by a band of diamonds; and the Warwick jewels, diamond stars, were arranged on the corsage veiled with gold flecked gauze, which was also employed for the puffed sleeves. Her elaborate white coiffure was surmounted by a white muslin cap edged with blue velvet and adorned with diamond aigrettes and plumes of pink, white, and blue feathers. Lady Marjorie Greville (the only daughter of Lord and Lady Warwick) with Miss Hamilton acted as train-bearers. They wore the daintiest white costumes of the period, composed of broché silk, with fichus of white chiffon, and silk hats trimmed with feathers. Each carried a long crook tied with white ribbons and bunches of flowers, and the effect was charming. The Earl of Warwick wore a French Court costume, the coat of ruby velvet profusely trimmed with gold lace, white cloth cuffs, and revers. The long white kerseymere waistcoat was braided in gold, and the white knee-breeches and low shoes were ornamented with diamond buckles. The Earl's wig, _a la mousquetaire_, was tied with a bow of black ribbon, and he carried a tricorne hat with white ostrich plumes, and white gauntlet gloves. Lady Warwick's two sisters, the Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Angela Forbes, represented Marie Letzinka, consort of Louis XV., and Lady Mary Campbell. The former wore a magnificent gown of white satin de Lyon. The skirt embroidered with a flight of swallows in silver and crystals, a deep bertha of Point de Flandre, with ruffles of the same on the short sleeves. The train of crimson velvet was embroidered with the French emblem, and Her Grace had a stomacher of splendid diamonds. Lady Angela Forbes' dress was of white muslin, with a blue sash, and picturesque hat of turquoise silk, trimmed with feathers and roses. Princess Henry of Pless, as la Duchesse de Polignac, had a dress of rich white satin, the skirt embroidered 18in. deep, with turquoises and brilliants, a powdered wig, and the same jewels in her hair. Lady Eva Dugdale, sister to the Earl of Warwick, and lady-in-waiting to Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York, wore a Louis Quinze white satin dress, covered with pink roses, corsage _en suite_ fastened with large diamond ornaments. A silver trellis pattern was worked round the hem of the skirt, and white silk mittens and shoes completed the costume. Lady Rosslyn chose a white embroidered muslin petticoat, the overdress of pink and red striped silk, fichu and ruches of black lisse, and a picturesque hat. Lady Flo Sturt, as Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, was in rich cream satin, with bodice and sleeves of antique lace, and stomacher of diamonds. A black satin toque, with aigrette of diamonds, contrasted well with the white wig. Count Deym, the Austrian Ambassador, was in English Court dress. Prince Henry of Pless, in mousquetaire costume, represented the Vicomte de Bragelonne. The Duke of Manchester was in white satin breeches, waistcoat to match, bordered with gold, and coat of white and silver brocade with moss roses and foliage. The scene inside the Castle was one of unparalleled brilliancy, while those who glanced from the mullioned windows saw by bright moonlight the Avon frozen, the ancient cedars glistening with frost, and the surrounding country wrapped in a snowy mantle. The entire ground floor of the Castle was thrown open, and no pains were spared to give as complete a representation as possible of the gorgeous fêtes which made the Court of Marie Antoinette famous throughout Europe. The finest spectacle presented itself when the guests assembled at supper in the oak-lined hall, where the light of a thousand candles was reflected in the bright steel armour which surrounded the walls. Several high screens, hung with Beauvais tapestry and shaded by huge palms, filled the angles of the hall, and the stone walls were partially concealed by yellow and silver embroideries. In the huge fireplace logs crackled, and on small round tables were placed silver candelabra with crimson shades and floral decorations, consisting of scarlet geraniums and maiden-hair fern. The centre table was reserved for Marie Antoinette and her Court, and here was the choicest display of family plate, including, amongst other valuable specimens of the goldsmith's art, a golden cup modelled by Benvenuto Cellini. From the hall you entered the Red Drawing room, which contains a marble table, inlaid with flowers and fruit, and formerly the property of Marie Antoinette. Next is the Cedar Drawing-room, used as the ball-room, on whose walls are many family portraits and other paintings by Vandyck; the remainder of the suite of State apartments were used as withdrawing-rooms between the dances; and at the opposite end of the Castle is the Library, the Billiard-room, and the Countess's lovely Louis Seize Boudoir, in ivory tints, with festoons of delicately-shaded flowers. Dancing was carried on with great spirit till early morning, and the tardy winter sun had risen ere the last carriage drove away from one of the most successful balls of the nineteenth century. Among the many important entertainments given by members of the English aristocracy in honour of the sixtieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria, was a Costume Ball at Devonshire House, Piccadilly, on July 2nd, 1897, when the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire received nearly all the members of the Royal Family, many distinguished guests from the Colonies, and members of the Corps Diplomatique. This historic mansion was built for the third Duke of Devonshire, and it was here that Georgiana, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, held her Court. It contains a fine suite of reception rooms on the first floor; a gallery of pictures, in which the old masters are well represented; and extensive grounds in the rear, which on this occasion were decorated with thousands of Chinese lanterns and fairy lamps. The principal feature of the ball was a grand procession of the guests, headed by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, the former personating Charles V. of Germany, and the latter attired with Oriental magnificence as Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, in a robe of silver tissue wrought with jewels. The mantle was of cloth of gold similarly treated, and the bodice was also studded with precious stones. The head-dress consisted of white ostrich plumes and a golden and jewelled crown, from which depended chains of pearls. H.R.H. the Princess of Wales, as Margaret of Valois, was surrounded by the ladies of her Court, their Royal Highnesses Princess Charles of Denmark, Princess Victoria of Wales, the Duchess of Fife, and the Duchess of York. The Princess of Wales wore a gown of white satin wrought with silver, and a train of cloth of gold lined with silver and superbly jewelled. H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, as Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem and Chevalier of Malta, wore a rich Elizabethan costume carried out in black and silver, and bearing the white cross of the Order on one shoulder. The Duke of York represented the Earl of Cumberland, one of Queen Elizabeth's courtiers. Prince Charles of Denmark was a Danish student. The Duke of Connaught wore the uniform of a military commander during the reign of Elizabeth, and the Duchess looked charming as Queen Anne of Austria in a picturesque gown with puffed sleeves. The Eastern Queens were magnificently arrayed and blazing with jewels. Lady de Trafford was Semiramis, Empress of Assyria, in a dress copied from a vase in the British Museum. Princess Henry of Pless was Queen of Sheba, in a robe and train of shot purple and gold tissue, elaborately embroidered with turquoises and other stones, and wore an Assyrian jewelled head-dress, decorated with a diamond bird and aigrette. Another Queen of Sheba was Lady Cynthia Graham, and there were two Cleopatras--Lady de Grey and Mrs. Arthur Paget. The husband of the latter accompanied her as Mark Antony. Lady Elcho was a Byzantine Queen, Miss Muriel Wilson was Queen Vashti, and the Countess of Dudley, as Queen Esther, wore a dress of white crêpe, embroidered with gold and studded with amethysts, turquoises, and pearls. The Elizabethan Court was represented by Lady Tweedmouth as Queen Elizabeth, in a gown copied from a picture in the National Portrait Gallery. Her canopy was carried by four yeomen in uniforms of crimson, black, and gold, copied from Holbein's picture of "The Field of the Cloth of Gold," in the Hampton Court collection. Lord Tweedmouth was the Earl of Leicester, in slashed doublet and hose of ruby velvet and satin, enriched with gold embroidery. Lady Edmondstone, as Mary Queen of Scots, wore a dress of pale blue velvet, and tulle veil head-dress and ruff worked with pearls. She was attended by the Duchess of Hamilton, dressed in the character of Mary Hamilton, the Queen's favourite maid of honour. The Countess of Warwick, as Marie Antoinette, was beautifully dressed in a petticoat of rich white satin and a Court gown of English brocade, with a train of Royal blue velvet. The hair was powdered, and she was attended by four pages in white satin suits and three-cornered hats, bearing over her ladyship a canopy of blue velvet. This group included the Duchess of Sutherland, as Charlotte Corday in a gown of red _crêpe de Chine_, a muslin fichu and cap, trimmed with point d'Alençon lace, and dagger at waist. Lady Westmorland made a lovely Hebe, and Lady Angela Forbes, as the Queen of Naples, wore an Empire gown of ivory duchesse satin, embroidered with silver and diamonds, and a train of lilac velvet, edged with jewelled embroidery and lined with satin. The head-dress consisted of a small jewelled crown and two white feathers. Among many other notable costumes should be mentioned the Marchioness of Tweedale's, as the Empress Josephine, as she appears in the Coronation picture at the Louvre, Paris; the Marchioness of Londonderry, as the Empress Marie Thérèse, of Austria, and the Marchioness of Zetland's, as Queen Henrietta Maria, wife of Charles I. of England; Viscountess Raincliffe, as the Empress Catherine II. of Russia, wore white satin, and her dress was an exact copy of the picture in the British Museum by Lambi. The Court gown of the Duchess of Portland, as Duchesse de Savoia, who headed the Venetian procession, was composed of white satin veiled, with lisse wrought with silver, partially covered by a silver cloth mantle, embroidered with pearls and diamonds, and diamonds and emeralds were introduced in the coiffure. CHAPTER X STAGE AND FLORAL COSTUME. "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players, They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts." Garrick was one of the first of our English actors to realize how much the success of a piece depended upon appropriate costume, and, on his taking the management of Drury Lane Theatre in 1747, at once turned his attention to this important branch of dramatic art. He refused to tolerate the absurdity of a heterogeneous mixture of the foreign and ancient modes, which had hitherto debased tragedies by representing, for instance, Greek soldiers in full-bottomed wigs, and the King of an Oriental Nation in trunk hose. The improvement, however, must have been very gradual, for Garrick is said to have played the part of Macbeth ten years later in a gold-laced suit of sky blue and scarlet; while Mrs. Yates as Lady Macbeth appeared in a hooped court petticoat of enormous dimensions, with tight-fitting pointed bodice and elbow sleeves, and her powdered hair dressed over a high cushion. Garrick's suits for the characters of King Lear and Hamlet also followed the fashions of the 18th century, though he played Richard III. in a fancy dress designed with some regard to correctness of detail. Even during the present century, an equally absurd anachronism may be recorded. The late Mr. Charles Mathews made his first appearance in public, at the Theatre Royal, Richmond, as Richmond in Richard III., wearing the helmet and jacket of a modern light horse soldier. [Illustration: A TURKISH MAIDEN.] The first pantomime or harlequinade was played in England in 1717, and the earliest illustration of an English harlequin in the dress now familiar to us, is to be found in a sketch of Bartholomew Fair, dated 1721. Of the characters of columbine, pantaloon, and clown, we have no contemporary drawings. Of the French ballet dancers of this period there are some carefully-executed plates in Planché's "Cyclopædia of Costume." They are all represented in long, and sometimes in trained skirts. The first example of the abbreviated ballet skirt, reaching to the knee, is given in the portrait of an actress personating Le Zephyr, about the middle of the 18th century. The peasant costume of various nations has also been adapted to stage purposes with excellent effect. The late Hon. Lewis Wingfield devoted much time to designing the stage dresses of the Victorian era, and Madame Alias--who has also passed away--provided the costumes in Mr. Calvert's revival of Henry VIII., and was also responsible for dressing many of the Alhambra ballets and the plays at London and provincial theatres. Madame Bernhardt, Miss Ellen Terry, Mrs. Langtry, Sir Henry Irving, and the late Sir Augustus Harris have also brought their influence, money, and taste to bear on correct stage costume, with the result that we have had many sumptuously-dressed revivals and new plays, which otherwise might have sunk into oblivion. Such spectacles as are often to be seen at our leading Metropolitan theatres and music halls, if they fail to touch the public fancy, mean absolute and irretrievable ruin to their promoters; and when it is remembered that many thousands are spent annually in staging theatrical enterprises, before a single seat is booked, it will at once be seen what enormous sums must be involved in furthering dramatic interests. The public, who have for the last sixty years been catered for so generously, are sometimes apt to overlook the difficulties with which the scenic artist has to contend. It would be impossible within the circumscribed limit of a single volume to minutely describe even the most notable theatrical costumes of the last half century, but a few of the most effective floral costumes will be appended for the benefit of those who desire to introduce them into various entertainments. The steady patronage of Her Majesty the Queen and the Royal Family have done much to remove any prejudices which existed against the drama, and as a powerful auxiliary to education the stage is rapidly gaining ground. Dull, indeed, must the theatre-goer be if he leaves without having assimilated some valuable lesson. To Shakespeare we owe many ideal types of womanhood, all the more precious now that some of the weaker sex, in an insatiable desire for progress, sometimes neglect those lesser arts which in the past proved to them a shield and buckler. The classical and historical pieces allow us to live again in scenes which occurred when the world was young, and convince us, though the tastes of the people were simpler, human nature, with its passions and aspirations, has changed but little. Who can deny the moral influence of such plays as "The Sign of the Cross," "Hypatia," "The Daughters of Babylon," "Virginius," or those of the Robertson school, of which "Caste" and "Ours" are examples? A love of music is not considered a marked trait of the English nation, yet have not Italian and comic opera stimulated a desire for a concord of sweet sounds among all classes of the community? Such plays as "Patience" and the "Mikado" have developed our instinct for colour and form, and we are taught the value of industry and restraint when we watch well-trained actors, capable of controlling every gesture, and of charming us with their well-modulated voices. Our lives are cheered by viewing the comic side of things, and on our clothing and household possessions, the stage has also laid a refining hand. FLORAL COSTUMES. A POPPY. The bodice and skirt of red accordion, pleated _mousseline de soie_, the petals of the flower and belt in bright red silk. Large silk poppies appear on the shoulders and bust, and one of extra size is used for a head-dress. With this costume neat black shoes and silk stockings should be worn, and a palm-leaf fan covered with poppies and foliage should be carried. [Illustration: A POPPY.] LILY OF THE VALLEY. Corsage and skirt of white pleated Valenciennes lace mounted on green silk. A full berthe of the flowers. White lace hat entirely covered with these blooms, and fan to correspond. MOSS ROSE. Gown of pink satin, veiled with tulle and flecked with rose buds. A ruche of moss roses at the hem of the skirt and on the bodice. A Dolly Varden hat trimmed with moss roses and pink ribbon. WILD ROSE. Dress of shot pink and white satin, embroidered or painted with clusters and trails of wild roses and foliage. Skirt edged with full ruche of pink tulle studded with roses, and corsage trimmed to correspond. _Coiffure poudré_ dressed with small basket of roses and pink ribbon. WHITE ROSE. Gown with Watteau train of white satin edged with leaveless roses, chains of the same flowers carried across the front of the dress, and outlining the square-cut bodice, and elbow sleeves. Ruffles of lace. A wreath of white roses in the powdered hair, and a crook decorated with flowers and ribbon streamers. SUMMER ROSES. Gown of cream-coloured brocade, with design in shaded roses and foliage, trimmed with garland of roses of different tints embedded in tulle. Décolleté corsage trimmed to correspond, and a damask rose worn in the hair. WILD FLOWERS. Dress of pale blue satin, veiled with green tulle. Trails of forget-me-nots, poppies, marguerites, buttercups, and grass depending from the waist-belt to edge of skirt, and bodice trimmed to correspond. A Leghorn hat garnished with wild flowers, grass, and blue ribbons. GARDENIA. Greek dress of white crêpe de Chine, embroidered in classical design with silver. In front diagonal trails of gardenias and their dark foliage arranged from the right shoulder to left side of dress. The hair bound with silver bands. A shower bouquet to correspond. THE SHAMROCK. Gown of emerald green satin appliquéd with velvet shamrocks of a darker shade. The stomacher a large trefoil in emeralds, and the short sleeves cut to resemble the Irish emblem. Corsage veiled with green tulle strewn with tiny shamrocks, and a coronet of the same in the hair. THE THISTLE. High dress of eau de nil satin. The skirt edged with a wreath of thistles, which are also embroidered in a bold design on the front of gown and bodice. Satin hat trimmed with thistles and ribbon, and black staff tied with thistles and ribbon streamers. DANDELION. Gown of yellow accordion, pleated chiffon finished on the skirt with trails of flowers from the waist to hem of the skirt, interspersed with the seed pods commonly known as blow-aways. The bodice of pleated yellow chiffon with dandelions across the berthe and clusters on the shoulders. A wreath and aigrette to correspond. IRIS. Dress of white satin, veiled with mauve chiffon, flecked with iris petals. Trails of mauve and white flowers tied with bows of satin in alternate shades, and carried across the skirt. Square cut corsage to correspond, and elbow sleeves. A muslin cap trimmed with the same flowers. Powdered hair. LILAC. Gown of cream satin brocaded with mauve and white lilac, Marie Antoinette, white chiffon fichu, and cap trimmed with clusters of shaded lilac and foliage. Elbow sleeves with chiffon ruffles. The white satin fan painted to correspond, and caught by a flower châtelaine. The hair dressed with the same flowers, and a twisted scarf of mauve and white chiffon. 
33983	----	Music by Linda Cantoni GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1851. TABLE OF CONTENTS. VOL. XLII. A Hindoo Belle, by _J. E. P._, 322 A Spring Carol, by _Mrs. A. A. Barnes_, 326 Cottage Furniture, 329 Design for a Lady's Work-Box, 364 Develour, by _Professor Charles E. Blumenthal_, 51, 102, 182, 257, 323, 377 Editors' Table, 65, 134, 201, 266, 330, 391 Editors' Book Table, 66, 135, 202, 267, 332, 392 Etruscan Lace Cuff, 328 Fashions, 70, 140, 205, 270, 336, 396 Flowers, by _G. H. Cranmer_, 284 Garden Decorations, 251, 282, 372 Good For Evil, by _Angele de V. Hull_, 252, 285 Home; or, the Cot and the Tree, by _Robert Johnson_, 295 Incidents in the Life of Audubon, by _the author of "Tom Owens, the Bee Hunter,"_ 306 Knitted Flowers, 61, 199, 263, 328, 386 Model Cottages, 4, 126, 283 Moral Courage, by _Alice B. Neal_, 316, 367 Publisher's Department, 269, 334, 394 Sabbath Lyrics, by _W. Gilmore Simms_, 26, 109, 174, 366 Sonnet, by _Mrs. L. S. Goodman_, 281 Sonnets, by _William Alexander_, 42, 75, 169, 215, 277, 390 Spring, by _Fanny Fales_, 292 Spring--a Ballad, by _Mary Spenser Pease_, 278 Susan Clifton; or, the City and the Country, by _Professor Alden_, 29, 93, 170, 246, 302, 360 Taking Care of Number One, by _T. S. Arthur_, 320 The Judge; a Drama of American Life, by _Mrs. Sarah J. Hale_, 21, 88, 154, 237, 298 The Language of Flowers, by _Jno. B. Duffey_, 277 The Last of the Tie-Wigs, by _Jared Austin_, 296 The Tiny Glove--a May-Day Story, by _Blanche_, 280 The Young Enthusiasts, by _Frank I. Wilson_, 309, 346 To A. E. B., or Her who Understands it, by _Adaliza Cutter_, 297 Undersleeves and Caps, 327 Various Useful Receipts, 69, 139, 205, 270, 335, 396 Women of the Revolution, by _Mrs. E. F. Ellet_, 293 Ye Come to me in Dreams, by _Nilla_, 279 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. MAY. May-Day Morning. The Language of Flowers. Spring. "Now be Careful." Music, &c. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. BY JNO. B. DUFFEY. (_See Plate._) AS, wandering forth at rosy dawn, When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn, From glen and glade, and river-side, We bring young flowers--the morning's pride. And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet, With flowers our favored ones we greet; For flowers a silent language own, That makes our maiden wishes known. A language that by love was wrought, And by fond love to mortals taught; A language, too, that lovers know, Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow. A language richer, purer far Than all the tongue-born dialects are; And, as the flowers, devoid of art, It is the language of the heart. Thoughts that would perish all untold Live on the tongues that flowers enfold: Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell The love of stammering youth unveil. And happy will that trembler be, If she, with cheek of modesty, Shall give his soft avowal room, And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom. But, should her heart feel not his glow, The mottled Pink may answer "No;" Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath, A balm upon the wound will breathe. The Morning-glory's dewy bell In mystic tones of hope may tell-- Tell of a struggle in the breast, Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed. The Heartsease, flower of purple hue, Seeks an affection ever true; And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply, Speaketh a love will never die. The little Daisy grows for her Who heedeth not the flatterer; And spotless Lilies love the breast Where child-like Innocence is pressed. Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose Whose blushing petals half unclose; And in the snowy Violet Sweet Modesty her home hath set. And thus of feeling, every shade May be through voiceless flowers conveyed; And all the fond endearments known To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own. [Illustration: THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker Printed by H. Quig.] SONNET.--AUDUBON.[A] BY WM. ALEXANDER. AH! is he blind, who erst, untiringly, Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold, For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold? When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song; For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain, No more to view your rainbow-tints again-- Love-lays in gratitude to him belong, From matin Lark, loud herald of the day-- From Philomel, coy chorister of night: Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight, In rapture musing on your plumage gay, Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done, On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun. FOOTNOTE: [A] Written previous to his death. SPRING.--A BALLAD BY MARY SPENSER PEASE. (_See Plate._) SPRING, with its glad influences Stealing up from bosky dell, Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse With its sunny, witching spell. Each new morn the boughs hang thicker With the leaves of Nature's book; Each new eve adds a new chapter To the life of bird and brook. Each new morn the world is greener; Age forgets its shriveled years In the warmth and life upspringing Out from Winter's chill and tears. Each new morn the song grows sweeter-- Song of loving bee and bird; Each new eve, from youth and maiden, Softer cadences are heard. Each new morn her heart beat warmer, Dreaming o'er his tale of love; Each new eve, that tale repeated, Brighter spells around her wove. At the early, early daybreak, To caress her as she slept, Greetingly, the light spring zephyr Through her open lattice crept. Roving mid the golden tangles Of her tresses' braidless flow, Nestling in the half-veiled dimples Of her bosom white as snow. Mingling with her fragrant breathing, Closely to her ear it came, Murm'ring to her gentle dreaming, In sweet music, his dear name. "Through the valley, o'er the mountain," Sang the zephyr in her ear, "At my own sweet will, I wander All the loving, livelong year. "With the lowly, tender grass-blade, With the solemn, stately trees, With each swelling bud and blossom Sport I ever as I please. "All the humble wayside flowers-- Daisy, king-cup, light harebell; All the tall and proud ones--Kalmia, Rose, and orchis--know me well. "Of the brightest, sweetest flower-buds, Sheltered by the mountain's brow, Blooming in the wide, wide valley, Loveliest of them all art thou. "That is why he loves thee dearly, Modest, gentle as thou art, The proud lord of wood and manor The proud lord of thy young heart. "Oh, I heard a song last evening, Sung to tremulous guitar, Through the yellow, mellow moonlight, Floating on the air afar; "Breathing warmest, truest passion For one bearing thy sweet name, Telling of that passion thwarted Bending unto station's claim: "Telling how the claim of station Must at last be overborne, By a will and faith unyielding, By a love no time can turn. "'I must see her at the day-dawn,' Sighed he, at the ballad's close, 'By the brook in the still copse-wood, Where the purple violet grows.'" Rose the maiden from her slumbers, Fresher than the break of dawn, Binding up her heavy tresses, Looked she out upon the lawn. Like a shower of yellow guineas Flashing back the morning sun, Crocuses and dandelions Half the golden fields had won. From the green and yellow shining, Flecking it with flakes of white, Drooping lilies, palest snow-drops, Spread their petals to the light. Looking out upon the copse-wood, As she clasped her simple dress, Suddenly the thought came o'er her, "I will seek its wilderness. "By the brook down in its thicket, Where the purple violet grows, I shall find the wild sweetbriar, And the wind-flower, and--who knows? "Who knows but my Edgar Lincoln May be wandering that way, Tempted by this fragrant morning-- Brightest morning yet of May. "Oh, I know he loves me dearly, And he knows I love him well; That my love is deep and boundless, More than tongue of mine can tell." On she wandered, singing lightly Snatches of some olden song-- How a lord and lowly maiden Loved each other well and long: How the haughty claim of station Came at last to be o'erborne By a will and faith unbending, By a love no time could turn. Singing lightly, on she wandered Over hill and meadow lone; Said she "This broad wood and valley Soon I'll proudly call my own. "Not one beggar, not one hungered Shall there be in all the land; Not one loathing life from hardship, When I'm lady proud and grand." Wandering on, she plucked wild flowers, Flowers filled with morning dew, Looking backward ever, ever, Listening for a step she knew. Press the flowers to thy soft bosom, Braid them in thy shining hair, Love them while their tender petals Fragrant life and freshness wear; For too soon they'll droop and wither, Plucked and worn but one short day, And too soon thy youth and freshness May, like them, be flung away. Light of heart, she nears the copse-wood, From its depths sweet voices throng; Voices of the jay and blue-bird, And the wild wood-robin's song. By the water-brook she's standing, Where the purple violets grow, Where the wind-flower and sweetbriar, And the starry woodbines blow. By the water-brook she's standing, And her heart begins to fail; Still she watches, still she listens, Hearing but the night-owl's wail. Silent shadows flit around her, Looming darkly, broad, and tall; But one shadow well remembered Sees she not among them all. Ah, perhaps--perhaps he may be To his vow a traitor base! Down into the clear brook glancing There she sees her own sweet face. Down into the clear brook gazing There she sees her own sweet face; Sees she also there reflected One of noble, manly grace. "Effie! Effie! late last evening," Spake he, circling her soft waist, "My proud sire--and soon thine, darling-- Read the lines thy hand had traced; "Breathing of thy sweet self, Effie, Full of tenderness and truth-- 'Such a heart, such wit and wisdom Must be cherished, by my sooth!' "Thus my sire--the lines re-reading Traced by thy beloved hand-- Still he spake, 'Such wit, such wisdom. Would grace lady of the land!' "Then it was, my darling Effie, Pleaded I thy cause and mine-- 'Yes, yes, yes, I've watched thee, youngster, Watched thee sigh, and pale, and pine!' "More he said, my darling Effie-- For he knew my death he'd mourn That the haughty claim of station Is at last by love o'erborne." [Illustration: SPRING. Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.B. Neagle.] YE COME TO ME IN DREAMS. BY NILLA. YE come to me in dreams, baby, In visions of the night; Thy blue eye, full of blessedness, Is glancing on my sight: The music of thy breath, baby, Is falling on my ear, In those dear old-accustomed tones I loved so well to hear. Again upon my heart, baby, Thy little hand is prest, Again thy little nestling head Is pillowed on my breast; Again my lips are murmuring Low words of love and prayer; I strive to draw thee closer yet, But clasp the vacant air; And then I wake to weep, baby, Rememb'ring thou art dead; And never more can my poor heart Pillow thy little head! Yet I am happy even now-- This thought my grief disarms-- A few short months I fondly clasped An angel in my arms: That loftier minds than mine, baby, Will now instruct thy youth, And holier hearts will point the path Of innocence and truth. Thou wert my blessing here on earth, And though tears dim my eyes, I feel that I am richer far To have thee in the skies! THE TINY GLOVE.--A MAY-DAY STORY. BY BLANCHE. CHAPTER I. BRIGHT, gladsome May-day!--the fairest maiden in all the train of the merry "Queen of Seasons." May-day! what happy scenes this word recalls--the day of all days for childhood's pleasures! I see the little darlings tripping along the streets of my native town with baskets on their chubby arms, smiles on their lips, and happiness in their eyes, soon clustered in merry groups on some favorite spot in the suburbs, laughing and chatting, arranging their pic-nic dinners, or sporting beneath the shady trees. But to my story. A mile or two from the village of A. were collected some fifty or sixty little girls and boys, for the purpose of celebrating their annual holiday. The May-pole, bedecked with flowers of every hue and form, towered aloft, and around its base they frisked and gamboled like so many little fairies. Some were "wafted in the silken swing" high up among the boughs of the beech and elm; others sought the brink of the rippling rivulet, and amused themselves with ruffling its smooth surface or looking at their mirrored faces. Far down the streamlet, and alone, was quietly seated a little girl, weaving into garlands the buds and blossoms which grew around her in wild profusion, caroling with a bird-like voice snatches of some favorite air, ever and anon raising her violet eyes and looking round her in wondrous delight. Her childish face was strikingly beautiful; around her small perfect mouth there rested an angel smile, and her short brown curls were parted on a forehead of matchless contour. She wove and sang, and smiled a sunny smile, and seemed wholly unconscious of a pair of bright black eyes fixed upon her from the opposite bank. At length she turned, as if to listen; and soon upon the air floated distinctly sounds of "Alice! little Alice!" and she bounded away to her playmates. No sooner had she disappeared than the owner of the black eyes--a boy, seemingly of twelve years, clad in a green jacket ornamented with silver buttons, loose white trowsers, and wide-brimmed straw hat, which but partly concealed his glossy black hair--sprang across the water and possessed himself of the tiny glove which lay forgotten on the bank, and which had once covered the hand of "little Alice." * * * * * "Alice, my dove, you have brought but one glove from the May frolic." "I lost the other one yesterday. I don't think I forgot it May-day, mamma." "Well, dear, go put this one away until you find the mate." "Yes, mamma." * * * * * CHAPTER II. 'TIS night in a boarding-school. The doors of many small rooms open on the dreary hall, and the glimmering light through the key-holes tells of the fair students within. One is partly open, and through it we see two young girls standing near a toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass of rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness about her snowy shoulders. The other is rummaging amid the elegant trifles which decorate the table. "Alice," she began, "many, many times have I seen this beautiful little glove among trumpery, and often thought I'd beg of you its history, but always forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned." "Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight years old I lost the fellow, and put this one away until I should find it. Years have rolled away; but it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then enjoyed, that I have never been able to part with it, and still treasure it as an index to the bright scenes of the past." CHAPTER III. AGAIN I beg the reader to pass over two years--short to you who possess health and plenty, long to those in disease and want--and come with me to the heights of the Alleghanies, crowded with stately trees all covered with snow and ice, with here and there thick clambering evergreens, looking all the richer for their bright unsullied winter caps. Slowly and laboriously do the wheels of a heavy traveling carriage wind along the rugged ascent, while the heaving flanks and dilated nostrils of the noble steeds bear witness to the toilsome pathway. Muffled in cloaks and furs, we scarcely recognize, in the inmates of the coach, our two school-girls, lately emancipated from their narrow cell and the thraldom of school-laws. We would willingly linger to admire with them the grandeur and sublimity of these props of heaven; but we will not attempt a description of that which was among the mightiest works of Him, the Almighty; so we pass over the perilous and impressive journey, nor pause until, again in her own village, again on the steps of her dearly loved home, Alice Clayton is pressed to her mother's bosom. Now under her father's roof, she has become the glad child again. We see her first with her companion, Kate Earle, wandering about the spacious drawing-rooms, now tastefully arranging the folds of the heavy satin curtains, or decorating the tables with rich bouquets; then trying the full, clear tones of the piano; and at last, taking a delighted survey of the whole, she trips away into the long dining-hall, contemplates a moment the iced pyramids, foamy floats, transparent jellies, &c., then, arm in arm, they seek their chamber, and are soon busily engaged in the witching duties of the toilet. Night hurries on, and the cold moon looks calmly down the quiet village: but soon, no longer silent, we hear quickened foot-falls, rolling carriages, the hum of busy tongues, and occasionally a silvery laugh floats out upon the cool night air. Before the stately, and now brilliantly-lighted, mansion of Mr. Clayton they pause, ascend the steps, and are lost to view. But we will enter and look upon the happy throng assembled here to welcome back their former playmate, sweet Alice Clayton. Ah, how tenderly she greets them! Now do her soft eyes light up and flash with intense joy as she receives her numberless guests with unaffected grace, presenting many to her visitor, Kate Earle. The music and the dance begin, youth and beauty eagerly join the circle, while the older ones retire to the whist-tables, none marking the speedy flight of the rosy hours. Some are there, strangers to the fair idol of the brilliant concourse: one of these, a youth of striking mien and unusual elegance, is now seeking a presentation from her father. With a good-humored smile, he bows assent, and together they seek our heroine. "Come, Alice dear, make your prettiest bow to my young friend, Percy Clifford." Then, in a mock whisper, he added, "Guard well your heart," and left her, smiling maliciously at the painful blushes which his remark had summoned to her cheeks. However, the low, easy tones of Clifford's voice soon reassured her, and a half hour glided away so pleasantly that her father's warning was forgotten, or, if remembered, but too late. I don't mean to say that Alice really gave her heart away before the asking; but that night when she and Kate were repeating the sayings and doings of their late guests, Percy Clifford's name was oftener on her lip, and when, with arms entwined, they slept the sleep of innocence, Perry Clifford's musical voice and captivating smile alone hovered round her pillow. CHAPTER IV. AGAIN and again they met; already had the finely-modeled features of Alice Clayton gained an indescribable charm from the warm feelings of her pure, ardent heart, which sprang up irresistibly to the surface. No wonder that Percy Clifford yielded to the idolatrous affection which grew and strengthened in his bosom for the fair girl. No wonder that his passion knew no restraint when he pressed his lips on her innocent brow, and drew in his clasp Alice, his betrothed. * * * * * "My sweet Alice!--my 'little Alice;' for so I love to call you. The dear name recalls the little brown-haired beauty who sat upon the bank weaving into garlands the bright flowers, none half so lovely as herself, while from the depths of her gentle heart gushed out a song as witching and melodious as the carolings of all the feathered tribe. Then, a boy, did I first gaze enraptured on your infantile beauty; then did my heart unclose to the lovely vision which it has since treasured through years and absence, joy and sorrow. My father always granted my request to prosecute my studies at his country seat near A., and, unknown, unnoticed, I followed you through girlhood, and experienced my first pang when you left me for the distant seminary. "None can tell the overwhelming sorrow, the keen agony which succeeded your absence; my only solace was to seek the streamlet and mingle my boyish tears with its limpid waters. Again I met you; and I have since wondered how I could so well act the stranger--how I could speak so calmly when my heart was bursting. Soon all doubts and fears were banished--_you loved me_! I saw it in the tearful eye, the flickering cheek. And now, Alice, dearest one, _you are mine_! With this, you see this little glove. It will tell you how you have _always_ reigned, as now, in the heart of Percy Clifford." And how can I describe _her_ joy as, half laughing, half crying, she kissed again and again the little wanderer, and how that night she placed it _mated_ in his hand, emblem of themselves? SONNET BY MRS. L. S. GOODWIN. THE god of day hath laid ambition by, And closely pressing to the fair west's side, As ardent bridegroom to a beauteous bride, Rests on her blushing cheek his lustrous eye. List to the melody that floats adown The aisles of yonder greenwood orchestra! I fancy Nature's harp-strings lead the play, Coveting for their mistress fresh renown. And amorous zephyr, lo! with skillful touch, Her music pages turns; the while he toys With her vast wealth of fragrance. Naught alloys The peace which seems to copy heaven o'ermuch; Chaining the raptured spirit all too strongly here-- Teaching it to forget the higher, holier sphere. [Illustration: GARDEN ORNAMENTS.] IN the present number of the Lady's Book, we give a style of fountains somewhat different from that given in our last. Should the house be in a style suitable, a drooping fountain, like that shown in the engraving, may be used; and the central part may be altered to suit a Gothic or an Elizabethan house. Whatever pattern may be adopted, there are certain rules to be attended to in the construction of all fountains, in order to make them play. A fountain may be formed wherever there is either a natural or artificial supply of water some feet higher than the level of the surface on which the fountain is to be placed. This supply of water is called the head, and its height varies according to circumstances. Where a drooping fountain is to be adopted, the head need be very little higher than the joint from which the water is expected to issue; but where the fountain is to form a jet, the head must be six inches, a foot, or more, higher than the height to which the jet is expected to rise; the height required varying according to the diameter of the jet. When the jet is small, say about the eighth of an inch in diameter, the height of the head above that to which the jet of water is expected to rise need not be above six or eight inches. In the mountainous parts of the country, ornamental fountains may be constructed with very little trouble or expense. The water which flows from springs in hill-sides may be made to form the head. It may be conducted to the fountain through leaden or earthen pipes, or pipes made of any material that is perfectly water-tight. If these pipes be extended to the door of the dwelling, excellent water may be at all times available--thus answering the double purpose of ornament and use. MODEL COTTAGE. [Illustration] _A Dwelling of two stories._ This cottage contains, on the ground floor, an entrance lobby, _a_; staircase, _b_; kitchen, _c_; parlor, _d_; tool-house, _e_; pantry and dairy, _f_; back-kitchen, _g_; wood-shed, _h_; dust-hole, _i_; water-closet, _k_; and cow-house, with brew-house oven, _l_. The cow-house is connected with a court-yard, which contains a shed for hay and straw, piggeries, with a manure-well connected with the water-closet. The platform, on three sides of this dwelling, forms a handsome walk, from which there is a door into the court-yard. [Illustration] The bed-room floor contains a best bed-room, _m_; a second bed-room, _n_; a third bed-room, _o_; and a stair, _p_. [Illustration] _General Estimate._--14,904 cubic feet, at 10 cents per foot, $1,490.40; at 5 cents, $745.20. FLOWERS. BY G. H. CRANMER. What a volume of thought and feeling is contained in the simple flower! As the lightnings which flash along the firmament of heaven, or the thunders which startle the silence of eternity, are typical of His anger and might--so are the beauty and simplicity of a flower typical of His purity and mercy. A flower is no insignificant object. It is fraught with many a deep though mute lesson of wisdom. It teaches us that even itself, the brightest ornament of the vegetable world, must fade away and die--and the life which we prize so highly may be seen, as in a mirror, through its different changes. The withered leaflet is like unto a crushed and broken heart. Its fading loveliness is like the approach of age as it throws its mantle of wrinkled care over the form of some lovely specimen of humanity. Its sweet fragrance is like the joys and pleasures of our breasts ere they have been contaminated by the rude touches of the world. The dew-drop which, at morning's dawn, rests upon the half-oped bud, is like the tear which dims the infant's speaking eye when his childish glee has been reproved by the voice of affection. A flower represents mankind in the changes of infancy, youth, manhood, and old age. The young bud is infancy; the bursting flower is youth; the flower full blown is manhood, and the withered and tailing leaf is the type of old age. Its uses are various and manifold. Sometimes the promptings of affection lead us to place it, in its purity and beauty, over the tomb of some beloved friend, where, shedding around its fragrance, it steals upon our senses like the memory of the departed being beneath. Sometimes the hand of pride will pluck it from its stem, to deck the hair of the blooming bride, or add by its odor to the festive scene. And not unfrequently it is the mute bearer of some fond tale of love to the ecstatic sense of her whose heart and feelings are at length justified, by its sweet language, in the thoughts they so long have harbored. It soothes the cares of the troubled soul, and alleviates the pangs of sorrow. It wins upon us by its modest though blooming appearance, and its gentle influence steals into our bosoms and softens our natures. Study the flowers, and behold the wisdom, the goodness, and mercy of the Almighty. Anatomize them, and behold the innumerable parts which form and make up the whole, and the system and order with which they are joined together. Refinement dwelleth among the flowers. There the affections of our hearts are given license to rove, and there the enthusiasm of our nature overcomes the diffidence of our feelings. Voluntary homage arises to the Maker of objects so fair and beautiful, and the soul in the contemplation sighs itself away in a delicious reverie. Not less beautifully than truly has it been said:-- "There is religion in a flower; Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience. Mountains, and oceans, planets, suns, and systems, Bear not the impress of Almighty power In characters more legible than those Which He has traced upon the tiniest flower Whose light bell bends beneath the dew-drop's weight." _Wheeling, Va._ GOOD FOR EVIL BY ANGELE DE V. HULL. (Concluded from page 256.) THEIR new home was a little bijou of a cottage, and Cora went to work with a light heart. The furniture was of the very plainest kind; but about the little rooms there was an air of comfort and refinement that told of a woman's careful hand. Here and there hung pictures of her own painting. In each apartment were one or two shelves, neatly stained and varnished, on which were placed a few choice books. On the top stood the nicely-trimmed lamp--thus making feminine ingenuity serve the double purpose of library and bracket. The little octagon work-table, in one corner, held a porcelain vase, daily ornamented with fresh flowers, for in the sunny South the flowers bloom perpetually; and the white counterpane on the small French bedstead in Cora's "spare room," tempted one to long for an invitation from her sweet self to occupy it. How proud and happy her husband felt as together they took their first regular meal after the confusion was over, and Cora's housekeeping began in good earnest! A few weeks afterwards, she received a box containing her mother's old-fashioned but costly set of China--and her tears fell fast and thick as she looked once more on the well-known cups her childish lips had so often pressed. No gift could have been so precious in her eyes, and she kissed the souvenir of her early days with reverence. Many little trifles had the good mother added to the welcome present--trifles that Cora could not buy, because she could not afford it; and her heart yearned towards her only parent, as she uncovered one after another of the home treasures. An antique-looking silver coffee-pot, with cream-jug and sugar-bowl, made Cora's little table look like the most _recherché_ in the land. Had Laura seen it, she would have cried with spite; for, now that she had driven her sister-in-law from the house, the remembrance of her own cruelty and injustice made her hatred more bitter still. She had but one wish, and that was to see her brother and his innocent wife in actual want! Even in the street poor Cora was not safe from her violent rage. If by chance they met, Laura's eye would flash, her cheeks grow pale, her lips quiver, and she would pass, followed by Clara and Fanny, with a look of scorn and gesture of defiance, which they would endeavor to imitate as closely as they could, as a token of respect to their now wealthy sister. Their father had long repented of his unkindness, but his weak mind bent to that of Laura; and so they were as strangers--they who should have been as closely united as God had made them! To Lewis they made professions that disgusted him; but, at Cora's request, he still paid Mr. Clavering the respect of calling occasionally. It was an unhappy state of things indeed; but heartless, worldly people have no ties, and easily sever the closest, should they bind inconveniently; so it cost Laura and her sisters neither pang nor remorse to outrage a brother's feelings. Margaret yearned towards Cora, and, as often as she saw her, expressed the same unchanging affection, but dared not openly avow her regret at her absence. One day, as Cora sat in her room plying her needle, she heard some one enter the back gate. In a moment Maggie was in her arms, weeping and laughing by turns. She had stolen away, and came to spend the whole day. "Darling Maggie!" said Cora, kissing her again and again, "how kind of you to come! Lewis will be so happy, too!" "Ah, Cora!" replied Margaret, untying her bonnet, "if you knew what a time I had to get here! We were all invited out to dinner; I positively refused to go--having laid my plans for you, sweetest! Laura was so ill-humored, and the others so intent upon themselves, that they did not remark my eagerness to remain. But they insisted on my going, until I suggested that the carriage would not hold us all, large as it is, and so they drove off to Rivertown in grand style, leaving me at length alone. I danced with joy! I almost screamed. But I kept quiet enough till T knew they were not going to return for some odd glove, a handkerchief, or Fanny's eternal powder bag, and then started off." "This shall be a _jour de fête_, then, my own Margaret; and I will put up this work to show you my sweet little home. Oh, Maggie!" continued Cora, clasping her hands, "were it not for the indifference of your father and sisters to my poor Lewis, I would be the happiest woman on the wide earth. He deserves so much affection, for he has given his own so earnestly." A few tears fell from her eyes, but she brushed them away and smiled again. Margaret sighed, but was silent. This was a subject upon which she never conversed, from her decided disapprobation of the course adopted towards two beings so dearly loved. She remembered, with bitterness and trembling, the thirty-sixth verse of the tenth chapter of St. Matthew: "For a man's enemies shall be they of his own household," and pondered deeply over the means of reconciliation. But to-day she had determined to be happy, and Cora was delighted at her open admiration of their little _ménage_. The China and silver particularly charmed her--first, with their beauty; and secondly, with the air of luxury they gave her brother's modest table. They were moreover, articles of real value that were Cora's, no matter what the contingency; and Margaret's gentle heart rejoiced at what she termed "their first piece of luck." How these two chatted! How they valued each moment of the time allowed them! Maggie drew out her thimble and insisted upon being employed, and the hours flew lightly over their heads until noon, when Lewis entered. "Maggie!" he cried, as she flew out from behind the door where she had concealed herself. "This is indeed a pleasure." This affectionate greeting made her burst into tears; and she held her head, for a few moments, against his breast. "How kind of you, dear sister, to brave all, and come to us at last! I wish it were for ever; but we are such ungrateful mortals that we never rest satisfied with present blessings. You have been happy to-day, darling," continued Lewis, as Cora entered. "I can tell that by looking at you." "Ay, Lewis, as merry as a cricket ever since Maggie came before me, like a good angel, this morning. Do get the girls to go out and spend the day again, my own pet sister, and gleam on Lewis and me before we begin to pine again for one of your soft kisses.". "I wish you could put me in a cage, like a stray bird," said Margaret, with a smile of love. "I think I should like a jailer like Cora, and be content to stay captive for ever." But, alas! dinner was over, and they had only the afternoon left them. Maggie remained until it was nearly dusk, that she might get an early cup of tea from Cora's pretty China; then, with Lewis and his wife at her side, sauntered slowly home. The tears sprang into her eyes as she bade them adieu, and she had just rung the bell when the carriage containing her sisters drove up the street. Fortunately, it was too dark for them to recognize her companions, and she succeeded in getting rid of her bonnet and mantle before they had managed to get out, as Laura insisted upon being carried in the parlor by poor Mr. Phillips, because he had taken, at dinner, a little more wine than was positively good for him. But he succeeded, in despite of occasional glimpses of two wives, four sisters-in-law, and two Mr. Claverings. Laura was placed on a sofa, where she lay until after the tea tray was carried out, and then, calling her husband once more, desired to be taken to her room. Fanny and Clara sat discussing the dinner, the furniture, and the guests, and both seemed rather out of spirits. The old gentleman walked up and down the piazza, thinking deeply, and Margaret alone looked fresh and happy. "Who was there, Fanny?" asked she, at length. "Oh, a stupid set! Excepting ourselves and Mr. and Mrs. Denton, there was not a decent creature there. Nearly all married people and old bachelors. I declare, I have no patience with such incongruous assemblies!" "There was Mrs. Hildreth's brother! He is quite a beau, I'm sure; and Clara expressed unbounded admiration of his mustaches and whiskers a few days since." "Yes, he was there, and is certainly a very unexceptionable young man. But what is the use of one beau among four girls? The two Clays were there, looking as forlorn as Shakspeare's nightingale: and Clara monopolized Henry Bell, as though he belonged to her." "Certainly I did," said Clara; "and so would you, if he had given you the chance. Did you ever see such a dress as Betty Clay had on? She looked like a buckwheat cake in it." "And Mrs. Stetson's hair, Clara? Did you notice it? Screwed up behind into an almost invisible little _catogan_, and put over her ears so tight that she looked as if she had been in the pillory and came out with her ears off." "Was the dinner in good style?" again inquired Maggie. "Yes, but too elaborate. Those people that have not always been upper tens think it necessary to crowd their tables, and ruin one's digestive organs. I declare, I thought I should swoon when that last course came in. I was actually crammed with dinner, and looked forward to dessert with a hope of relief!" "And those two Charlotte Russes! As if one were not enough, with all that ice-cream and jelly! Mrs. Hildreth said, at least half a dozen times, how careful Soufflée was about having sweet cream, in spite of the scarcity and expense. The idea of hinting to guests the cost of their entertainment! These _parvenu_ people are _too_ absurd. I wish they would learn _bienséance_ before they rise." "So you had a dull day?" said Margaret, thinking of hers. "Not precisely dull, but tedious. Laura does torment poor Phillips so, that it makes us uncomfortable; and when people have to 'smile and smile,' as we do, to gloss it over, it seems like that intense desire to gap in stupid company, and the struggle to look as though you merely meant to show now very wide awake you were. I do wish Laura would confine her rudeness to ourselves; but no one ever dared tell her so but Lewis, and he will never trouble himself to do it again." "I wonder what he is doing now!" said Fanny. "I declare, I almost forgot his existence. And that horrid woman, too! She had better do something for herself, before she causes her husband to beg!" "Depend upon it, Fanny, neither Lewis nor Cora would do _that_." "Oh! you are their sworn champion, Margaret, we all know. But you cannot do them any good, child--be sure of it. I wish she would go home, or make Lewis mad, so that he could send her there." "Fanny!" cried Margaret, shocked, "how unfeeling!" "Pshaw! Did she not rob us of Lewis? Papa is poorer than ever; and we go about dressed in shabby clothes, through her fault. Lewis used to pay all our little bills, and now----." "And now," interrupted Margaret, "instead of remembering his generosity with gratitude, you abuse him for trying to be happy according to his own ideas. You almost get on your knees to Laura if she but gives you a cast-off ribbon. Be as full of deference to Lewis for past favors." "We are obliged to curry favor with Laura," said Clara, lowering her voice. "She has us all pretty much under her control since she promised to live with us after her marriage." "Excuse me," said Maggie, "but _I_ am not by any means under Laura's dominion. She makes me no presents, and I make her no protestations. I am civil to Mr. Phillips, however--and that is more than you are, Clara." "I am afraid," said she, laughing, "Laura is so _entichée_ of her love that she does not like us to pay him attention. Cora won her eternal hatred by speaking gently to him." "How she must abuse us now!" exclaimed Fanny, after a pause. "I expect Lewis is tired of our very names. She was always a vulgar thing, any how." "Vulgar!" cried Margaret. "You go rather too far, my dear sister. Cora is as far from being vulgar as your own particular self--and you are not sincere when you say so. Moreover, I believe she mentions our family as seldom as possible. I wish that she could forget us, I am sure--for she was brutally treated." "Do hush, Maggie; here is papa, and you have half persuaded him to think as you do. He seems actually conscience-stricken about Lewis's leaving home. I would not be surprised to find him visiting Cora after a while." "Where do they live, I wonder?" asked Fanny. "Laura will never let papa know, if she can help it; and they might go to Kamschatka before we Would discover it." "Come, girls, go to your rooms," said Mr. Clavering, entering. "You talk too much, and too lightly. Go to bed, and sleep if you can. It is more than I have been able to do since you sent my poor boy from his father's house." The next morning at breakfast Laura seemed a little more amiable, and began discussing plans for the summer excursions. Spring had set in, and many were changing town homes for country ones. "I vote for Dingleford," said Phillips, with a sudden burst of valor. "You!" said his wife, with a look of scorn--"you!" Mr. Phillips retired into himself, like Mr. Jenks of Pickwickian memory, that being the only retirement _he_ was allowed; and Laura went on without further notice. "We will to Brooksford. The girls can come; for I will pay Clara's expenses, and papa can easily do the rest. I heard the Martins, the Hildreths, and the Fentons say they were going." "Thank you for my share," said Margaret. "_I_ stay at home; your fashionable friends are my aversion." "You are so foolish, Maggie! You will never marry in the world." "_Tant mieux_, I have no ambition to become _madame_. My tastes are very simple, indeed. 'Liberty for me!' is my motto." And it was arranged that Fanny and Clara should accompany Laura to Brooksford to meet their friends, leaving Margaret and her father at home to brave dust, heat, and musketoes as they could. The old gentleman went to his counting-room to sit and think; Maggie applied herself to some household occupation; Laura retired to her chamber to fret like a peevish child; and Fanny and Clara prepared themselves to go down to the front parlor to receive morning calls. The bell rang, and the visits began. The consequence of each was easily determined by the reception of the hostess, whose smiles were dispensed more freely to some than to others. Mrs. Markham seemed determined to outstay them all, and, being one of the "ultras," was encouraged to do so. The dinner was once more discussed, as she had been one of the invited, and Clara once more voted it a bore. "I expected as much when I sent my refusal," said Mrs. Markham. "I hate dinners; they are always dull and stupid. How can it be otherwise when people meet expressly to eat?" "And Mrs. Hildreth's piano is such an old kettle, too! I felt it almost an insult to be asked to play on it." "Yes; with such a sweet voice as yours, Clara, you ought to have a perfect instrument. But where is Mrs. Clavering? She seems to have withdrawn herself entirely from the world; we never see her now." "She is not here," said Clara, coldly. "She does not live with us." "No! Where is she then?" inquired Mrs. Markham, with more interest than Clara liked. "She is a lovely creature. George fell quite in love with her." The girls seemed embarrassed; but Fanny's amiable expression advanced to the rescue-- "The fact is, dear Mrs. Markham, we were somewhat disappointed in Lewis's wife. She is very beautiful and accomplished, and, I dare say, means well--in fact, I'm sure that her heart is very good, and all that; but she hurt poor Laura's feelings so dreadfully one day that we really had to notice it in spite of our love for Lewis. It almost breaks my heart to think of it; but Cora was so violent after Laura once advised her, in a mild, sisterly way, to be more economical (she _was_ extravagant), that we felt it our duty to rise against it; and she left the house in great displeasure, making poor Lewis believe, of course, what she liked. I _don't_ think she meant it," continued Fanny; "but it _seemed_ unkind. I do not think she intended to be"-- "Then why did you notice it?" asked Mrs. Markham, abruptly. "I would have found what palliation I could to prevent such a break up of ties." This was something of a poser, and the two sisters exchanged glances; but Fanny once more exerted her soft tones in behalf of "poor Laura." "You know we could not hesitate between our own sister and Mrs. Clavering. We could not have her insulted by a stranger, however ignorant she may be of intentional wrong." "But your brother is--your brother, is he not?" Here Laura entered, and the conversation was stopped, to the infinite relief of Fanny and Clara, who began to see that there was really nothing to boast of in their treatment of Cora. The truth was, Mrs. Markham had been on the opposite side of the street when they one morning brushed against their sister-in-law with their usual impertinence, and, amused at the scene, she tried to find out the cause of it. On her return home, after her endeavors, she related what she knew to her brother, and made her comments. "Really, George, the idea of trying to persuade people that Cora Clavering is a monster is, beyond everything, absurd; as if everybody didn't see how unwelcome the poor thing was, how shabbily they served her, and how they tried to hide her when she came among them. Why, they never invited a soul to meet her as a bride; and when I asked for her the day I called, you would have thought I mentioned a troublesome animal." "She is too pretty, Helen," said her brother. "That Mrs. Phillips is a perfect tartar, and her sisters have no heart for anything but show. They would sell their father for their love of fashion." "All but Margaret, George." "All but Margaret; and she is as far above them as heaven is above earth. She must have had some other 'bringing up' than theirs. I would swear that _she_ never ill treated Mrs. Clavering." "Not she! Maggie loves her devotedly." "Then that is sufficient proof to me of her perfect innocence and their own falsehood. Mark that, Helen, Margaret's love proves that Mrs. Clavering is worthy of kind and gentle treatment." * * * * * One day Cora looked through the blind and saw her father-in-law before the gate. He looked wistfully in, and stood for a few moments with his hand on the latch. She would have gone out to meet him; but, remembering their parting, felt reluctant to expose herself to farther insult. But her heart yearned towards the poor old man, as she looked at his bent form and face of care. He _was_ her husband's father, and as such excited her sympathy. On Lewis's return, she mentioned the circumstance to him. "I wish he had seen you, dearest; he is sorry for the past, and doubtless wished to come in, but dared not. He and Maggie are alone at the house. I met her to-day, and she told me she was coming soon to see you." Dear Maggie! She came soon, and announced her approaching marriage with Mrs. Markham's brother, George Seymour. She, whose motto was "Liberty for me!" "But, you see, Cora, I could not resist George; and all this time I have loved him without being certain how it would terminate. I want to be married in church; so does he; and you and Lewis will come and sit near me. Laura and the girls are coming home for a week, and I want to persuade papa to return with them. He will be so lonely without me! We leave an hour or two after the ceremony." "And when will you be back?" asked Cora, as the tears fell from her eyes. "How I shall miss you, darling!" "We are going North to see George's mother, and, of course, will not be back before the fall. You will write constantly, Cora?" "Of course I shall; it will be one of my pleasures to do so. May you be happy, dear Margaret--God knows you deserve it! Lewis and I will both be at church, dearest, with hearts full of love for you and your future husband." Margaret blushed, and, kissing her, tripped away with a light heart. A few days after, she was in church to have her destiny for ever changed. The long bridal veil concealed her sweet face, but her low, distinct tones reached the brother and sister, sending a prayer into the heart of each for that young thing's future. It was over--Margaret's vows were spoken; her husband led her from the altar with a look of pride, and friends pressed forward to congratulate her. Tenderly met she the warm embrace of the two that loved her so well, and her last words to Cora were a low whisper-- "Take care of my father!" The others passed their brother's wife unheeded, though they spoke to him a few words. They had ceased to care for him, and he was no more than an acquaintance. The carriages whirled away, and the bride left her home to learn another's ways and habits. Laura returned to Brooksford with her sisters. They could not remain at home; nor would their father go with them. He tired of the world, and felt how little they cared for his comfort. Soon he fell ill, and sent for Lewis. Cora was alone when the message came, and flew to see him. She was shocked at the change, and insisted upon removing him to her own home. Once in that dear little room, he seemed better, and, when Lewis came in, fell asleep clasping his hand. Kindly watched Cora by the old man, soothing him, reading to him, and attending to his every want. He seemed so grateful, and would follow her light form with his eyes until the tears flowed from them. But he gained no strength; the doctor shook his head and thought this a bad symptom. _He_ could not "minister to a mind diseased," and the cares of business had shattered that weak spirit. Lewis wrote to his sisters; but they thought he was only too easily alarmed, and wrote in return for further tidings. Their letter came when their father lay speechless in a state of paralysis. Fanny arrived in haste. Mr. Clavering knew her; but his look turned from her to Cora, who held out her hand to her sister with an expression of earnest sympathy. Fanny saw it, and burst into tears. Lewis led her from the room, and an hysterical fit was the consequence. Her screams reached the old man's ear, for he looked troubled; but Cora signed to the servant to close the door, while she sat down beside him, trying to soothe him into sleep. He soon fell into a quiet slumber, and she then went to Fanny's assistance. Her quiet but efficient help succeeded in calming her, and together the three watched all night by their father's bed. He looked so pleased as he opened his eyes and saw them together. Cora bent down and kissed him, as she read his look, and once more held out her hand to Fanny. He signed for her to come nearer. She kneeled at his side, and laid her young, sweet cheek to his, and once more he closed his eyes. Towards morning he grew weaker, and a few hours after he had gently breathed his last, Laura, her husband, and Clara arrived. Their grief was loud and violent, and painful to witness. If any feeling of remorse visited their hearts, none knew it, for no reproach escaped their lips. Fanny alone seemed stricken, and turned to Cora for comfort. Mr. Clavering was buried by the side of his wife. His children followed him to the grave; but in all that crowd not one mourned him as Cora did. She loved the poor old man that clung to her so like a child; and as she looked at Lewis and beheld his manly grief, she grieved anew over their short separation. The most becoming mourning was chosen, and the most fashionable bombazine bonnets ordered. Laura and Clara hated black, and thought it a dreadful thing to wear such an uncomfortable dress in the summer. But custom was not to be braved, and they all appeared at church the Sunday after, looking very proper, having asked Cora into their pew. There was no longer an excuse for refusing to speak to her, and they had requested her to appear with them in public once more, thinking, perhaps, that the world would expect it--the world, with its countless eyes, ears, and tongues! Poor Margaret! Sorrow came soon to disturb her newly-found bliss, and she returned earlier than she had intended, to weep over her father's grave. Her pale face bore witness to her suffering, and Seymour's tenderness alone called her from her indulgence of her grief. How she blessed Cora for her care of her father! How she loved her for her forgiving spirit! She saw her now almost daily, for they lived so near; and Cora had this one cause for thankfulness as troubles gathered around _her_ little fireside. Lewis had striven with superhuman strength to increase his slender capital, but in vain. Cora, whose stout heart never failed her, retrenched here and there, deprived herself almost of the necessaries of life to try and stay the storm. When her husband remained at the office instead of returning to tea, Cora's evening meal was a slice of dry bread with a cup of weak Bohea. For him she prepared some dish set by from dinner, which she had seen him relish. Turning down the lamp that the oil might not waste, she would sit wondering how she could help her darling Lewis. She knew how much he would object to have her apply to her mother, and, hating to grieve that tender parent's heart, she wrote cheerfully and hopefully when her heart was weighed down by anxiety. Lewis was growing thin, his buoyant spirit was gone, and she wept over that, indeed. Maggie dreamed not of the cause, but she, too, remarked the change in both, and felt doubly uneasy about these two so dear to her. She questioned Cora closely; but Cora was a sealed book this time. Lewis was peculiarly sensitive upon the subject of his poverty, and could not bear the thoughts of the triumph it would occasion Laura when she knew that his wife was really in distress. Slowly, but alas too surely, the little sum diminished, and Cora would soon lose her dignity of banker. She opened the drawer and counted the remainder with a deep sigh, and began to feel how terrible it was to be poor. Not that she repined for herself--oh no!--but the idea of her husband's wan face was like a dagger in her heart. She looked around her; there was nothing within her modest dwelling that could be parted with, nothing but her mother's gift, and she knew that Lewis would not hear of that. In a few days, she would be forced to tell him that the drawer was empty, and not a cent left to provide for even their scanty wants. She buried her face in her hands. She did not see the servant enter, and Nora stood some time at the door watching her with a look of sympathy, for she knew a portion of her mistress's sorrow, and felt it, too. "Won't I put on some more coal, Mrs. Clavering?" at length she asked. Cora looked up; the fire was quite out, and it was a cold night, but she had not heeded it. "Never mind, Nora; my husband will soon be home now, and it would be useless. You know he never sits up long after he returns." "But it is a cold, wet night, ma'am, and Mr. Lewis will want to dry his clothes," persisted Nora. "_Is_ it a wet night, Nora?" "Lord bless you, Mrs. Clavering, it has been pouring down rain for an hour past!" and she ran back to the coal house, returning in a second with the scuttle. "You see, ma'am," continued Nora, as she lighted the fire and the cheerful light filled the room, "you thinks too much. I've been here half a dozen times to-night, and seen you a ponderin' on sad things. It won't do, ma'am; thinking don't fatten folks." Cora smiled, and Nora went on. She was privileged, for she had been a servant in old Mrs. Clavering's family, and at her instance came to live with Cora when her household cares began. "You see, Miss Cora"--(Nora never said Mrs. Clavering more than once or twice)--"I know what ails you, and you ought not to take on about it so. The darkest hour's before the dawn, and _your_ dawn an't come yet." "I wish it were, Nora," said Cora, smiling again. "But there is a hope, at all events, for worse than I am. You say that you know why I am sad, Nora, and I am sure that you feel for one whom you have served so long. Now, is there nothing I can do to help Mr. Clavering that you know of? Nothing that will enable me to keep _you_? for, as things are now, there is no use in concealing that I could no longer afford to employ a servant, were there no brighter prospect." "Takes two to make a bargain, Miss Cora, and you couldn't send me off if I didn't choose to go," said Nora, stoutly. "It's a hard thing to see you work, but I s'pose it's got to be. Would you sew, ma'am? I'm sure I could get plenty of that." "Certainly I would, gladly I would," said Cora, eagerly. "So keep your word, Nora, and bring me something to do as soon as you can. You know how nicely I can do fine work." But Nora was crying, and went out of the room. Her pride for "the Claverings" was sadly humbled, and her "poor Miss Cora too unhappy!" She kept her promise, however; and long after the portfeuille lay useless in the drawer, Cora's busy fingers earned wherewith to supply the every-day wants of the house. What mattered it if her bonnet grew rusty and her gloves were mended? She was always pretty and neat, and had always that sweet fresh color that a consciousness of right sent to her cheek. The same glad smile ever welcomed her husband, the same rich, clear voice sang the touching songs he loved, and he seemed to catch a portion of her undying spirit. He returned home one evening earlier than usual, and going up to Cora, threw something into her lap. "That is for the bank, my singing-bird: it is a long time since I made a deposit, is it not? Oh, Cora!" and Lewis's deep voice faltered as he said it--"oh, Cora, if you knew how I dreaded to have you tell me that it was all gone, when I had no more to give! What hours of misery I have endured, my darling, since I came so near actual want! And you, my noble-hearted wife, how bravely you gazed at the coming clouds--how firmly you awaited the storm!" "And has the storm ceased, Lewis?--is the sunshine returning?" "There is a glimpse of it shining through the crevice, Cora, and I dare hope for better times, even with no prospects. I feared this, dearest, when my poor father sent me on the wide world with the slender sum I placed in your hands. It must be all gone now; is not your drawer empty? for, with your strict economy, it has lasted beyond my expectations." Cora smiled, and brought a little chair to sit beside him. Fondly he stroked her shining hair as she leaned her head against him, and all sense of sorrow left his breast as this, his treasure, was so near. Holding one little hand, he watched the arch smile upon those beautiful lips. "Tell me, rose-bud, how is your bank now? Have you not also dreaded to mention its emptiness to your gloomy husband?" "I have, indeed, Lewis; but there is something yet in the drawer, and I shall not touch your present supply for a while, as I do not need it." "You do not need it, Cora! Surely, dearest, you must have used all that I gave you at first; it was not even sufficient for our wants till now; for I have often wondered at your ingenuity in providing as you have. You have not parted with anything you valued, Cora?" She shook her head-- "Not at all. Do you miss any of my pet china, my silver, or my cherished books?" asked she, laughingly. "Then how is it, Cora, that you have managed so well?" "Oh, I was blessed by the fairies at my birth, and am a successful mesmerizer, too. I have the power of making you see more than is before you." "Let me see your account book, then, queen of spirits. I had no idea that I had married a banshee. Where is your book?" "I keep my own accounts, Mr. Lewis, so please you. This is a liberty I will not allow." And Cora ran to her drawer and turned the key, thus preventing the discovery of her labor of love. But she confined herself too closely, and it was not long before her face began to grow pale and her temples throb through the night. Lewis was alarmed, and sent a physician. He prescribed exercise, country air, and quiet; three luxuries of which poor Cora had been deprived for months, and Lewis was more wretched than ever. In the morning early, before Cora had risen, Nora went to him and told all. Her young lady should not work herself to death; hiding it from Mr. Lewis was a sin, and so she made bold to betray her. Lewis bowed his head and wept; she had, indeed, been firm in adversity; she had, indeed, been true to her word, and kept a stout heart. How he loved her! how willingly he could have knelt before her! The scene that passed between them I could not think of describing; it must be imagined by the kind-hearted reader, by the sacrificing wife, and the grateful, devoted husband. One load was taken from the mind of Lewis, the absence of local disease in his cherished one, and he thankfully turned his thoughts to the Great Source of all his joys, blessing him for the trials he sent that he might be purified. Poor as he was, destitute of expectation as he felt himself to be, he left home with a light heart. His gem, his bright, beautiful Cora was not threatened with a loss of health. She had promised to rest, and now she would find her roses once more. During all this time, Margaret had watched her brother and sister with intense anxiety, and, suspecting the cause of their altered looks, set her little head to work to find out more. On a visit to Laura, she mentioned Lewis and his appearance of delicate health. Cora's name she never breathed before her hard-hearted persecutor. "Oh, they are so poor; no wonder!" cried she, with a look of scorn. "I suppose they are starving. _I_ wonder they are not begging." "God forbid!" said Margaret, earnestly. "Have you heard anything?" "Yes; Phillips told me Lewis did not make a cent, and wondered how they had lived till now. The other evening, Mr. Layton was here and asked me about Lewis, saying he could not find his house. He wished to offer him the situation of head clerk in the establishment of Layton, Finlay & Co." "And what did you tell him?" asked Margaret, breathlessly. "Oh, I told him there was no use in doing anything of the kind, as he would not be able to keep Lewis long, his habits of negligence were so irremediable." "Great God of heaven!" cried Margaret, starting up and standing before her sister. "You did not tell him _that_, Laura!" "Indeed, I did! I have no idea of seeing that wife of his benefited in any way. She married him poor; let her remain so." Margaret was gone in an instant. She almost flew down the street to her husband's office, and, fortunately, met him on her way. In a few words, she related to him what had passed. His indignation was not less than hers; and, before a quarter of an hour elapsed, George Seymour was closeted with Mr. Layton, his cheek flushed and his eye bright with excitement, as, without one word of circumlocution, he told the plain, unvarnished truth. Mr. Layton was much shocked, and hastened to make his offer to Lewis Clavering in "plain black and white." Before night, the note was received, and Lewis and his inimitable Cora had the prospect of comfort and happiness with the surely-coming salary of two thousand a year. Their grateful reception of this intervention in their behalf, their unmurmuring hearts at past suffering, would form a bright example to hundreds possessing perfect independence and no cares. Laura's disappointment knew no bounds. Margaret's joy was complete. How she and Cora talked over this good fortune, and how silvery and sweet their merry laughter seemed to Lewis and Seymour, who were listening to every word these two said. They were now discussing a marriage on the tapis. Clara was fortunate enough to secure an offer from a widower with a son older than his future stepmother. But Mr. Penrose was very rich, and could be hid, like Tarpeia of old, under jewels and gold. Clara loathed, and would often turn from him with disgust, as her eye fell upon his great clumsy form "fitting tight" (as the mantua-makers say) to the Louis Quatorze, in which he regularly ensconced himself. His false teeth were unexceptionable; his cheeks round and shiny. He bore one resemblance to poor Uncle Ned: "For he had no hair on the top of his head, The place where the hair ought to be;" and, in case of any danger, Clara could easily screen herself behind him and never be seen. He was in a melancholy state of extreme health, though there was a hope of apoplexy in his case; and all that Clara could rejoice at was his tendency to severe gout, which would prevent his accompanying her upon many occasions in public. Margaret ventured a hint upon the disparity of age and disposition, a sad inequality to bring into married life. But Laura talked so loudly in favor of wealth and Mr. Penrose's consequence, that she was forced to be silent. Fanny, too, approved Clara's wisdom and prudence. It was an excellent match; Clara had shown herself a woman of determination, superior to the foolish girls who prated of love and cottages. Let a man be esteemed before he was loved, and there would be no doubt of perfect harmony afterwards. "So write your cards for the reception-day, Clara, and we will have a grand ball in the evening. You shall be married with _éclat_ becoming your prospects." "A ball, Laura!" cried Maggie. "Have you forgotten our mourning?" "No, indeed; I wish I had. But, as we have worn it now nearly a year, I'm going to take the opportunity of leaving it off on Clara's wedding day. So will she and Fan." "But, Clara," said Maggie, turning to her, "our father has not been dead a year yet! Leave off mourning if you will; but, for mercy's sake, do not outrage decency by going to a ball, even if you have no feeling on the subject." "I agree with Laura, Margaret. We have been in prison long enough. I do not wish to begin my married life in seclusion. We have had _soirées_ only six or seven times since papa died, and I went to one polka party at Mrs. Hildreth's. I'm sure I have been dull enough to suit any one." "You do not pay our father the respect that Cora does, and she is only our sister-in-law." "Don't bring up _her_ name," said Laura; "I hate to hear it. Clara may send her a piece of cake if she likes, but she shall not be asked here; though I'm willing that Lewis should be invited, to show what I think of _her_." "They would not come, depend upon it," said Margaret; "nor shall I; so do not expect me. You will be much blamed." "Pshaw!" said Clara. And so she was married, having issued cards to all her fashionable friends. Her reception-day was very brilliant, the _fête_ the gayest of the season; and the bride and groom left the next afternoon for their wedding tour, amid the applause of the waiters, who regaled themselves on the scraps of the feast and the half bottles of champagne that were left to evaporate. A year after, no one would have recognized the gay and elegant-looking Clara Clavering in the faded Mrs. Penrose. Her elephantine spouse was not so amiable as before marriage; and the poor wife was heard to say that, after all, wealth was not the principal thing in marriage; she would prefer a competency and happiness. Laura's health was much impaired by her unceasing fretfulness and ill humor, and eventually her sight became affected. Sitting in a dark room, unable to read or sew, deprived of every amusement, she wept herself blind at last! Reduced to this melancholy state, Cora Clavering once more stepped across the threshold from which she had been so rudely thrust, and offered her aid to the sufferer. Her gentle hand applied the cooling compressions to Laura's swollen lids; her noiseless footstep could cross the room and not disturb her if she slept. That low sweet voice never grated harshly on the sensitive ear of the invalid, and she learned to long for her coming as a captive for freedom. Fanny clung to her as a guardian angel; for from how many heartaches did Cora's presence save her! Margaret watched with her, and together they persuaded Laura to submit to an operation; and she requested that it might not be delayed. But on Cora she leaned for support in the hour of trial, and, clasping her hand firmly, said that she was prepared. Faithful and true, that voice encouraged her through the trying moments. That slender arm supported her head, and seemed so strong; and until the bandages were removed from her eyes, still that slight form glided about to supply her bitter enemy's every want. But at length Laura could see once more, and light had come, too, upon her darkened soul. Sitting one evening in Cora's little parlor, she glanced around with a look of admiration upon its plain furniture, its absence of luxury, and remembered the perfect content of its happy mistress. While she, surrounded by all that wealth could afford, had made herself and everything around her wretched. Fanny had often dreamed of flying to Cora for shelter from bitter words and reproaches, and Clara had long since ceased to visit the sister from whose lessons she had learned to be that misguided thing, a worldly woman. "You may well love Cora, Lewis," said Laura, as she saw how fondly he watched her every motion; "she seems to have the secret of exorcising evil spirits, and replacing them with good ones, besides being the best nurse, the best wife, and the most sunshiny soul that ever was on earth." "Don't flatter me, Laura," said Cora, laughing, and giving Margaret's baby a toss that made the little creature clap its hands with delight. "Lewis told me once he thought he _had_ married a banshee." "He married what is as rare as a banshee," said Margaret, who had been sitting at Laura's side, knitting a tidy for the arm-chair her skillful fingers had embroidered to embellish Cora's little Eden. "He has the brightest jewel in the world, in a wife that can forgive, forget, and return, without even seeming to be aware of it, 'good for evil.'" SPRING. BY FANNY FALES. SHE is with us! she is with us! For I list her gentle sigh, And her music tones of gladness, Floating through the branches dry; Now the south wind lifts the carpet Spread beneath the forest old; Waketh up the scented violet From her bed of richest mould. Softly trills the little sparrow, Pecking seeds from out the sod; And the robin, o'er me flying, Lifts his anthem up to God. To the dear old nest returneth, Yet again, the bluebird bright-- To the hollow tree whence, yearly, Azure birdlings wing their flight. Now the brooklet is unfettered, Swollen by the melted snow; Shining like a thread of silver-- Singing through the vale below: Tokens of the happy springtime, On the hillside by the brook; Emerald grasses, velvet mosses, Smile from many a sunny nook. On the cottage eaves alighting, Swallows in the sunlight sing, Filling all the air around me With their joyous twittering. O'er the deep blue upper ocean Little white-winged barges fly; Melting out, like fairy phantoms, 'Neath the Day-god's burning eye. Sap is welling, leaf-buds swelling, Springing towards their shining goal, Bursting from their darkened dwelling, Like the freed immortal soul. Spring is with us! She is with us! New life wakes in every vein; Fresh hopes in my heart are welling, As I welcome her again! WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. MRS. LINCOLN. THE following letter (never before published) from MRS. MERCY WARREN to MRS. LINCOLN will be found interesting. Mrs. Lincoln was the eldest sister of Josiah Quincy, Jr., to whom allusion is made in the letter. Her husband, a brother of General Lincoln, died before the Revolution, and she resided, during the war, with her father, Josiah Quincy, at Braintree, now Quincy, in the mansion, now the summer residence, of President Quincy. One of her letters to her brother, Samuel Quincy, who left Boston with other loyalists, published in "Curwen's Memoirs" (page 562), is full of eloquence. She afterwards married Ebenezer Storer, of Boston, and died, at the age of ninety, in 1826, a few weeks after the decease of her early friend, John Adams. She was for many years a correspondent of Mrs. Adams, and a life-long friendship subsisted between them. They were often together at the family mansion at Quincy, where, in 1824, she welcomed Lafayette to her father's residence. The present Mrs. Quincy's mother, Mrs. Maria S. Morton, was there on that occasion. This lady had resided at Baskenridge, New Jersey, during a seven years exile from New York, where her husband, an eminent merchant, left part of his property, devoting the profits of the sale of the rest to the cause of American independence. He died during the war, leaving Mrs. Morton with six children. Washington and all his officers were frequent guests at her house, and some of the stirring incidents of the campaign in New Jersey occurred in her immediate neighborhood. She was born at Raub, on the banks of the Rhine, and lived to the age of ninety-three, passing the last twelve years with her daughter. She retained her powers to the last, and often beguiled the attention of President Quincy's children with the narrative of the times when, as he used to say, "the women were all heroines." She died at his residence at Cambridge. PLYMOUTH, _June 3, 1775._ DEAR MRS. LINCOLN: If the tenderest sympathy would be any alleviation to your sorrow, when mourning the death of a beloved brother, the ready hand of friendship should soon wipe the starting tear from your eye. Yet, while I wish to console the disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the still more afflicted wife, I cannot restrain the rising sigh within my swollen bosom, nor forbear to mix my tears with theirs, when I consider that, in your valuable brother, America has lost a warm, unshaken friend.[B] Deprived of his assistance when, to all human appearance, had his life been spared, he might have rendered his country very eminent service. By these dark dispensations of Providence, one is almost led to inquire why the useful, the generous, the spirited patriot is cut off in the morning of his days, while the base betrayer of his country, the incendiary, who blows up the flames of civil discord to gratify his own mad ambition, and sports with the miseries of millions, is suffered to grow gray in iniquity. But who shall say to the Great Arbiter of life and death, to the righteous Sovereign of the Universe, why hast thou done thus? Not surely man, whose ideas are so circumscribed, and whose understanding can grasp so little of the Divine government, that we are lost at the threshold, and stand astonished at the displays of Almighty power and wisdom. But shall we not rely on Infinite goodness, however severe may be our chastisement, while in this militant state, not doubting that, when the ball of Time is wound up, and the final adjustment of the wise economy of the universe takes place, virtue, whether public or private, will be crowned with the plaudits of the best of beings; while the vicious man, immured in his cot, or the public plunderer of nations, who riots on the spoils of the oppressed and tramples on the rights of man, will reap the reward of his guilty deeds? The painful anxiety expressed in your last letter for the complicated distresses of the inhabitants of Boston, is experienced, in a greater or less degree, by every heart which knows anything of the feelings of humanity. But He who is higher than the highest, and "seeth when there is oppression in the city," I trust will deliver us. He has already made a way for the escape of many, and if speedy vengeance does not soon overtake the wretched authors of their calamities, we must consider them as the scourge of God, designed for the correction of a favored people, who have been too unmindful of his goodness; and when they shall be aroused by affliction to a sense of virtue, which stimulated their worthy progenitors to brave the dangers of the sea, and the still greater horrors of traversing a barbarian coast, in quest of Freedom denied them on their native shore, the modern cankerworms will, with the locusts and other devourers which infested the nations of old, be swept, with the besom of destruction, from the face of the American World. I hope my friend will not again be obliged to leave her habitation for fear of the ravages of an unnatural foe; yet I think we must expect continual alarms through the summer, and happy will it be for the British Empire, of which America is a part, if this contest terminate then. But, whether it be a season of war or the sunshine of peace, whether in prosperity or affliction, be assured Mrs. Lincoln has ever the best wishes of her real friend, MERCY WARREN. REBECCA WILLIAMS. One of the early adventurers in the Valley of Ohio River was Isaac Williams. After he became a resident of the West, he explored its recesses, traveling along the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid waters of the Missouri. In 1775, he married a youthful widow, Rebecca Martin, the daughter of Joseph Tomlinson, of Grave Creek. Her first husband had been a trader with the Indians, and was killed in 1770. She was born in 1754, on the banks of the Potomac, in Maryland, and removed to Grave Creek with her father's family in the first year of her widowhood. Since that time she had lived with her unmarried brothers, keeping house for them, and would remain alone in their dwelling while they were absent on hunting excursions. She was young and sprightly in disposition, and had little knowledge of fear. In the spring of 1774, she paid a visit to her sister, who had married a Mr. Baker, and resided upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite Yellow Creek. It was soon after the celebrated massacre of Logan's relatives at Baker's station. Rebecca made her visit, and prepared to return home as she had come, in a canoe alone, the distance being fifty miles. She left her sister's residence in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe till dark. Then, knowing that the moon would rise at a certain hour, she neared the land, leaped on shore, and fastened her craft to some willows that drooped their boughs over the water. She sought shelter in a clump of bushes, where she lay till the moon cleared the tree tops and sent a broad stream of light over the bosom of the river. Then, unfastening her boat, she stepped a few paces into the water to get into it. But, as she reached the canoe, she trod on something cold and soft, and stooping down discovered, to her horror, that it was a human body. The pale moonlight streamed on the face of a dead Indian, not long killed, it was evident, for the body had not become stiff. The young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no scream, for the instinct of self-preservation taught her that it might be dangerous. She went round the corpse, which must have been there when she landed, stepped into her bark, and reached the mouth of Grave Creek, without further adventure, early the next morning. In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling the fire, blowing the coals on her knees, she heard steps in the apartment, and, turning round, saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He shook his tomahawk at her threateningly, at the same time motioning her to keep silence. He then looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing her brother's rifle hanging on hooks over the fireplace, he seized it and went out. Rebecca showed no fear while he was present; but, immediately on his departure, left the cabin and hid herself in the standing corn till her brother came home. Her second marriage was performed with a simplicity characteristic of the times. A traveling preacher, who chanced to come into the settlement, performed the ceremony at short notice, the bridegroom presenting himself in his hunting-dress, and the bride in short-gown and petticoat of homespun, the common wear of the country. This Rebecca Williams afterwards became famous among the borderers of Ohio River for her medical skill, and the cure of dangerous wounds. She was with Elizabeth Zane at the siege of Fort Henry, at Wheeling, and there exercised the healing art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers. In 1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians became so frequent that the settlement at Grave Creek was broken up. It was in a dangerous locality, being on the frontier, and lower down the river than any other. * * * * * In December, 1777, when the British army was in possession of Philadelphia, and the Americans in winter quarters at Valley Forge, Major Tallmadge was stationed for some time between the two armies, with a detachment of cavalry, for the purpose of observation, and to circumscribe the range of the British foraging parties. The horses of his squad were seldom unsaddled, nor did they often remain all night in the same position, for fear of a visit from the enemy. At one time the major was informed that a country girl had gone into Philadelphia with eggs, to obtain information. It is supposed she had been employed for that purpose by Washington himself. Desirous of seeing her, Tallmadge advanced towards the British lines, and dismounted at a small tavern called "The Rising Sun," within view of their outposts. In a short time, the young woman came from the city and entered the tavern. She communicated the intelligence she had gained to the major; but their conversation was interrupted by the alarm that the British light horse were approaching. Stepping to the door, Tallmadge saw them riding at full speed chasing in his patroles. No time was to be lost, and he threw himself on his horse. The girl besought him to protect her: he told her to mount behind him, which she did, and they rode three miles at full speed to Germantown. There was much firing of pistols during the ride, and now and then wheeling and charging; but the heroic damsel remained unmoved, nor uttered one expression of fear after she was on horseback. Tallmadge mentions her conduct with admiration in his journal. * * * * * On the approach of winter, when the British army retired from the active service of the field, they were usually distributed, while in possession of Long Island, in the dwellings of the inhabitants within the lines. An officer, at first, visited each house, and, in proportion to its size, chalked on the door the number of soldiers it must receive. The first notice the good hostess commonly had of this intrusion was the speech, "Madam, I am come to take a billet on your house." The best mansion was always reserved for the quarters of the officers. In this way were women forced into the society of British officers, and, in order to conciliate their good will and protection, would often invite them to tea, and show them other civilities. * * * * * The "New London Gazette," dated November 20, 1776, states that several of the most respectable ladies in East Haddam, about thirty in number, had met at the house of J. Chapman, and, in four or five hours, husked about two hundred and forty bushels of corn. "A noble example," says the journal, "and necessary in this bleeding country, while their fathers and brothers are fighting the battles of the nation." Lossing records a similar agreement on the part of the Boston women. * * * * * The "New York Spectator," April 13th, 1803, forty-seven years old, announces the arrival in New York of Mrs. Deborah Gannett, the "Deborah Samson" whose memoir appeared in a former number of the "Lady's Book." It says: "This extraordinary woman served three years in the army of the United States, and was at the storming of Yorktown under General Hamilton, serving bravely, and as a good soldier. Her sex was unknown and unsuspected, until, falling sick, she was sent to the hospital, and a disclosure became necessary. We understand this lady intends publishing her memoirs, and one or more orations which she has delivered in public upon patriotic subjects. She, last year, delivered an oration in the Theatre at Boston, which excited great curiosity and did her much credit." This curious confirmation of the account given of her in the memoir alluded to should be a sufficient answer to the ill-natured criticism of the "_London Athenæum_," which, reviewing "The Women of the American Revolution," endeavors to throw discredit on the whole story, by ridiculing it as utterly improbable and romantic, though the critic does not bring proof to controvert a single statement, nor assign any ground for his doubt but "we surmise." FOOTNOTE: [B] Josiah Quincy, Jr., ob. 26 April, 1775. HOME; OR, THE COT AND TREE. BY ROBERT JOHNSON. I KNOW a cot, beneath whose eave There is a hawthorn tree, Where playmates young were wont to weave Spring's earliest flowers for me: That old familiar cot and tree, The oaken bench and shade, Are ever present now with me As when we met and played. Beneath that ancient tree and cot We lisped our earliest prayer, And ours was then the happiest lot, Blest by a mother's care; Those gentle looks and tones still live-- Though time that group has riven-- As when we said "Father forgive," As we would be forgiven. Home is a spot where memory clings, As by a spell, through life; For there's a voice whose tone still brings Joy mid the world's dark strife: We launch youth's bark and trim the sail, Life's ocean o'er to roam, But that same voice, throughout the gale, Is whispering still of home. Ask him, with sickness sore oppressed, Who cheered his hope when dim, He'll tell you _she_, in whose loved breast Glowed sympathy for him: The soothing voice, the gentle tread, And ever silent prayer, The pillow smoothed to ease the head-- All tell a mother's care. Ask him who, on the ocean dark, In unknown seas did roam, When first he spied the nearing bark, If he thought not of home? He'll tell of thoughts that thrilled his heart While bounding o'er the wave; The joys that none but home impart Lent courage to the brave. He thought of her, his early choice, The parting hour, the sigh, The hand that pressed, the trembling voice, Sad face, and tearful eye; And while he walks the deck at night, He ever sees that star Whose beam reflects where joys more bright Still win him from afar. [Illustration] COUNTRY CHARACTERS. THE LAST OF THE TIE-WIGS. BY JARED AUSTIN. ONE of my earliest village reminiscences is a vision of old Captain Garrow, in his old-fashioned, square-skirted coat, plush shorts, silk stockings, shoe buckles, and, to crown the whole, his venerable tie-wig. He was a character, the captain. He was a relic of a past age, an antique in perfect preservation, a study for a novelist or historian. Born in Massachusetts before the rebel times, he had taken an active part in the Revolution; served as commissary, for which his education as a trader had qualified him; and the rank of captain which was attached to the office had given him the title he bore in his old age. When the war was over, his savings (very moderate, indeed, they were, for the captain was as honest as daylight) were invested in a stock of what used to be called English goods, but what are now, through the increase of manufactures in our own country, denominated dry goods; I think it rather fortunate for our village that the worthy captain pitched upon it for his residence, and for the sale of his well-selected English goods. His strict old-fashioned notions of commercial honor and punctuality gave a tone to the whole trade of the place, which lasted for a long time. His modest shop was a pattern of neatness and economy. His punctual attendance at all hours, his old bachelor gallantry to the lady customers, and his perfect urbanity to all, furnished an example to younger traders; while his stiff adherence to the "one price" system, while it saved the labor and vexation of chaffering, gave a stability to his establishment which made it respectable in the view of all sensible people. Worthy Captain Garrow! well do I remember you at the meridian of your glory, the head "merchant" of our village, the acknowledged _arbiter elegantiarum_ in all matters of chintz and linen, and lace and ribbons, and all the _et ceteras_ of ladies' goods. Your opinion was law; for you were known to be the soul of honor, and your word in all engagements was reckoned as good as another man's bond. But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and Vandals came down upon us in the shape of cheap English goods' merchants. They inundated the place with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave unlimited credit, sold at almost any price you would offer, and seemed only anxious to have all the villagers' names in their books, and to double the consumption of English goods. The consequence was that the thoughtless part of the population deserted the worthy captain's shop, which henceforward received the custom only of the old steady-going people. His ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its weather-beaten sign, was put out of all countenance by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs, and plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain, however, foreseeing the result, bore it all with a dignity and quiet worthy of his character. He "guessed" that the importers in Boston and New York were destined to suffer at a future day; and so it turned out; for, after charging many thousand dollars in their books to people who were not very punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all failed; their stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and their book debts were handed over to the lawyers by assignees. After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of cheap merchants succeeded them, with precisely the same result. Meantime, the captain kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original character of his own modest establishment. He had grown rich, but exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too dignified to be insolent. Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock, and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price. "O yes, my dear," answered the captain--he always called a lady, old or young, "my dear"--"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say, at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine. They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however." Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point, hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods. Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world, the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument of his sterling goodness and public spirit. TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT BY ADALIZA CUTTER. DEAREST, my sad and lonely breast Is full to-night of thoughts of thee, And as the tired dove seeks its nest, With its dear little ones to be, E'en thus my weary spirit turns To thee, for whom it fondly yearns, And flies unfettered o'er the sea: Upon thy breast it folds its wing, And there its sweetest song doth sing. I am thinking of those twilight hours When, hand in hand, we used to rove; When little birds in sylvan bowers Awoke the echoes of the grove; When flowers closed up their dewy eyes, And o'er us arched those cloudless skies, Smiling upon our mutual love: And oh, my heart doth sadly yearn For hours that may no more return! More and more sadly, day by day, I miss thy gentle loving tone, And long to soar far, far away, To meet once more my loved, my own. I sit to-night with tearful eye Fixed on that star in yonder sky; But oh, it shines on me alone! For she who watched its pale soft beam With me, has gone like some bright dream. I sometimes take my lute to sing The simple songs we loved so well; But when I touch each quivering string, Sad, mournful sounds arise and swell; For she whose presence could inspire My heart with such poetic fire Has kissed her last, her sad farewell Upon my cheek, and left me here To shed alone the silent tear. I take my books; but bard and sage Have half their beauty lost for me, And tears fall fast upon the page That I so oft have read with thee. And then I throw those books aside, While faster still the tear drops glide, That by my side thou canst not be. Poor heart, be still, nor sigh in vain For joys that may not come again! Where, where art thou? Oh, well I know What joy my presence would impart! What rapture in thine eye would glow To clasp me to thy loving heart! For in that noble heart of thine Beats the same love that throbs in mine; Nor time shall bid that love depart. Meet me in Heaven! my heart's warm prayer, I _love thee here_--I'll _love thee there_! THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE. BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE. (Concluded from page 245.) ACT V. SCENE I.--_Rose Hill. The garden before_ PROF. OLNEY'S _house_. YOUNG HENRY BOLTON _and_ ISABELLE; _she is weeping_. TIME _morning_. HENRY BOLTON (_aside_). I cannot leave her in this agony, (_looks at his watch_,) And yet the hour is nearly out. O Time! Turn back thy sands! take months from out my life For moments spared me now. I cannot leave her. (_To her._) Dear Isabelle, be comforted; I'll go And tell my father this sad tale you've told me. Fear not; he has a soul of nobleness-- He will consent; and, when you are my wife, You'll have a host of friends. ISABELLE. No! no! dear Henry; This must not, cannot be. I've given my word To him who hitherto I deemed my father, And who has been a father in his care-- He's dying now--that I will take his charge, Will teach his pupils, and insure a home To his poor wife and Alice, whom I love As an own sister. They gave me a home, Else I had been cast off e'en as the weed Is cast to perish. No! I must be firm; My duty is made plain; I must stay here. HENRY BOLTON. Oh! say not so, dear Isabelle! be mine. Would you waste youth, and health, and loveliness In this unthankful and laborious life? No! no! It must not be; I will provide For these. ISABELLE. Oh, Henry, torture me not thus Forcing my heart to strive against my soul. Your generous love but humbles me the more. Do not mistake me: 'tis not pride, but duty, That tells me we must part--and part for ever. HENRY BOLTON. And you say this to me! You never loved me-- While I have given to you my heart, soul, mind-- Made you the idol of my earthly hopes, My dream of angel-blessedness above! You never loved me! ISABELLE (_weeping_). Ah! it may be best That you should thus believe--should doubt my love. Tis but another grief for me to bear; And I had rather suffer than inflict A pang on you. But, Henry, if I were An heiress, with a fortune and a name, And friends to love and flatter me--I'd speak Of my heart's love for you: I cannot now-- A nameless, homeless, and forsaken child. Oh! let me be forgiven if I keep The station heaven appointed me--alone! Some must be sufferers in this world of care-- Victims for others, wearing out their lives, Like the poor Greenlanders, in night and winter. But God will strengthen all to bear their lot, If patiently they take the burden up. (_Weeping bitterly._) HENRY BOLTON. This must not, shall not be, dear Isabelle; Hear reason, if you will not love. Last night A vile attempt was made to burn this house, And carry you away. Dare you live here, When there'll be none to guard you? Isabelle, You must be mine at once--give me the right To keep you, like a jewel, in my bosom, Where not an eye but loves you shall behold you. Oh! say you will be mine. ISABELLE. It would be vain: Your father never would consent. A year You've promised him to wait--and, ere that time Is passed, you may forget the nameless girl. HENRY BOLTON. I will not wait a day. My word was passed When I believed this home of yours was safe Now--not a day. I go to ask my father. If he refuses me, I leave his house. I am of age to answer for myself. ISABELLE (_calmly_). Oh! not for me and mine must this be done: You must not leave your home and friends for me. Your future would be marred for ever, Henry No! leave me to the care of Providence. HENRY BOLTON. Dear Isabelle, with you I have the world. I'll hire two cottages together, love-- And we'll have one--your friends shall have the other. The garden-plots shall join, and you and Alice May have the flowers in partnership, as here. The flower of love will bloom spontaneously Beneath your smiles--and fortune's smiles I win In winning yours. Come with me to your father, The good and honest Olney. He will consent. [_Exeunt into the house. Scene, closes._ SCENE II.--_The drawing-room at_ JUDGE BOLTON'S. _Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON. JUDGE. The day of destiny for me has come! Strange how the aspect of the outer world Changes beneath the changes of the soul! This morning is a glorious one to sense! But Hope, the sun that lights the inner man, And warms the mind to noble energy, Giving the will its giant power to sweep The clouds of doubt and dark distrust away, Even as the risen sun the morning mists-- Hope comes not to my soul! (_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.) Ah! Godfrey, welcome! You look as you had brought her in your heart, This truant Hope, to render her to me. I never felt the worth of friends till now. My life has been one long unclouded day. I had almost forgotten my dependence On Him who sends the sunshine as the storm. GODFREY. A dangerous state. The Bible tells us, truly, That "They who have no changes fear not God." And fear is the beginning of our love, And love brings trust, and trust true confidence-- Not in our own deserts, or powers, or wealth, But confidence, if we pursue the good With firm resolve, that all will work for good. This, the true wisdom, man but seldom learns, Except 'tis taught him by adversity. Thank God that this, your trial, has not come As punishment of your misdeeds--but sent, As 'twere, like Job's of old, to try your faith In truth and justice and God's righteousness! Keep your integrity--all will be well. _Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE _hastily._ DR. MARGRAVE Joy! joy!--the clue is found! JUDGE. What? Where's the child? DR. MARGRAVE The child! Inquire for the young lady now-- For such, I trust, you'll find your Isabelle. I've seen the nurse who carried her away: 'Twas she who sent for me--that dying woman. Let doctors take encouragement from this, That in their duties they will gain rewards. JUDGE. But Isabelle, my ward--where is she now? DR. MARGRAVE I'd leave my bed again to-night to seek her, Only it would be groping in the dark. Pray, do not look so sad--we'll find her yet; I have the clue, here is the deposition-- I took it from the dying woman's lips. She died an hour ago. She hither came To find you out and own her crime. JUDGE. The child-- Where did she leave her? DR. MARGRAVE Have a moment's patience. The woman said she did not dare to carry The child among her kindred at the West; They would have found the imposition out, As Isabelle resembled not her daughter. And so the woman traveled to Virginia, And there, with a kind family, she left The orphan to her fate. JUDGE. With whom? DR. MARGRAVE The name She has forgotten--but she left a token, Half of this severed chain (_takes out half a necklace_), with "Isabelle" Engraven, as this has "De Vere" upon it. JUDGE. (_snatching the chain_). Ah! this was Isabelle's--her mother's, too! This is a clue indeed. I'll go at once To seek her out and find the other half. GODFREY (_taking it out_). 'Tis here. And thus may Truth be ever found By all who seek her earnestly, and wait Her advent in the time and way appointed! The way is righteousness--the time is God's. JUDGE. I am confounded by these miracles. Explain--where did you find this precious token? GODFREY 'Twas given me by Professor Olney--he It was who took the little Isabelle And reared her as his own. JUDGE. What Isabelle? That daughter of the pedagogue my son Is seeking for his wife? GODFREY The very same. And Romeo did not love his Juliet more Than your son loves this charming Isabelle; And she, like Juliet, loves him in return. JUDGE. Thank Heaven for this! (_Enter_ HENRY BOLTON.) Ah! here he comes! Now, Henry, What says your lady-love? Is she inclined To trust your constancy for one long year? HENRY BOLTON. I cannot wait the term; and I have come To ask your pardon, and retract my word. Isabelle has no home; Professor Olney Is not her father. JUDGE. Ay, I've heard the story. And you resign her now? HENRY BOLTON. Not while I live! I mean to marry her at once--to-day; Before this only father she has known Is dead:--he will die soon. JUDGE. Wed her! this unknown! Ah! Henry, this to me! Why, you are mad! HENRY BOLTON. My father, I have told you my resolve; You've heard me own my love for Isabelle; To have your approbation of my choice Would fill my cup of earthly happiness; But I shall marry her e'en though the act Bring banishment from you. JUDGE. You promised, Henry, To wait a year. HENRY BOLTON. And so I would have done. To gain your favor, I would suffer this Delay and cross of love. But now I feel That duty, honor, manly sentiment Compel me to the side of Isabelle. She is alone; I must and will protect her. JUDGE. She has no name. HENRY BOLTON. She shall have mine: a name My father has made honorable. JUDGE. Henry, You have no fortune. How support your wife? HENRY BOLTON. I'll work. I have been flattered for my talents, But never yet have had an aim or motive To test their worth and energy. I'll work. The rich man's son may live in idleness, The great man's son reflects his father's light, And thus their genius and their noblest powers Are often unemployed, obscured, and lost. 'Tis better I should have to make my way; And with my guiding angel, Isabelle, And the example of my noble father, I surely shall succeed. GODFREY. Give me your hand. You are God's noblest work, an honest man; True to the witness your own spirit bears; And so does every man's, would they but hear And follow as you do--that worth is won, And not inherited. 'Tis circumstance That makes the difference in our mortal lot; And Providence arranges this at will. How kind the lot that gives you Isabelle! JUDGE. My son! my son! may you be worthy of her, And love her alway. Know she is the one That, in your boyhood, was your "little wife!" The Isabelle De Vere we mourned as dead. You stand amazed; but all shall be explained. HENRY BOLTON. Oh, let me go and tell her! GODFREY. I'll go with you: And, as we go, will make the mystery plain. JUDGE. And bring her here. Order the carriage, Henry, And bring her home with you. Tell her I long To fold her to my heart and call her daughter. [_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON _and_ GODFREY. DR. MARGRAVE. How strangely and how wisely Providence Directs the course of life! How oft we see That bitter medicine was kindly given. Had Isabelle remained your ward, brought up With Henry here, they might, indeed, have married; But never would have felt such certainty Of true, unbribed affection as will be The blessing and the memory of their life. DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL _are heard singing as they enter._ DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL (_song_) The rogue and the ruffian love darkness and night, But we will go forth when the morning is bright, And the joy of the world shall the happiness be Of Dennis O'Blarney and Michael Magee. DENNIS (_seeing the_ JUDGE). Bless your honor's house--the rogues are taken. MICHAEL. They've taken Captain Pawlett and another. DENNIS. The other murdering villain entered here. MICHAEL. The officers are coming now to search. (_As the_ OFFICERS _enter, the report of a pistol is heard._ LUCY BOLTON _and the maid_ RUTH _rush in._) JUDGE (_catching_ LUCY _in his arms_). What is it, Lucy? What has happened, bird? LUCY. Oh, father, he is killed! JUDGE. Who? who? LUCY. Frederick! He's shot himself, and in his mother's room. Oh! (_Shrieks and faints._) DR. MARGRAVE. I'll go and see what can be done. [_Exit_ MARGRAVE _and the_ OFFICERS. JUDGE. Lucy! She is reviving! Quick, give me the cup. Here, drink, my love; the water will revive you. Nay, do not speak; be silent and be calm. The angels, as they watch this guilty world, See every day such sights of wretchedness Think of the angels in that world of joy, Where Death can never enter. Do not weep. Ah, yes! you are a mortal and a woman, And tears of pitying grief for other's woes Are human offerings Heaven will ne'er reject. Weep for Belinda's sorrow; weep for her. _Re-enter_ DR. MARGRAVE. DR. MARGRAVE. 'Tis over! He has gone to his account. JUDGE. Where human judgment never may intrude. We'll leave him to the One who reads the heart, And knows its wants, and woes, and weaknesses. Lord, keep us from temptation!--this should be The daily prayer of all--with thankfulness For daily blessings given--and here come mine. _Enter_ GODFREY, _followed by_ YOUNG BOLTON _and_ ISABELLE. GODFREY (_to the_ JUDGE). We bring you the lost pleiad of your heart. HENRY BOLTON. My father, Isabelle. JUDGE. And yours, my daughter! (_Embracing her._) Come to my arms, my long-lamented child; I welcome thee as one restored from death. This house and all I've called mine own are yours, And now shall be restored. ISABELLE. Dear father, no But take me as your own, and let me live Thus in the warmth and light of this dear home: I shall be rich, beyond my wildest dreams. I only wished for wealth to give away To those I loved, and those who were in need. And now the world o'erflows with happiness. I am so rich in friends and hopes, I feel Half fearful it will prove a fairy tale; It seems too sweet for earth. MADAME BELCOUR _rushes in, her hair disheveled, followed by attendants._ MADAME BELCOUR. He's dead! he's dead! I've murdered him! He's dead! My falsehood poisoned him; and so he died. He did not kill himself! Say not a word. My heart and brain are both on fire! His blood Is here, and here! (_Sees_ ISABELLE.) Oh, save me! save me now! She's come to witness here against my soul! You cannot see her; she is like an angel! I know her well! She's there! Begone! begone! (_Faints exhausted on the stage. Attendants raise her._) JUDGE. Poor broken-hearted mother! Bear her in, And tenderly. Her mind is quite o'erthrown. [MADAME BELCOUR _carried in by the attendants._ DR. MARGRAVE. These alternations make the sum of life: Thus sorrow treads upon the steps of joy. A bridal here; and from the neighboring door Comes forth a funeral tram. GODFREY. And both are well. We live to die, and die to live again; And evermore the day succeeds the night. And those who see the sunshine on their path May walk in soberness and yet be glad. JUDGE. The cloud conceals, but never dims the star; And Youth and Happiness will twine their wreath Even on Thalia's brow. My children, come; It is my birthday; all our friends are here, And they return our smile of thankful joy That Isabelle is found. Our task is done; And, if approved by you, our cause is won. END OF THE PLAY. SUSAN CLIFTON OR, THE CITY. AND THE COUNTRY. BY PROFESSOR AIDEN. (Continued from page 250.) CHAPTER XVI. AFTER a partial recovery from the fatigues of the journey to the homestead, Mr. Richard Clifton appeared to be much improved in health, and strong hopes were entertained that his recovery would be complete. He manifested the proper showings of regret for the loss of his companion, though he had felt towards her none of that ardor of affection, and had enjoyed with her none of those felicities which had mingled in his visions of domestic life before he had become a prosperous man of the world. It was sad to have death enter his dwelling; it was sad to be left with no one whom he could call his own. Some of that loneliness which had long preyed upon him was, perhaps, unconsciously set to the loss of her who had filled but a small place in his heart, though she had been the wife of his bosom for a score of years, and had found in him all she expected in a husband; perhaps it would be scarce too much to say--all she desired. In a few days, he was able to leave his chamber and sit with the family, though his feeble step and sunken eye contrasted strangely with the proud bearing which he exhibited but a few weeks before. Susan devoted herself to his care, and his attachment for her seemed to increase daily. While her father was busy with the labors of the farm, and her mother was occupied with household cares, she talked with him, read to him, sung to him, and in every way strove to make the time pass pleasantly, and to woo back to his veins the tide of health. For a time there was an encouraging prospect of success, but the prospect was soon overcast. After the first rallying, he remained stationary for a time, and then began, almost imperceptibly, to decline. The cough, that grew more and more distinct and hollow, and profuse night sweats, awoke the most anxious solicitude on the part of his loving friends. Susan had, from the first, feared that he would not recover; but she had given no expression to her fears. Her father had entertained the most confident hopes, till the symptoms above noticed forced upon him the conviction that his brother was passing to the tomb. The faithful physician could not lessen that painful conviction. If the air of the country and careful nursing could not raise the patient, the case was hopeless. The soft breezes of autumn, and the ministerings of pure affection, seemed to be in vain. "Brother," said Richard, one morning, "I should be glad to have you sit with me to-day, if your business will permit. If you should suffer a little loss thereby, it will be abundantly made up to you before long." This was the first allusion he had made to the probable result of his disease. A tear stood in every eye, but no word was spoken, except in reply to his request. "I will make arrangements in course of half an hour," said Henry, "that will allow me to be with you." He did so, and from that hour was seldom absent from his brother's side. "What has become of Harry Ford?" said Richard as they were sitting in the warm sunlight in the piazza, where they used to sit together long years ago. Autumn was creeping on apace, but the air was still bland and balmy. Harry was one of their early and most intimate playmates--a fine, cheerful, open-hearted boy, whose parents were the practical advocates of "the let-alone, do-nothing policy," in regard to education. Still, to the surprise of many, Harry conducted himself well in boyhood, and gave promise of becoming a worthy man. "Harry Ford," replied Henry, "died a few years ago in the poor-house." "Died in the poor-house! How came that to pass?" "He became very intemperate, and, of course, very poor; and, in his last days, he was so abusive to his family, that they were obliged to send him to the poor-house." "Whom did he marry?" "Jane Sullivan. You remember her?" "Yes, very well; though I do not know that I have thought of her for twenty years. I remember we used to sit near each other in school, and I could never whisper to her without causing her to blush." "She has led a very unhappy life. Harry's prospects were good when she married him, but he soon joined an infidel club in the next town, and his course was then rapidly downwards till it ended in the drunkard's grave." "Jane was a lovely girl; next to"--. It was in his mind to say--next to Margaret Gray, she was the finest girl in school. "What has become of James Rogers?" "He lives in the southern part of the township. He is poor, and lives by days' work. He has a large family, and has had a great deal of sickness in it; but he is one of the happiest men I know. He is poor in this world's goods, but is rich towards God." "He appeared to be one of the most promising young men in the place, when I left it." "He was; and, for a while, he was very successful in the business in which he was engaged, but a reverse overtook him, and he lost all. He paid all his debts, and since then has been very poor." "A hard case!" "He has often expressed joy at his failure." "Is he insane?" "By no means. This failure was the means of securing a title to a more enduring inheritance." "Is Amy Brace living?" "Yes. She is also poor. Her husband is a well-meaning, but most inefficient man." "All my old acquaintances seem to be poor." "None have been prospered in this world as my brother has. There are some who are comfortably well off, and a few who have an undoubted title to the riches of eternity." The rich man sighed deeply, but made no reply. After a long interval of silence, he remarked-- "Life has been, to most of us, a very different thing from what we expected." "You have realized your expectations as to wealth." "Yes; but if I had my life to live over again, I would not pay the price at which I gained it. I have never been happy, but only preparing to be so. Sickness has come, and death is coming! What has all my life been worth? The few hours that I have spent with your family this summer have been almost the only happy ones I have passed for years, and they gave me almost as much pain as pleasure, by making me feel that I had thrown away my life." "It is not too late to repair, in part, your error." "I cannot live my life over again. Oh that I could!" The emotion with which these words were uttered so deeply affected Henry, that, for a moment, he could not speak. Hope sprung up in his heart that the seed sown in early life, by a pious father's hand, might, though long buried beneath the cares of the world, spring up and bear fruit ere the winter of death should come. "You cannot," said he, "undo what you have done; but you can repent and receive the pardon of Him before whom we must all shortly stand." "I am too proud, too hard-hearted, to repent. I have delayed it, or rather, refused to do it, too long. I feel exhausted, and must retire to my room." He rose, and, leaning on the arm of his brother, Went to his apartment. That brother retired to pour out his heart in prayer for the prodigal who gave such hopeful indications of coming to himself. CHAPTER XVII. FOR a day or two subsequent to the conversation recorded in the last chapter, the invalid was unable to leave his room. He seemed desirous of being left alone. Henry was earnest in the hope that he was communing with his own heart. When he again joined the family, it was with a paler countenance, and yet there was an expression of peace resting upon it, that led to the hope that he was beginning to contemplate without dread the great change that was before him. He listened with attention as his brother spoke of matters relating to the unseen world, and asked questions which could be prompted only by an inquiring spirit. Still he avoided any further expression of his feelings. One evening, Horace Larned called to see Susan. She compelled him, as it were, to spend half an hour in the society of her uncle, who scanned his features with interest, and asked him a few courteous questions, and was greatly pleased with the directness and manliness of his replies. When Horace and Susan had withdrawn, he remarked to Henry-- "That young man is engaged to Susan?" "He is." "I like him. He appears well. I like him for his mother's sake. I wrote to her, offering to assist him in his education, but the offer was declined, and the money returned. Why was it? Does she retain a prejudice against me?" "I presume not. She is at peace with all mankind, and with her Maker. The young man has a very independent, self-relying spirit. Probably he dictated the letter you received." "Was that before he was engaged to Susan?" "When did you write her?" "Immediately after my return to the city." "They were not engaged then, at least not in form." "As things now are, would he refuse to receive aid from me?" "I do not know. Susan can probably tell." "I must speak with her on the subject." The next time he was left alone with Susan, he said-- "Susan, my dear daughter, for so I must call you, though you would not give me leave to do so, I wish to do something for young Larned." Susan made no reply, except by a crimson blush. "Pardon me for speaking so abruptly. I have not a great while to stay with you, and I must say what I have to say directly and without preface." "That is the way in which I would have every one speak to me," said Susan. "There is nothing which I can do for your welfare and happiness which I do not desire to do. My property will soon be of no value to me, for I shall shortly be in my grave. I wish to know if you cannot devise some way by which I can assist young Larned in his education. Set your wits to work, and, having succeeded, inform me. I am growing faint, and shall require assistance to be enabled to reach my room." Susan called her father, who was at hand, and, supported by them both, the invalid succeeded in reaching his room. He then fainted quite away. Susan was greatly alarmed, as she had never before seen one in a state of temporary insensibility. So perfect an image of death could not be witnessed for the first time without agitation and even terror. By a prompt application of remedies, consciousness was soon restored. He was feeble and dispirited, and Susan remained by his bedside. Unable or disinclined to engage in conversation, he pointed to the Bible. She read to him. He listened with interest, and when she paused would request her to proceed. She read till the shadows of evening rendered it necessary for her to lay aside the volume. "There is much there," said he, "that I do not comprehend." "Is there not much there that you can comprehend, and much that you can believe, though it transcend your comprehension? Do you find any difficulty in understanding this assertion, 'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him might not perish, but have everlasting life?'" "I believe it. I do not doubt the truth of any declaration of the Bible; but there is an air of unreality about the truths which prevents my acting as I should, if I really felt them to be true. I find that, in order to believe, one needs to have the heart of a little child. My heart is soiled, and hardened, and chilled by the devotion of my life to the world. I would that I could become a child again!" "That very desire indicates that you are approaching the temper of mind which will authorize you to rely on the Divine promises." "Do you think so? Do not encourage me to hope unless you are sure you are authorized to do so. Do you believe that one who has given himself for a lifetime to the world, to the pursuit of that which he must leave behind him when he enters another world--do you believe that one who has been so unwise and so wicked can recover what he has wilfully, not to say willingly, lost?" "I do not think that one can, strictly speaking, recover what he has lost. That is, he cannot be what he would have been, if he had rightly employed his time and advantages. The hours that are passed can never be recalled, nor the particular blessings of which they might have been ministers. Still, provision is made for those who have pursued the course you have described--provision whereby they may be made partakers of the Divine mercy." "But, in order that one may be a partaker of that mercy, he must have a peculiar temper of mind. His heart must be delivered from the hardness induced by a lifetime of neglect of duty. I am far from possessing that temper." "Your consciousness of want is a hopeful sign. Let me, my dear uncle, presume to offer you advice. Do not strive to bring your mind into a condition which you imagine will render you an appropriate object of the Divine mercy, but go at once to your Heavenly Father and tell him all your faults, and all your difficulties, and all your wants. A sense of need is all the preparation that is necessary for our approach to him. It was this sense of need that induced the prodigal to arise and go to his father. The manner in which he was received teaches us in what manner our Heavenly Father will receive us." Richard Clifton listened to the words of that young girl with more interest than he had ever listened to the report of the most successful voyage. He was not in the least displeased at being compared to the prodigal son. He determined at once to follow the advice so simply and affectionately given. He closed his eyes and concentrated the energies of his soul in mental prayer. The truths of the Bible were no longer to him dim and unreal. They were distinct realities. He felt that it was no vague desires and indefinite longings to which he was giving expression in order to relieve his feelings. He was conscious of offering petitions to a Being who was near at hand and not afar off. The effort of mind and heart thus put forth was exhausting to his feeble frame. It was followed by a quiet slumber. When Susan perceived that he slept, she stole softly from the room, and hastened to acquaint her father with her hopes respecting the preparation which her uncle was making for his last journey. CHAPTER XVIII. WHEN Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber, an expression of calmness rested upon his countenance. It was plain that deep despondency was no longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly increased, so that, on a very mild day for the season, the brothers once more sat beneath the walnut which had shaded their sports in childhood. The direction which was given to their conversation by Richard was most gratifying to his brother. They spoke of the blessed example and pious teachings of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to find how deeply those teachings had been engraven on his brother's memory. The toils and cares of a life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated them. The interest with which he dwelt upon them led to the hope that they had now something more than a place in his memory. "Is it not too much to believe," said Richard, in the course of their conversation, "that one whose manner of life has been so different from his"--alluding to their father--"should leave the world in peace and meet him in a better one?" "We are to believe the declarations of Holy Writ--its promises as well as its denunciations." "True, that is the only thing that can enable one to look into the narrow house without a shudder. How mistaken are those who suppose life is not lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have hope for the future; but I still feel that I have lost my life." Henry's heart was too full to allow him to make any reply to his brother's declaration. "We have passed many happy days in our youth under the shade of this tree. We shall never sit together here again." "We may." "I am nearer the close of my journey than you are aware. I am warned by a feeling here," laying his hand on his heart, "to regard every day as my last." "It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak thus composedly respecting the trying hour." "Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before I die." A smile was upon his countenance as he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his tones. "I will go and see her, and make known your request. She will not fail to grant it, I am sure." "Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray. Help me now to my room, when I have taken one more view of this scene, from which I do so earnestly wish I had never departed." He gazed for some moments on the landscape which had delighted his youthful vision, and entered the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a smile upon his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling of the widow, and made known to her his brother's request. "I never expected to meet him again in this world. I cannot disoblige him; nor would I fail to comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather not meet him." "He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven him; and I trust He, to whom we must all look for forgiveness, has done the same." "If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him. I supposed he had chosen his portion, and that it would be said of him, as of the rich man of old, 'Son, thou hast had thy good things;' and yet I could never fully believe that the child of so many prayers, the child of so faithful a father, could perish at last; though I know that to his own Master must each one stand or fall--that each one must give account of himself to God. I will go with you at once." When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which Richard Clifton was lying upon a sofa, being too feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept. He extended his hand, which was taken in silence by Mrs. Larned, who sat down by his side and wept with him. "Margaret," said he--the word caused her to start as though a sword had pierced her--"you have come to forgive me?" "I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I had anything laid up against any human being. I pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never had anything laid up against you." "I have always done you the justice to think so. I knew you were incapable of cherishing unkindness towards any one, however unkindly you may have been treated. You have been happy, and I have not. Do you remember the time we last walked together by the streamlet that flows from the rock spring?" "I do." "I enjoyed more happiness in that walk than I have enjoyed in the possession of all my wealth." "I should be ungrateful if I were to say that I have not been happy; though I have had many trials. I learned long ago not to look for happiness here, but to prepare for it hereafter." "You have been what men call poor; but you have been far richer than I have been. You have had treasures of the heart. You did not marry till you had a heart which you loved as Margaret Gray was capable of loving; and you have a noble boy." "Richard Clifton is still, in part at least, what he once was!" "You believed me changed into stone, or a bale of goods?" "I certainly believed you changed. I supposed that you had taught your heart to love that alone which you had made the chief object of your pursuit." "I tried to do so. I tried to persuade myself that I had done so. I habitually used language which implied I had succeeded. I deceived others; I could not deceive myself. I felt that I was not happy, despite all my efforts to persuade myself that I was. I then tried to persuade myself that I was not less happy than others. I have been acting a part ever since I left this place. I have been unhappy, and I deserved to be unhappy." "God makes abundant provision for the happiness of his creatures." "For time and for eternity. I have failed to avail myself of that made for the former; I hope I shall not fail in respect to the latter. And yet what right have I, who have caused much unhappiness and so little happiness to others, to expect it hereafter?" "None of us can enter heaven of right, but through mercy and the merits of another." "I wish your son had come with you. I wish to see him and Susan together, and to charge them to hold the treasures of the heart in higher estimation than all other treasures. I am sure they will do so. It is a great comfort to me to know that my beloved Susan is to marry the son of Margaret Gray." "Horace will come and see you to-morrow," said she, rising and extending her trembling hand. "I must not stay longer." "Do not go yet." "You are becoming exhausted." "Read to me," pointing to the book. She took the book and turned to a suitable portion. "Sit where I can see your countenance, if you please." She could not refuse his request. He gazed upon her as she read, in tones which called vividly to remembrance those of other days, a consoling portion of the Words of Him who brought life and immortality to light. She then rose, wiped away a tear, silently pressed his hand, and withdrew. Horace called the next morning, but did not receive the expected charge. During the silence of the night, Richard Clifton had ceased to be an inhabitant of earth. (To be continued.) [Illustration] INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AUDUBON. BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM OWEN, THE BEE HUNTER." NO department of natural history presents a more pleasing view than ornithology. All the associations connected with it are beautiful and inspiring. It takes its votary into the green fields and dark forests, leads him to the mountain tops, and furnishes excitement among the quiet retreats of the sequestered valley. Upon the feathered race have been expended the richest adornments of nature. There are no precious metals, no choice gems, no rare flowers, no rainbow tints that cannot find a rival counterpart in the plumage of birds; and to this transcendent beauty are added a varied, but always attractive form, a physiognomy expressive of love, of power, of unshrinking bravery. They have also voices almost human in their tones; voices that are associated with every pleasing recollection of innocence and youth because of their sweetness--and voices that startle because of their ferocity. The habits of birds present examples of well-regulated, of almost Christianized society. They are married, and are given _to_ marriage; they set up a comfortable establishment, which is the result of their own industry. They provide plentifully for their offspring, and educate them in the way they should go, and when they are old they never depart from it. The birds rise early to procure food, and retire with the setting sun; as husbands they are gallant, as wives loving. All that they do, or say, or look may be said to interest and form universal theme for admiration. Birds rejoice in creation. In the solitary fastnesses and eternal solitudes where the eye of man never penetrates or his mind worships, the voice of the bird is heard caroling forth praise. And what in the wide world is so hearty in its nature, or so guileless, as the singing bird? How often has its innocent voice awakened conscience in the mind of the depraved or reproved the complaining spirit! Who can hear the caroling even of the tiny wren without catching its exultant spirit? We have seen it on a Sabbath sunny morning mounted upon a bud-crowded limb of the Cherokee rose, giving out its song as if its heart and body would separate in its enthusiasm; and when you thought it had soared to its highest note, it would begin again, and pour forth a torrent of love, gratitude, praise, and prayer, commingled in such varied and soul-thrilling ecstasy that the little creature trembled and vibrated as if it were the chosen and valiant exponent of some rapturous and mighty soul. Such are birds, the intelligent and ornamental companions of man, the most prominent image among the associations and pleasing recollections of childhood, and one of the most admirable and wonderful beauties presented to his maturest mind. Scientifically speaking, it would seem that the birds, by their familiarity, were prophets in their own country, and therefore very much without honor. The poet mentioned them in his sonnets, and everybody loved them; the gallant cock and the fierce eagle were honored as the insignia of mighty nations; but the few who examined their history and wrote of their habits were more readily satisfied with imperfect illustrations and meagre descriptions than were those who devoted their energies to exhibit the habits of animals, vipers, or fishes. It may be stated as a remarkable fact that, until recently, the ornithologist was incomparably behind his compeers in science in illustrating his department, choicest of all though it be in the varied phase of animated nature. To Audubon is the world indebted, not only for the most magnificent work on ornithology ever produced, but also for one of the most magnificent monuments ever raised by industry and genius. Take his book, examine his drawings, read his descriptions, ponder upon his reminiscences, and then turn to the most eminent of those who have preceded him, and all instantly become tame and commonplace. It is like going from the primitive forests into the stove-heated library; it is like exchanging the moving, living, teeming bird, fluttering and flying in its native haunts, for the imperfectly preserved specimens of the museum; all is motionless, eyeless--dead. Of the mind that has accomplished so much it is difficult to speak in exaggerated praise. It may be safely asserted that Audubon had one of the most enduring that has left any impress upon the present century. He is always clear and complete in everything he undertakes. He is profuse in his originality, and yet boldly, at times, absorbs the labor of others; yet he so entirely renovates, inspires, and makes their industry his own, that his indebtedness is unthought of by the world. The secret of Audubon's success will be found in his close pursuit of nature; of her mysteries he has been of the truest, and therefore one of her most favored priests. No labor by him was ever withheld, no toil evaded. Turning over the pages of his works, you can trace him to the tropics, where he worships and wonders; anon, he gives the witnessed history of the solitary feathered life that inhabits those inhospitable regions where the marble blue of the eternal snow scarcely ever reflects a ray of sunshine. While you read with delight of the canvass-back duck that fell beneath his rifle in the placid waters of the Chesapeake, he is suddenly, upon another page, struggling with the gigantic albatros in the surge-lashed waters of the Californias. You read on, and become lost in the green field and gentle sloping hill; you wander beside the gently running rivulet and inland lake, and rest in the shade of honeysuckle bowers. Changing still, you are ushered into the miasmatic swamps and dark fens in which only live the blear-eyed heron and repulsive bittern; and then, lifted on the wings of imagination, you climb the embattled rocks and precipices of the Cordilleras, dividing admiration of the rising sun with the eccentric flights of the mighty vulture as he wheels downward in his greetings of the god of day. Such is Audubon, who will ever be remembered as long as mind answers in admiration and sympathy with mind. He has stamped his memory in a work, and associated his name with a family that will endure in freshness when the mightiest monuments now existing will, like the pyramids, become unmeaning heaps; for his name and immortality will ever be recalled by the fanning pinions of every feathered inhabitant of the air. The minute history of Audubon's remarkable work, from its conception to its completion, would involve the recital of some of the most exalted and interesting traits of character ever recorded. Audubon has slightly touched upon one or two incidents of discouragement that would, of themselves, have been sufficient to dishearten a less energetic being; but the years of toil and sacrifice he endured, and the ten thousand obstacles he overcame besides those he alluded to, will never be known. The fair ladies who have, in the luxurious library, admired the feathered songsters of our continent, that so gracefully sped their way over the nature-illuminated page--who have seen so cunningly illustrated the domestic life of the house wren and the wild home of the eagle--will not be less interested if they know that to the enlightened assistance of one of their own sex is the world greatly indebted for Audubon's ornithology. The early history of Audubon seems to be this: He grew up unconscious of his powers, save as they were displayed in a genuine love of nature; arriving at manhood's estate, he married a lady of rare accomplishments and liberal fortune. With a growing family, he desired, through active business, to increase his estate, and in a few years found himself the victim of profitless mercantile speculations, and, pecuniarily, a ruined man. At an age when others think of retiring from the active scenes of life, Audubon started, not only anew, but upon an enterprise of doubtful success, and one that demanded wealth and years of industry to accomplish. Misfortune seemed to awaken the latent fire within him, and his mind suddenly overflowed with spirit-images of the feathered race, and his then comparatively unskilled fingers grasped the pencil to give form and shape to the struggling thought--but alas! the possibility. Where was the patron to cheer the seer upon this dreary pilgrimage? Who would care for his beloved family through the long years of his unfinished venture? Let the answer be found in our imperfect story. Many years since, we were standing at the door of a country post office, listening, with others, to the reader of the only "latest paper" that had come to hand. He delivered the news, social and political, with a loud voice, and finally, under the head of "items," struck upon something as follows: "The Emperor of Russia, on his recent trip from England homewards, took extreme pleasure in looking over Audubon's great work upon the birds of America, and, as a token of his admiration, sent the author a gold snuff-box studded with diamonds." "What's that?" inquired an old but plain citizen. "The Emperior Roosia give Audubon a diamond snuff-box studded with gold! Well, that is a good one, and comes up to my understanding of these aristocrats. Why, I knew Audubon for years, and a lazier, good-for-nothing, little bird, double-bar'l shot-gun shooting fellow I never knew;" and, with another broadside at the want of appreciation of character displayed by the Emperor of Russia, and by royal personages generally, our well-meaning friend walked away. This familiar allusion to Audubon, for the first time, informed me of the fact that, in the vicinity of my own home in Louisiana, had Audubon and his family resided for years; and, as I became better acquainted with his works, I could readily perceive that the rich and undulating lands of the Felicianas, their primitive forests, their magnolia groves, and ever-blooming gardens, suited well the taste and pursuits of the naturalist; for the merry descendants of many of those immortalized beauties that grace his book still, in congregated thousands, fill the air with song and flight. From few did Audubon attract attention; there was nothing in his seeming wastefulness of time to command respect. The sportsmen with whom he was surrounded seldom "sighted" their weapons on anything less than a lordly buck, and as they saw nothing in Audubon but what appeared before their eyes, they measured their own ambition with no little sarcasm against one who "found game in the chickadee and humming-bird." But Audubon lived in a world of his own; for weeks he slept in the forest, that he might make himself acquainted with the habits of some, but for him unknown, bird. For days, he hung like a spectre upon the margin of the Dismal Swamp, until the flamingo, swan, and wild duck heeded not his familiar presence. Placing a powerful telescope under the broad, spreading tree, he drew the laborious and tiny birds, as they built their nests, within his visual grasp, and counted each stick, and twig, and moss, and hair, until the little fabric was complete. In time, he returned to his charge, and, by the same artificial means, watched and admired the growing family, saw the food that reared the young, admired the tender endearments of the married birds, and recorded the whole with the faithfulness of a Pepys, and with the pastoral sweetness of a Collins or Shenstone. "I remember, as if it were but yesterday, Audubon's first appearance in New Orleans," said a now widely-distinguished gentleman to me; "and I shall never forget," he continued, "his industry and enthusiasm, his utter devotion to his favorite pursuit. In those days, many Indians brought game to the city to sell, and Audubon soon had these wild sons of the forest in his employ. Every farthing that the most self-sacrificing economy could save went to purchase birds; and it was a picturesque sight to see the then unknown naturalist surrounded by his wild confederates, who, by the gratification of their natural habits, brought him many of the rich-plumaged aquatic birds that first formed subjects of his pencil. At this time, the courtly language of the Tuileries was his familiar tongue; and although, with the heartfelt approbation of the literary world, Audubon has placed himself among the most pleasing and original of the 'prose writers of America,' yet his first written descriptions were in a language foreign to that identical with his fame, and many of these earliest and most happy essays were so complete, that the finished student easily rendered them into our common language, and, without effort, retained that freshness and beauty that have since distinguished the English compositions of Audubon himself." "In everything," said another of Audubon's most observing friends, "did Audubon follow nature. If he shot a duck, the grasses and the weeds among which it was found formed the accessories of his drawing. If he brought an eagle down from his eyrie, the very deadened limb that last bore the impress of his talons was secured at any sacrifice, and the bird reappeared just as he first attracted the eye of the naturalist. This care extended to the humblest of the feathered tribe; the apple-tree blossom, the thorn, the ripe fruit, the gigantic caterpillar, the variegated spider, the interlaced horse-hair, the soft down, the fragrant woodbine, myrtle, and jasmine, the honeysuckle and sweet pea, and a thousand other hints of rural life crowd in profusion the drawings of his birds, until they appear complete pictures, stories perfectly told." Audubon, in jotting down his thoughts, has sometimes gone beyond the office of ornithologist, and given us glimpses of life in the backwoods that many have deemed exaggerations. Respectable authorities in other matters have cautioned too ready credence to these strange tales, and denied the truth of them, because not in the circle of his favorite pursuit. Let these skeptics come to Louisiana and visit, as we have done, among those who now remember his habits, and they will admit that Audubon, by his solitary journeys, his long residence in the forests, his keen eyes, and his intense industry, would unfold phases of the great book of creation unrevealed to the less studious mass of mankind. In the hospitable mansion of W. G. J., in the parish of West Feliciana, if one will look into the parlor, they will see over the piano a cabinet-sized portrait, remarkable for a bright eye and intellectual look. The style of it is free, and there is an individuality about the whole that gives security of a strong likeness. Opposite hangs "a proof impression" of "the bird of Washington," a tribute of a grateful heart to an old friend. The first is a portrait of Audubon, painted by himself; the other is one of the first engravings that ever reached the United States of that immortal series that now make up the great work of the unsurpassed naturalist. In the family holding these pleasing mementos, the "Audubons" lived for many years. There were evidences of this constantly occurring from day to day. It was with no ordinary interest that I examined a number of rude and unfinished drawings, rough sketches, that formed the practice that finally produced such perfection. Among the many was a charcoal likeness of a great horned owl, whose light ashy plumage and socketless eyes gave it a most ghastly appearance. Masterly as these sketches were, yet there was an evident want of that strange symmetry and correctness that mark Audubon's finished works. This I mentioned to J. "Ah," said he, "I watched his improvement almost day by day; and how could it be otherwise with one who was so entirely devoted to his pursuits?" And then were poured forth a hundred reminiscences, alike characteristic, and in the highest degree honorable to the heads and hearts of the "family of Audubon." And now was developed to me, until then unknown, an incident in the unwritten part of Audubon's history. Here, in the bosom of a refined family, lived for many years his accomplished wife, devoting her time to the education of her own sex. Those thus under her charge are now in the perfection of womanhood, and their superior manners and mental cultivation speak of the care and devotedness of their instructor and friend. Here it was that the wife of the great naturalist bid him go forward with his work, and not only cheered him on, but threw the acquirements of her own industry into the glory of the future. It was her example, and her voice of encouragement, and her power to help that enabled Audubon to triumph; and thus did she identify herself and her sex "with the most splendid work which art has erected to the honor of ornithology." THE YOUNG ENTHUSIASTS. BY FRANK I. WILSON. CHAPTER I. THE western portion of the State of North Carolina is by no means densely populated even at this day, though much more so than it was half a century ago, the time at which the principal incidents I am about to relate occurred. This part of the State is remarkable for the beauty and grandeur of its mountain scenery, its fertile soil, and the salubrity of its climate. The bracing mountain air has brought back the bloom of health to the wan cheek of many an invalid; and rock, and stream, and waterfall have filled many a heart with rapturous delight. The wild deer bounds through the forest, and the hoarse bay of hounds, the encouraging shout of the huntsman, and the shrill report of the deadly rifle are sounds that frequently meet the traveler's ear. As in all mountainous regions, the inhabitants are hospitable and generous almost to a fault. Their doors are ever open to the stranger, and, in many cases, they take the offer of payment for their accommodations as an insult. Most of the nobler virtues are shrined in their honest bosoms; but such is the fertility of their valleys, that very little labor is sufficient to procure them the necessaries of life, and, as the quantity of labor is everywhere proportioned to the necessity for it, we find them, in general, indolent and careless--rich in that best of Heaven's gifts, contentment. The facilities of this region for manufactories are, perhaps, unsurpassed by any portion of the globe, and, with an energetic and industrious population, it would soon become one of the most flourishing sections of our Union. But enough of this. I did not intend to enter into a minute description of the country, and almost unconsciously penned the above. I proceed with my story. Among the mountains, not far from the line which separates North from South Carolina, but on the side of the former State, stood, at the period of which I write, a house built after a fashion still prevalent in that region, and which is called a "double cabin." Two cabins, built of logs, are erected ten or twelve feet apart, and generally two stories high, and then connected under one roof, forming pleasant rooms, and also a cool passage between the cabins, where the members of the family usually spend their evenings during the summer months. In the house above mentioned lived Amos Kelford, a hardy mountaineer, with a wife and several children, of which Daniel, the hero of my tale, was the eldest. This Daniel was a strange youth, and, although now only twenty years old, possessed a maturity of mind and a ripeness of intellect rarely to be met with in one of his age. Having been reared among mountains, those master efforts of Nature's handiwork, his ideas, even from childhood, had ever blended with the beautiful and sublime. A glance at his countenance, his broad pale forehead, his large and full blue eyes, and light sandy hair, was sufficient to show to a physiognomist that his intellectual predominated over his physical powers. His form was slight, but perfectly symmetrical, and his features, but for a bold and full developed line here and there, would have been considered feminine. He had ever been considered an anomaly. From his earliest years, he had loved to sit upon some gray old rock and gaze upon the towering peaks around him, and see their summits glittering in the sun or wrapped in mist that enfolded them like mountain robes. This latter he liked best; for even then, in the sunny days of childhood, at an age when most children care for nothing but romp and play, he leaned to the darker side of Nature, and the blue mist, curling in a thousand fantastic forms, or settling like a pall around the lofty summits of giant peaks, had a charm for him which the sunshine failed to impart. He gazed upon the falling leaves of autumn rather than the bursting buds of spring, upon the gathering shades of night rather than the blushing beams of the morning sun. As he grew up and learned to read, nothing accorded so well with his disposition as to take a volume and wander off beside some waterfall, or ascend some peak, or, when the sun was hot, to retire into some cave or crouch beneath some overhanging rock, and there read and ponder whole days together. There was a mystery thrown around him, a kind of indifference and a lack of interest in almost everything in which those of his age usually feel interested. His own parents looked upon him and sighed and wondered, but could not fathom the depths of his mind, nor learn the bent of his eccentric genius. He was ever mild, ever ready to render any assistance in his power to those in need, and ever obedient to the commands of his parents and teachers; but he obeyed, as he always acted, with a calm indifference, and without any show of interest. Rarely was he seen to smile; but sometimes, when wrapped in his own reflections and heedless of everything around him, his eyes would kindle, and a placid, but peculiar smile would play about his thin lips, indicating that pleasant thoughts were in his mind; but whether of past scenes or only of future imaginary joys none could tell. And oftentimes this smile would suddenly vanish as you gazed upon him, and a dark cloud would settle over his countenance. His brow would become contracted, his lips compressed, and the expression of his eyes sad and gloomy. Then, as if to seek solace, or a diversion of his thoughts, he would take up a book and wander off into some secluded spot and read and meditate, occasionally noting down with his pencil certain sentences from what he read, or recording certain ideas suggested thereby. But there was one being on whom Daniel Kelford looked without his usual indifference, and for whom he felt a pure and lasting affection. This was Elinor Manvers, the daughter of one of the wealthier class of farmers, who resided about four miles from Mr. Kelford's. Elinor was sixteen years old, and as beautiful as the hour is that visit the Mussulman's dreams. Her sylph-like form, the classic regularity of her well-defined features, her large and languishing dark eyes, all bespoke a mind deeply imbued with the _spirituel_; but still she was a true-hearted woman, a sprightly and merry mountain lass. She loved to pour forth her wild gay songs, and hear the echoes of her finely-modulated voice among the tall cliffs of the mountains. Her step was as free and agile as that of the untamed deer; and to all except Daniel Kelford she was a lively companion, and could ring forth her clear laugh with all the free exuberance of feeling to which her nature seemed inclined; but when with him she was conscious of a mysterious and undefined awe settling upon her mind, and depriving her of the power of appearing gay and frolicsome. Her true nature was as yet undeveloped and unknown even to herself, and the influence which Daniel exerted over her, and was destined to exert, was the mould by which her soul was to be formed. There was something repulsive and yet attractive about him, and though she shrank from him, she could not deny to herself that she loved him, and the consciousness of her love was mingled with both pain and pleasure. Her feelings towards him were of two kinds, directly opposite to each other, and yet so mingling together that she could not entertain the one without admitting the other. She shuddered when she reflected upon the depth of her love, and yet she would not have torn it from her heart for worlds; for there was a satisfaction and a sense of bliss always blending, confusedly and unintelligibly, it is true, with the horror that darkened through her soul. In his presence, she felt ill at ease, and yet there was a vacuum created by his absence which nothing but his presence could fill. He had spoken to her of love, of its beauty and holiness, of its depth and power, but no vows had yet been interchanged; and although she would have preferred death to the certainty that he never would declare his love to her, yet she dreaded the declaration, and could not think with calmness on the moment when it was to be made. There was something in the earnest flashing of his eyes when he gazed upon her that startled and almost terrified her; and yet there was a charm in those looks that thrilled her inmost soul with pleasure, and she could have wished he might gaze thus for ever. His words, too, fell with a strange emphasis and a peculiar force upon her ears; but there was a music in them that sank into her heart and awakened a sense of joy that nothing else could stir. The hand of destiny seemed to be guiding her to some awful fate, of which presentiment made her fully conscious; but the path to which was strewn with so many charms she willingly, ay anxiously, trod it, and would not have turned back if she could. CHAPTER II. DANIEL KELFORD had fitted him up a little study room, in which he spent most of his time. Books were his idols, and he worshiped them with more than a pagan zeal. His table was strewn with antique and curious volumes, many of them abounding in the wild and marvelous, and in these his whole soul seemed absorbed. The love-sick and sentimental had no charm for him; but he sought rather the abstruse and mysterious, bending all his energies to the comprehension of the one and the unraveling of the other. Vague dreams, as it were, flitted through his mind, highly colored by his diseased fancy, and all wearing a supernatural hue. Metaphysics was his darling study. He maintained that, as every particle of matter is dependent on those surrounding it, and as all are bound and held together by attraction, making one whole, and as it is impossible to conceive of one single particle existing independently and unconnected with any other, so every idea is linked with others forming one mind, and a single isolated idea is as impossible as a single and independent particle of matter; and that as various as are the shapes of objects constituted by the combination of particles, so various are the minds formed by the combination of ideas. And as idea linked with idea rose in his mind, he followed on, weaving a chain as incomprehensible to most minds as the inextricable windings of the Cretan labyrinth, until, at length lost in the mazy whirl of his own thoughts, the eye of fancy grew dim and reason tottered on her throne. Reader, let me conduct you to that little study-room. We will look in at the window near which Daniel sits. It is night, a calm moonlit night of May, and the mingled notes of various night birds and innumerable insects, together with the chastened scenery of the surrounding mountains, as rock, and stream, and cliff, and waterfall appear in the softened beams, are enough to draw the most devoted of ordinary students from their books to contemplate the mighty book of nature, printed in the type of God, its sublime capitals rendering it legible to every observer. But for Daniel Kelford these things now possess no interest. They are unseen and unthought of; for every power of his soul is centered upon the contents of a small roll of manuscript which lies before him. He bends over it, takes up sheet after sheet, his interest increasing as he reads, until he has but one thought, one desire; and that is to understand and to reduce to practice the strange things there taught. Beside him dimly burns his untrimmed lamp, for he does not think to bestow any attention upon it. He has found embodied in words thoughts and ideas that have long floated like shapeless visions through his soul, but which he never could grasp, confine, and reduce to language. The night wears on; it is late; he has read every page of that strange manuscript; but he reads it again and again, unmindful of the flight of time--a wild light sometimes flashing from his large eyes, and a mysterious expression gathering over his countenance. Were the aged man whose hand penned these words now alive, he could fall at his feet and worship him as a god. But let us turn for a moment, and see from whence he obtained this wonderful manuscript. Just on the line dividing the States of North and South Carolina, is an eminence called "Cæsar's Head." When, how, or why it obtained this name I have never been able to learn. Over its top now passes a turnpike road; but, at the period of which I write, all over and around it was almost an uninterrupted wilderness. The southern, or rather the southwestern side is nearly perpendicular, and fronts towards the celebrated Table Rock in Greenville District, S. C. From its summit, this rock, as well as many other curious and interesting objects, is in full view. The whole scenery in that direction is, perhaps, unsurpassed by any in the whole mountain range; and, consequently, "Cæsar's Head" was one of Daniel Kelford's favorite places of resort. One day he went to visit this spot, and, as he approached it, he perceived an old man lying at the root of a tree, or rather leaning on his elbow with his back resting against the tree, and his eyes, over which the film of death was fast gathering, bent intently on the view before him. Daniel went up to him with his usual indifferent appearance, but ready to impart any assistance that might be in his power. As he drew near, the old man turned to him and said-- "You have come at last: I was expecting you." "And why were you expecting me?" asked Daniel. "Because I knew that you were coming here at this hour," was the reply. "And how knew you that?" asked Daniel. "The means by which I obtained my information," replied the old man, "may one day be familiar to you; but I have not time now to explain them to you. Be content for the present to know that I have, or rather have had, the power to gain information of future events. My time to leave this world is now come, and I cannot look beyond the grave except, as other mortals, by the eye of faith. I have inquired concerning you, and know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, though you never met my eyes until now. I knew that I was to die at this hour, and that you were to meet me here to see me draw my last breath, and to receive from me this manuscript, which I have prepared expressly for you; for I know your nature, your insatiate thirst for knowledge, your perseverance and enthusiasm, and that you would improve the information herein contained. I have written it in your own language. Take it, it is yours; but do not break the seal that binds it until I am buried." Daniel took the roll which the old man extended to him, and begged that he might go for assistance. "No," said the old man; "I want no company but yours. Death is not hard, and I have but a few moments more to live. You see that I am calm; I, who have experienced almost every vicissitude of life incident to both the palace and the mountain cave, can here lay me down and place my hand upon my heart and call my God to witness that I die in peace with all men, and without a single fear or dread. I only ask that you will see me decently interred." The tears gushed into Daniel's eyes as he gave the promise. The old man perceived it and said-- "Do not weep for me, my young friend, but rather weep for yourself. My troubles are over, but yours have scarcely begun. Ignorance loves to persecute knowledge; but there is one blessing attendant on true wisdom; for it renders its possessor impervious to the darts that are hurled at him, and he rises above the petty animosities of earth and feels an inward satisfaction, a proud consciousness of superiority that the ignorant can never know." The eyes of the old man, sunken and dim, were turned upon the young man as he spoke, and his wrinkled features assumed an expression of joy rarely seen upon the human countenance, even when in health and prosperity. He was above the ordinary size of men, and his large frame stretched along the earth looked like some mountain god taking his rest. His long white eyebrows arched boldly above his eyes, and his silvery hair was brushed back, leaving his massive brow bared to the gentle sunbeams as they streamed through the dense foliage of the overhanging trees. There was a serenity and an expression of benignity about his countenance that irresistibly attracted the heart of Daniel Kelford, and made him reverence him. He seated himself by the old man, and raising his head leaned it against his bosom. "Thank you, my young friend," said the aged man; "I shall now die without a struggle. I am in no pain; and as I yet have a little time left me, I will talk with you about Elinor Manvers." "Elinor Manvers!" exclaimed Daniel, with surprise. "Do you know her?" "I have seen her once," said the old man; "and he who has done that can never forget the vision of beauty that has blest his eyes. But I know her well. I know her soul is as pure as her own mountain streams; but it is unformed, and to you is committed its nurture. You can assimilate it to your own, or absorb it within your own, and make it soul of your soul, one and inseparable, imbuing it with the same thirst for knowledge, the same exalted aspirations. She loves you with an intensity never excelled; and already the shadow, or rather the light, of your spirit is upon her; but she can shake off the influence when you are away from her. Marry her, and be with her all the time, infusing your soul into hers, making her a fit companion to share your joys on earth and your perfect bliss in Heaven. Open to her the treasures of knowledge, and she will twine her affections so firmly about you that even death cannot sever them." The old man's voice grew weak and husky, and turning his eyes calmly upon the face of his young friend, he said-- "I can tell you no more. Read the manuscript, and you will know enough to enable you to learn all. My time has come, and ALL IS PEACE." As he spake, he folded his arms upon his breast, closed his eyes, and yielded his spirit, without a groan or murmur, to his God. Daniel returned home and told his father of the old man's death, but said nothing about the manuscript he had received. It he carried to his own room and locked within his trunk. Mr. Kelford and Daniel, with two or three of the neighbors, went and brought the old man's body to Mr. Kelford's house, where it remained until the next day, when they buried it, wondering who the stranger was and whence he came. It was night when Daniel returned home, and, after hastily eating a few mouthfuls, he hurried to his room, brought forth the manuscript, broke the seal, and read it. CHAPTER III. THE manuscript was as follows:-- DON RICARDUS CARLOS TO HIS YOUNG FRIEND DANIEL KELFORD. It may seem strange to you, my young friend, to be thus familiarly addressed by one who is a stranger to you, and one whom you have never even seen as yet; but, although I am unknown to you, you are not unknown to me, neither shall I die without your seeing me. You will see me but once, and that will be just as my soul flutters on the verge of eternity. Yes, you will see me in that blissful moment when I shall launch my bark from the strand of Time upon the ocean of Eternity, and be admitted into Heaven, the great temple of perfect knowledge, where I shall be able to ascend step by step, and endowed with capacity to understand those things which the mind, while confined within its corporeal prison house, can never comprehend. Peruse these pages, and you will know how I know you. Peruse, and be wise as I am, and as few before me have been, and perhaps fewer after me will be. My name is Don Ricardus Carlos, and I am one of the once royal family of Spain. I say the _once_ royal family, for, as you know, the reign of the Carloses has ceased; and I am glad of it. A new era is dawning upon the world, when knowledge shall be diffused among the people, and they shall see and feel that their hereditary rulers are tyrants who oppress them; and they will rise and hurl them from their thrones. A century from this hour, and the names of king and emperor, of lord and sovereign, will only be remembered as titles _once_ applied to certain men whom the fortune of birth gave an imaginary superiority over their fellow men in general, and endowed with a privilege of ruling the temporal destinies of the toiling millions. That era has already dawned in splendor. This very nation is an example of it, and this nation is destined to revolutionize the world; not by the sword, though it be mighty in arms and rich in heroes, but by its example, its peaceful and prosperous course. Man never was made to be forced into measures. The Almighty placed in his heart an aversion to coercion as applied to himself. This is what we call pride; and the same pride which leads him to hate coercion as applied to himself, leads him to desire to coerce others. This is one of the curses of God upon mankind for their disobedience, intended to keep them at strife. Hence arise wars and bloodshed, and the direst scourges that visit the earth. Man must be led by persuasion, must be induced by example to embrace even that which is for his own good; and, as I said, this nation will by its example revolutionize the world. It has deluged France in blood, for its time has not yet come; but it will come, and the land of the vine will yet be free. The throne of England--proud mistress of the sea as she loves to be styled, but as she cannot much longer be styled--will fall. Ireland, long crushed beneath the iron tread of despotism, will arise and hurl her chains from her and take her stand among the republics of the earth. Even my own beloved, but degraded Spain, and sunny Italy, the land of the olive, ruled for a thousand years by the usurper of Heaven's prerogative, will yet be free. The crowns that now, heavy with jewels, adorn the heads of sovereigns, will yet be trampled into the dust by the rough feet of those whose necks their wearers now bow down and trample down. THE PEOPLE is the only sovereign, and when knowledge shall have opened the eyes of the people to the excesses committed by their rulers, and to their own rights, they will turn and exercise their power--the power delegated to them, and to none other, by Heaven. But they must learn; and they will learn by example sooner than by any other means. This continent was reserved for such a glorious purpose--the renovation of society, the upbuilding of the temple of true liberty. * * * * * I was instructed in all the lore of my country, both ancient and modern. My eagerness to obtain knowledge, and the facility with which I acquired it, were noted, and the most skillful teachers were procured for me. I was surrounded by all the pomp and pageantry of royalty; but these had no charms for me. Every luxury which wealth could procure was at my command, but I cared for nothing but knowledge. It was the one all-absorbing thought of my mind, and in it I lived, moved, and had my being. I outstripped all my teachers, and they declared themselves unable to teach me any more. I was pronounced by all the ripest scholar of my age; but still I was not satisfied. What I had learned only increased my desire for more, and in vain I sought a teacher more learned than myself. The extent of my knowledge amazed the wisest and most profound scholars among my countrymen; but still there was a vacuum in my soul, a yearning to know more, and I felt miserable because I had nothing more to learn. But "fickle fortune," as it is generally, but erroneously termed, turned her scale. It was not mere fortune or chance, but destiny; and destiny is the will of God. My family was deposed and forced to flee. Of course, we fled to America--to these United States; for where else do the weary find repose and the oppressed an asylum and a home? With no inconsiderable fortune, I made my way to the mountains, and in a pleasant valley in the western part of Virginia I built me a cottage, and there determined to reside, and prosecute my studies and researches. My desire for knowledge had not abated by my change of fortune, and I began to cast about me for some new study. Those who had known me in Spain thought I stood upon the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge; but I knew there must be something beyond the height to which I had yet risen, or else my mind would not be so disquiet and so anxious to learn more. I reasoned thus with myself: The temple of knowledge is founded on Earth and Time; but the structure reaches into Heaven and Eternity. I have ascended to the topmost step of the earthly part, and now I must pierce the dividing line and ascend yet higher. I reflected that Heaven was purity, and he that would enter into it must be pure, must lay aside all mere earthly and sensual affections, and become in all his thoughts and actions uninfluenced by selfish motives--in a word, that he must separate his soul from his body, and enter with the former, leaving the latter on earth. This I knew was generally effected by death, and then came the desire to die; but again I reflected that that was a sinful desire, and would retard my progress. If I should take my own life, the very act would debar me from the prize for which I did it. I commenced schooling my mind and subduing my bodily propensities. I abstained from all food, except just enough to keep me alive and in health. I supplied the wants of nature, but nothing more. I practiced self-denial in almost everything, forcing myself to act directly opposite to the promptings of my carnal mind. I retired now to the wildest parts of the mountains, to fill my soul with awe at beholding the stupendous grandeur of nature; and now to the sunny valleys, the babbling rills, and murmuring waterfalls, to drink in gladness and joy. I visited the poor, bestowing gifts upon them, wandering far and near in search of objects of charity, until my fortune was exhausted, and I was left with but a scanty pittance for my support. But I gloried in my poverty, remembering that the Scriptures teach that money is a hindrance, the love of it an insuperable barrier, to the perfection of human virtue. Knowledge was all I cared for; wealth sank into less than nothingness when compared with it. My great aim was to arrive to an exalted state of purity, in order to attain to higher knowledge. I would not suffer myself to think of anything unconnected with the Great Author of its existence. At length I found myself undergoing a gradual change. The thoughts of earth and earthly things became irksome to me, and I could banish them from my mind at pleasure. My thoughts were as much at my command as my actions. I could think upon a particular subject, or leave off thinking on it at will, just as I could put my limbs in motion, or leave them at rest, as I pleased. One day I seated myself by the side of a little rill, the magnificent white blossoms of the laurel waving over me, and the wild vines creeping with serpentine folds around the boughs of the neighboring trees, forming an arbor above the quiet stream. It was a lovely spot, and might well have been fancied the favorite resort of the mountain genii, when they wished to retire to solitude and indulge in reverie. Here I determined to try the experiment of _willing_ myself a spirit, separate from my body and independent of it. It required some effort for me to do this; but gradually I seemed to lose my bodily form, and to become independent of the laws of gravitation. In a few moments the change was complete; and no sooner was it so than I heard a voice, mild and sweet beyond anything which it is in the power of the imagination to conceive-- "Mortal," said the voice, "behold what the eyes of sinful mortal never saw!" I turned, and beheld a form bright as the sun; but it did not dazzle my eyes. On the contrary, I loved to look upon it; and as I gazed I felt a joy diffusing itself through my soul never dreamed of before, and so perfect that I was wholly abandoned to it. "I am thy good angel," again spake the voice; "and thy mind, subdued to thy own control, and exerted in a pure and holy direction, has so far removed the scales with which earthly passions blind the human eyes, that thou art permitted, though still mortal, to see me, an immortal, and hear my voice. Thy desire for knowledge shall be gratified, for thou seekest it not for any evil end. Listen, and I will give thee thy first lesson in a course of study new to and unheard of by thee." I listened and heard strange yet sweet words, and drank in with eagerness the instruction imparted to me. But, as I only learned a portion at that time, and have continued at different periods since to learn more, I will not here attempt to set down the words then uttered to me, or to recount the particular points on which I was enlightened at the different times; but will throw together a portion of the information I have acquired during the whole time, selecting such as I shall think most likely to interest you, and to fire you with a desire to obtain more from the same source from which I have obtained mine; for man, even while living on this earth, and consequently mortal, may, through the attributes of immortality, learn much that is incomprehensible to the mere mortal mind. Every human being on this wide world is attended, from his birth to his death, by two angels, the one good, the other evil. Neither has any power to prompt its charge to action either bodily or mentally, for the will is free to choose for itself; but when once a course of acts or thoughts is commenced, then both have power, and each acts in direct opposition to the other, causing the mind to waver and alternate between good and evil, embracing sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as the respective angels obtain the mastery. If a man's thoughts and actions be good, his good angel endeavors to encourage him to persevere in them, while his evil one wars against them; and if his thoughts and actions be evil, his evil spirit urges him on, while his good one tries to restrain him. Hence the life of man is one continued warfare, the two spirits for ever battling against each other, and each in its turn exulting in victory and mourning over defeat. But, let which may be vanquished, it does not easily abandon the contest. The human will can always decide the strife with regard to any particular thing, and cast the victory on either side it pleases, and, with traitorous fickleness, it fights sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the other. Man, in general, is not sunk to that depth of depravity in which he is frequently represented--a depth so low, so dark, and so wretched as to be wholly incapable, with his own human nature, unaided and left to himself, to think a holy thought or perform a righteous act. If this were the case, the evil angel would ever prove victorious, and the good one would retire in despair, and leave the poor human being the prey of the powers of darkness. Men have much to say about the foreknowledge of God, the predestination and election of the human race, or of a portion of it, and such like. These are fruitful themes of controversy, as unavailing as they are absurd. God does not reckon time, for it is finite and he is infinite. He knows only eternity, in which there is neither past nor future, but an ever-abiding present, without beginning or end. Without freedom of will it would be impossible for man to be an accountable being. If the angels which attend him through life had the power to prompt him to action, then they would have the entire rule over him, and they alone would be held accountable for his course. True, it is possible that either spirit may be subdued, and the mind reduced entirely under the control of the other; this can only take place where the mind concurs with the victorious spirit, and continues to concur with it, and willingly yields to its control, and therefore the mortal is still the accountable one, and the one with whom God will finally reckon. When the good spirit, from a long series of defeats, yields all hope of ever again obtaining the ascendancy over its dark rival, and flees in despair from the soul over which it has watched, then the mind and body of the person become devoted with all their powers to the devil, the prince of the spirit that presides over him. He then receives a kind of supernatural power; but it is not of that kind by which good may be wrought, but seeks to set friends at variance and to array man against his fellow-man. It even endues him, who is subject to its undisputed sway, with the power of working a species of miracles; but the effects of these miracles are always noxious. This is what has usually been termed witchcraft. The spirit of evil becomes visible and audible to him who is invested with this fearful power, and he is no longer regarded by the eye of Heaven as one who may even possibly free himself from the master he serves, and repent and find forgiveness. His good angel is gone from him to return no more; for God hath said, "My spirit shall not always strive with man." Beyond this world his doom is irrevocably sealed, and his lot cast among the forever damned. On the other hand, by deeds of charity and love, and by a life of extraordinary purity, the evil spirit may be expelled, and the soul left to the undisputed sway of the good one. He who is thus freed from the power of his evil angel has the power of seeing and hearing his good one, and of learning things incomprehensible to the generality of his race. To him the fountains of knowledge are unsealed, and he learns, while yet on earth, much that is reserved to be learned in Heaven after we have become a new order of beings, endowed with new intelligence. It is sin only that blinds our sight and darkens our minds, and, consequently, the more effectually we can free ourselves from sin the better are we prepared for the reception of knowledge. Perfect knowledge can only be attained by perfect purity, and hence perfect knowledge is perfect bliss; and the highest bliss of heaven is to perfectly understand all things. On earth, corrupted and polluted as it is by sin, there can be no perfect knowledge, and, consequently, no perfect bliss. And although there are different degrees of knowledge in Heaven, yet every degree is perfect, and affords perfect bliss so far; and, as we ascend step by step up the heavenly temple of knowledge, perfect bliss will be added to perfect bliss, and thus will we go on until we reach the summit and possess ourselves of all the blissful attributes of God himself. The more knowledge we attain on earth, provided it be applied to good, the higher will be the grade to which we will be admitted in Heaven, and consequently the more perfect our bliss there; but if it be directed towards the attainment of an end transgressing the laws of God and furthering evil, the more intense will be the sufferings in the world of punishment. It is an incontrovertible law of natural philosophy, that not an atom of matter can be annihilated; and it is a law as applicable to the immaterial as to the material world. Every act we have ever committed, every word we have ever spoken, and every thought that has ever flitted through our minds, remains as indestructible as the throne of Omnipotence itself. Here on earth we act, speak, and think, and then forget the deeds we have done, the words we have spoken, and the thoughts we have harbored; but on the day of the final reckoning, when our spirits shall re-enter our arisen bodies, every thought, word, and deed shall recur to us as vividly as though they had taken place at that very instant. Thus every one has his whole life spread before him, takes in all at a glance, and becomes his own judge; and as his conscience approves or condemns him, so is he approved or condemned by God. And although men are accountable, yet this does not exempt their good angels from being judged also. Their course is judged, and if they have been remiss in performing the duties assigned them, and have not watched diligently over the souls committed to their charge, then they receive the reward due to their negligence; and as those souls over which they kept watch are the gainers or losers by their conduct, therefore it is permitted them to judge them, as St. Paul saith, "Know ye not that the angels are to be judged by us?" By our WILL, as I said, we can always cast the victory on the side of either our good or evil angel, as we choose; and when, by a long series of victories achieved over our evil angel by the combined powers of our will and our good angel, we are entirely freed from our evil one, then the veil of sin and imperfection which obscures our spiritual sight is so far removed as to enable us to behold and converse with our good angel, and to learn much, not only of spiritual matters, but also of the future destinies of nations and individuals. It is thus that I have learned of thee, and of the influence which this nation is to exert over the world, dethroning tyrants, extirpating royalty, and making all men "free and equal." It is thus that I have learned the hour at which I am to undergo that change which men call death. Remember that purity is what is required--purity, at no matter what sacrifice of inclination. As you read this, your good angel stands at your right side, and your evil one at your left, _nearest your heart_; but both are invisible to you because you are neither wholly pure nor wholly polluted. In the former case your good spirit would be visible, in the latter your evil one. They are striving for you, the one endeavoring to urge you to purity, the other to drag you down to degradation. I am convinced, though even my angel does not know, that you will cast your WILL on the side of virtue, and go on in your high career of knowledge. And here I will close. If you avail yourself of the information I have imparted, I have said enough; if not, all that I have said is in vain, and but labor lost. You are very dear to me, and, as I write, you grow still dearer. But I am yet to see you, and to hold converse with you for a little while: and the reason that I now write nothing concerning Elinor Manvers is that I shall speak face to face with you about her. Farewell. DON RICARDUS CARLOS. _Mountain Cave, Va._, Nov. 20th, 1779. (Conclusion next month.) MORAL COURAGE. BY ALICE B. NEAL. PART I. "Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the room Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles, But, smitten by the common stroke of doom, The corpse lies on the tressels!"--HOOD. YES, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low. Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past, forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that house of mourning. Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate. The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath "the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness" with breaking hearts. And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste, and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father, and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides, he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he was not to be outshone by any of them. But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man," as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their relatives could take charge of the younger children--Grace, ten, Willie and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself. Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing her domestic concerns The children would be distributed among Mr. Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service. Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the thought. But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with which she said-- "That never will do, sir!" "Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr. Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'" The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like her haughty relative than ever, as she answered-- "I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago, that--my father--that we were still secured a home at least." And her voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully. "Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet been paid for." Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and manner. "I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent on any one." "Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover. "Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child, and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's a great shock. I feel it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with trouble we can't help." It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes gushes of bitter tears, that Lucy trod the floor of her room all that long afternoon, while her mother received, in the parlor below, visits of condolence from friends and acquaintances, who came, some because custom required it, and others because they had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome a kindly sympathy had been in their affliction. The children, Grace and Willie, sat reading together with their arms about each other until the twilight came, and they began to wonder what made sister stay away alone so long, and finally deputed George to go "very softly" and see if she would not come down to tea, "as Doctor Howard was still talking to mamma, and they were very lonely." "Come in," said Lucy, as she recognized her brother's voice; and then she made him sit down beside her, and led him to talk of their future life and what he had intended to accomplish. It had been in the boy's mind all day, and he spoke very earnestly. He would be so industrious after this, and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle Thomas, and then mamma should come and live with him, when Lucy was married and the children grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond anticipations and throw the shadow of care over that bright young face, from which she had parted back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave up her first resolve of telling him _all_ the truth, but said-- "Dear brother, what if it should be necessary for us to move into a smaller house, and for you to give up study and go into business for a few years until we get rich again, and Willie is large enough to help himself a little?" The shadow came, after all, and the boy's face lost its eager, hopeful look. "I knew it would be hard, and that you do not like business; but we all have to bear trials. Think of poor mamma; for her sake, George. And because it would be right," she added, after a moment. "But we will talk more about this some other day; only think of it, brother, and be brave. Ask strength from Heaven to do rightly," and she pointed to her dressing-table, where an open Bible lay, stained with tears. Ah, how many schemes she revolved in her mind that night, when she could not sleep, and envied the calm repose of Grace, who shared her room, and was lying so quietly beside her. And then she rose and turned to her Bible again, as she had never sought it before, although it had always been dear to her; for she was of those who had "remembered their Creator in the days of their youth." One sentence caught her attention; no doubt she had read it a hundred times before, but she never had known its meaning until now. "_In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths._" How full of hope and assurance it was! and something like a smile quivered about her lips as she knelt and laid her heart open to the Father of the Fatherless. But several days passed before anything like a feasible plan suggested itself. Mrs. Burton was ready to do anything Lucy thought best; but her mind seemed to be paralyzed by the succession of misfortunes. Yet still another trial remained for the devoted girl, and harder to bear, that it came so unexpectedly. "I cannot do as you wish," she said to her lover, when her resolution was finally taken. "God only knows how hard the struggle has been, and still is. But I should despise myself if I turned from one duty to take up another. How could I expect a blessing upon it? We are both young; I but nineteen, you twenty-three. Five years from now we shall still have a long life before us, and then we shall be all the happier for this self-denial. Is it asking too much of you?--too great a sacrifice, James?" "I cannot understand you, Lucy. Don't speak enigmas." "Well, then, have I not explained it clearly?--that my labor is necessary to my mother and all of them, until the younger children are old enough to act for themselves; and, even to be your wife, great happiness as it would be to me, I cannot desert them." "You are a noble girl, Lucy," he said, as you would admire anything that was beautiful in a picture or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that he did not feel with her--"could not understand her," as he had said. "And do you not think I am right?" "I can't say that I do--that is, exactly. I can't see that you are bound to waste five years, the best years of life, when the family can be otherwise provided for. You say your uncles have offered to do all that is necessary; your mother would always be welcome in my house." And James Allan actually regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the proposal, and "going on" with a match that more worldly friends now advised him against. There was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous merchant and the ruined bankrupt. "You never have had brothers and sisters, James." "And so shall love you all the better, darling. You will have none to be jealous of." "Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles in the path of my duty. Tell me, am I selfish towards you?" She did not think he could say "yes," or feel it. She knew that if the probation had been proposed to her for his sake, she would have consented joyfully, happy in the power to show how true her love was, and she would have strengthened and encouraged him in every way. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly-- "And what do you propose to do? Teach, I suppose." It grated upon his ear to think that any one who would be hereafter connected with him should use time or talent in her own support. He would much rather have given the necessary sum outright; but that Lucy would not listen to. "No, I shall not teach." "And what in creation will you do?" he ejaculated, surprised from his accustomed politeness into an abrupt betrayal of native rudeness. "I am going to learn a trade and work at it, and have a shop, when I can manage one." "Good heavens, Lucy, you are mad! What has put such an insane idea into your head?" "Thought, thought--constant, harassing, anxious thought. As a teacher or governess I could do little more than support myself; and I know I have taste and enterprise, and George will assist me, and I feel I shall succeed." "Never to be my wife afterwards!" "James!" and she started to her feet, the hot blood mounting to her face. She could not believe she had heard aright, and came back to him, laying her hand upon his arm and looking beseechingly into his face. He was angry now. Pride, and more than pride, vanity, were aroused. What! his wife to have been behind a counter!--to hear it said, in after years, "O yes! Mrs. Allan was a shop girl!" It was not that his treasure would be exposed to rude and unfeeling association; it was not that he would shield her from toil! He shook her from him-- "As true as I am speaking, if you persist in this, I will never marry you!" "_You never shall!_" She turned quietly, but firmly, and went towards the door. There were no tears, no expostulations. It was not her nature. Neither was that deep emphatic tone the voice of passion. But a mask had dropped from the real character of one she had almost reverenced, who had been invested by the halo of her love with every high and noble quality. "Lucy!" No answer; and then the woman triumphed, and she turned her face so that he could see how deadly pale she was, as she said, not raising her eyes-- "God bless you, James, for the happiness of the past!" He knew that he was forgiven; but he also felt that, outwardly, there could be no reconciliation. In an instant, all her goodness and purity came into his mind. He felt all that he had lost when too late to regain it. But he stifled remorse and regret by pride and fancied injury, as he left the house never to return again. There followed a wretched, stormy interview with her uncle, whose anger knew no bounds when Lucy told him that her engagement with James Allan was broken, and for what reason. She was called "idiot" and "ungrateful," her scheme was ridiculed and discouraged, until Mrs. Burton even began to take her brother's view of the case, and think that her daughter had acted inexcusably when, with a little forbearance, she could have retained the care and love of one who had a father's sanction to call her wife. And finally threats were tried to induce her to use her influence to reconcile the family to the first plan proposed; for Mr. William Burton solemnly declared that, if the daughter of his brother disgraced the family by becoming "a milliner's girl," he would disown her, and his children should never recognize her again. This was a great trial, but a harder one had been borne, and Lucy found a friend to uphold her in her course when she was sorely tempted to abandon it. Dr. Howard had been for many years their family physician, and had watched her from earliest childhood with no little interest. His daughter Mary was Lucy's most intimate friend, and through her he heard of all that was passing in the family of his deceased friend. His little carriage was standing at the door as Mr. Burton left the house, the morning of the last interview, and Lucy, still sitting in the parlor, her head upon her hands, lost in deep and painful thought, was roused by his kindly voice and fatherly manner, to be comforted by his sympathy and strengthened by his approval. "I know all, my little daughter," said the warm-hearted old gentleman. "As for that James Allan, you've had a lucky escape, and I'd willingly see him"-- "Doctor!" interrupted Lucy, for she could not hear that once loved name spoken of so harshly. "Well, well, I suppose you were fond of him, or you never could have promised what you did. But we won't think of that part of the subject. Now tell me exactly what you want to do, and then we will see if there's a possibility of accomplishing it." So Lucy unfolded her plans more fully than she had yet done to any one. Their milliner was a widow lady who had under her direction one of those large work-rooms employing twenty or thirty girls. Her customers were among the wealthiest and most fashionable people in the city, and, as she was very intelligent and a person of excellent taste, they frequently consulted her about an entire wardrobe, and in this way Lucy had often listened to her conversation. Only one month ago, her mother and herself were taking Mrs. Hill's advice with regard to her own _trousseau_, a part of which was already purchased; and while Lucy was waiting for her mother to call for her, she had been much interested in a history of Mrs. Hill's own business experience, resulting from a report that she was thinking of retiring before long. Lucy found, to her amazement, that, in twenty years, she had not only educated her family, but saved enough to make her entirely comfortable. This conversation might have been forgotten, had not a necessity for exertion been forced so suddenly upon her; and knowing, from the salaries of her own teachers, that she could not hope to do more than maintain herself in that way, Mrs. Hill's success flashed upon her mind as an encouraging precedent. At first, she scarcely counted the cost, it is true. She forgot that it would make an entire change in her social position, strange as it may seem in a so-called republican country, and, above all, in a city where "all men" were first declared to be "equal." She could not judge, from her own true, affectionate nature, the result such a decision would have upon her future prospects in domestic life. That was the thought which cheered her at first, the beacon star that was to guide her through all toil and self-denial; but it had been quenched, with all else that had made life bright to her. And as yet she knew nothing of actual physical fatigue or deprivation; this was yet to break upon her. Dr. Howard, like a true friend, pointed out all this, kindly, it is true, but in the strongest colors; and when he found that even then she did not give up her scheme, he patted her glossy curls as he would have done Mary's, and said she was "a little heroine," and he did not doubt that she could succeed. "Whoever show themselves weak enough to desert you, my child," he said, "you have always a friend in me, remember that; and you must use me whenever you want advice or assistance. Don't hesitate to come to me in all your little trials and troubles, and my house shall be a second home to you." Then, to have her mind relieved of all anxiety on this score at once, for he saw the sad changes the past few weeks had made in her worn face, he proposed to go at once and consult Mrs. Hill, and see how they could manage time and terms. It seemed a long hour to Lucy before the sound of his carriage-wheels was heard again; but he came at last, his face beaming with pleasure, and told her how heartily Mrs. Hill had entered into her plans, that she would herself direct the short apprenticeship, and engage her services when it was completed. There was a little note from the lady herself, so full of good will and kindliness, that the young girl's faith in human nature was revived, and her path seemed indeed "directed" by the God in whom she trusted. How thankfully she reviewed the events of the day to her mother that night, with a look more like happiness than she had worn since her father's death. And Mrs. Burton seemed, for the first time, interested in it, and was thankful for everything that would keep them all together. George was enthusiastic, as he always was in everything he entered into, and, throwing his arms about her neck, declared she was "the best sister in the world, and he had no doubt she would make a fortune." The younger children could not, of course, fully understand the case, but knew that something pleasant had happened and they were indebted to Lucy for it. It was the happiest night the Burtons had known since their father's death. [Illustration] TAKING CARE OF NUMBER ONE. BY T. S. ARTHUR. "EVERY one for himself." This was one of Lawrence Tilghman's favorite modes of expression. And it will do him no injustice to say that he usually acted up to the sentiment in his business transactions and social intercourse; though guardedly, whenever a too manifest exhibition of selfishness was likely to affect him in the estimation of certain parties with whom he wished to stand particularly fair. In all his dealings, this maxim was alone regarded; and he was never satisfied unless, in bargaining, he secured the greater advantage, a thing that pretty generally occurred. There resided in the same town with Tilghman--a western town--a certain young lady, whose father owned a large amount of property. She was his only child, and would fall heir, at his death, to all his wealth. Of course, this young lady had attractions that were felt to be of a most weighty character by certain young men in the town, who made themselves as agreeable to her as possible. Among these was Lawrence Tilghman. "Larry," said a friend to him one day--they had been talking about the young lady--"it's no use for you to play the agreeable to Helen Walcot." "And why not, pray?" returned Tilghman. "They say she's engaged." "To whom?" "To a young man in Columbus." "Who says so?" "I can't mention my authority; but it's good." "Engaged, ha! Well, I'll break that engagement, if there's any virtue in trying." "You will?" "Certainly. Helen will be worth a plum when the old man, her father, dies; and I've made up my mind to handle some of his thousands." "But certainly, Larry, you would not attempt to interfere with a marriage contract?" "I don't believe any contract exists," replied the young man. "Anyhow, while a lady is single I regard her as in the market, and to be won by the boldest." "Still, we should have some respect for the rights of others." "Every one for himself in this world," replied Tilghman. "That is my motto. If you don't take care of yourself, you'll be shoved to the wall in double quick time. Long ago, I resolved to put some forty or fifty thousand dollars between myself and the world by marriage, and you may be sure that I will not let this opportunity slip for any consideration. Helen must be mine." Additional evidence of the fact that the young lady was under engagement of marriage soon came to the ears of Tilghman. The effect was to produce a closer attention on his part to Helen, who, greatly to his uneasiness, did not seem to give him much encouragement, although she always treated him with politeness and attention whenever he called to see her. But it was not true, as Tilghman had heard, that Helen was engaged to a young man in Columbus; though it was true that she was in correspondence with a gentleman there named Walker, and that their acquaintance was intimate, and fast approaching a love-like character. Still, she was not indifferent to the former, and, as he showed so strong a preference for her, began, gradually, to feel an awakening interest. Tilghman was quick to perceive this, and it greatly elated him. In the exultation of his feelings, he said to himself-- "I'll show this Columbus man that I'm worth a dozen of him. The boldest wins the fair. I wouldn't give much for his engagement." Tilghman was a merchant, and visited the east twice every year for the purpose of buying goods. Last August, he crossed the mountains as usual. Some men, when they leave home and go among strangers, leave all the little good breeding they may happen to have had behind them. Such a man was Tilghman. The moment he stepped into a steamboat, stage, or railroad car, the every-one-for-himself principle by which he was governed manifested itself in all its naked deformity, and it was at once concluded by all with whom he came in contact that, let him be who he would, he was no gentleman. On going up the river, on the occasion referred to, our gentleman went on the free and easy principle, as was usual with him when in public conveyances; consulting his own inclinations and tastes alone, and running his elbows into any and everybody's ribs that happened to come in his way. He was generally first at the table when the bell rang; and, as he had a good appetite, managed, while there, to secure a full share of the delicacies provided for the company. "Every one for himself," was the thought in his mind on these occasions; and his actions fully agreed with his thoughts. On crossing the mountains in stages as far as Cumberland, his greedy, selfish, and sometimes downright boorish propensities annoyed his fellow-passengers, and particularly a young man of quiet, refined, and gentlemanly deportment, who could not, at times, help showing the disgust he felt. Because he paid his half dollar for meals at the taverns on the way, Tilghman seemed to feel himself licensed to gormandize at a beastly rate. The moment he sat down to the table, he would seize eagerly upon the most desirable dish near him, and appropriate at least a half, if not two-thirds, of what it contained, regardless utterly of his fellow-passengers. Then he would call for the next most desirable dish, if he could not reach it, and help himself after a like liberal fashion. In eating, he seemed more like a hungry dog, in his eagerness, than a man possessing a grain of decency. When the time came to part company with him, his fellow-travelers rejoiced at being rid of one whose utter selfishness filled them with disgust. In Philadelphia and New York, where Tilghman felt that he was altogether unknown, he indulged his uncivilized propensities to their full extent. At one of the hotels, just before leaving New York to return to Baltimore, and there take the cars for the West again, he met the young man referred to as a traveling companion, and remarked the fact that he recognized and frequently observed him. Under this observation, as it seemed to have something sinister in it, Tilghman felt, at times, a little uneasy, and, at the hotel table, rather curbed his greediness when this individual was present. Finally, he left New York in the twelve o'clock boat, intending to pass on to Baltimore in the night train from Philadelphia, and experienced a sense of relief in getting rid of the presence of one who appeared to know him and to have taken a prejudice against him. As the boat swept down the bay, Tilghman amused himself first with a cigar on the forward deck, and then with a promenade on the upper deck. He had already secured his dinner ticket. When the fumes of roast turkey came to his eager sense, he felt "sharp set" enough to have devoured a whole gobbler! This indication of the approaching meal caused him to dive down below, where the servants were busy in preparing the table. Here he walked backwards and forwards for about half an hour in company with a dozen others, who, like himself, meant to take care of number one. Then, as the dishes of meat began to come in, he thought it time to secure a good place. So, after taking careful observation, he assumed a position, with folded arms, opposite a desirable dish, and awaited the completion of arrangements. At length all was ready, and a waiter struck the bell. Instantly, Tilghman drew forth a chair, and had the glory of being first at the table. He had lifted his plate and just cried, as he turned partly around--"Here, waiter! Bring me some of that roast turkey. A side bone and piece of the breast"--when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and the clerk of the boat said, in a voice of authority-- "Further down, sir! Further down! We want these seats for ladies." Tilghman hesitated. "Quick! quick!" urged the clerk. There was a rustling behind him of ladies' dresses, and our gentleman felt that he must move. In his eagerness to secure another place, he stumbled over a chair and came near falling prostrate. At length he brought up at the lower end of the table. "Waiter!" he cried, as soon as he had found a new position--"waiter, I want some of that roast turkey!" The waiter did not hear, or was too busy with some one else to hear. "Waiter, I say! Here! This way!" So loudly and earnestly was this uttered, that the observation of every one at that end of the table was attracted towards the young man. But he thought of nothing but securing his provender. At length he received his turkey, when he ordered certain vegetables, and then began eating greedily, while his eyes were every moment glancing along the table to see what else there was to tempt his palate. "Waiter!" he called, ere the first mouthful was fairly swallowed. The waiter came. "Have you any oyster sauce?" "No, sir." "Great cooks! Turkey without oyster sauce! Bring me a slice of ham." "Bottle of ale, waiter," soon after issued from his lips. The ale was brought, the cork drawn, and the bottle set beside Tilghman, who, in his haste, poured his tumbler two-thirds full ere the contact of air had produced effervescence. The consequence was that the liquor flowed, suddenly, over the glass, and spread its creamy foam for the space of four or five inches around. Several persons sitting near by had taken more interest in our young gentleman who was looking after number one than in the dinner before them; and, when this little incident occurred, could not suppress a titter. Hearing this, Tilghman became suddenly conscious of the ludicrous figure he made, and glanced quickly from face to face. The first countenance his eyes rested upon was that of the young man who had been his stage companion; near him was a lady who had thrown back her veil, and whom he instantly recognized as Helen Walcot! She it was who stood behind him when the clerk ejected him from his chair, and she had been both an ear and eye-witness of his sayings and doings since he dropped into his present place at the table. So much had his conduct affected her with a sense of the ridiculous, that she could not suppress the smile that curled her lips; a smile that was felt by Tilghman as the death-blow to all his hopes of winning her for his bride. With the subsidence of these hopes went his appetite; and with that he went also--that is, from the table, without so much as waiting for the dessert. On the forward deck he ensconced himself until the boat reached South Amboy, and then he took good care not to push his way into the ladies' car, a species of self-denial to which he was not accustomed. Six months afterwards--he did not venture to call again on Miss Walcot--Tilghman read the announcement of the young lady's marriage to a Mr. Walker, and not long afterwards met her in company with her husband. He proved to be the traveling companion who had been so disgusted with his boorish conduct when on his last trip to the east. Our young gentleman has behaved himself rather better since when from home; and we trust that some other young gentlemen who are too much in the habit of "taking care of number one" when they are among strangers, will be warned by his mortification, and cease to expose themselves to the ridicule of well-bred people. A HINDOO BELLE. BY J. E. P. COME, see Ro Appo, my sweet Hindoo belle; On Burra deen, a holiday, full dressed, Glittering with gems, she shineth in the sun, Superior far to maidens of the west. Her Dahka veil, light as the fleecy cloud, Enshrines her form in fairy-like attire Her every move is made with Eastern grace, She walks a queen of beauty with her lyre O'er the Midan, or in the cooler shade Of scented shrubs or spreading banian grove, Touching the strings where music sleeps till when She wakes all into song of joy and love. See her maunteeka,[C] with its splendid star, Throws radiating beauty from her brow, Where diamond amethyst and emerald beams Blend with the pride that sparkles from her now. Her champank necklace, glittering round her neck, Loose dangles down low on her glowing breast, Whose rise and fall, as inward passion stirs Oft, like the Ganges, drown its zealous guest. See, as she raises slow her tiny hand, How rich her fingers are in jewels rare! Her thumb she nears, for in her inah[D] glass She loves to see her beauty shining there Music is in her step, for, as she stirs, Listen to Paunjcho merry, tinkling bell, Betaking well the native cheerfulness Of my sweet-tempered Hindostanee belle. I love to see thee in thy pride of show; Thy sable face, illum'd with Eastern smile, Wins o'er my soul, in spite thy Pagan creed, To court thy heart and worship thee awhile. Doff off thy dark idolatry, and come, Be one with me; be married, and deride Thy parents' wrath, thy Bramin's deadliest curse; Join Europe and Asia, bridegroom and the bride. FOOTNOTES: [C] Ornament for the forehead. [D] Small looking-glass worn on the thumb. DEVELOUR. A SEQUEL TO "THE NIEBELUNGEN." BY PROFESSOR CHARLES E. BLUMENTHAL. (Continued from page 261.) CHAPTER IX. DEVELOUR and his associates left the little house in the Ruelle des Jardiniers and marched down the Rue de Charenton, in order to avoid being seen by any sentinel which the revelers of the Rue Montgallet might have had the precaution to place before the door. Caleb and Develour walked at the head of the troop, followed by Bertram and Filmot with the _père_ between them. When they reached the _barrière_, they met with an unexpected interruption from a small body of municipal guards, who stood like statues in the gloomy shade of a temporary guard-house. Their sudden appearance, and the quick and decisive _qui vive_ of their brave young Captain St. Leger, disconcerted Develour for a moment; but Caleb whispered to him-- "Halt the men, while I give this young fire-eater the watchword, which he begins to suspect is not in our possession." Then advancing a few steps, he, in a low tone, but loud enough for the officer to hear, spoke the word "_Philippe and Amelia_;" then immediately resumed his former position, while he said "Pass, guard of the throne." Develour's band then turned into the Ruelle de Quatre Chemins, and marched up the Rue de Trois Chandelles until they came to an alley, into which they went. About the middle of the alley, they halted before a massive gate, which opened into the garden of Madame Georgiana's _pied à terre_. Here a whispered conversation took place as to the best mode of gaining entrance into the garden They had expected to find it open; for so their spy had reported it to have been at an early hour of the evening. Disappointed, some proposed to break it down; but this was rejected, on account of the noise which would attend such an effort, and might give the alarm to the revelers. Others proposed to send for a locksmith; but this was considered as consuming too much time, when every moment was of the greatest value. At last Bertram, who, with Caleb, had taken no part in the discussion, said-- "If the _grille_ is not surmounted with spikes too large to cross, I will soon have it open. At any rate, I will try. Come, Père Tranchard, let us have your ladder." The silken cords were soon uncoiled, and Bertram, with one dextrous throw, fastened the hooks around the cross-bars between the spikes. He then mounted the ladder, and bade the père follow him. Poor Père Tranchard, notwithstanding his many excuses, was compelled to share the perilous ascent When the two had reached the top, Bertram ordered his frightened companion to crawl along the _grille_ to the wall, and there, perched in a very uneasy position, remain a sentinel in the avenues from the house; he then coolly surveyed the ground on the other side of the gate, and, after a few seconds of deliberation, drew the ladder after him, and lowered it into the garden. Not the slightest noise betrayed the presence of a living being, and he congratulated himself already upon his success while descending the lowest rounds, when his progress was suddenly arrested by some one who seized the collar of his coat, without any warning except an inarticulate grumbling noise. The rain and the thick darkness prevented him from seeing his assailant; but, when he turned in order to lay hold of him, he found a shaggy head coming in contact with his face. As soon as he felt the hair brush against his cheek, he gave a low laugh, and said-- "Down, Carlo, down! It is Bertram." His four-footed assailant, a large dog of the African lion breed, immediately relinquished his hold, and crouched at the feet of his old master. "Just so," muttered Bertram. "I thought Jacquelin would not like to go the rounds to-night, and would confide his post to thee, Carlo. Come, let us go and hunt for thy new master." He then walked cautiously towards the house, the lower windows of which opened into the garden, and showed a brilliantly illuminated apartment, in which a table, covered with all the appurtenances of an epicurean supper, was set out. The room was filled with a number of gentlemen in every variety of dress. Bertram, in his approach to the house, took advantage of every tree to conceal his person, in order to get as near as possible without being observed. When he had come near enough to distinguish the persons in the room, he stopped, and surveyed the scene and the ground with the eye of a soldier, and, after a few moments, muttered-- "A precious set of scoundrels, indeed, we have here. Grandan--I suppose come to make converts to socialism; no need of that here; Malin, Sotard, Egal, and Létour, who have no property of their own, are already too willing to divide that of other people. There, too, are Longchamp, Bouchon, and Labotte, and not a woman with them: that is strange, were it not for the wine, which accounts for their presence here. But I must hasten to obtain the key. I wonder where that scoundrel Jacquelin has gone to." He then gave a low and prolonged whistle. It was answered, after a few seconds, by another from an upper window, and soon afterwards a man came out of the house and looked around in the garden; but the darkness prevented him from distinguishing anything. Bertram repeated, in the mean time, his signal, while he drew off from the house towards a thick clump of trees, to which the man followed, guided by the signal whistle. As soon as they had reached the trees, Bertram seized him in his powerful arms, and, after he had put his handkerchief over his mouth, told him to give up the key of the garden gate. The terrified gardener placed the keys in his hands. Bertram then tied him to a tree, and left the poor wretch, almost frightened to death, exposed to the drizzling rain which now began to fall. When he returned to the gate, he found his companions impatient to gain admittance, and poor Père Tranchard begging in whispers to be released from his elevated situation, assuring them that it was too dark to see anything or anybody from his post, and that the place was too narrow for him to continue there any longer. Bertram laughed, and told him to come down; that they had no need any longer for his valuable services as a look-out. When Develour and his companions entered the garden, Caleb, who had hitherto remained inactive, took the command of the little party, and every one obeyed at once, as if it had been expected that he would lead the attack. He divided them into two divisions, one to be led by Develour and Bertram, and the other by himself and Filmot, but told them that they were to separate only when the servants and followers should have been secured in the hall of the domestics. He then ordered them all to cover their faces with the masks, and advance. A few minutes brought them to the very door of the hall in which the domestics and others in the pay of the conspirators were already carousing, and were so completely absorbed in political disputes and drinking wine, filched from the supply for the supper-room, that they did not observe the intruders until they were surrounded. Before they had time to recover from the surprise, they were seized, disarmed, and tied, and instant death was threatened to everyone in case of any attempt at an alarm. After the servants and guards had been thus disposed of, Caleb said to Develour-- "Thou and Bertram must now secure the masters. Let Bertram speak; it is better that thy voice be not recognized. Endeavor, above all things, to gain the lower part of the room, and lock the small door thou wilt see there. Here we separate. I leave the men with thee, if thy friend will volunteer to be my companion." "Willingly," replied Filmot. "Lead the way." When the two had passed out of the room, Bertram said to Tranchard-- "Now, worthy père, can you tell us how many doors lead out of that supper-room into some of the secret recesses of this rat-trap?" "Your companion with the broad-brimmed hat seems to know; for he has told you to take care of the lower door." "Is there no other, worthy père? For, remember, if any of these men escape into a secret hiding-place, I will provide you with a higher perch than yonder wall, and will secure you to it by a rope around the neck." Tranchard turned pale at these words, and replied, with a trembling voice-- "There is another; but promise me that you yourself will not enter it, and I will point it out to you. Otherwise," he continued, with a firmer voice, heaving a deep sigh, "you may hang before I'll tell you." "Never fear," said Bertram, with a laugh; "we have no idea--at least not to-night--to trust our heads into any of the traps which this she-devil may have contrived here." "Well, then, if you touch the golden rose by the side of the large mirror over the Cupid, it will slide aside, and you may enter by a stairs into the cellar underneath the room." "We will take care of it, but you must now remain by my side, worthy père, till I have tested your veracity." Then turning to his men, he dispatched two squads to different parts of the house, with directions to secure the two regular places of egress from the room. CHAPTER X. THE conspirators, in the mean time, unconscious of the danger which threatened them, were discussing with one another the various topics which were uppermost in their minds. Joubart, who had just joined the party, after listening for a few moments to some remarks from Egal, exclaimed-- "Gentlemen, our situations, our precedents are very different, and our parts are very singular. You are all republicans at all hazards. I am not a republican of that school. And yet at this moment I am going to be more republican than you are. The fact that I am now here is itself a decisive declaration of it. Let us understand one another. Like you, I regard a republican government as the only instrument for the advancement of the general truth which a nation should incorporate in its laws. But I have just come from the chamber, and I fear we are not strong enough, not prepared as yet to accomplish this. I have still misgivings. I am not therefore an absolute republican like yourselves; but I am a politician, and a politician of the highest cast." At these words, smiles were exchanged among the conspirators. "Well, as a politician, I now think it is my duty to refuse the support you are willing to offer me at this hour." "Well, refuse and play the part of a coward, if you will; that of a traitor you dare not play," exclaimed Bouchon, in his brutal manner. "There is no need of falling out by the way," said Grandan. "We need Joubart, and he needs us. That little speech will do very well for the chamber; there it would tell. Here we understand one another. Not one of us will risk his head without a probability of success. Joubart has not seen Delevert; else he would know that the mine is well dug, and will and _must_ explode before to-morrow evening. The chiefs of the _Cabet_, _St. Simon_, _Lébout_, _Carac_, _Tuvir_, and five others, whose names I must not mention now, have drawn their followers together to act under the orders of the secret council. The council has decreed a permanent sitting until its object is accomplished; and accomplished it will be at all hazards." "What can keep Madame Georgiana so long?" whispered Labotte to Longchamp. "She promised to be with us by ten o'clock, and bring with her the fair Louise. It is past ten now, and I told the coachman to draw up before the little door in the wall on the Ruelle des Trois Chandelles." "I am afraid," replied Longchamp, "that you and Bouchon will get into trouble by your intrigues, and draw your friends also into difficulties. _Diable!_ are there no pretty girls in France besides this Louise? and what possessed Bouchon to fall in love with the picture of this American half savage?" "Hist! hist! Bouchon will hear you. As to his affair, all I can say there is no accounting for taste. Mine is of a different nature. Louise has charms besides those of her person. The happy possessor of that fair devotee will also be entitled to receive an annual revenue of one hundred thousand francs; no trifling consideration. But the girl is not aware that she is heir to such wealth; and, if she were, would not be able to establish her claim without the aid of certain papers, which I alone know where to find." "Well, there maybe some reason in your passion, but I see none in that of Bouchon. However, let us go in quest of our fair hostess. We can do so without any one being aware of our object." Before they had time to rise from their seats the door flew open, and Bertram, with Develour and his followers, all armed to the teeth, entered the room. Not a word was spoken by either party for a few seconds. The conspirators were speechless from surprise and momentary fear; while the others executed their movements rapidly and in silence, according to Bertram's orders, who wished to surround them before they would have time to alarm the house. M. Trouvier was the first who recovered from his surprise, and, seizing his pistols, was about to rise from his chair; when Bertram, who had now placed himself behind Malin's chair, with his back to the large mirror, leveled a short rifle at his head, while he said, with his deep guttural voice-- "Down, sir! down to your seat! Let not a man stir from his place, if he wishes to keep his life!" "What is the reason of this attack?" inquired Trouvier. "Do you come to rob us? If so, we will give you our purses, and free us from the intrusion." "Your purses," exclaimed Bertram, with a mocking laugh, "would not be heavy to carry. Joubart's poetry and purse are chaff, easily carried away by a breath. Grandan and Egal might furnish better stores, if they had sufficiently gulled the people to entrust them with their money for a common stock. And you, M. Trouvier, with Sotard and Malin, have enough to do to keep your seditious paper afloat; you certainly have nothing to offer except empty promises to pay." "Betrayed!" groaned Joubart, as he threw himself back in his chair. "What, then, is your object in coming here?" inquired Trouvier. "Why are we surrounded by armed men hiding their faces beneath masks?" "To compel you not to leave this room for two hours from this time; and, to this end, to tie your hands and feet and fasten you to the chairs which you now occupy," replied Bertram, with the utmost nonchalance, when he saw that the men had by this time managed to place themselves behind nearly every chair around the table. "Never!" exclaimed Bouchon, who was a large and powerful man--"never will I submit to such disgrace while I can defend myself!" And, with one bound, he sprang across his chair towards Bertram, but dropped almost on his knees when he felt the iron grasp of the veteran upon his shoulders. And that grasp continued until the burly form was bent like that of a child by a man. Labotte had risen during the confusion which this scene created, and endeavored to escape by the lower door, while others had sought to leave by the ordinary entrances; but Develour stood a fierce sentinel before the only safe passage for escape, and repulsed the miscreant with a bitterness which would have led him to kill the mercenary wretch, if higher obligations had not interposed. The other conspirators were also met everywhere by leveled pistols and drawn swords. They finally submitted to their fate, and were bound one by one by Bertram and his attendants. When Père Tranchard pretended to assist in tying Létour, he managed to whisper to him-- "In two hours you will be freed. Take care to remove the deposits from the secret chamber underneath; the secret is betrayed." As soon as they had secured the prisoners. Bertram and Develour locked the outer doors, and then passed through that over which Develour had stood guard into a smaller chamber without any apparent outlet. Bertram ordered Tranchard to show them the means of egress from that room. "There are two," replied the père, who had managed to lay hold of a bottle of wine before he left the supper-room, and with which he had fortified his inner man. "One, here to the right, leads into the garden, and the other, to the left, opens on a staircase which brings you into Mademoiselle Develour's boudoir." "Open the one to the left. Quick, quick! Caleb may need help!" exclaimed Bertram. The père obeyed by touching a spring, which caused one of the panels to slide aside. They all then rushed up the stairs into the room, into which the reader has been introduced in a previous chapter. But the room was now vacant, the windows open, and not a sign of a human being anywhere. Develour, who had hitherto acted in silence, absorbed in his anxiety for the safety of Louise, now broke forth in bitter reproaches to Bertram-- "This, then, is your boasted wisdom! this the end of all your promises of success! Caleb assured me that in this room I should find her, and receive her safely into my arms. Where is she now? Where is Caleb, and what has become of Filmot? Have I lost both Louise and my friend? But here is another door; let us see what it conceals." Turning the key, he beheld Madame Georgiana lying upon a sofa reading "Indiana," and making notes to it with a pencil. When Bertram saw who the occupant of the room was, he whispered-- "Speak not; she knows your voice. I will interrogate her." But, before he had time to say a word, she rose and inquired if they had come to release her? "Release you from what?" "From the confinement to which a burly savage, a friend of yours, I suppose, has condemned me." She then began to relate what had taken place in that room a few minutes before their entrance. "And whither have they gone? and how long ago?" "They left about ten minutes before you entered; as to whither, I do not know. If you have not met them, they must have left either by the window or through the green panel-door, which opens on a passage by which one can reach the Ruelle." Bertram then compelled the lady to open the panel-door, and after ordering his men to remain for one hour in the house, and to suffer no one to enter or leave it, he accompanied Develour down to the street. When they reached the pavement, they saw a carriage just turn the Rue des Trois Labres, and a few loiterers looking after it. Bertram inquired of one of them if that carriage had passed the house? He replied that it had halted there for more than an hour; but that, a few minutes ago, two gentlemen came out with a lady and entered the carriage; that the elder of the two had shown a card to the coachman, and told him to drive _ventre à terre_ to the Rue des Terres Fortes. When Develour heard this, he said, hurriedly, to Bertram-- "I must leave you; my work here is accomplished; though I have but half succeeded. I must now fulfil another duty. Before morning dawns, I shall know where Louise is. Farewell, Bertram, but not for ever. When we meet again, I shall be better able to thank you." "Nay, nay, we may meet again before to-morrow night. Fear not; all is well which Arabacca counsels; all ends well which he undertakes." With these words, he turned and went into the house, and Develour hastened to the Rue de Burgoigne. (To be continued.) A SPRING CAROL. BY MRS. A. A. BARNES. BRIGHT, balmy Spring! I greet thee now With a hounding pulse and joyous brow; Thy dewy breath, pure, soft, and bland, Seems like a dream of a fairy land; And open I throw the casement wide, To inhale the dewy, delicious tide: The fragrance soft of the budding trees Is borne to me on the morning breeze; The emerald turf is gemmed with dew, That gleams like stars in the vault of blue; The clouds are tinged with a rosy stain, As the rising sun illumes the plain. The early flowers, in their brightest bloom, Have waked from their dark and cheerless tomb: Sweet flowers! a halo and grace ye fling Over the brow of the smiling spring; Ye gladden the hearts in cottage homes As freely as those in stateliest domes. And the birds, the truants I watched for long, Are greeting me now with carol and song; From the "sunny south" they breathe to me, In joyous chirp and wild song free, The sweetest lays of a summer sky, Where birds of glossiest plumage fly; Where flowers are seen of the loveliest hue, And the bending skies are softly blue; Where the rippling waves of the dancing stream Are kissed by the golden sunlight's gleam, Whose banks are bright with the sheen of flowers That rarely bloom in this clime of ours-- Blooms gorgeous enough to grace, I ween, The brow of Oberon's fairy queen. Sweet friend, I marvel, with skies like these, Thou e'er shouldst tempt our northern breeze; Yet welcome thou art as Spring's first green, Pleasant to me as a bright "day-dream," That illumes for a while the sober sky, And yet, like thee, too soon dost fly. UNDERSLEEVES AND CAPS. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] [Illustration: Fig. 2.] UNDERSLEEVES. OPEN sleeves are still in vogue, and being more than ever worn for light summer materials, we continue our cuts in illustration of various favorite styles. Fig. 1 is of embroidered muslin, intended to come just above the elbow, where it is fastened by a small gum-elastic bracelet, which will be found the neatest support for a demi-sleeve. The wrist has three rows of rich cambric edging, made to fall over the hand. This is more suitable for a spring silk than a lighter dress. Fig. 2. of plain cambric, with embroidered cuff and band. The edging in this case is made to fall back towards the elbow. It will be noticed that undersleeves are worn as full as ever, and make the most elegant finish to a tasteful toilet. [Illustration: Fig. 3.] [Illustration: Fig. 4.] CAPS. Fig. 3 is a breakfast cap of spotted muslin, with double rows of quilling, arranged in a very graceful roll, extending around the crown. The broad strings are of the muslin, with a delicate edging of Valenciennes lace. Pale violet ribbon may be used instead, and also for the bow on the cap. Fig. 4, also a breakfast cap, is in a similar, though more tasteful style, the bow of rose-colored ribbon in the centre being a novelty, and the square crown preferred by many. The border is closely quilled, as in Fig. 3. Many ladies prefer to quill for themselves, which may easily be done, an iron intended for the purpose being easily procured at a small expense. ETRUSCAN LACE CUFF. [Illustration] _Use crochet thread Nos. 8 and 9._ Make a chain of 106 loops with thread No. 80; turn back and work in double crochet, always working on one side, commencing at the right-hand side of foundation. _1st row._--Single open crochet, with thread No. 90. _2d row._--Double crochet. _3d row._--5 chain, 7 long; repeat. _4th row._--7 chain, 5 long; repeat. _5th row._--7 chain, 3 long; repeat. _6th row._--5 chain, 5 long; repeat. _7th row._--3 chain, 7 long; repeat. _8th row._--3 chain, 9 long; repeat. _9th row._--3 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 7 long; repeat. _10th row._--4 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 5 long; repeat. _11th row._--5 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 5 long; repeat. _12th row._--5 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 3 long; repeat. Crochet the ends with double crochet. _13th row._--12 chain, 2 long; repeat. Work this row round each end of the cuff, and work the band in double crochet with thread No. 80, missing every fourth stitch of foundation. NOTE.--Our pattern has been reduced in size from the original, but by working as above directed the true size will be given. KNITTED FLOWERS. PERIWINKLE CAST on ten stitches with white split Berlin wool. _1st row._--Make one stitch, knit two through the row. _2d row._--Purled. Fasten on a pale and delicate shade of lavender. _3d row._--Make one stitch, knit three, turn back, purl the same stitches (take a deeper shade of lavender), and continue to work in alternate plain and purled rows (increasing only in the plain rows), until you have seven stitches on the needle. Now fasten on a still darker shade of lavender in the ninth purled row, and knit and purl alternately six more rows, making one stitch at the beginning of the plain row, and taking two stitches together at the beginning of the purled rows. Cast off the seven stitches, which completes one petal. Break the wool about a yard and a half from the work, thread a rug needle with it, and bring the wool along the left edge of the petal first made to the next stitches on the needle. Make one stitch, knit three, turn back, and continue exactly as for the first petal. When you have thus worked all the stitches into five petals, cover a wire, by twisting one thread of split lavender wool round it, and sew it round the edges of the petals. Mount the flower on a piece of wire to form a stem, having first placed five short yellow stamens in the centre of the corolla; twist all the wires together, and cover the stem with green wool. LEAVES.--Cast on one stitch with a pretty bright shade of green split wool. _1st row._--Make one stitch, knit one. _2d row._--Make one, purl two. _3d row._--Make one, knit three. _4th row._--Make one, purl the row. _5th row._--Make one, knit one, make one, knit two. _6th row._--Make one, purl the row. _7th row._--Knit the row, increasing one before and one stitch after the middle stitch. _8th row._--Purl the row. Knit and purl alternately four rows without, and begin decreasing one stitch at the beginning of every row, both knitted and purled, till you come to the last two stitches, which knit as one. Sew a wire round the edge of each leaf. These leaves must be made in pairs, two of each size; but as several different sizes will be required, this will be easily effected by increasing the second size to nine stitches instead of seven; the third to eleven stitches; and, if a still larger leaf be required, the fourth to thirteen stitches. The leaves must be placed two by two along the stem, opposite to each other, each pair crossing the preceding one. There must be no spring wire for the stem, as the periwinkle is a running plant. COTTAGE FURNITURE. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] [Illustration: Fig. 2.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.] [Illustration: Fig. 4.] [Illustration: Fig. 5.] [Illustration: Fig. 6.] Fig. 1 is a small cupboard-sideboard for a neatly furnished cottage parlor, in which there is not much room. Figs. 2 and 3 are plain Grecian chairs for the parlor. Figs. 4 and 5 are parlor elbow-chairs, in the Grecian style. Fig. 6 is an elbow-chair for the work-room. It has a work-box drawer underneath the seat. EDITORS' TABLE. THE high-toned chivalry of American men towards the female sex is remarkable, and therefore we were astonished, as well as pained, when a friend brought to our notice the following remarks, inserted in a literary work[E] of much merit, where we should not have looked for such a violation of truth and manly sentiment as is manifested in this outrageous attack on the character of Madame de Staël. We quote the article:-- "George Sand has written her 'Confessions' in the style of Rousseau, and a Paris bookseller has contracted to give her a fortune for them. The three greatest--intellectually greatest--women of modern times have lived in France, and it is remarkable that they have been three of the most shamelessly profligate in all history. The worst of these, probably, Madame de Staël, left us no record of her long-continued, disgusting, and almost incredible licentiousness, so remarkable, that Chateaubriand deemed her the most abandoned person in France, at a period when modesty was publicly derided in the Assembly as a mere 'system of refined voluptuousness.' Few who have lately resided in Paris are ignorant of the gross sensualism of the astonishing Rachel, whose genius, though displayed in no permanent forms, is not less than that of the Shakspeare of her sex, the forever-to-be-famous Madame Dudevant, whose immoralities of conduct have perhaps been overdrawn, while those of De Staël and Rachel have rarely been spoken of save where they challenged direct observation. We perceive that Rachel is to be in New York next autumn with a company of French actors." "'Tis a pity when charming women talk of things that they don't understand," is as true as if it had been promulgated by a _man_, and the author of the above extraordinary statements will perhaps allow that, in a few cases, the same may be predicated of the other sex. Some aspirants for literary fame, before attaining much knowledge of life or of books, are fond of attempting to startle by deviating from received opinions; they advance monstrous paradoxes in morals, and strive to produce a sensation by differing from the good and the wise. They have heard the vulgar adage that genius and common sense seldom go together, and they begin by rejecting common sense as a part of genius. Common sense would suggest the advantage of knowing something of the history of an illustrious person before describing his or her character; and, as we feel assured no man who has an American heart would wish to advance or maintain falsehoods against a woman, and one over whom the tomb has closed, we take pleasure in giving the writer in the "International" some information about Madame de Staël. In the first place, he has been grossly imposed upon concerning Chateaubriand. We have lately read the "Mémoires d'outre Tombe," a work we recommend to the author of the article, in which he will find much information, and, what perhaps he values more, amusement; and, what is to our present purpose, he will find that Chateaubriand entertained the most sincere friendship and the highest respect for this lady, whom he constantly calls "the illustrious," "the admirable." Madame de Staël was the intimate friend of his sister, the charming Lucille; and also she was, as _almost_ every one knows, the friend, mentor, and protector of Madame Récamier. Chateaubriand gives a very pathetic description of the last days of Madame de Staël, to whose dying chamber he was admitted; her name is constantly recurring through his journals, and _never mentioned but in honorable terms_. In one place he describes her thus:-- "The personal appearance of Madame de Staël has been much discussed; but a noble countenance, a pleasing smile, an habitual expression of goodness, the absence of all trifling affectation or stiff reserve, gracious manners, an inexhaustible variety of conversation, astonished, attracted, and conciliated almost all who approached her. I know no woman--I may say no man--who, with the perfect consciousness of immense superiority, can so entirely prevent this superiority from weighing on or offending the self-love of others." Madame de Beaumont, a valued friend of the family of Chateaubriand, was taken by some of its members to Italy, where she died of consumption. Madame de Staël wrote to condole with Chateaubriand on this occasion; here are the reflections upon her letter made in his Journal: "This hasty letter, so affectionate and hurried, written by this illustrious woman, affected me extremely. If Heaven had permitted our friend to look back upon this earth, such a testimony of affection would surely have been grateful to her." If Chateaubriand were "permitted to look back upon earth," what would he think of the vile aspersions upon the character of "this illustrious woman" attributed to him? There have been many biographies written of Madame de Staël (none of which ever allude to what the writer in the "International" calls her "disgusting and almost incredible licentiousness"). We will advert here to two; one by Madame Necker de Saussure, well known in America for writings of a moral and religious nature; the other by the Duchess D'Abrantes, who thus begins her memoirs: "For a French woman to write the life of Madame de Staël is certainly a happy privilege, since France boasts the honor of her birth, though she is among those minds that belong to the entire world, and her whole sex should call her sister with a noble pride, which they may cherish with perfect safety. Madame de Staël descends to posterity with merits so great and so various, that few besides herself you claim a part of her title. _Her fame is spotless_, a true child of genius, but free from its aberrations. The love of right, the _abhorrence of falsehood_, a rare combination of generous affections, constituted the womanly heart to which nature, in a happy mood, lavished all the virtues of one sex and all the powers of the other." It is very well known that M. Rocca, the second husband of Madame de Staël, "a man of high honor and of great intelligence" (Chateaubriand _really_ says so), was unable to survive her loss, and died shortly after her, it was admitted, through grief. The Duchess D'Abrantes says, upon this: "He was of an age when life still offered pleasure, the world glory; but, being hopeless of ever again finding so perfect a being to occupy his heart, he formed no other wish, after closing her eyes, than that of rejoining her. A woman thus loved must have been truly excellent." And, we will add, this love was entirely founded upon and maintained by her moral qualities, as she was then fifty years old and in failing health. Madame Necker de Saussure observes, "Madame de Staël's goodness was thorough; her noble, generous heart rose to heroism when the interest of her friends, or even of her foes, demanded energy." This was proved by the numbers she saved and concealed during the terrors of the Revolution. In every part of Europe she was courted and esteemed by the best society, and, if time and our pages permitted, we could quote tributes to her merits from a long list of eminent men, whose superiority places them above the petty aim of depressing female genius by slandering the woman who has well won its laurels. To advert to a few of these memorials: Schlegel, who knew her intimately, said she was "Femme grande et magnanime jusque dans les replis de son âme," which is curiously echoed by the well-known verse, that might serve as a translation-- "Pure in the deep recesses of the soul." At the time of Madame de Staël's death, Lord Byron commented at length on the event in one of his notes to "Childe Harold." After expatiating on her merits as an author, he goes on-- "But the individual will gradually disappear as the author is more distinctly seen: some one, therefore, of all those whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than seen in the outward management, of family intercourse; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation to those around her. The mother tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most where she was known the best; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and more dependents, may be offered the disinterested regret of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of the Leman Lake, received his chief satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinna." In "Modern French Literature," M. de Véricour, the learned and excellent author, gives an exalted place to the works of Madame de Staël, and to the extraordinary and beneficial influence she had exercised by her literary supremacy in overpowering the baneful influence of what he calls "the mocking spirit" of French writings, which had injured _morals_ as well as good taste. He does not, of course, allude to her private character, because no question of its purity had ever been raised. Who, in describing the excellence of Mrs. Hemans' writings, would think of adding that she was a virtuous woman? But, if Mary Wollstonecraft were named, who would not express their regret, at least, that she had sinned? Thus, M. Véricour does when describing the genius of George Sand. The absence of any shadow of reproach in connection with Madame de Staël is proof that no shadow of reproach existed. To return to the writer in the "International" (we are loth to believe it was written by either of the editors); as he appears, by the place he gives to "George Sand" and "Rachel," to be profoundly ignorant on the subject of the "intellectually greatest women of modern times," we will intimate to him two or three about whom it might be well for him to gain some information, were it only to avoid blunders. We will not be so exacting as to perplex him with Mrs. Somerville, for we are aware it is not every one who can invent a slander whose mind could appreciate "The Connection of the Physical Sciences;" neither will we refer him to Mrs. Barrett Browning, whose "genius," as pronounced by grave and reverend critics, "is of the highest order, strong, deep-seeing, enthusiastic, and loving," because such divine poetry and deep science would be evidently out of his line; but Miss Edgeworth, the author of "Frank" and "Harry and Lucy;" surely he might understand her lessons, if he would read them: these lessons always inculcate _truth_, are sound, improving, and elevating, and the intellect must have been great that could see moral truths so clearly. The author of the paragraph appears to consider stage-playing as wonderfully intellectual, and his pattern of this greatness in "modern times" is Rachel. Was there not a certain Mrs. Siddons, whose genius in the histrionic art was superior to that of any living actress, and whose character was unimpeachable? According to the best French critics, men of taste and literary fame, who do not write anonymously, but subscribe their articles with their names, Rachel is only good in one line, which is passion or violence. In tender heroines, they say, she fails, and they seem to consider her powers altogether limited; for these opinions we refer the writer in the "International" to the "Revue des Deux Mondes." Were Rachel the intellectual prodigy he pronounces her to be, still the poor despised child, who sang in the streets and was brought up without law or Gospel, must have fallen into vice rather from the sad want of training than from having a good understanding, as he, in Irish parlance, intimates. A similar remark is also true of Madame Dudevant: her intellectual greatness did not plunge her into licentiousness; she fell before she ever wrote a book; and though we do not wish to screen her from the odium her reckless course has deserved, yet it should be recorded in pity that her fine powers of mind were misdirected by a false and frivolous education, that the examples and flatteries of the most fascinating but corrupt society on earth have led her on and sustained her; yet she, by the light which her own high intellectuality has developed, is changing her course, if the examples furnished by her writings are true. Her later works are greatly improved in their moral tone; yet there is no diminution, but an increase of mental power. Among the very extensive catalogue of French women justly famed, the selection by the writer in the "International" proves that he takes his views from what he hears;--if he would but read more, and gossip less, he would be amazed as "knowledge unrolled its ample page before him." We will not trouble him with the Reformers of Port-Royal, who certainly did some things greater than acting plays, for, to appreciate these ladies, requires an acquaintance with the theological and political history of their era. We will pass over the exalted patriot and gifted woman, Madame Roland, whose intellectual greatness, unsurpassed by that of any man of her times, or by any woman now living in France, was based on moral virtue; but it seems a pity he should not know of Madame de Sevigné, because even schoolboys have really heard of her. The wit, learning, true sentiment, and graceful style of Madame de Sevigné have won the approval of critics and moralists; intellectually great, she was a model of domestic virtue. In one of her celebrated letters, she says we must distinguish between "_un âne et un ignorant_"--one is "ignorant" from want of instruction, _âne_ from want of brains. Would it not be well for the writer in the "International" to heed this distinction? �sop has a very pertinent fable on the living ass kicking the dead lion. * * * * * TO CORRESPONDENTS.--The following articles are accepted: "My Flowers, my Gem, and my Star," "To Susan," "Halcyon Day," "My Book," "The Coronal," "Perseverance," "My Summer Window," "Reaping," "Sonnet," "The Country Grave-Yard," "To Oliver Perry Allen, U.S.N.," "To Nina," "To Helen at the South." "A Tale of the Backwoods" would be accepted, were it not for the condition annexed. We should not be able to publish it at present. Will the author inform us if he is willing to wait? The like reason--want of room--compels us to decline a very large number of MSS. this month. "F. H." is informed that we have returned her MSS. through "Adams' Express." We sincerely hope we may not be again troubled from that source. If any definite direction had been given, it would have been returned long since. * * * * * MUSIC ACCEPTED: "The Gondola Waltz," by a lady of Georgia; "A Spring Song," by C. T. P., of Chambersburg. Although accepted, the above cannot appear for some months, as we have many previously accepted musical compositions on hand. FOOTNOTE: [E] The "International Monthly Magazine," &c. New York, Stringer & Townsend, August number, page 71. EDITOR'S BOOK TABLE From GEORGE S. APPLETON, 164 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia:-- LETTERS FROM THREE CONTINENTS. By M., the Arkansas Correspondent of the "Louisville Journal." These letters will be found highly interesting to the American reader; the views and reflections of the author, sustained by lifelike and graphic sketches, being in unison with our republican feelings, and illustrative of our free institutions. * * * * * From LEA & BLANCHARD, Philadelphia:-- A SCHOOL DICTIONARY OF THE LATIN LANGUAGE. By Dr. J. H. Kaltschmidt. In two parts. I. Latin--English. This work has been highly recommended by the best classical teachers in the United States. * * * * * From JAMES K. SIMON, Philadelphia:-- SCENES AT HOME; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A FIRE SCREEN. By Mrs. Anna Bache. This little work contains nine familiarly written stories on practical moral duties, which the author has very properly dedicated to the young ladies of this country. We hope her dedication will not be overlooked by those to whom it has been made, and that they will duly profit by the good sense and amiable qualities of her book. * * * * * From HARPER & BROTHERS, New York, through LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia:-- MELVILLE. _A Franconia Story._ By the author of the "Rolla Books." A most agreeable and instructive book for the perusal of youthful readers, appealing to the highest and purest sympathies of the heart. FOREIGN REMINISCENCES. By Henry Richard Lord Holland. Edited by his son, Henry Edward Lord Holland. This is neither a work of history nor a work of romance; but, nevertheless, it is a work which will have its effect on the nerves of retired politicians and superannuated diplomatists. It is made up of such gossip and scandals as were ripe in Europe from the commencement of the French Revolution to the period of the Restoration. They are presented by an English nobleman, who assures his readers that he can only vouch for the anecdotes he has recorded by assuring said readers that he believes them himself. To all such as are willing to receive the author's "impressions" as vouchers, this work will therefore prove very interesting. THE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, FROM THE ADOPTION OF THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION TO THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH CONGRESS. By Richard Hildreth. In three volumes. Vol. I. Administration of Washington. The American public have already been placed under obligations to Mr. Hildreth for the colonial and revolutionary history of this country, and here we have the first volume of a work which promises, as a correct record and review of important events, to be equally interesting to the political, philosophical, and commercial student. JANE BOUVERIE; OR, PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY. By Catherine Sinclair, author of "Sir Edward Graham," etc. The intention of the author of this excellent little volume, as she declares herself, was to develop, through the more attractive medium of a story, the trials, the duties, and the pleasures of domestic life. Her laudable intentions have been crowned with a success which will commend her work to the consideration of judicious readers of every class. From R. P. PUTNAM, New York, through A. HART, Philadelphia:-- THE PRAIRIE. _A Tale._ By the author of "The Deerslayer," etc. This is the fifth volume of Mr. Cooper's revised edition of the "Leather Stocking Tales." SALANDER AND THE DRAGON. _A Romance of Hartz Prison._ By Frederic William Shelton, M. A., of St. John's Church, Huntington, N. J. A very interesting little allegory, in which the author has admirably succeeded in his design of illustrating the danger of uttering, or of lending a willing ear to, unkind words and insinuations against the reputations of neighbors and acquaintances. It is peculiarly adapted for the younger classes of readers, and will doubtless have a tendency to establish in their minds the importance of a strict adherence to the principles of justice and charity. LAVANGRO; _the Scholar, the Gipsy, the Priest_. By George Borrow, author of "The Bible in Spain," and "The Gipseys of Spain." Same agent. * * * * * From ADRIANNE, SHERMAN & CO., Astor House, New York:-- PARNASSUS IN PILLORY. _A Satire._ By Motley Manners, Esq. We were greatly alarmed, not on our own account, but on account of the "Poets of America," when we read the author's first six lines, addressed to an ancient satirist:-- "O thou who, whilome, with unsparing jibe And scorching satire, lashed the scribbling tribe; Thou who, on Roman pimp and parasite, Didst pour the vials of thy righteous spite-- Imperial Horace! let thy task be mine-- Let truth and justice sanctify my line!" But, after all, the work is by no means so severe as we had anticipated from the threatening apostrophe to the Roman poet. We have read it with pleasure, and greatly admire some of the author's admirable hits. Instead of finding themselves in a "pillory," we imagine that many of the poets named will be obliged to the author for placing them in company with so many excellent writers, against whom and their productions his satire is amusingly harmless. * * * * * From GOULD & LINCOLN, Boston:-- THE OLD RED SANDSTONE: _New Walks in an Old Field._ By Hugh Miller. Designed, like that sterling work of his, "Foot-prints of the Creator," to elucidate the connection between geological science and Revealed religion. This "Old Red Sandstone" has passed through fourteen editions in England, and will doubtless be as popular in America. It is just the book for the people--for mothers to study and talk over to their children. PRINCIPLES OF ZOOLOGY. By Louis Agassiz and A. A. Gould. This is an excellent text-book for students and schools. * * * * * From WALKER & RICHARDS, Charleston, S. C.:-- THE POETICAL REMAINS OF THE LATE MARY ELIZABETH LEE. _With a Biographical Memoir._ By S. Gilmer, D. D. The work is worthy of the eminent clergyman, who has given us the delineation of one of the loveliest characters among the good and gifted of the gentle sex. We commend the book to the young and lovely. THE CITY OF THE SILENT. _A Poem._ By W. Gilmore Simms. Delivered at the consecration of the "Magnolia Cemetery." A production of much merit, which does credit to the taste and genius of its distinguished author. * * * * * From W. B. ZIEBER, Philadelphia:-- A ROMANCE OF THE SEA-SERPENT. A work which, if not more wonderful than the romances of Dumas, has a better claim to public favor. It contains some truth in the authenticated memoranda about sea-serpents which ancient and modern lore furnishes. We should observe that the work is written in the _rhymed style_ of D'Israeli's "Contarini Fleming." * * * * * From DUNIGAN & BROTHERS, New York:-- LYRA CATHOLICA. This work is beautifully bound, and printed in the best style. * * * * * LITTELL'S LIVING AGE: Boston. MRS. WHITTLESEY'S MAGAZINE FOR MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS: New York. The above are excellent works of their kind. The first named, a weekly, contains admirable selections from foreign journals; the second, a small monthly, intended for the religious instruction of the family circle. Its editor is a lady worthy of high esteem. * * * * * SERIALS, PAMPHLETS, &C.--"The History of Pendennis: his Fortunes and Misfortunes, his Friends and his greatest Enemy." By W. M. Thackeray. Harper & Brothers, New York. For sale by Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia. Price 25 cents. This number completes the work.--"Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution." No 11. Harper & Brothers, New York. For sale by Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia. Price 25 cents.--"The Queen's Necklace; or, the Secret History of Louis the Sixteenth." By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Complete in two volumes. Price 50 cents. Published and for sale by T. B. Peterson. 98 Chestnut Street.--"The City Merchant; or, the Mysterious Failure." With numerous illustrations. Published and for sale by Lippincott, Grambo & Co. (successors to Grigg & Elliot), Philadelphia.--"Cruising in the Last War." By Charles J. Peterson, author of "Arnold at Saratoga," etc. Complete in one volume. Price 50 cents. T. B. Peterson, publisher, 98 Chestnut Street.--"The Mentor." A Magazine for Youth. Rev. Hastings Weld, editor. Is sustained with great zeal and ability.--"Stanfield Hall." An Historical Romance. By J. P. Smith, Esq., author of "The Jesuits," etc. W. F. Burgess, New York, T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.--"Pictorial Life and Adventures of Guy Fawkes, the Chief of the Gunpowder Treason." By William Harrison Ainsworth. With twenty-four illustrations. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.--"Wacousta; or, the Prophecy." An Indian Tale. By Major Richardson, author of "Ecarte," &c. Revised edition. Dewitt & Davenport, New York.--"Life's Discipline." A Tale of the Annals of Hungary. By Talvi, author of "Helois," etc. For sale by G. S. Appleton, Philadelphia.--No. 34 of "Shakspeare's Dramatic Works." Titus Andronicus. Boston edition. For sale by T. B. Peterson.--"Life and Adventures of Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist." By Henry Cockton, author of "Silver Sound," etc. Complete in one volume. Price 50 cents. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.--"The Howards." A Tale founded on facts. By D. H. Barlow, A. M. Philadelphia: published by Getz & Buck. This is a very interesting story, intended to enforce the benefits of life insurance.[F]--"Report of the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane for the Year 1850." By Thomas S. Kirkbride, M. D., Physician of the institution--"Reveries of an Old Maid, embracing Important Hints to Young Men intending to Marry, illustrative of that celebrated Establishment, Capsicum House, for Furnishing Young Ladies." Forty-five engravings. Wm. H. Graham & Co., 120 Fulton Street, New York.--"The British and Foreign Medico-Chirurgical Review, or Quarterly Journal of Practical Medicine and Surgery." Number thirteen of this valuable work has been received from Daniels & Smith, 36 North Sixth Street.--"Oregon and California; or, Sights in the Gold Region and Scenes by the Way." By Theodore T. Johnson. With a map and illustrations. Third edition. With an appendix, containing full instructions to emigrants by the overland route to Oregon. By Hon. Samuel R. Thurston, Delegate to Congress from that territory. Also the particulars of the march of the Regiment of U. S. Riflemen in 1849, together with the Oregon Land Bill. Lippincott, Grambo & Co., Philadelphia.--"The Initials." A Story of Modern Life. Three volumes of the London edition complete in one. Same publishers. * * * * * MUSIC.--From Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street: "To One in Heaven. Now Thou art Gone." Words by Thomas I. Diehl. Music by R. S. Hambridge. The plaintiveness of the music of this piece is admirably adapted to the deep sensibility which pervades every line of the poetry. * * * * * DRAWING.--The publisher, G. S. Appleton, 164 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, has furnished us with a set of "Easy Lessons in Landscape," by F. N. Otis. These primary lessons in pencil drawing are accompanied by copious instructions, which will be found of the greatest use to beginners in this agreeable accomplishment. Publisher's Department. OUR PERFECT MAY NUMBER.--"May-Day Morning," a plate prepared expressly for our cover--it is worthy of a better place; "The Language of Flowers;" "Spring," beautifully colored; and a splendid and truthful "Fashion Plate." * * * * * We think our present issue will convince our subscribers that we intend to give them not only the ornamental, but the useful. In this number may be found everything calculated to interest a lady, from the superb fashion plate to the building of cottages, and cottage furniture. An eminent publisher of this city observed to us, "You have been of great advantage to our country in one respect, for the publication of your model cottages has greatly tended to beautify our suburbs and those of other large towns." * * * * * OUR MODEL COTTAGES.--Nothing could have given us more pleasure than to find that this original feature of the "Lady's Book" has been duly appreciated by our numerous readers and correspondents. From every section of our country, we have received the most flattering testimonials, as well in relation to the beauty of our designs, as to their great utility in establishing a taste for the erection of convenient and comfortable homes in the rural districts, or even in the forests that abound in our favored land. We are truly gratified to see the change that has come over the spirit of our designers and builders in our own vicinity, on the shores of the Delaware, since we began to publish _our_ designs, and to suggest plans as well of convenience as of elegant embellishment. This, then, is one of the original features of the "Book," of which we think we may be justly proud; but our readers will readily confess that it is only _one_ of the numerous original features which have rendered the "Book" the _precedent_ in literature, in the arts, and in the cultivation of the useful sciences. * * * * * WE commend the following sentiment, from the "Michigan Sentinel," to all true Americans:-- "The duty of every American is to support his own country's interest, in every respect, _first_. Our American Magazines have called out and supported an array of talent, in a particular line, of which we are proud, and which we are bound by patriotism to reward." Here is another from the "Kentucky News Letter:"-- "'Godey' is on our table. Beautiful! Do you wish to see it? Well, once for all--we will not lend it. Its price is three dollars a year. The copy sent us is reserved for binding, and we cannot afford to have it defaced by lending." * * * * * We knew that the January number of "Godey" was a decided "_hit_;" but our Georgia correspondent seems to have got the tallest kind of a "smite" from one of our fair poetesses. If _one_ can do such execution, what may be expected of a broadside from a whole solid column of such charming contributors as the "Lady's Book" can boast? Hear him:-- "MR GODEY--DEAR SIR: I did not think to trouble you so soon again, but the singular beauty of the 'sylphs' and the 'sonnets' inspired my muse to utter the following:-- "THE 'SYLPHS' AND THE 'SONNETS.' "As the sylphs of the seasons tripped their round, In a sacred grove of laurel trees Another fair sylph of the season they found, And they crowned her 'Mary Spenser Pease.' "So wild, so sweet was her sylvan song, They, listening, delayed the passing years Till, floating away, they bore her along, To sing her sonnets in brighter spheres. "_La Fayette, Walker Co., Ga._, January 22d, 1851." * * * * * WE are happy to find that the ladies have their husbands' _interest_ so much at heart. Several orders have been received since our last for "Breban's Interest Tables," the advertisement of which appears on our cover. * * * * * WE have been favored with an engraving representing the "Family Seat of George C. Sibley, Esq.," at Linden Wood, near St. Charles, Mo. It must be a place of exceeding beauty. * * * * * CAMEOS.--We have on several occasions called the attention of our readers to the perfect likenesses produced in cameo by Mr. Peabody, whose room is in Chestnut Street near Fifth. One of the most perfect specimens of his cutting, which we recently had the pleasure to examine, is the likeness of GENERAL PATTERSON, our well-known fellow-citizen. Heretofore, we fear our friends have not paid sufficient attention to this beautiful art, or given it that encouragement it so richly merits. We hope, however, that the time is at hand when the able and persevering artist will be fully appreciated and rewarded for all his skill and labor in the introduction of these accurate and beautiful memorials of love and friendship. * * * * * IMPURE MILK.--A lawsuit was recently brought, in New York, against our friend Howard, of the Irving House, to recover the sum of two hundred dollars, alleged to be due for milk delivered for the use of said establishment. On the trial, it was proved that the milk contracted for was to have been from cows fed upon grass, hay, and grain, and that the milk furnished was from cows fed upon swill, the offal, or remains of the distillery, and that they were tied up in stalls until they died of a loathsome disease. It gives us pleasure to state that the trial resulted in a verdict for Mr. Howard, the judge remarking, in his charge, that the proprietor of the Irving House was "entitled to the thanks of the community for exposing the base fraud." We will merely add that he is deserving also of the confidence of the traveling community for his efforts to minister for the preservation of their health, as well as for their pleasure and convenience. * * * * * THE CRYSTAL PALACE OF CONCORD.--In this number of the "Book" we present our readers with a view of the largest and most magnificent building in the world, erected in Hyde Park, London, to contain the contributions of all nations for the great exhibition shortly to take place. It is 1848 feet long by 408 broad, covering about eighteen acres of ground. Number of columns, 3230. The total cubic contents will be 33,000,000 feet, giving room for eight miles of exhibition tables. There are 282 miles of sash bars and 900,000 superficial feet of glass. The cost has been estimated at £150,000, or about $750,000. Mr. Hardinge, of Cincinnati, had proposed to cover the iron columns, etc., with a kind of porcelain or variegated enamel, giving them the richness and beauty of the choicest polished marble, and of the most precious stones, such as agate, jasper, &c. * * * * * PRISONER'S FRIEND.--Charles Spear, the active and benevolent editor of this paper, has called the attention of big friends and the public to the volume which will commence in September. Mr. Spear's efforts in behalf of suffering humanity have long since entitled him to the consideration and the support of every generous and feeling heart. The journal which he publishes under the title of "Prisoner's Friend," is conducted with great earnestness, but with great propriety, and is calculated, by its peaceful and Christian tone, to elicit the patronage of all parties and all denominations. * * * * * LACES, EMBROIDERIES, ETC.--Kimmey's, No. 177 Arch Street, through the industry and attention of its proprietors, has become a favorite store with many of the ladies of our city. The extensive choice and elegant assortment of cambric open work collars and cuffs, cambric rufflings, lace sleeves, embroidered collars and cuffs, elegant style of infants' waists, superior kid gloves, etc. etc., which they have always on hand, have attracted the attention and the patronage of numerous tasty and fashionable purchasers. VARIOUS USEFUL RECEIPTS, &c., OF OUR OWN GATHERING. TO MAKE PRUNE TART.--Scald the prunes, take out the stones, and break them; put the kernels into a little cranberry juice with the prunes and some sugar; simmer, and when cold make a tart of the sweetmeat, or eat it in any other way. * * * * * TO MAKE ASPIC JELLY.--Put a knuckle of veal into a small stock-pot, with a knuckle of ham, two calves' feet, and the trimmings of poultry; season this with onions, carrots, and a bunch of sweet herbs; pour into it half a bottle of white wine and a ladleful of good broth; set it over the stove till it is reduced to a light glaze, then cover the meat with good broth, throw in two glasses of isinglass, and let it boil for three hours; then strain, and clear the jelly with white of eggs. When used, it must be melted, and poured just warm over the chicken or tongue. * * * * * IMITATION CURRY POWDER.--An admirable imitation of the oriental stimulant, curry powder, can be made by reducing to powder the following materials, mixing them well together, and keeping them in a tightly-corked bottle: Three ounces of turmeric, the same of coriander seed, one ounce of ground ginger, the like quantity of ground black pepper, a quarter of an ounce of cinnamon, the same weight of cumin seed and of cayenne, and half an ounce of cardamoms. * * * * * TO CLEAN WOODSTOCK GLOVES.--Wash them in soap and water till the dirt is out, then stretch them on wooden hands, or pull them out in their proper shape. Do not wring them, as that puts them out of form, and makes them shrink; put them one upon another and press the water out. Then rub the following mixture over the outside of the gloves: If wanted quite yellow, take yellow ochre; if quite white, pipe clay; if between the two, mix a little of each together. Mix the color with beer or vinegar. Let them dry gradually, not too near the fire, nor in too hot a sun; when about half dried, rub them well, and stretch them out to keep them from shrinking and to soften them. When they are well rubbed and dried, take a small cane and beat them; then brush them; when this is done, iron them rather warm with a piece of paper over them, but do not let the iron be too hot. * * * * * TO DRESS COLD TURKEY OR FOWL.--Cut them in sizeable pieces, beat up an egg with a little grated nutmeg, pepper, and salt, some parsley minced fine, and a few crumbs of bread; mix these well together, and cover the turkey with this batter; then broil, or warm them in a Dutch oven. Thicken a little gravy with some flour, put a spoonful of catsup or other sauce, lay the meat in a dish, and pour the sauce round it; garnish with slices of lemon. * * * * * HUNTER'S BEEF, as it is called, is a round of beef into which a quarter of a pound of saltpetre finely powdered is well rubbed. Next day, mix half an ounce of cloves, an ounce of black pepper, the same quantity of ground allspice, with half a pound of salt; wash and rub the beef in the brine for a fortnight, adding every other day a tablespoonful of salt. Have ready an earthen pan deep enough to hold the joint, and lay suet an inch deep at the bottom; rub the beef in coarse cloths till perfectly free from the salt and spice, put it in the pan with a quart of water, some more suet on the top, and cover it with a thick coarse crust. Bake for seven hours, pour off the gravy, and place the meat upon a proper dish; do not cut it till cold. * * * * * TO CLEAN BLACK SATIN.--Boil three pounds of potatoes to a pulp in a quart of water; strain through a sieve, and brush the satin with it on a board or table. The satin must not be wrung, but folded down in cloths for three hours, and then ironed on the wrong side. Fashions. DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE. EVENING COSTUMES.--_Fig. 1._ Dinner-dress or robe of richly-embroidered Mantua silk, of delicate rose color, the flowers in white, of a regular and tasteful pattern. A scarf of the same, with broad flowing ends, is knotted a little to the right, and hangs gracefully to the knee. A _jupe_ of fine embroidered muslin is worn below this, and a chemisette of the same completes the corsage. The sleeves very loose and flowing, with undersleeves clasped by heavy gold bracelets. The head-dress is of lace, with bouquets of moss-rose buds. _Fig. 2._--Ball-dress of rich white silk, with a deep flounce of French lace, put on with a heading of narrow satin ribbon. The upper flounce, also of black lace, though narrower, is fastened on each side with bouquets of natural flowers. The corsage is plain, with a berthe to match the flounces, also fastened by bouquets. A narrow undersleeve of white lace comes a trifle below the berthe. It will be noticed that the hair is dressed plainly, slightly puffed behind the ear, and in a twist roll at the back of the head. A most graceful style for young ladies. BRIDAL DRESSES. As there are always a quota of weddings in the spring, following the Washington campaign, we give an elaborate bridal costume, more as a suggestion than a model, it must be confessed, for those who like novelties. _Fig. 1_ presents an evening costume for a bride, the head-dress a wreath of white roses mingled with orange blossoms. The dress itself is white crape over white satin, and the front of the skirt may be ornamented with bouquets to match the wreath. The berthe of the corsage is composed of folds of white tulle. _Fig. 2._--Bridal-dress of rich white satin, with side trimmings for the skirt of lace, headed by narrow satin ribbon. The corsage is high at the back, but sloped somewhat lower in front, over which there is a lace pelerine, which is brought down to a point in front. Sleeves demi-long, and edged with white satin ribbon, undersleeves of rich lace, and bracelets to be worn at taste and discretion. The bridal wreath is of jasmine and orange flowers, and confines a tulle veil very full and long. CHIT-CHAT UPON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR MAY. Early as it is, our ladies are already commencing to think of preparations for the Springs, and of bathing-dresses, in which to enjoy the cool surf of Cape May or Newport. The exquisite gossamer fabrics of Levy's, Beck's, and Stewart's are now in the hands of the mantuamaker, and very soon we shall hear that the town is deserted. The sidewalks will cease to blush with the delicate colors of an outdoor spring costume, and the plain ginghams of those of the fair sex who are _not_ like the lilies of the field in the matter of daily toil, take the place of rainbow silks and soft mousselines. At present, Chestnut Street is a scene of enchantment. Not more beautiful the fresh spring foliage of neighboring woods than the delicate emerald tinting of dresses and ribbons that adorn our ladies; and then the pale violet, so suggestive of wood flowers; the blue, as ethereal as the cloudless sky; and, above all, the rose color shading the cheek of the dangerous brunette, who knows perfectly well that it is the most becoming shade she can wear. There is a flutter of scarfs and a rustling of mantillas that call to mind the swaying of the aforementioned foliage, and those dainty straw bonnets, the little brims filled with lace and violets, only too real, of the floating sprays of lily of the valley and the jasmine. We like the cottage bonnet when it is in fashion. There is something marvelously winning in the close shape, teazing you by its very coyness into an admiration; but when they are laid aside, and the brims, like certain stocks, have a tendency to look upwards, we wonder we ever could have admired any other than the coquetish little shape one meets at every turn. It is a fact worth observing and recording that, in proportion to the tendency of gentlemen's hats to narrow, the ladies' bonnets expand; the crown of the one becomes, season by season, more retreating, while the other flares an open defiance. We might moralize were we not sober chroniclers of the court of fashion, and were we not admonished by the envoy from his serene highness, "the printer," now waiting at our elbow, that "the form is almost completed." So we must leave our gossip for the few hints we are able to gather for our lady readers on the matter of "making up." Loose sleeves, and they vary from a quarter to half a yard in width, as suits the wearer's fancy, are still in vogue. In-doors, no undersleeves are needed for the summer, particularly for young ladies, but for a street costume there is every variety of undersleeves. We refer the ladies to our cuts of two that are especially in favor, and would recommend another for those who like them open at the wrist, composed of alternate rows of rich embroidered insertion (muslin) and Valenciennes lace, quilled closely, the last row facing the edge which falls just at the wrist. An undersleeve for the evening may be made in this manner, but should have only one row of insertion and edging. Bodices are still worn, and belts and buckles seem going out. The back of the corsage has also a point, which many wear quite deep. We would commend the present fashion of lacing the corsage of an evening-dress, as it gives the figure much more to advantage than the compression of hooks and eyes, but it is too troublesome for a walking-dress. The hair is dressed quite plainly, although there has been an attempt to revive the tiers of puffs so fashionable some twenty years since. There are few faces which will bear the test, and Grecian braids and bandeaux are much more universally becoming. Gaiters are worn as ever, and black satin slippers are preferred at evening parties. However, as these are not just at present, we reserve our hints upon evening dress until a future number. FASHION. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE CRYSTAL PALACE LONDON.] FOOTNOTE: [F] A more extended notice of this work next month. HOPE ON, HOPE EVER. WORDS BY J. T. FRELIGH, OF ST. LOUIS. MUSIC BY E. C. DAVIS. COMPOSED EXPRESSLY FOR GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK. Music: When the sun light of gladness Has passed from the soul, And the dark clouds of sadness unceasingly roll, When the past appears only A dim vale of tears, And the future a lonely And wide waste of years. 2 The star of hope streaming Through tempest and night, Is kindly left beaming Our pathway to light Inspiring and cheering The lone and oppress'd, To the weary appearing A haven of rest. 3 Whose calm light reposes 'Mid sadness and gloom, On the lilies and roses That bend o'er the tomb; Like a seraph sweet smiling, 'Mid blight and decay, Through the cold world beguiling Our wearisome way. 4 In ills all-sustaining To mortals below, And shining and reigning Wherever we go, Forsaking us, never, Companions and friend, Then "hope on, hope ever," And to trust to the end. [Illustration: Evening Dresses.--See Description.] [Illustration: NOW, BE CAREFUL! Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.I. Pease.] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The table of contents was taken from the June issue. Only the items relevant to this issue were retained. Images of the complete index may be found at the end of the May HTML edition. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 329, "stiches" changed to "stitches" (to eleven stitches) Page 329, "an eatly" changed to "a neatly" (for a neatly) Page 331, "Wolstoncraft" changed to "Wollstonecraft" (if Mary Wollstonecraft) 
15080	----	[Illustration] * * * * * [Illustration] * * * * * [Illustration: NEW YEAR'S DAY IN FRANCE.] * * * * * MODEL COTTAGE. [Illustration: _A Cottage in the Style of Heriot's Hospital, Edinburgh_.] The elevation is shown in fig. 1, the ground-plan in fig. 2. _Accommodation_.--The plan shows a porch, _a_; a lobby, _b_; living room, _c_; kitchen, _d_; back-kitchen, _e_; pantry, _f_; dairy, _g_; bed-closet, _h_; store-closet, _i_; fuel, _k_; cow-house, _l_; pig-stye, _m_; yard, _n_; dust-hole, _q_. The Scotch are great admirers of this style, as belonging to one of their favorite public buildings, which is said to have been designed by the celebrated Inigo Jones. The style is that of the times of Queen Elizabeth, and King James VI. of Scotland and I. of England. [Illustration] * * * * * GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1851. * * * * [Illustration] THE CONSTANT; OR, THE ANNIVERSARY PRESENT. BY ALICE B. NEAL. (_See Plate._) It has an excellent influence on one's moral health to meet now and then in society, or, better still, in the close communion of home life, such a woman as Catherine Grant. She influences every one that comes within the pure atmosphere of her friendship, and as unconsciously to them as to herself. She never moralizes, or commands reform. There is no parade of her individual principle in any way, but she always _acts_ rightly; and, if her opinion is called forth, it is given promptly and quietly, but very firmly. Yet, though even strangers say this of her now, there was a time when few suspected the moral strength of her character. Not that principle was wanting; but it had never been called forth. She moved in her own circle with very little remark or comment. She was cheerful, and even sprightly in her manner, and her large blue eyes, as well as her lips, always spoke the truth. I do not know that she was ever called beautiful; but there was an air of _ladyhood_ about her, from the folding of her soft brown hair to the gloving of a somewhat large but exquisitely-shaped hand, that marked her at once as possessing both taste and refinement. I remember that friends spoke of her engagement with Willis Grant as a "good match," and rather wondered that she did not seem more elated with the prospect of being the mistress of such a pleasant little establishment as would be hers, for she was one of a large family of daughters, and her father's income as a professional man did not equal that of Willis, who was at the head of one of our largest mercantile houses. But it was in her nature to take things calmly, though she was young, and all the kindness of his attentions, and the prospect of a new home, as much as any happy bride could have done. It _was_ a delightful home--not so extravagantly furnished as Willis would have chosen it to be, but tasteful, and withal including many of those luxuries and elegancies which we of the nineteenth century are rapidly, too rapidly, learning to need. Willis declared that no one could be happier than they were; and, strange as it may seem, the envious world for once prophesied no cloud in the future. But we have nothing to do with that first eventful year of married life--the year of attrition in mind and character, when two natures, differing in many points, and these sharpened as it were by education, are suddenly brought into immediate contact. There were some ideals overthrown, no doubt--it is often so; and some good qualities discovered, which were unsuspected before. The second anniversary of the wedding-day was also the birth-day of a darling child, and the home was more homelike than ever. Yet Willis Grant was seldom there. It was not that he loved his wife the less--that her beauty had faded, or her temper changed. She was the same as ever--gentle, affectionate, and thoughtful for his wishes; and he appreciated all this. But before he had known her, in those wild idle days of early manhood, when the spirit craves continual excitement, and has not yet learned that it is the love of woman's purer nature which it needs, Willis had chosen his associates in a circle which it was very difficult to break from, now that their society was no longer essential to him. He was close in his attention to business; his great, success had arisen from industry as well as talent; but when the counting-house was closed, there was no family circle to welcome him, and the doors of the club-house were invitingly open. True, it was one of the most respectable clubs of the city, mostly composed of young business men like himself, who discussed the tariffs and their effects upon trade over their _recherche_ dinners, and chatted of European politics over their wine. And this reminds us of one thing that argues much, if not more than anything else, against the club-house system, that is so rapidly gaining favor in our cities. It accustoms the young man just entering life to a surrounding of luxury that he cannot himself consistently support when he begins to think of having a home of his own. He passes his evenings in a beautiful saloon, where the light is brilliant, yet tempered; where crimson curtains and a blazing fire speak at once of comfort and affluence of means. There are no discomforts, such as any one meets with more or less, inevitably, in private families--nothing to jar upon the spirit of self-indulgence and indolence which is thus fostered. The dinners, in cooking and service, are unexceptionable; and there are always plenty of associates as idle and thoughtless, and as good-natured, as himself, to make a jest of domestic life and domestic virtues. And, by-and-by, there is a stronger stimulus wanted, and the jest becomes more wanton over the roulette table or the keenly contested rubber; and the wine circulates more freely as the fire of youth goes out and leaves the ashes of mental and moral desolation. Ah no! the club-house is no conservator of the purity of social life, and this Catherine Grant soon felt, as night after night her husband left her to the society of her own thoughts, or her favorite books, to meet old friends in its familiar saloons, and show them that he at least was none the less "a good fellow" for being a married man! It was all very well, no doubt, to be able to break away from the pleasant parlor, and the interesting woman who was the presiding genius of his household, and spend his evenings in the society of gay gallants who talked of horses and Tedesco's figure, or the gray-headed votaries of the whist table, who played the game as if the presidency depended upon "following lead," and each trump was a diamond of inestimable worth, to be cherished and reserved, and parted with only at the last extremity. Sometimes a thought of comparison would arise, as he sat with elevated feet beside the anthracite fire, and gazed steadfastly on his patent leathers. Sometimes the idle jests and the heartless laughter would jar upon his ear; and the cigar was suffered to die out as, in thoughts of wife and child, he forgot to put it to his lips. But the injustice of his conduct, in thus depriving them of his society, did not once cross his mind, until he was involuntarily made the witness of a visit between Catherine and a lady who had been her intimate friend before marriage. He had returned hurriedly one morning in search of some papers left in his own room, dignified by the name of study, though it must be confessed that he passed but little time there. It communicated with Catherine's apartment, which was just then occupied by the two ladies in confidential chat. "And so you won't go to Mrs Sawyer's to-night?" said Miss Lyons, who had thrown herself at full length upon a couch, and was idly teazing the baby with the tassel of her muff. "How provoking you are! You might as well be dead as married! It's well for your husband that I'm not in your place. Why, every one's talking about it, my child, how you are cooped up here, and Willis at the club-house night after night. Morgan told me he was always there, and asked me what kind of a wife he had--whether you quarreled or flirted, that he was away from you so much." Had the heedless speaker glanced up from her play with little Gertrude, she would have seen her friend's face suffused with a slight flush, for the last was a view of the case entirely new to her. But she said, quietly as ever-- "'Everybody' might be in better business, Nell; and why is it well for Willis that you are not in my place?" "Why? Because I'd pay him in his own coin; he should not have the game all in his own hands. If he went to the club, I'd flirt, that's all, and we'd see who would hold out the longer." "Bad principle, Nelly. 'Two wrongs,' as the old proverb says, 'never make a right;' and yet I am sorry I said that, for so long as it gives Willis pleasure, and he is not drawn from his business by it, it is no wrong, though there is danger to any man in confirmed habits of 'good-fellowship,' as it is called. No one could see that more plainly than I do, or dread it more. Of course, when we love a person it is natural to wish to be with him as much as possible; and I must confess I am a little lonely now and then. But your plan would never succeed, nor would it be wise to annoy my husband with complaints. Nothing provokes a man like an expostulation." "And what do you do, then?" "Nothing at all but try to make his home as pleasant as possible, and when he is weary of his gay companions he will return to me with more interest." "Well, well," broke in her visitor; "Morgan can make up his mind to a very different state of things. I shall stipulate, first of all, that he must give up that abominable club-house." "And do you intend to lay your flirting propensities on the same altar of mutual happiness?" Willis did not hear the reply, for he stole softly away, annoyed, as he thought, at having been a listener to what was not intended for his ears. But there was a little sting of self-reproach at his selfish desertion of home, and, more than all, that Catherine should have been blamed for offences that any one who had known her would never have attributed to her. "Ah, by the way, Kate," he said that evening, turning suddenly, as she stood arranging her work-table beneath the gas light, "how about that invitation to Mrs. Sawyer's? It was for to-night, if I recollect?" "I sent regrets, of course, as you expressed no wish to go; and, to tell the truth, I would much rather pass the evening quietly here with you. How long it is since we have had one of those nice old-fashioned chats! Not since baby has been my companion." This was said in a cheerful tone, as a reminiscence, not as a reproach; and yet Willis felt the morning's uncomfortable sensations return, though he tried to dispel them by stooping to kiss her forehead. Nevertheless, he ordered his coat, as the servant came in to remove the tea things, and took up his gloves from the table. The very consciousness of being in the wrong prevented an acknowledgment, even by an act so simple as giving up one evening's engagement. "And here she comes!" he said, as the nurse drew the cradle from an adjoining room, so lightly that the little creature did not move or stir in her sweet sleep. And when his wife threw back the light covering, and said, "_Isn't she beautiful_, Willis?" as only a young mother could say it, it must be confessed that he thought himself a very fortunate man to have two such treasures, and he could not help saying so. "I love to have the little thing where I can watch her myself; so, when there is no one in, nurse spares her to me, and we sit here as cosily as possible. I could watch her for hours. Sometimes she does not move, and then she will smile so sweetly in her sleep--and only look at those dear little dimpled hands, Willis!" And yet Willis took the coat when it came, though with a guilty feeling at heart. The greater the self-reproach, the more the pride that arose to combat it; and he drew on his gloves resolutely. "Don't sit up for me," he said, as he had said a hundred times before; and in a moment the hall door shut with a clang, as he passed into the street. Catherine echoed the sound with a half sigh. The morning's conversation rose to her recollection, and she had hoped, she scarce knew why, that Willis would remain with her that evening. But she checked the regretful reverie, and took up the pretty little sock she was knitting for Gertrude, and soon became engrossed in counting and all the after mysteries of this truly feminine employment. Willis was ill at ease. He met young Morgan on the steps, and returned his bow very coldly. His usual companions were absent, and, after haunting the saloon restlessly for an hour, he strolled down to his counting-house. He knew that the foreign correspondence had just arrived, and, as he expected, his confidential clerk was still at the desk. And here he found, much to his dismay, that the presence of one of the firm was immediately necessary in Paris, and that, as the partner who usually attended to this branch of the business was ill, the journey would devolve on him. He was detained until a late hour, and as he turned his steps homeward the scene that he had left there rose vividly to his mind. He hurried up the steps, hoping to find Catherine still there, but the room was empty, and the fire, glowing redly through the bars of the grate, was the only thing to welcome him. He stood a long time, leaning his elbow on the marble of the mantel, and thought over many things that had happened within the last few years--the many happy social evenings he had passed at that very hearth; the unvarying love and constancy of his wife; of his late neglect, for he could call it by no gentler name; and then came the thought that he must leave all this domestic peace, which he had valued so little--and who knew what might chance before he should return? He kissed his sleeping wife and child with unwonted tenderness, as he entered their apartment, and thought that they had never been so dear to him before. It would be their first protracted separation, and Catherine was sad enough when its necessity was announced to her. But all preparations were hastened; and, at the close of the week, they were standing together in the dining-room, the last trunk locked, and the carriage waiting at the door that was to convey Willis to the steamer. "And mind you do not get ill in my absence, Kate," he said, as he smoothed back her beautiful hair, and looked down fondly in her face. "If you are very good, as they tell children, I will send you the most charming present you can conceive of, or that Paris can offer, for the anniversary of our wedding-day. Too bad that we shall be separated, for the first time; but three months will soon pass away." And Catherine smiled through the tears that were trembling in her eyes, at the half sad, half playful words; and a wifelike glance of trustfulness told how very dear he was. There is nothing very romantic nowadays in a voyage to Europe. It has become a commonplace, everyday journey. You step to the deck of the steamer with less fear and trembling of friends than was once bestowed on a passage down the Hudson, and before you are fairly recovered from the first shock of sea-sickness, you have reached the destined port. But, for all that, longing eyes watch the rapid motion of the vessel as it lessens in the distance, and many a prayer is wafted to its white sails by the sighing night-wind. There are lonely hours to remind one that the broad and silent sea is rolling between us and those we love, and we know that it is sometimes treacherous in its tranquillity. It is then we bless the quiet messengers that come from afar to tell us of their well-being--when, the seal, with its loving device, is pressed to trembling lips, and the well-known hand recalls the form of the absent one so vividly. So, at last, the long-looked-for letters came with tidings of the safe arrival of Mr. Grant at his destination, and the hope that his return would be more speedy than had been anticipated. A month passed slowly away, and little Gertrude had been her mother's best comforter in absence. Every day some new intelligence lighted her bright eyes, and Catherine could trace another token of resemblance to the absent one. But, suddenly, the child grew ill, and the pain of separation was augmented as day by day the mother watched over her alone. It was her first experience of the illness of childhood, and it required all her strength and all her calmness to be patient, while sitting hour after hour with the moaning infant cradled in her arms, unable to understand or relieve its sufferings, and tortured by the dull look of apathy which alone answered to her fond or despairing exclamations. She had forgotten that the birthday of the infant was so near--that first birthday--and the anniversary which they had twice welcomed so joyfully. At last the crisis came; the long night closed in drearily, and the physician told her that, ere morning, there would be hope or despair. Those who have thus watched can alone understand the agony of that midnight vigil; how every breath was counted, and every flush marked with wild anxiety. And Catherine sat there, forgetting that food or rest was necessary to her, conscious only of the suffering of her child, and picturing darkly to herself the loneliness of the future, should it be taken from her. How could she survive the interval that would elapse before her husband's return? and how dreary would be the meeting which she had hitherto anticipated with so much pleasure! She was not to be so sorely tried. The hard feverish pulse gave place to a gentler beating; the fever flush passed away; and the regular heaving of a quiet sleep gave token at length that all danger to the child was over. Then, for the first time, Catherine was persuaded to seek rest for herself, and all her anxiety was forgotten in a deep and trance-like slumber. When she awoke there were letters and packages lying beside her bed, directed by her husband; and after she had once more assured herself that it was no dream the child was really safe, she opened them eagerly. The letter announced that the business was happily adjusted, and that his return might be looked for by the next steamer. Meantime, he said, he had sent some things to amuse her, and more particularly the choice gift for the anniversary of their marriage. It was the morning of that very day! She had not thought of it before. She stooped to place a birthday kiss upon the fair but wasted little face beside her, and then tore open the envelops. There were many beautiful things, "such as ladies love to look upon," and at the last she came to a small package marked, "_For our wedding day_." It contained a little jewel case; but there was nothing on the snowy satin cushion but a pair of daintily wrought clasps for the robe of the little child, marked, "with a father's love;" and then, as she was replacing them, a sealed envelop caught her eye. There was an inclosure directed to a name she was not familiar with, and a few lines penciled for herself:-- "DEAR KATE: I have searched all over Paris, and could not find anything that I thought would please you better than the inclosed, which is my resignation of club membership. Will you please send it to the president, and accept the true and earnest love of YOUR ABSENT HUSBAND." Then he had not been unmindful of her silent regret; he still loved his home, and the dangerous hour of his temptation was passed! Had she not great reason for the gush of love and thankfulness that filled her heart and renewed her strength that happy morning--her child saved, and her husband, as it were, restored to her? Ere he came, the little one was fast regaining her bright playfulness, and became a stronger tie between Willis Grant and his happy home. I do not know that you and I, dear reader, would have learned the secret of his renewed devotion to his wife, had he not told Nelly Lyons himself that "Kate's way was the best, and she had better try it with Morgan, if ever he showed an undue fondness for the club after their marriage." Of course, the volatile girl could not help telling the story, and when two know a thing, as we are all aware, it is a secret no longer. * * * * * A PARABLE. BY JAMES CARRUTHERS. "It is a marvel," remarked the youth Silas to his companion, "that, after so many years of unremitting application, favored by the combination of extraordinary advantages, I should yet have accomplished nothing. Scholarly toil, indeed, is not without its meet reward. But in much wisdom is much grief, when it serves not to advance the well-being of its possessor." "I have remarked, as thou hast," returned the companion of Silas, "how sorely thou hast been distanced in thy life's pursuit by those who came after with far less ability and fewer advantages; and, if thou wilt believe me, have read the marvel. Last noon, while in attendance on the Syrian race, I observed that the untamed, high-mettled steed, that, in his daring strength and almost limitless swiftness, scorned his rider's curb, though traveling a space far more extended than the appointed course, and, surmounting every hill, left the race to be won by the well-governed courser that obeyed the rein, and, in the track marked out for his progress, reached the goal." * * * * * [Illustration] ERAS OF LIFE. BY MRS. A.F. LAW (_See Plate._) BAPTISM "We receive this child into the congregation of Christ's flock, and do sign her with the sign of the cross--in token that hereafter she shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully fight under his banner against sin, the world, and the devil; and to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant, unto her life's end."--BAPTISMAL SERVICE OF P.E.C. In the house of prayer we enter, through its aisles our course we wend, And before the sacred altar on our knees we humbly bend; Craving, for a young immortal, God's beneficence and grace, That, through Christ's unfailing succor, she may win the victor race. Water from _baptismal fountain_ rests on a "young soldier," sworn By the cross' holy signet to defend the "Virgin-born." May she never faint or falter in the raging war of sin, And, encased in Faith's tried armor, a triumphant conquest win! To the Triune One our darling trustingly we now commend, And for full and _free_ salvation, from our hearts pure thanks ascend. * * * * COMMUNION. "Hail! sacred feast, which Jesus makes-- Rich banquet of his flesh and blood: Thrice happy he who here partakes That sacred stream, that heavenly food." With a bearing meekly grateful, slow approach the _sacred feast_, And, with penitential gladness, take, by faith, this Eucharist. Hark! how sweetly, o'er it stealing, come the sounds of pardoning love! Winning back to paths of virtue all who now in error rove. Here is food for all who languish, and for those who, fainting, thirst-- Free, from Christ, the _Living Fountain_, crystal waters ceaseless burst! Come, ye sad and weary-hearted, bending 'neath a weight of woe-- Here the _Comforter_ is waiting his rich blessings to bestow! None need linger--_all_ are bidden to this "Supper of the Lamb:" Come, and by this outward token, worship God, the great "I AM!" * * * * MARRIAGE "One sacred oath hath tied Our loves; one destiny our life shall guide; Nor wild nor deep our common way divide!" Choral voices float around us, music on the night air swells; Hill and dell resound with echoes of the gleeful wedding bells! Ushered thus, we haste to enter on a scene of radiant joy-- List'ning vows in ardor plighted, which alone can death destroy. Passing fair the bride appeareth, in her robes of snowy white, While the veil around her streameth, like a silvery halo's light; And amid her hair's rich braidings rests the pearly orange bough, With its fragrant blossoms pressing on her pure, unclouded brow. Love's devotion yields the future with young Hope's resplendent beam; And her spirit thrills with rapture, yielding to its blissful dream! * * * * DEATH. "Death, thou art infinite!" "All that live must die, Passing through nature to Eternity." Now we chant a miserere which proclaims the _end of man_-- Telling, in prophetic language, "_Life,"_ at best, "_is but a span!"_ Scarcely treading, slowly enter, reverently bend the knee-- List the Spirit's inward whisper, and from _worldly thoughts_ be free. Here we view a weary pilgrim, cradled in a dreamless sleep; Human sounds no more shall reach her, for its spell is "long and deep!" Gaze upon the marble features! Mark how peacefully they rest! Anguished thought, and sorrow's heavings, all are parted from that breast! Soon on mother earth reposing, this cold form shall calmly lie, Till, by God's dread trump awakened, it shall mount to realms on high. * * * * * FOUR SONNETS TO THE FOUR SEASONS. BY MARY SPENSER PEASE. (_See Plate._) SPRING. From mountain top, and from the deep-voiced valley, The snow-white mists are slowly upward wreathing: Now floating wide, now hovering close, to dally With sportive winds, around them lightly breathing, Till, in the quickening Spring-shine through them creeping, Their gloomy power dissolves in warmth and gladness; While swift, new tides through Nature's heart-pulse sweeping. Floods all her veins with a delicious madness. Warmed into life, a world of bright shapes thronging-- Young, tender leaf-buds in fresh greenness swelling, Flower, bird, and insect, with prophetic longing, Pour forth their joy in tremulous hymns upwelling: Thus, Love's Spring sun dispels all chill and sorrow With joyful promise of Love's fullest morrow. * * * * SUMMER. Sweet incense from the heart of myriad flowers, Sweet as the breath that parts the lips of love, Floats softly upward through the sunny hours, Hiving its fragrance in the warmth above: Big with rich store, the teeming earth yields up The increase of her harvest treasury; While golden wine, from Nature's brimming cup, Quickens her pulse to love-toned melody. Full choiréd praise from countless glad throats break, More dazzling bright doth gleam night's dewy eyes; A newer witchery doth the great moon wake; More mellow languisheth the bending skies: Thus, through the heart Life's Summer-sun comes stealing, Spring's wildest promise in Love's fulness sealing. * * * * AUTUMN. Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully, Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast, With wailing voice of saddest augury, Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest. With icy finger on each yellow leaf Writes he the history of the dying year. Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf-- Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer-- Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread: While still, with semblance of the Summer brave, Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed; Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave: As in Earth's Autumn--so, through weeping showers, Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours. * * * * WINTER. Locked in a close embrace, like that of Death, Earth's pulseless heart reposes, mute and chill; Within her frozen breast, her frozen breath, In its forgotten fragrance, slumbereth still: Sapless her veins, and numb her withered arms, That still, outstretched, stand grim mementos drear Of her once gorgeous and full-leavéd charms. Of flower and fruit, all increase of the year: Voiceless the river, in ice fretwork chained; Hushed the sweet cadences of bird and bee; Dumb the last echo to soft music trained, And warmth and life are a past memory: Thus, buried deep within dull Winter's rime, Love dreamless sleeps through the long Winter-time. * * * * * LIFE IN THE WOODS.--A SONG. BY GEO. P. MORRIS. A merry life does the hunter lead! He wakes with the dawn of day; He whistles his dog--he mounts his steed, And sends to the woods away! The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark, As they troop in herds along; And his rifle startles the cheerful lark, As she carols his morning song. The hunter's life is the life for me! That is the life for a man! Let others sing of a home on the sea, But match me the woods if you can. Then give me a gun--I've an eye to mark The deer, as they bound along! My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark, To carol my morning song. [Illustration: THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS] * * * * * WHAT IS LIFE? BY MARY M. CHASE. One sunshiny afternoon, a little girl sat in a wood playing with moss and stones. She was a pretty child; but there was a wishful, earnest look in her eye, at times, that made people say, "She is a good little girl; but she won't live long." But she did not think of that to-day, for a fine western wind was shaking the branches merrily above her head, and a family of young rabbits that lived near by kept peeping out to watch her motions. She threw bread to the rabbits from the pockets of her apron, and laughed to see them eat. She laughed, also, to hear the wild, boisterous wind shouting among the leaves, and then she sang parts of a song that she had imperfectly learned-- "Hurrah for the oak! for the brave old oak, That hath ruled in the greenwood long!" and the louder the wind roared, the louder she sang. Presently, a light-winged seed swept by her; she reached out her pretty hand and caught it. It was an ugly brown seed; but she said, as she looked at it-- "Mother says, if I plant a seed, may be it will grow to be a tree. So I will see." Then she scraped away a little of the mellow earth, and put the seed safely down, and covered it again. She made a little paling around the spot With dry sticks and twigs, and then a thoughtful mood came over her. That brown seed is dead now, thought she; but it will lie there in the dark a great while, and then green leaves will come up, and a stem will grow; and some day it will be a great tree. Then it will live. But, if it is dead now, how can it ever live? What a strange thing life is! What makes life? It can't be the sunshine; for that has fallen on these stones ever so many years, and they are dead yet: and it can't be the rain; for these broken sticks are wet very often, and they don't grow. What is life? The child grew very solemn at her own thoughts, and a feeling as if some one were near troubled her. She thought the wind must be alive; for it moved, and very swiftly, too, and it had a great many voices. If she only could know now what they said, perhaps they would tell what life was. And then she looked up at the aged oaks, as they reared their arms to the sky, and she longed to ask them the question, but dared not. A small spring leaped down from a a rock above her, and fled past with ceaseless murmurs, and she felt sure that it lived, too, for it moved and had a voice. And a strong feeling stirred the young soul, a sudden desire to know all things, to hold communion with all things. Now the day was gone, and the child turned homewards; but she seemed to hear in sleep that night the whispered question, "What is life?" She was yet to know. The seed had been blown away from a pine tree, and it took root downward and shot green spears upward, until, when a few summers had passed, it had grown so famously that a sparrow built her nest there, among the foliage, and never had her roof been so water-proof before. There, one day, came a tall, fair girl, with quick step and beaming eyes, and sat down at its root. One hand caressed lovingly the young pine, and one clasped a folded paper. How she had grown since she put that brown seed into the earth! She opened the paper and read; a bright color came to her cheeks, and her hand trembled-- "He loves me!" said she. "I cannot doubt it." Then she read aloud-- "When you are mine, I shall carry you away from those old woods where you spend so much precious time dreaming vaguely of the future. I will teach you what life is. That its golden hours should not be wasted in idle visions, but made glorious by the exhaustless wealth of love. True life consists in loving and being loved." She closed the letter and gazed around her. Was this the teaching she had received from those firm old oaks who had so long stood before the storms? She had learned to know some of their voices, and now they seemed to speak louder than ever, and their word was--"Endurance!" The never-silent wind, that paused not, nor went back in its course, had taught her a lesson, also, in its onward flight, its ceaseless exertion to reach some far distant goal. And the lesson was--"Hope." The ever-flowing spring, whose heart was never dried up either in summer or winter, had murmured to her of--"Faith." She laid her head at the foot of the beloved pine and said, in her heart, "I will come back again when ten years are passed, and will here consider whose teachings were right." It was a cold November day. A rude north wind raved among the leafless oaks that defied its power with their rugged, unclad arms. The heavy masses of clouds were mirrored darkly in the spring, and the pine, grown to lofty stature, rocked swiftly to and fro as the fierce wind struck it. Down the hill, over the stones, and through the tempest, there came a slight and bending form. It was the happy child who had planted the pine seed. She threw herself on the dry leaves by the water's edge, and leaned wearily against the strong young evergreen. How sadly her eyes roved among the trees, and then tears commenced to fall quickly from them. She was very pale and mournful, and drew her rich mantle closely around her to shield her from the wind. It had been as her lover had said. She had gone out into the world, had tasted what men call pleasure, had put aside the simple lessons she had learned in her childhood, to follow _his_ bidding, to live in the light of _his_ love. Ten years had dissolved the dream. The young husband was in his grave; the child she had called after him was no more. Weary and heart-broken, she had hurried back to the home she had left, and the haunts she had cherished. She embraced the young pine, tenderly, and exclaimed-- "Oh, that thy lot was mine! Thou wilt stand here, in a green youth, a century after I am laid low. No fears perplex thee, no sorrows eat away thy strength. Willingly would I become like thee." At last she grew calm; and the old question which she had never found answered to her satisfaction--"What is life?"--sprang up into her mind. All the deeds of past days moved before her, and she felt that hers had not been a life worthy of an immortal soul. She heard again the voices of the trees, the wind, and the stream, and a measure of peace seemed granted to her. "Endurance--Hope--Faith," she murmured. She rose to go. "Farewell, beloved pine," she said. "God knows whether I shall see thee again; but such is my desire. With his help, I will begin a new existence. Farewell, monitors who have comforted me. I go to learn 'what is life.'" In a distant city, there dwelt, to extreme old age, a pious woman, a Lydia in her holiness, a Dorcas in her benevolence. Years seemed to have no power over her cheerful spirit, though her bodily strength grew less. Great riches had fallen to her lot; but in her dwelling luxury found no home. A hospital--a charity school--an orphan asylum--all attested her true appreciation of the value of riches. In her house, many a young girl found a home, whose head had else rested on a pillow of infamy. The reclaimed drunkard dispensed her daily bounty to the needy. The penitent thief was her treasurer. Prisons knew the sound of her footstep. Alms-houses blessed her coming. She had been a faithful steward of the Lord's gifts. Eighty-and-eight years had dropped upon her head as lightly as withered leaves; but now the Father was ready to release his servant and child. Her numerous household was gathered around her bed to behold her last hour. On the borders of eternity, a gentle sleep fell upon her. She seemed to stand in a lofty wood, beside a towering pine. A spring bubbled near, and soft breezes swept the verdant boughs. She looked upon the tree, glorious in its strength, and smiled to think she could ever have desired to change her crown of immortality for its senseless existence. Then the old question--"What is life?"--resounded again in her ears, and she opened her eyes from sleep and spoke, in a clear voice, these last words-- "He that believeth in the Son hath everlasting life. This is the true life for which we endure the trials of the present. For this we labor and do good works. A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth; for to be spiritually-minded is life. I have finished my course; my toil will be recompensed an hundredfold; and I go to Him whose loving kindness is better than life." * * * * * A POETICAL VERSION. OF A PORTION OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF JOEL. BY LADD SPENCER. In Zion blow the trumpet, Let it sound through every land; And let the wicked tremble, For the Lord is nigh at hand. Alas! a day of darkness-- A day of clouds and gloom-- Approaches fast, when all shall be As silent as the tomb! As the morn upon the mountains, There comes a mighty train, The like of which hath never been. And ne'er shall be again. A burning fire before them, And behind a raging flame-- Alas, that beauty so should be Enwrapt in sin and shame! The earth doth quake before them, The sun withdraws its light; The heavens and earth are shrouded In darkest, deepest night. Then weep, ye evil doers, Let tears of anguish flow; Your evil deeds have brought you A load of endless woe! * * * * * TAKING BOARDERS. BY T.S. ARTHUR. CHAPTER I. A lady, past the prime of life, sat, thoughtful, as twilight fell duskily around her, in a room furnished with great elegance. That her thoughts were far from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expression of her countenance too clearly testified. She was dressed in deep mourning. A faint sigh parted her lips as she looked up, on hearing the door of the apartment in which she was sitting open. The person who entered, a tall and beautiful girl, also in mourning, came and sat down by her side, and leaned her head, with a pensive, troubled air, down upon her shoulder. "We must decide upon something, Edith, and that with as little delay as possible," said the elder of the two ladies, soon after the younger one entered. This was said in a tone of great despondency. "Upon what shall we decide, mother?" and the young lady raised her head from its reclining position, and looked earnestly into the eyes of her parent. "We must decide to do something by which the family can be sustained. Your father's death has left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as you already know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond the furniture of this house, instead of an independence which we supposed him to possess. His death was sad and afflictive enough--more than it seemed I could bear. But to have this added!" The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, and was lost in a stifled sob. "But what _can_ we do, mother?" asked Edith, in an earnest tone, after pausing long enough for her mother to regain the control of her feelings. "I have thought of but one thing that is at all respectable," replied the mother. "What is that?" "Taking boarders." "Why, mother!" ejaculated Edith, evincing great surprise, "how can you think of such a thing?" "Because driven to do so by the force of circumstances." "Taking boarders! Keeping a boarding-house! Surely we have not come to this!" An expression of distress blended with the look of astonishment in Edith's face. "There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a boarding-house," returned the mother. "A great many very respectable ladies have been compelled to resort to it as a means of supporting their families." "But, to think of it, mother! To think of _your_ keeping a boarding-house! I cannot bear it." "Is there anything else that can be done, Edith?" "Don't ask _me_ such a question." "If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try and think with me, my child. Something will have to be done to create an income. In less than twelve months, every dollar I have will be expended; and then what are we to do? Now, Edith, is the time for us to look at the matter earnestly, and to determine the course we will take. There is no use to look away from it. A good house in a central situation, large enough for the purpose, can no doubt be obtained; and I think there will be no difficulty about our getting boarders enough to fill it. The income, or profit, from these will enable us still to live comfortably, and keep Edward and Ellen at school." "It is hard," was the only remark Edith made to this. "It is hard, my daughter; very hard! I have thought and thought about it until my whole mind has been thrown into confusion. But it will not do to think forever. There must be action. Can I see want stealing in upon my children, and sit and fold my hands supinely? No! And to you, Edith, my oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand up, bravely, by my side." "And you are in earnest in all this?" said Edith, whose mind seemed hardly able to realize the truth of their position. From her earliest days, all the blessings that money could procure had been freely scattered around her feet. As she grew up, and advanced towards womanhood, she had moved in the most fashionable circles, and there acquired the habit of estimating people according to their wealth and social standing, rather than by qualities of mind. In her view, it appeared degrading in a woman to enter upon any kind of employment for money; and with the keeper of a boarding-house, particularly, she had always associated something low, vulgar, and ungenteel. At the thought of her mother's engaging in such an occupation, when the suggestion was made, her mind instantly revolted. It appeared to her as if disgrace would be the inevitable consequence. "And you are in earnest in all this?" was an expression, mingling her clear conviction of the truth of what at first appeared so strange a proposition, and her astonishment that the necessities of their situation were such as to drive them to so humiliating a resource. "Deeply in earnest," was the mother's reply. "We are left alone in the world. He who cared for us, and provided for us so liberally, has been taken away, and we have nowhere to look for aid but to the resources that are in ourselves. These, well applied, will give us, I feel strongly assured, all that we need. The thing to decide is, what we ought to do. If we choose aright, all will, doubtless, come out right. To choose aright is, therefore, of the first importance; and to do this, we must not suffer distorting suggestions nor the appeals of a false pride to influence our minds in the least. You are my oldest child, Edith; and, as such, I cannot but look upon you as, to some extent, jointly, with me, the guardian of your younger brothers and sisters. True, Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly so; but still you are the eldest--your mind is most matured, and in your judgment I have the most confidence. Try and forget, Edith, all but the fact that, unless we make an exertion, one home for all cannot be retained. Are you willing that we should be scattered like leaves in the autumn wind? No! you would consider that one of the greatest calamities that could befall us--an evil to prevent which we should use every effort in our power. Do you not see this clearly?" "I do, mother," was replied by Edith in a more rational tone of voice than that in which she had yet spoken. "To open a store of any kind would involve five times the exposure of a boarding-house; and, moreover, I know nothing of business." "Keeping a store? Oh, no! we couldn't do that. Think of the dreadful exposure!" "But in taking boarders we only increase our family, and all goes on as usual. To my mind, it is the most genteel thing that we can do. Our style of living will be the same. Our waiter and all our servants will be retained. In fact, to the eye there will be little change, and the world need never know how greatly reduced our circumstances have become." This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith to taking boarders. Something, she saw, had to be done. Opening a store was felt to be out of the question; and as to commencing a school, the thought was repulsed at the very first suggestion. A few friends were consulted on the subject, and all agreed that the best thing for the widow to do was to take boarders. Each one could point to some lady who had commenced the business with far less ability to make boarders comfortable, and who had yet got along very well. It was conceded on all hands that it was a very genteel business, and that some of the first ladies had been compelled to resort to it, without being any the less respected. Almost every one to whom the matter was referred spoke in favor of the thing, and but a single individual suggested difficulty; but what he said was not permitted to have much weight. This individual was a brother of the widow, who had always been looked upon as rather eccentric. He was a bachelor, and without fortune, merely enjoying a moderate income as book-keeper in the office of an insurance company. But more of him hereafter. * * * * CHAPTER II. Mrs. Darlington, the widow we have just introduced to the reader, had five children. Edith, the oldest daughter, was twenty-two years of age at the time of her father's death; and Henry, the oldest son, just twenty. Next to Henry was Miriam, eighteen years old. The ages of the two youngest children, Ellen and Edward, were ten and eight. Mr. Darlington, while living, was a lawyer of distinguished ability, and his talents and reputation at the Philadelphia bar enabled him to accumulate a handsome fortune. Upon this he had lived for some years in a style of great elegance. About a year before his death, he had been induced to enter into some speculation that promised great results. But he found, when too late to retreat, that he had been greatly deceived. Heavy losses soon followed. In a struggle to recover himself, he became still further involved; and, ere the expiration of a twelve-month, saw everything falling from under him. The trouble brought on by this was the real cause of his death, which was sudden, and resulted from inflammation and congestion of the brain. Henry Darlington, the oldest son, was a young man of promising talents. He remained at college until a few months before his father's death, when he returned home, and commenced the study of law, in which he felt ambitious to distinguish himself. Edith, the oldest daughter, possessed a fine mind, which had been well educated. She had some false views of life, natural to her position; but, apart from this, was a girl of sound sense and great force of character. Thus far in life, she had not encountered circumstances of a nature calculated to develop what was in her. The time for that, however, was approaching. Miriam, her sifter, was a quiet, gentle, retiring, almost timid girl. She went into company with reluctance, and then always shrunk as far from observation as it was possible to get. But, like most quiet, retiring persons, there were deep places in her mind and heart. She thought and felt more than was supposed. All who knew Miriam, loved her. Of the younger children we need not here speak. Mrs. Darlington knew comparatively nothing of the world beyond her own social circle. She was, perhaps, as little calculated for doing what she proposed to do as a woman could well be. She had no habits of economy, and had never, in her life, been called upon to make calculations of expense in household matters. There was a tendency to generosity rather than selfishness in her character; and she rarely thought evil of any one. But all that she was need not here be set forth, for it will appear as our narrative progresses. Mr. Hiram Ellis, the brother of Mrs. Darlington, to whom brief allusion has been made, was not a great favorite in the family--although Mr. Darlington understood his good qualities, and very highly respected him--because he had not much that was prepossessing in his external appearance, and was thought to be a little eccentric. Moreover, he was not rich--merely holding the place of book-keeper in an insurance office, at a moderate salary. But, as he had never married, and had only himself to support, his income supplied amply all his wants, and left him a small annual surplus. After the death of Mr. Darlington, he visited his sister much more frequently than before. Of the exact condition of her affairs, he was much better acquainted than she supposed. The anxiety which she felt, some months after her husband's death, when the result of the settlement of his estate became known, led her to be rather more communicative. After determining to open a boarding-house, she said to him, on the occasion of his visiting her one evening-- "As it is necessary for me to do something, Hiram, I have concluded to move to a better location, and take a few boarders." "Don't do any such thing, Margaret," her brother made answer. "Taking boarders! It's the last thing of which a woman should think." "Why do you say that, Hiram?" asked Mrs. Darlington, evincing no little surprise at this unexpected reply. "Because I think that a woman who has a living to make can hardly try a more doubtful experiment. Not one in ten ever succeeds in doing anything." "But why, Hiram? Why? I'm sure a great many ladies get a living in that way." "What you will never do, Margaret, mark my words for it. It takes a woman of shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the world, and one thoroughly versed in household economy, to get along in this pursuit. Even if you possessed all these prerequisites to success, you have just the family that ought not to come in contact with anybody and everybody that find their way into boarding-houses." "I must do something, Hiram," said Mrs. Darlington, evincing impatience at the opposition of her brother. "I perfectly agree with you in that, Margaret," replied Mr. Ellis. "The only doubt is as to your choice of occupation. You think that your best plan will be to take boarders; while I think you could not fail upon a worse expedient." [Illustration] "Why do you think so?" "Have I not just said?" "What?" "Why, that, in the first place, it takes a woman of great shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the world, and one thoroughly versed in household economy, to succeed in the business." "I'm not a fool, Hiram!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, losing her self-command. "Perhaps you may alter your opinion on that head some time within the next twelve months," coolly returned Mr. Ellis, rising and beginning to button up his coat. "Such language to me, at this time, is cruel!" said Mrs. Darlington, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. "No," calmly replied her brother, "not cruel, but kind. I wish to save you from trouble." "What else can I do?" asked the widow, removing the handkerchief from her face. "Many things, I was going to say," returned Mr. Ellis. "But, in truth, the choice of employment is not very great. Still, something with a fairer promise than taking boarders may be found." "If you can point me to some better way, brother," said Mrs. Darlington, "I shall feel greatly indebted to you." "Almost anything is better. Suppose you and Edith were to open a school. Both of you are well--" "Open a school!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, interrupting her brother, and exhibiting most profound astonishment. "_I_ open a school! I didn't think _you_ would take advantage of my grief and misfortune to offer me an insult." Mr. Ellis buttoned the top button of his coat nervously, as his sister said this, and, partly turning himself towards the door, said-- "Teaching school is a far more useful, and, if you will, more respectable employment, than keeping a boarding-house. This you ought to see at a glance. As a teacher, you would be a minister of truth to the mind, and have it in your power to bend from evil and lead to good the young immortals committed to your care; while, as a boarding-house keeper, you would merely furnish food for the natural body--a use below what you are capable of rendering to society." But Mrs. Darlington was in no state of mind to feel the force of such an argument. From the thought of a school she shrunk as from something degrading, and turned from it with displeasure. "Don't mention such a thing to me," said she fretfully, "I will not listen to the proposition." "Oh, well, Margaret, as you please," replied her brother, now moving towards the door. "When you ask my advice, I will give it according to my best judgment, and with a sincere desire for your good. If, however, it conflicts with your views, reject it; but, in simple justice to me, do so in a better spirit than you manifest on the present occasion. Good evening!" Mrs. Darlington was too much disturbed in mind to make a reply, and Mr. Hiram Ellis left the room without any attempt on the part of his sister to detain him. On both sides, there had been the indulgence of rather more impatience and intolerance than was commendable. * * * * CHAPTER III. In due time, Mrs. Darlington removed to a house in Arch Street, the annual rent of which was six hundred dollars, and there began her experiment. The expense of a removal, and the cost of the additional chamber furniture required, exhausted about two hundred dollars of the widow's slender stock of money, and caused her to feel a little troubled when she noted the diminution. She began her new business with two boarders, a gentleman and his wife by the name of Grimes, who had entered her house on the recommendation of a friend. They were to pay her the sum of eight dollars a week. A young man named Barling, clerk in a wholesale Market Street house, came next; and he introduced, soon after, a friend of his, a clerk in the same store, named Mason. They were room-mates, and paid three dollars and a half each. Three or four weeks elapsed before any further additions were made; then an advertisement brought several applications. One was from a gentleman who wanted two rooms for himself and wife, a nurse and four children. He wanted the second story front and back chambers, furnished, and was not willing to pay over sixteen dollars, although his oldest child was twelve and his youngest four years of age--seven good eaters and two of the best rooms in the house for sixteen dollars! Mrs. Darlington demurred. The man said-- "Very well, ma'am," in a tone of indifference. "I can find plenty of accommodations quite as good as yours for the price I offer. It's all I pay now." Poor Mrs. Darlington sighed. She had but fifteen dollars yet in the house--that is, boarders who paid this amount weekly--and the rent alone amounted to twelve dollars. Sixteen dollars, she argued with herself, as she sat with her eyes upon the floor, would make a great difference in her income; would, in fact, meet all the expenses of the house. Two good rooms would still remain, and all that she received for these would be so much clear profit. Such was the hurried conclusion of Mrs. Darlington's mind. "I suppose I will have to take you," said she, lifting her eyes to the man's hard features. "But those rooms ought to bring me twenty-four dollars." "Sixteen is the utmost I will pay," replied the man. "In fact, I did think of offering only fourteen dollars. But the rooms are fine, and I like them. Sixteen is a liberal price. Your terms are considerably above the ordinary range." The widow sighed again. If the man heard this sound, it did not touch a single chord of feeling. "Then it is understood that I am to have your rooms at sixteen dollars?" said he. "Yes, sir. I will take you for that." "Very well. My name is Scragg. We will be ready to come in on Monday next. You can have all prepared for us?" "Yes, sir." Scarcely had Mr. Scragg departed, when a gentleman called to know if Mrs. Darlington had a vacant front room in the second story. "I had this morning; but it is taken," replied the widow. "Ah! I'm sorry for that." "Will not a third story front room suit you?" "No. My wife is not in very good health, and wishes a second story room. We pay twelve dollars a week, and would even give more, if necessary, to obtain just the accommodations we like. The situation of your house pleases me. I'm sorry that I happen to be too late." "Will you look at the room?" said Mrs. Darlington, into whose mind came the desire to break the bad bargain she had just made. "If you please," returned the man. And both went up to the large and beautifully furnished chambers. "Just the thing!" said the man, as he looked around, much pleased with the appearance of everything. "But I understood you to say that it was taken." "Why, yes," replied Mrs. Darlington, "I did partly engage it this morning; but, no doubt, I can arrange with the family to take the two rooms above, which will suit them just as well." "If you can"-- "There'll be no difficulty, I presume. You'll pay twelve dollars a week?" "Yes." "Only yourself and lady?" "That's all." "Very well, sir; you can have the room." "It's a bargain, then. My name is Ring. Our week is up to-day where we are; and, if it is agreeable, we will become your guests to-morrow." "Perfectly agreeable, Mr. Ring." The gentleman bowed politely and retired. Now Mrs. Darlington did not feel very comfortable when she reflected on what she had done. The rooms in the second story were positively engaged to Mr. Scragg, and now one of them was as positively engaged to Mr. Ring. The face of Mr. Scragg she remembered very well. It was a hard, sinister face, just such a one as we rarely forget because of the disagreeable impression it makes. As it came up distinctly before the eyes of her mind, she was oppressed with a sense of coming trouble. Nor did she feel altogether satisfied with what she had done--satisfied in her own conscience. On the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ring came and took possession of the room previously engaged to Mr. Scragg. They were pleasant people, and made a good first impression. As day after day glided past, Mrs. Darlington felt more and more uneasy about Mr. Scragg, with whom, she had a decided presentiment, there would be trouble. Had she known where to find him, she would have sent him a note, saying that she had changed her mind about the rooms, and could not let him have them. But she was ignorant of his address; and the only thing left for her was to wait until he came on Monday, and then get over the difficulty in the best way possible. She and Edith had talked over the matter frequently, and had come to the determination to offer Mr. Scragg the two chambers in the third story for fourteen dollars. On Monday morning, Mrs. Darlington was nervous. This was the day on which Mr. Scragg and family were to arrive, and she felt that there would be trouble. Mr. Ring, and the other gentlemen boarders, left soon after breakfast. About ten o'clock, the door-bell rang. Mrs. Darlington was in her room at the time changing her dress. Thinking that this might be the announcement of Mr. Scragg's arrival, she hurried through her dressing in order to get down to the parlor as quickly as possible to meet him and the difficulty that was to be encountered; but before she was in a condition to be seen, she heard a man's voice on the stairs saying-- "Walk up, my dear. The rooms on the second floor are ours." Then came the noise of many feet in the passage, and the din of children's voices. Mr. Scragg and his family had arrived. Mrs. Ring was sitting with the morning paper in her hand, when her door was flung widely open, and a strange man stepped boldly in, saying, as he did so, to the lady who followed him-- "This is one of the chambers." Mrs. Ring arose, bowed, and looked at the intruders with surprise and embarrassment. Just then, four rude children bounded into the room, spreading themselves around it, and making themselves perfectly at home. "There is some mistake, I presume," said Mrs. Scragg, on perceiving a lady in the room, whose manner said plainly enough that they were out of their place. "Oh no! no mistake at all," replied Scragg. "These are the two rooms I engaged." Just then Mrs. Darlington entered, in manifest excitement. "Walk down into the parlor, if you please," said she. "These are our rooms," said Scragg, showing no inclination to vacate the premises. "Be kind enough to walk down into the parlor," repeated Mrs. Darlington, whose sense of propriety was outraged by the man's conduct, and who felt a corresponding degree of indignation. With some show of reluctance, this invitation was acceded to, and Mr. Scragg went muttering down stairs, followed by his brood. The moment he left the chamber, the door was shut and locked by Mrs. Ring, who was a good deal frightened by so unexpected an intrusion. "What am I to understand by this, madam?" said Mr. Scragg, fiercely, as soon as they had all reached the parlor, planting his hands upon his hips as he spoke, drawing himself up, and looking at Mrs. Darlington with a lowering countenance. "Take a seat, madam," said Mrs. Darlington, addressing the man's wife in a tone of forced composure. She was struggling for self-possession. The lady sat down. "Will you be good enough to explain the meaning of all this, madam?" repeated Mr. Scragg. "The meaning is simply," replied Mrs. Darlington, "that I have let the front room in the second story to a gentleman and his wife for twelve dollars a-week." "The deuce you have!" said Mr. Scragg, with a particular exhibition of gentlemanly indignation. "And pray, madam, didn't you let both the rooms in the second story to me for sixteen dollars?" "I did; but"-- "Oh, very well. That's all I wish to know about it. The rooms were rented to me, and from that day became mine. Please to inform the lady and her husband that I am here with my family, and desire them to vacate the chambers as quickly as possible. I'm a man that knows his rights, and, knowing, always maintains them." "You cannot have the rooms, sir. That is out of the question," said Mrs. Darlington, looking both distressed and indignant. "And I tell you that I will have them!" replied Scragg, angrily. "Peter! Peter! Don't act so," now interposed Mrs. Scragg. "There's no use in it." "Ain't there, indeed! We'll see. Madam"--he addressed Mrs. Darlington--"will you be kind enough to inform the lady and gentleman who now occupy one of our rooms"-- "Mr. Scragg!" said Mrs. Darlington, in whose fainting heart his outrageous conduct had awakened something of the right spirit--"Mr. Scragg, I wish you to understand, once for all, that the front room is taken and now occupied, and that you cannot have it." "Madam!" "It's no use for you to waste words, sir! What I say I mean. I have other rooms in the house very nearly as good, and am willing to take you for something less in consideration of this disappointment. If that will meet your views, well; if not, let us have no more words on the subject." There was a certain something in Mrs. Darlington's tone of voice that Scragg understood to mean a fixed purpose. Moreover, his mind caught at the idea of getting boarded for something less than sixteen dollars a-week. "Where are the rooms?" he asked, gruffly. "The third story chambers." "Front?" "Yes." "I don't want to go to the third story." "Very well. Then you can have the back chamber down stairs, and the front chamber above." "What will be your charge?" "Fourteen dollars." "That will do, Peter," said Mrs. Scragg. "Two dollars a week is considerable abatement." "It's something, of course. But I don't like this off and on kind of business. When I make an agreement, I'm up to the mark, and expect the same from everybody else. Will you let my wife see the rooms, madam?" "Certainly," replied Mrs. Darlington, and moved towards the door. Mrs. Scragg followed, and so did all the juvenile Scraggs--the latter springing up the stairs with the agility of apes and the noise of a dozen rude schoolboys just freed from the terror of rod and ferule. The rooms suited Mrs. Scragg very well--at least such was her report to her husband--and, after some further rudeness on the part of Mr. Scragg, and an effort to beat Mrs. Darlington down to twelve dollars a-week, were taken, and forthwith occupied. * * * * CHAPTER IV. Mrs. Darlington was a woman of refinement herself, and had been used to the society of refined persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked at the coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an hour went by, in despair at the unmannerly rudeness of the children, the oldest a stout, vulgar-looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about the house from the garret to the cellar. For a long time after her exciting interview with Mr. Scragg, she sat weeping and trembling in her own room, with Edith by her side, who sought earnestly to comfort and encourage her. "Oh, Edith!" she sobbed, "to think that we should be humbled to this!" "Necessity has forced us into our present unhappy position, mother," replied Edith. "Let us meet its difficulties with as brave hearts as possible." "I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man with even common civility," said Mrs. Darlington. "We have accepted him as our guest, mother, and it will be our duty to make all as pleasant and comfortable as possible. We will have to bear much, I see--much beyond what I had anticipated." Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied-- "Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes me miserable!" "No more of that sweet drawing together in our own dear home circle," remarked Edith, sadly. "Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence and intrusion of strangers, with whom we have few or no sentiments in common. We open our house and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and feed them for a certain price! Does not the thought bring a feeling of painful humiliation? What can pay for all this? Ah me! The anticipation had in it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief experience. Except Mr. and Mrs. Ring, there isn't a lady nor gentleman in the house. That Mason is so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come near him. He's making himself quite intimate with Henry already, and I don't like to see it." "Nor do I," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Henry's been out with him twice to the theatre already." "I'm afraid of his influence over Henry. He's not the kind of a companion he ought to choose," said Edith. "And then Mr. Barling is with Miriam in the parlor almost every evening. He asks her to sing, and she says she doesn't like to refuse." The mother sighed deeply. While they were conversing, a servant came to their room to say that Mr. Ring was in the parlor, and wished to speak with Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon of the day on which the Scraggs had made their appearance. With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington went down to the parlor. "Madam," said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, speaking in a firm voice, "I find that my wife has been grossly insulted by a fellow whose family you have taken into your house. Now they must leave here, or we will, and that forthwith." "I regret extremely," replied Mrs. Darlington, "the unpleasant occurrence to which you allude; but I do not see how it is possible for me to turn these people out of the house." "Very well, ma'am. Suit yourself about that. You can choose between us. Both can't remain." "If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another boarding-house, he would insult me," said Mrs. Darlington. "Strange that you would take such a fellow into your house!" "My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill them." "Better to have let them remain vacant. But this is neither here nor there. If this fellow remains, we go." And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darlington was afraid to approach Mr. Scragg on the subject. Had she done so, she would have received nothing but abuse. Two weeks afterwards, the room vacated by Mr. and Mrs. Ring was taken by a tall, fine-looking man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers and dressed elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, and agreed to pay eight dollars. Mrs. Darlington liked him very much. There was a certain style about him that evidenced good breeding and a knowledge of the world. What his business was he did not say. He was usually in the house as late as ten o'clock in the morning, and rarely came in before twelve at night. Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. Darlington's household, he began to show particular attentions to Miriam, who was in her nineteenth year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, shrinking girl. Though she did not encourage, she would not reject the attentions of the polite and elegant stranger, who had so much that was agreeable to say that she insensibly acquired a kind of prepossession in his favor. As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington was not so pleasant and harmonious as could have been desired. Mr. Scragg had already succeeded in making himself so disagreeable to the other boarders that they were scarcely civil to him; and Mrs. Grimes, who was quite gracious with Mrs. Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They had fallen out about some trifle, quarreled, and then cut each other's acquaintance. When the breakfast, dinner, or tea bell rang, and the boarders assembled at the table, there was generally, at first, an embarrassing silence. Scragg looked like a bull-dog waiting for an occasion to bark; Mrs. Scragg sat with her lips closely compressed and her head partly turned away, so as to keep her eyes out of the line of vision with Mrs. Grimes's face; while Mrs. Grimes gave an occasional glance of contempt towards the lady with whom she had had a "tiff." Barling and Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it, were generally the first to break the reigning silence; and this was usually done by addressing some remark to Scragg, for no other reason, it seemed, than to hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded in drawing him into an argument, when they would goad him until he became angry; a species of irritation in which they never suffered themselves to indulge. As for Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few words. When spoken to, he would reply; but he never made conversation. The only man who really behaved like a gentleman was Mr. Burton; and the contrast seen in him naturally prepossessed the family in his favor. The first three months' experience in taking boarders was enough to make the heart of Mrs. Darlington sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From early morning until late at night, she toiled harder than any servant in the house; and, with all, had a mind pressed down with care and anxiety. Three times during this period she had been obliged to change her cook, yet, for all, scarcely a day passed that she did not set badly-cooked food before her guests. Sometimes certain of the boarders complained, and it generally happened that rudeness accompanied the complaint. The sense of pain that attended this was always most acute, for it was accompanied by deep humiliation and a feeling of helplessness. Moreover, during these first three months, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes had left the house without paying their board for five weeks, thus throwing her into a loss of forty dollars. At the beginning of this experiment, after completing the furniture of her house, Mrs. Darlington had about three hundred dollars. When the quarter's bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred and fifty dollars left. Thus, instead of making anything by boarders, so far, she had sunk a hundred and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened her dreadfully. Then, the effect upon almost every member of her family had been bad. Harry was no longer the thoughtful, affectionate, innocent-minded young man of former days. Mason and Barling had introduced him into gay company, and, fascinated with a new and more exciting kind of life, he was fast forming associations and acquiring habits of a dangerous character. It was rare that he spent an evening at home; and, instead of being of any assistance to his mother, was constantly making demands on her for money. The pain all this occasioned Mrs. Darlington was of the most distressing character. Since the children of Mr. and Mrs. Scragg came into the house, Edward and Ellen, who had heretofore been under the constant care and instruction of their mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associated constantly with these children, and learned from them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some things, even vicious. And Miriam had become apparently so much interested in Mr. Burton, who was constantly attentive to her, that both Mrs. Darlington and Edith became anxious on her account. Burton was an entire stranger to them all, and there were many things about him that appeared strange, if not wrong. So much for the experiment of taking boarders, after the lapse of a single quarter of a year. (To be continued.) * * * * * DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN. BY MRS. L.G. ABELL. Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear; So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near: Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still, And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill. Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above, With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love, Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues revealed-- A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed. At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast, I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest-- And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain; But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain. Oh, can it be that this is life!--a thing so frail as this! Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss-- That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day, Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away? How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair-- Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there; Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side-- How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died! How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been; Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain; Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear, Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear. How long life looked to her; its far and distant day Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way; No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye, For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky. But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here-- And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere! That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay, Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay. This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers; But yet how soon we all forget, and think them _rosy bowers_! We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot; But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot! Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home; 'Tis but the trial-place of life--a race that's swiftly run:-- Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain, That fastens to our life above its _pleasure_ or its _pain_. Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here; He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear: If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting-- Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing. * * * * * THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE. BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE. PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. JUDGE BOLTON. HENRY BOLTON, _son of the Judge_. DR. MARGRAVE, REV. PAUL GODFREY, _Classmates and friends of the Judge_. PROF. OLNEY, _Teacher of a Classical School_. FREDERICK BELCOUR, _son of Madame Belcour_. CAPT. PAWLETT, _friend of Fred. Belcour_. LANDON, _Counselor at Law_. SHERIFF. CLERK OF THE COURT. CRIER OF THE COURT. OFFICERS OF THE COURT. TWELVE JURYMEN. DENNIS O'BLARNEY, _servant of Dr. Margrave_. MICHAEL MAGEE, _servant of the Judge_. CITIZENS, MESSENGERS OF THE COURT, WATCHMEN, &c. MADAME BELCOUR, _a widow, cousin of the Judge, and presiding in his household_. BELINDA, _daughter of Madame Belcour_. LUCY, _daughter of the Judge_. MRS. OLNEY, _wife of Prof. Olney_. ISABELLE, _reputed daughter of Prof. Olney_. RUTH, _waiting-maid at Judge Bolton's_. SCENE--partly in the city; partly at Rose Hill, near the city. TIME OF ACTION, twenty-four hours, commencing at 10 o'clock, A.M., and ending at the same hour on the following day. ACT I. SCENE I.--_A Doctor's study. Books and instruments scattered around. Table in the centre, strewn with books and pamphlets._ DR. MARGRAVE _seated by the table, cutting the leaves of a pamphlet_. DR. MARGRAVE. Thus, ever on and on must be our course: Even as the ocean drinks a thousand streams, And never cries "enough!"--the human mind Would drain all sources of intelligence, Yet ne'er is filled, and never satisfied. And theory succeeds to theory As regular as tides that ebb and flow. This treatise will disprove the last I read. Shade of Hippocrates! what creeds are formed, What antics practiced with your "Healing Art!" I will not sport with fate, nor tamper thus With man's credulity and nature's strength. No: I will gently coincide with nature, And give her time and scope to work the cure-- Strengthening the patient's heart with trust in God, And teaching him that genuine health depends On true obedience to the natural laws Ordained for man--not on the doctor's skill. _Enter_ DENNIS, _with a card to the Doctor_. DENNIS. The gentleman awaits you in the hall. DR. MARGRAVE (_reading the card_). "Reverend Paul Godfrey"--my old college chum! Is't possible! (_To_ DENNIS.) Bring him up, instantly. [_Exit_ DENNIS. I have not seen him since our hands were clasped In Harvard Hall:--I wonder if he'll know me. (_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.) Ah! welcome! welcome!--You are Godfrey still. The changes of--how many years have passed Since last we parted? GODFREY. Thirty years;--and you-- MARGRAVE. Are altered, you would say. I know it well. My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud, Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow. The image that my mirror gives me back I scarce believe my own--so pale and worn. Would you have known me had we met by chance? GODFREY. Ay, ay--among a million--if you spoke. There's the old touch of kindness in your voice; And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore. Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age May lay their blighting fingers on our hair. MARGRAVE. Thank Heaven 'tis so!--But you are little changed, Save the maturing touch that manhood brings When health and strength have won the victory, And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind! GODFREY. My lot has been amid the wild, fresh scenes Of Nature's wide domain; where all is free. Life seems t' inhale the vigorous breath required To struggle with the elements around, And thus keeps Time at bay. Like good old Boone, The patriarch hunter, in the forest wilds I've found that God supplied, and healed, and blessed. Men live too fast in cities. MARGRAVE. Not if they Would give their energies a noble aim. The opportunities to compass good, And good effected--these are dates that give The sum of human life. GODFREY. True; most true. It is in cities where men congregate, And good and evil strive for mastery, The sternest strength of soul must needs be tested. But all that stirs the passions makes us old. 'Twould wear me out--this round of ceaseless toil, In the same range of artificial life; And I must greet you with a traveler's haste, And back to my free forest home again. MARGRAVE. 'Tis well that every part and scene in life Can find its actors ready for the stage, And well that our wide land has scope for all. And yet to feel that those who raised together Their hope-swelled canvass when life's voyage began-- Like ships, storm-parted, on the world's rough sea-- Can sail no more in sweet companionship! 'Tis a sad thought! Of all our college friends, But one, beside myself, is here to greet you. GODFREY. Who is he?--There is one would glad my heart. When college scenes arise, yourself and Bolton-- MARGRAVE. 'Tis he I mean. GODFREY. What, Bolton? Harry Bolton? I heard some fellow-travelers in the cars Talking of one Judge Bolton, as the man Who filled his orb of duty like the sun-- Shining on all, and drawing all t' obey. Surely this cannot be our Harry Bolton-- The frank, warm-hearted, but most wayward youth. Whose mind was like a comet--now all light. Anon, away where reason could not follow. He surely has not reached this grave estate Of Judge! MARGRAVE. The same, the same--our Harry Bolton. And better still, a man whom all men honor. GODFREY. I must see him. Let us go at once. I feel A joy like that of Joseph's when he found That his young brother Benjamin had come. Though now the order is reversed, for here The youngest claims the honors. MARGRAVE. No, not so. Your order should be first in estimation, And always is, where men are trained for heaven And mine would be the second, were we wise, And followed Nature as you follow God. And Law is the third station on the mount, When men are placed as lights above life's path And Bolton is, in truth, a light and guide. GODFREY. Where shall I find him? MARGRAVE. In his place, to-day, The seat of Justice. We'll go--it is not far The cause is one of special interest: I'll give its history as we pass along. Wilt go? GODFREY. Ay, surely, surely. I am ready now. It is the very place and time to see him. [_Exeunt._ * * * * SCENE II.--_A street. Crowds of people hurrying on._ _Enter PROFESSOR OLNEY and FREDERICK BELCOUR._ OLNEY. You say the sentence will be passed to-day? BELCOUR. Most certainly; and crowds will press to hear it Judge Bolton has a world-wide reputation, And 'tis a cause to rouse his eloquence. OLNEY. I wish I could be there. BELCOUR. What should hinder? 'Twould but detain you for an hour or two. OLNEY. My pupils stand between. Yet Isabelle Might hear the recitations; she does this Often, when I am ill. A dear, good child: She thinks her learning of no more account, Save as the means to help me in my tasks, Than though she only could her sampler sew Yet she reads Latin like a master, and In Greek bids fair to be a Lizzy Carter. If she but knew I was detained-- BELCOUR. A note Would tell her this. Write one, and I will send it. Here's paper, pencil-- [_Taking them from his pocket, OLNEY writes._ OLNEY. I shall trouble you. BELCOUR. No trouble in the least. Now, hurry on. The court-room will be filled. I'll send the note-- _[Exit OLNEY._ Or bear it, rather. She shall see me, too Before she has the letter from my hand. A proud, ungrateful girl:--reject my love! [_Turns to go out_. _Enter_ CAPTAIN PAWLETT PAWLETT How, Belcour--what's the matter? You go wrong. 'Tis to the court-house all the world is going. BELCOUR (_impetuously_). Let the world go its way, and me go mine We've parted company, the world and I. When Fortune frowns, the wretch is left alone PAWLETT. Ah! true--I've heard of some embarrassments-- BELCOUR. Embarrassments!--A puling, milliner phrase! One of those tender terms we coin to throw A sentimental interest round the bankrupt;-- As though he may recover if he choose. Why, Pawlett, man, I'm ruined, if the plan I've formed to-day should fail. It shall not fail. I will succeed. And Isabelle once mine, With cash to bear us to a foreign land, I care not for the rest, though death and hell Should stand at the goal to seize me. [_Exit violently_. PAWLETT (_looking after him_). The fool! He's in a furious mood--and let him rave-- He'll never win his way with Isabelle. My chances there are better, but not good. Young Bolton's in my way. He loves her well; And she, I fear, loves him. But then his father Is proud as Lucifer, and selfish too. Ambition makes the generous nature selfish. He'll ne'er consent his only son should wed The portionless daughter of a pedagogue. No, no. I'll tot these bitter waters out. I'll give the judge an inkling of the matter. I'll write a note--he'll think it comes from Belcour. If I can drive young Bolton from the field, Then Isabelle is mine.--I'll do it. (_As_ PAWLETT _is going out, Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE _and_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.) GODFREY. You say Judge Bolton lives in princely style. Is he a married man? MARGRAVE. He has been married;-- Most happily married, too. His wife was one Of those pure beings, gentle, wise, and firm. That mould our sex to highest hopes and aims. He loved her as the devotee his saint: And from the day he wed he trod life's path As one who came to conquer. GODFREY. I see it now. The motive to excel was all he needed. He had a vigorous mind, a generous heart, An innate love of goodness and of truth. But he was wayward, and he hated tasks. Such men must have an aim beyond themselves, Or oft they prove but dreamers. And with such, Woman's companionship, dependence, love, Are like the air to fire:--the smouldering flame Of genius, once aroused, sweeps doubts away, And brightens hope, till victory is won. MARGRAVE. 'Twas thus with Bolton. To his keeping given The weal of one so dear--then he bore on, Gathering from disappointments fruitful strength, As winter's snows prepare the earth for harvest. And when his angel wife was taken from him, She left him pledges of her love and trust, A son of noble promise, and a daughter To nestle, dove-like, in her father's heart, And keep her place for ever. She is blind! GODFREY. I marvel not that Bolton has excelled, And won a station of the highest trust, If his warm heart enlisted in the work: But the small cares, the constant calculations Required to make, at least to keep, a fortune-- I never should have looked to him for these. MARGRAVE. 'Twas luck that favored him; or Providence, As you would say. A friend of his and ours. De Vere, the young West Indian in our class-- You must remember him--he left to Bolton All his estate. A hundred thousand pounds 'Twas said he would inherit. GODFREY. How happened this? De Vere returned to Cuba, there to marry? MARGRAVE. He did, and had a family. But all His children died save one, and then his wife. And so he hither came to change the scene. Bolton, just widowed then, received his friend With more than brother's kindness, for their griefs Bound them, like ties of soul, in sympathy. De Vere was ill, and, with his motherless babe, He found in Bolton's home the rest he sought. And there he died, and left his little daughter To his friend's guardian care; and to his will A codicil annexed, unknown to Bolton, That gave him all if Isabelle should die Before she reached the age of twenty-one, And die unmarried. GODFREY. She is dead, then? MARGRAVE. She is. Her life was like the early rose, That bears th' frost in its heart. The bud is fair; The strength to bloom is wanting; so it dies But come, we shall be late. GODFREY. What crowds are going! And Irishmen!--Are these so fond of Justice? MARGRAVE. Ay; where they feel she holds an even scale, And is the friend alike of rich and poor, They yield a prompt obedience, and become Americans. Our motto is--"The law." [_Exeunt._ * * * * SCENE III.--_The Court-room. A crowd of people._ PRISONER _in the dock. His Wife, an infant in her arms, and his Sister, both in deep mourning, near him_. LANGDON, _counsel for the prisoner;_ SHERIFF; CLERK _of the Court_; CRIER _of the Court;_ CONSTABLES. _Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON, _followed by two other_ JUDGES. _All take their places on the bench. Then enter_ DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL. DENNIS (_staring at the_ JUDGE). I' faith, 'tis a _purty_ thing to be a judge, And sit so high and cool above the crowd. And your good master well becomes his seat. He looks, for all the world, like Dan O'Connell. MICHAEL. He looks like a better man, and that's himself. I wish he was judge of Ireland. DENNIS. So do I; And my good _masther_ was her doctor too. They'd set the _ould_ country on her legs right soon. He's coming now. _Pointing to_ DR. MARGRAVE, _who is entering, followed by_ REV. PAUL GODFREY. MICHAEL. Who's with your master? He looks as he had mettle in his arm. DENNIS. He is my master's friend--a sort o' priest. MICHAEL. And sure can battle with the fiend himself. He looks as strong as Samson. DENNIS. Well for him Living away in the West, 'mong savages, And bears, and wolves, and-- CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence! MARGRAVE (_turning to_ GODFREY, _who is gazing_ _at_ JUDGE BOLTON). You seem surprised. Has he outlived the likeness Kept in your mind? Seems he another man? GODFREY. He is another man. The soul has wrought Its work, as 'twere, with fire, and purified The dross of selfish passion from his aims. I read the victory on his open brow, And in the deep repose of his calm eye. MARGRAVE. His was a noble nature from the first. GODFREY. He had a searching mind, a strong, warm heart, And impulses of nobleness and truth. But Nature sets her favorite sons a task: We are not good by chance. Bolton had pride-- An overweening pride in his own powers. This pride obeys the will; and when the brain Is mean and narrow, like a low-roofed dungeon, And only keeps one image there confined-- The image of self--the heart soon yields its truth, And makes this self its idol, aim, and end. Such is the Haman pride that mars the man, And makes the wise contemn and hate him too-- Hate and contemn the more, the more he prospers. MARGRAVE. This is not Bolton's picture? GODFREY. No. His pride, Now his strong lion will has curbed the jackals-- Those appetites and vanities of self That mark the coxcomb rare wherever seen-- Is all made up of generous sentiments, The father's, citizen's, and patriot's pride. MARGRAVE. You read him like a book. GODFREY. An art we learn Of reading men when we have few books to read. CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence! _Enter two_ OFFICERS OF THE COURT, _attending the twelve_ JURYMEN, _who take their seats. A crowd follows._ PROFESSOR OLNEY _trying to press through the crowd: young_ HENRY BOLTON _makes room for him_. YOUNG BOLTON. Stand here, Professor Olney--take this place; Here you will not be crowded. Ah! your cough Is troublesome to-day. Pray, take this seat; You'll see as well, and be much more at ease. PROFESSOR OLNEY (_taking the seat_). Thank you! thank you! This is kind, indeed. I am not well to-day, but could not lose This chance of listening to your father's voice. His eloquence is classic in its style; Not brilliant with explosive coruscations Of heterogeneous thoughts at random caught, And scattered like a shower of shooting stars That end in darkness--no; Judge Bolton's mind Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene. His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps Fixed on the sun of Truth, and breathes his speech As easy as an eagle cleaves the air, And never pauses till the height is won. And all who listen follow where he leads. YOUNG BOLTON. I hope you will be gratified. Are all-- All well at home? PROFESSOR OLNEY _(smiling)_. I should not else be out. And Isabelle will hear the recitations. YOUNG BOLTON _(aside)_. I'll go, and see, and help her. Not to conquer As Cæsar boasted--she has conquered me. I'll go and yield myself her captive. [_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON. CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence! CLERK OF THE COURT. Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready To give the verdict now? FOREMAN. We are ready. CLERK OF THE COURT. Prisoner, stand up and look upon the jury. Jury, if and up and look upon the prisoner. The man you now behold has had his trial Before you for a crime. What is the verdict? Is he, the prisoner, guilty or not guilty? FOREMAN _(reading the verdict)._ Guilty of murder in the second degree. [_A deep silence, broken only by the sobs of prisoner's wife and sister. Prisoner sinks down on his seat_. CLERK OF THE COURT _records the sentence_. CLERK OF THE COURT. Gentlemen of the jury, listen to The verdict as recorded by the court The prisoner at the bar is therein found For crime committed--and that has been proven-- Guilty of murder in the second degree. So say you, Mister Foreman? So say all? FOREMAN AND JURY. All (_bowing_). JUDGE BOLTON. A righteous verdict this, and yet a sad one A fellow-being banished from our midst, To pass his days in utter loneliness Prisoner you've heard the verdict. Have you aught To say why sentence should not now be passed? Speak; you may have the opportunity. LANGDON _counsel for the prisoner, confers with him then addresses the_ JUDGE. LANGDON He cannot speak; his heart o'erpowers his tongue; The tide of grief seeps all his strength away, As rising waters drown the sinking boat. And he entreats that I would say for him, The court permitting me, a few last words. JUDGE BOLTON Go on. You are permitted. LANGDON. May it please The court, the jury, and all these good people, The prisoner prays that I would beg for him, As on his soul's behalf, your prayers and pardon: That is, while he in penitence will yield To the just punishment the law awards, You'll think of him as one misled--not cruel. The murderous deed his hand did was not done With heart consent--he knew it not. The fiend That _rum_ evokes had entered him, and changed His nature. So he prays you will never brand His innocent boy with this his father's guilt; Nor on his broken-hearted wife look cold, As though his leprous sin defiled these poor And helpless sufferers. Then he prays that all Would lend their aid to root intemperance out, And crush the horrid haunts of sin and ruin, Where liquid poison for the soul is sold! And while the victims of this deadly traffic Must bear the penalty of crimes committed, Even when the light of reason has been quenched, That you would frame a law to reach the tempter, Nor let those go unscathed who cause the crime. And then he prays, most fervently, that all Who may, like him, be tempted by the bowl, Would lake a warning from his fearful fate, And "touch not, taste not" make their solemn pledge, And so he parts with all in charity. [_A pause--the sobs of the prisoner's wife and sister are heard._ CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence! CLERK OF THE COURT. Prisoner, stand up and listen to the sentence. JUDGE BOLTON (_solemnly_). Laws hitherto are framed to punish crime All legislators have been slow to deal With vice in its first elements; and here Lie the pernicious root and seeds of sin. That children are permitted to grow up From infancy to youth without instruction, Is a grave wrong, and ne'er to be redeemed By penal statutes and the prisoner's cell. We leave the mind unfortified by Truth, And wonder it should fill with wayward Error. There's no blank ignorance, as many dream; Each soul will have its growth and garnering. As the uncultured prairie bears a harvest Heavy and rank, yet worthless to the world, So mind and heart uncultured run to waste; The noblest natures serving but to show A denser growth of passion's deadly fruit. Another error of our social state-- We charter sin when chartering temptation. We see the ensnarer, like a spider, sit Weaving his web; and we permit the work. How many souls Intemperance has destroyed, Lured to his den by opportunities The law allows! The prisoner at the bar Is one of these unhappy instances. The testimony offered here has shown He bore a character unstained by crime. Nay, more--an active, honest, prudent man, Prisoner, you have appeared, since you came here Five years ago. You came with us to share, In this free land, the blessings we enjoy; Blessings by law secured, by law sustained; The impartial law that, like the glorious sun, Sends from its central light a beam to all, And binds in magnet interest all as one. And you had married here, and were a father And prospered in your plans, and all was well. Nay, more--'tis proved you had a generous heart, And had been kind to your poor countrymen, The homeless emigrants who gather here, Like men escaped from sore calamities, Where only life is saved from out the wreck. And one of these, an early friend, who died Beneath the kindly shelter of your roof, Left to your care his precious orphan child-- His only child, his motherless, his daughter. And you received the gift, and vowed to be A father to the little lonely one. Where is that orphan now?--Must I go on? 'Tis not to harrow up your trembling soul. I would not lay a feather on the weight Stern memory brings to crash the guilty down. But I would stir your feelings to their depths. And bring, like conscience in your dying hour, The sense of your great crime, that so you may Repent, and Heaven will pardon. Here on earth, Man has no power t' absolve such guilty deed. Prisoner, one month ago, and you were safe-- A man among your neighbors well beloved, And in your home the one preferred to all. No monarch could have driven you from the throne You held in th' loving hearts of wife and child. Your coming was their festival; your step, As eve drew on, was music to their ears. The little girl, the adopted of your vow, Was always at the door to claim the kiss That you, with father's tenderness, bestowed. Alas! for her--for you--the last return! One fatal night you yielded to the tempter, And drained the drunkard's cup till reason fled, And then went reeling home, your brain on fire, And, raging like a tiger in the toils, You fancied every human form a foe. And when that little girl, like playful fawn, Unconscious of your state, came bounding forth To clasp your knee and welcome "father home"-- You, with a madman's fury, struck her dead! [_A shriek is heard from prisoner's wife._ Prisoner, for this offence you have been tried, And every scope allowed that law could grant To mitigate the awful punishment. No one believes that malice moved your mind; But murdering maniacs may not live with men; And therefore, prisoner, you are doomed for life To solitary toil. Alone! alone! alone! Love's music voice will never greet your ear; Affection's eye will never meet your gaze; Nor heart-warm hand of friend return your grasp; But morn, and noon, and night, days, months, and years, Will all be told in this one word--alone! Prisoner, the world will leave you as the dead Within your closing cell--your living tomb. But One there is who pardons and protects, And never leaves the penitent alone. Oh, turn to Him, the Saviour! so your cell, That opens when you die, may lead to heaven:-- And God have mercy on your penitence! [_Prisoner sinks down, as the curtain slowly falls_.] END OF ACT I. * * * * * SABBATH LYRICS. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. GOD THE GUARDIAN.--PSALM XI. How say ye to my soul, As a mountain bird depart? For the wicked bend the bow, With the aim upon the heart. In the Lord I put my trust-- The Great Giver of my breath-- He is mighty as he's just, He wilt guard my soul from death. On his holy throne he sits, With his eye o'er all the earth; But his shaft, that slays the vile, Never harms the breast of worth. The man of wrath he dooms To the terror and the blight; But his love the soul sustains That walks humbly in his sight. * * * * * LET WELL ENOUGH ALONE. BY MRS. EMMA BALL. "A word spoken in due season, how good is it!" and how often is its influence more lasting and more beneficial than at the time of its utterance either speaker or hearer dreams of. To illustrate. When about seventeen, I was, at my earnest solicitation, placed in a seminary, with the understanding that for one year I should devote myself to study, and thus become better fitted for future usefulness as a teacher. How I had wished for such an opportunity! How often had my wish been disappointed! and how narrowly I had escaped disappointment even then! But I was there at last, and everything seemed to be just as I would have it. Thus far I had studied unaided, and amid incessant interruptions. Now I could obtain assistance, and command the necessary leisure. The last four years I had passed in a crowded city. Now I breathed the purest atmosphere, and the scenery around me was of surpassing beauty. My window commanded the prettiest view; and, better still, I had no room-mate to disturb me with unwelcome chit-chat. Who could be happier than I? There was but one inconvenience, one drawback to the feeling of entire satisfaction with which, day after day, I looked around "my charming little room;" and that was the position of my bedstead. I did not like that; for the head was so near the door as to leave no room for my table; and consequently, as I could not place my lamp in perfect safety near my bed, I was compelled either to waste the precious hour before broad daylight, or to rise and study in a freezing room. "If I could only turn this bedstead round," thought I, "so that the head would be near the table, how many hours I might save!" and I resolved that, on the coming Saturday, I would make the desirable change. On the afternoon of that day, I was engaged to ride home with one of the teachers, and the morning I had intended to devote to sewing and study: "but no matter," thought I; "by a little extra effort I can accomplish all." Accordingly, when Saturday came I commenced operations; but, after removing the bed and mattress I discovered, to my great concern, that, although the bedstead would stand as I wished, yet I could not turn it thither without first taking it apart; and for this a bed-key was necessary. "Well," thought I, "it is worth the trouble;" so I procured a bed-key; and at length--at length--two of the screws yielded to my efforts. The others, however, _would not_ yield. I tried and tried, but without avail; and, wearied and disappointed, I stood wondering what I should do. Just then, the door opened; and "Aunty," an old lady whose kindness and sound sense had already won my regard, stepped in. "What is the matter?" she exclaimed--"why, what has the child been about?" "I was trying to turn my bedstead so," said I, ruefully pointing towards the table; and I went on to explain why I had done so. "I dare say thou wouldst find it more convenient so," answered Aunty; "but it is quite beyond thy strength." "I see it is," sighed I. "I would have it turned for thee" she said; "but that is the most troublesome bedstead in the house: no one can do anything with it except John Lawton, and he won't be home till Monday." "What shall I do?" asked I. "I'll get Mary to come up and help thee fix it as it was before," answered Aunty. I drew a long breath. "Oh, never mind," said she, soothingly; "it is not quite so convenient this way, to be sure, but--" "I'm not thinking of the inconvenience now," interrupted I, "but of the time I've wasted. Why, I've spent nearly four hours over that foolish old bedstead. I was to have taken tea with Miss Mansell this afternoon, and I had expected to learn a good French lesson besides: but now the morning is gone, and a profitable time I've made of it!" "I should not wonder if it prove one of the most profitable mornings of thy life." rejoined the old lady, "and teach thee a lesson more valuable than thy French or thy music either." "What is that?" inquired I. "To let well enough alone." answered Aunty--and she smiled and nodded slowly as she spoke. "I'll let well enough alone after this, I promise you," said I. "People of thy ardent temperament seldom learn to do it in one lesson," replied she; "but the sooner thou dost learn it, the better it will be for thy happiness. However, I'll go now and send Mary to help thee." Mary came: but it was nearly two hours before my room resumed its usual neat appearance. Some three months after, I learned that a young lady whom I had unwillingly offended, by declining to receive her as a room-mate, had spoken of me disparagingly, and greatly misrepresented various little incidents of our every-day intercourse. Surprised and indignant, I at once resolved to "have a talk with her;" but first I made known my disquietude to Aunt Rachel. "What shall I do?" asked I, in conclusion. "Not much," she answered. "Take no notice of it. I see she has been talking ill of thee; but she can do thee little or no real injury. Those who know thee won't believe her," "But those who don't know me--" interrupted I. "Won't trouble themselves much about it," she replied; "and if ever they become acquainted with thee, they'll only have the better means of judging thee truly." "If I say nothing about it, though," urged I, "she'll feel encouraged to talk on, and worse." "If thou dost find she is really doing thee an injury," returned Aunty, "I'll not dissuade thee from taking it in hand; but, as it now stands, it is not worth disturbing thyself about." "I could make her feel so ashamed," persisted I. "I don't doubt thee," replied she, laughing; "I don't doubt thee in the least: but in doing so, won't thou get excited? Won't thou sleep better, and study better, and waste less time, if thou just 'let well enough alone?'" "That seems a favorite maxim with you," observed I. "I have found it a very useful one," she answered; "and, had I known its value earlier in life, I might have escaped a good deal of suffering. Ten years ago, I had a kind husband, and a promising son, and slowly, yet surely, they were gathering a pretty competence. We thought we could gather faster by going south; but the location proved unhealthy, and in one season I lost them both by a bilious fever." Sympathy kept me silent. "You would not discourage all attempts to better one's condition?" I at length inquired. "By no means," answered Aunt Rachel; "for that were to check energy and retard improvement. I would only advise people--impulsive people especially--to think _before_ they act: for it is always easier to avoid an evil than to remedy it. Thou art fond of History," she continued, "and that, both sacred and profane, abounds with examples of those who, in the day of adversity or retribution, have wished, oh how earnestly, that they had let well enough alone. Jacob, an exile from his father's house: Shimei, witnessing the return of David: Zenobia, high-spirited and accustomed to homage, gracing Aurelian's triumph, and living a captive in Rome: Christina, after she had relinquished the crown of Sweden; and, in our own days, Great Britain, involved in a long and losing war with her American colonies. Every-day life, too, is full of such examples." I asked her to mention some. "Thou canst see one," she answered, "in the speculator, whose anxiety for sudden wealth has reduced his family to indigence; and in the girl who leaves her plain country home, and sacrifices her health, and perhaps her virtue, in a city workshop. Disputatious people, passionate people, those who indulge in personalities, and those who meddle with what don't concern them, are very apt to wish they had let well enough alone. People who are forever changing their residence or their store, their clerks, or their domestics, frequently find reason for such a wish. Even in household affairs, my maxim saves me many an hour of unnecessary labor. Dost thou remember the bedstead?" she added, with a smile. "Yes, indeed," I answered; "I shall never forget that. The other day I was going to alter my pink dress into a wrapper, like Miss Mansell's; but the thought of that old bedstead stopped me; and I'm glad of it; for, now that I look again, I don't think it would pay me for the trouble." "Well, think again before thou dost notice Jane Ansley's talk," said Aunty. I followed her advice; and I have never regretted that I did so. Dear old lady! I left her when that pleasant year was ended, and never saw her again. She has long since entered into her rest: but I often think of her maxim, and in many cases have proved its value. I think of it when I see a man spending time and money, and enduring all the wretchedness of long suspense or excitement, in a lawsuit which he might have avoided; and which, whether lost or gained, will prove to him a source of continual self-reproach. When I see a business man who, by an overbearing demeanor and oppressive attempts to make too much of a good bargain, has converted a conscientious and peace-loving partner into an unyielding opponent: or, when I hear of a farmer who has provoked a well-disposed neighbor by killing his fowls and throwing them over the fence, instead of trying some neighborly way of preventing their depredations on his grain. When I have seen a teacher exciting the emulation of a jealous-minded child; or by threats, or even by ill-timed reasoning(?), converting a momentary pettishness into a fit of obstinacy--I have felt as if I wanted to whisper in her ear, "Do not seem to notice them; let well enough alone." When I see an envious mother depreciating and finding fault with a judicious and conscientious teacher till she has discouraged or provoked her, I think it likely that the day will come when both mother and children will wish that she had "let well enough alone." So, too, when I observe a mother forcing upon her daughters an accomplishment for which they have no taste: a father compelling his son to study law or physic, while the bent of his genius leads to machinery or farming: or a widow with a little property placing her children under the doubtful protection of a young stepfather. Vanitia is intelligent and well read, and appears to advantage in general society; but her love of admiration, her wish to be thought _superior_, is so inordinate, that she cannot bear to appear ignorant of any subject; hence she often tries to seem conversant with matters of which she knows nothing, and perceives not that she thereby sinks in the estimation of those whose homage she covets. Affectua is pretty and accomplished, and, two years ago, awakened goodwill in all who saw her. Latterly, however, she has exchanged her simple and natural manners for those which are plainly artificial and affected. What a pity these ladies cannot "let well enough alone!" But I must stop, or my reader may exclaim: Enough--practice thy own precept--and let well enough alone. * * * * * SUSAN CLIFTON; OR, THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY. BY PROFESSOR ALDEN. CHAPTER I. On a pleasant afternoon in August, two gentlemen were sitting in the shade of a large walnut tree which stood in front of an ancient, yet neat and comfortable farmhouse. Perhaps it would be more in accordance with modern usage to say that a gentleman and a man were sitting there; for the one was clothed in the finest broadcloth, the other in ordinary homespun. They had just returned from a walk over the farm, which had been the scene of their early amusements and labors. "I don't know," said he of the broadcloth coat, "but that you made the better choice, after all. You have time to be happy; you have a quiet that I know nothing about--in truth, I should not know how to enjoy it if I had it." "The lack of it, then," replied his brother, "can be no hardship. I have often regretted that I did not secure the advantages of a liberal education when they were within my reach." "That is an unwise as well as a useless regret. If you had gone to college, you would, as a matter of course, have chosen one of the learned professions. Your talents and industry would, doubtless, have secured to you a good measure of success; but you would often have sighed for the peace and rest of the old farmhouse. Remember, too, that it and these lands would have passed into the hands of strangers." "Perhaps you are right. Still, as I am now situated, I should be very glad to have the advantages and influence which a liberal education would bestow." "I think you overrate those advantages. You are substantially a well educated man; and you can now command leisure to add to your information. If you should be in want of any books which it may not be convenient for you to purchase, it will give me great pleasure to procure them for you. I can do so without the slightest inconvenience." "I am greatly obliged to you; and, if it should be necessary, I will, without hesitation, avail myself of your kind offer. I feel the deficiency of my education most sensibly in respect to my daughter. I find myself incompetent to take the direction of her opening mind." "That is the very point I wish to speak upon. You must, my good brother allow me to take charge of her education. I owe it to you for keeping the old homestead in the family. It will give me great pleasure to afford her the very best advantages. Let me take her to the city with me on my return." "We may, perhaps, differ in our estimate of advantages. I can conceive of none at present sufficiently great to compensate for the loss of her mother's society and example." "No doubt these are very valuable; but girls must go away from home to complete their education, especially if they live in the country. Even in the city, a great many parents place their daughters in boarding-schools, and that, too, when the school is not half a mile distant from their residence." "A great many parents, both in the city and country, do many things which I would not do." "You are willing to do what is for the best interests of your child." "Certainly." "If you will allow Susan to go with me to New York, I will place her at the first school in the city. She shall have a home at my house; and my wife will, for the time being, supply the place of her mother." "I fully appreciate your kind intentions; but I could almost as soon think of parting with the sunlight as with Susan." "You forget the advantages she would enjoy. You are not wont to allow your feelings to interfere with the interests of those you love. I am sure you will not in this case. Think the matter over, and talk with your wife about it. She has an undoubted right to be consulted. I must go and prepare some letters for the evening mail." So saying, he arose and went to his room. The two brothers, Richard and Henry Clifton, had been separated for many years. When Richard was seventeen years of age, his father indulged him in his earnest desire to become a merchant. At a great pecuniary sacrifice, he was placed in the employment of an intelligent and prosperous merchant in New York; and when, at the age of twenty-one, he was admitted as a member of the firm, his patrimony was given him to be invested in the concern. To his remaining son, Henry, Mr. Clifton offered a collegiate education. This offer was declined by Henry, not through lack of a desire for knowledge, but in consequence of a too humble estimate of his mental powers. When he became of age, a deed of the homestead was given him. Not long afterwards, his father was carried to his long home. The business of the firm to which Richard Clifton belonged rendered it necessary for him to repair to a foreign city, where he resided for fifteen years. He was now on his first visit to his native place, subsequent to his return to the commercial emporium. Susan, the only child of Henry and Mary Clifton, was just sixteen years of age. Her light form, transparent countenance, brilliant eye, and graceful movements, were not in keeping with the theory that rusticity must be the necessary result of living in a farmhouse, especially when the labors thereof are not performed by hireling hands. From the first day of his visit, the heart of the merchant warmed towards the child of his only brother. Her delicate and affectionate attentions increased the interest he felt in her. That interest was not at all lessened by a distinct perception of the fact that she was fitted to adorn the magnificent parlors of his city residence. It was, therefore, his fixed purpose to take her with him on his return. Some objections, he doubted not, would be raised by his sober brother; but he placed his reliance for success upon the mother's influence. No mother, he was sure, could reject so brilliant an offer for her darling child. The time spent by the merchant in writing letters, affecting operations in the four quarters of the globe, was passed by the farmer in thoughtful silence, though in the presence of his wife and daughter. He withdrew as he heard his brother coming from his room. "Uncle," said Susan, "do you wish to have those letters taken to the post-office?" "Yes, dear." "Let me take them for you." She received the letters from his willing hand, and left him alone with her mother. "Your husband," said he to Mrs. Clifton, "has spoken to you of the proposition I made to him respecting my niece?" "He has not," said Mrs. Clifton. "I requested him to consult you. I proposed to take her home with me, and give her the very first advantages for education that the city can afford." "You are very generous. But what did Henry say to it?" "He does not like the idea of parting with her; but, as I understand it, he holds the matter under advisement till he has consulted you. I hope you will not hesitate to give your consent, and to use your influence with my brother, in case it should be necessary." "I should be sorry to withhold my consent from anything which may be for the good of my child. So generous an offer should not be declined without due consideration. At the same time, I must frankly say that I do not think it at all probable that I can bring myself to consent to your proposal." "What objection can be urged against it?" "I doubt very much whether it will be for the best." "Why not for the best? What can be better than a first rate education?" "Nothing; certainly, taking that term in its true sense. A first rate education for a young lady is one adapted to prepare her for the sphere in which she is to act. If Susan were to go with you, she would doubtless learn many things of which she would otherwise be ignorant; but it may be a question whether she would be thereby fitted for the station she is to occupy in life. That, in all probability, will be a humble one." "She has talents fitted to adorn any station, only let them receive suitable cultivation. She shall never be in a position which shall render useless the education I will give her. I have the means of keeping my promise." "I doubt it not. But ought a mother to consent that one so young and inexperienced should be removed from home and its influences, and be exposed to the temptations of the great world in which you live? It is a very different one from that to which she has been accustomed." "As to removing her from home, my house shall be her home, and my wife shall supply the place of her mother." "I will give to your kind proposal the consideration which it deserves; but I must say, again, that it is very doubtful whether I can bring myself to consent to it." "I can't say that I have any doubt about the matter," said her husband, who entered the room as she uttered the last remark. "To be plain, my dear brother, if there were no other reasons against the plan, I should not dare to place her in a family where the voice of prayer is not heard, especially as her character is now in process of formation." Richard was silent. At first, he felt an emotion of anger; but he remembered that they were in the room in which their excellent father was accustomed to assemble his family each morning and evening for social worship. On no occasion was that worship neglected, even for a single day. After a long silence, he remarked, "You may think better of it, my brother," and retired to his room. * * * * CHAPTER II. For some time after Richard Clifton had exchanged the quiet of agriculture for the bustle of commercial life, he read his Bible daily, and retained the habit of secret prayer which had been so carefully taught him in childhood. But, at length, the Bible began to be neglected, and the altar of mammon was substituted for the altar of God. In his business transactions, the laws of integrity were never disregarded, nor was his respect and reverence for religion laid aside, but he had no time to be religious. When he became the head of a family, the Word of God lay unopened on his parlor table, and family worship was a thing unknown. Though God had guarded him at home and abroad, on the sea and on the land, and had made him rich even to the extent of his most sanguine expectations, yet he had forgotten the source of his prosperity, and had never bowed his knee in thanksgiving. The education of his wife, a daughter of one of the "merchant princes," had been such that she found nothing to surprise or shock her in the practical atheism of her husband's course. On the morning after the occurrence of the events recorded in the chapter above, as Susan returned from the village post-office, she handed her uncle a letter. Having perused it, he remarked-- "I must return to the city tomorrow. Will you go with me, Susan?" "I should be delighted to do so, if father and mother could go with me." "I should be happy to have them go. But suppose they do not? You cannot expect to have them always with you." "Must you go so soon?" said Henry. "You make a very short visit after so long a separation." "I must return to the city to-morrow; but my presence will be needed there only for a day or two. If Susan will go with me, I will return here next week and spend a few days more with you." The matter was referred to Susan for decision. Her desire to see the wonders of the great city, as well as to gratify her uncle, overcame the reluctance which she felt to be separated, even for so brief a period, from her happy home. The preparations for her sudden journey required the assistance of several neighbors; and thus the news of her intended visit to the city spread quickly through the village. There was, of course, much speculation concerning it. Some said it was merely a passing visit. Others said she had been adopted by her wealthy uncle, and was thenceforth to be a member of his family. Some regarded the supposed adoption as fortunate, and rejoiced in it for Susan's sake. Others were envious, and were ingenious and eloquent in setting forth the evils which might ensue. Some were sorry to see one so young and innocent exposed to the temptations of a city life. A few were surprised that her parents should consent to have her leave them, even though it were to become the heiress of almost boundless wealth. In the course of the evening, a number of Susan's friends called to bid her good-by. As each new visitor came, an observant eye might have seen that she was disappointed. Her manner indicated that she expected one who did not come. The evening wore away, the social prayer was offered, and they were about to separate for the night. "Susan, dear," said her uncle, "I will thank you for a glass of water." Susan took a pitcher and repaired to the spring, which gushed out of a bank a few yards from the house. She had filled her pitcher, when a well-known voice pronounced her name. "Is it you, Horace?" said she. "I am away to-morrow." "So I have heard. Are you going to live with your uncle?" "Oh no. I am coming home in less than a week." "I am sorry you are going." "Are you?" "I am afraid you will not want to come home." "Why Horace!" "Come back as soon as you can." "I will." "Good-by!" He extended his trembling hand, and received one still more trembling. It was carried to his lips. Another good-by was uttered, and he was gone. It was well for Susan that her uncle was not sitting in his own brilliantly lighted parlor when, with blushing cheek and trembling hand, she handed him the glass of water. In the dim light of a single candle, her agitation passed unnoticed. In the morning, after oil-repeated farewells, and amid tears not wholly divorced from smiles, Susan set out on her journey, and, on the following day, arrived at the busy mart where souls are exchanged for gold, and hearts are regarded as less valuable than stocks. She entered the mansion of her uncle, and was introduced to his polished and stately wife. * * * * CHAPTER III. No pains were spared by her uncle to amuse Susan and to gratify her curiosity. Mrs. Clifton, also, to her husband's great delight, put forth very unusual exertions tending to the same end. Still, Susan was far from being perfectly happy. She wanted a place like home to which she couid retire when weary with sight-seeing and excitement. In her uncle's house, notwithstanding his manifest affection and the perfect politeness of his wife, she did not feel at ease--she felt as if she were in public. And then to sit down at the table and partake of God's bounties, when his blessing had not been asked upon them, and to retire for the night when his protection had not been invoked, detracted greatly from the enjoyment which her visit was in other respects adapted to afford. The week during which she was to remain had not elapsed ere she desired to return home. Of this desire she gave no voluntary indication, but exerted herself to appear (as she really was) thankful for the efforts designed to contribute to her happiness. "What do you think of our niece?" said Mr. Clifton to his wife one morning, when Susan was not present. "I think she will make a fine girl--that is, with due attention," said his wife. She would have expressed her meaning more accurately if she had said, "I think she will make a fine impression--will attract admiration, if her manners are only cultivated." "Would you like to have her remain with us permanently?" "I rather think I should. I like her very well." This was uttered in a very calm tone. "What school would you send her to if she should remain?" "I would not send her to any school. She is old enough to go into society; and all that she needs is a little attention to her manners." "She is only sixteen years old." "She is quite tall, and will pass for eighteen at least. If we make a school-girl of her, she can't go into society for a year or more to come." "It was a part of my plan to give her a thorough education." "It is a part of my plan to have some one to go into society with me." "I do not believe her parents will consent to part with her, except on condition that she shall spend several years in one of our best schools." "Then let them keep her and make a milkmaid of her. If I take a girl and fit her for society, and introduce her into the circle in which I move, I wish to be understood as conferring a favor, not as receiving one." "My dear, you know that the ideas of those who have always lived in the country must, of necessity, be somewhat contracted. We must not judge them by the standard to which we are accustomed." "We ought not to make the girl suffer for the follies of her parent, to be sure. You can say what you please to them about it, and then the matter can be left with her. She will be glad to escape the drudgery of school, I dare say." "I think not. She has an ardent desire for knowledge; and the strongest inducement I can set before her to come to the city is the means it furnishes for gratifying that desire." "There are other gratifications furnished by the city which she will soon learn to prize more highly. Let her once be at home here, and be introduced to society, and her desire for book-knowledge will not trouble her much. I know more about women than you do, perhaps." Mr. Clifton was silent. The last remark of his wife made a deep impression upon his mind. Certain it was that his knowledge of woman was rather more extensive and of a different character from that which he had expected to acquire, when he lived amid the green fields of the country, ere the stain of worldliness was upon his soul. "I like Susan," said Mrs. Clifton. "I think she will prove quite attractive. I have never seen a girl from the country who appeared so well. She has a quick sense of propriety, and will give me very little trouble to fit her for society." "I am glad you like her," said. Mr. Clifton. "Her residence with us will make our home more cheerful; and, with your example before her, her manners will soon become those of a finished lady." Mr. Clifton went to his counting-room, and his wife was left alone. The compliment her husband had just paid her inclined her to dwell with complacency upon the plan of adopting Susan. She liked her for her fair countenance and her faultless form, and her quick observation and ready adoption of conventional proprieties. Her presence, moreover, would attract visitors, who were now less numerous than when Mrs. Clifton was young. Her name, too, favored the idea of adoption. The difference between a real and an adopted child would not readily be known. She made up her mind to adopt her, and would have made known her determination to Susan at once, had not an engagement compelled her to go out. * * * * CHAPTER IV. While Susan was thus left alone for a little season, she employed herself in writing the following letter to her mother-- "My Dear Mother: I have been so long without any one to speak to (you know what I mean), that I must write you, though I hope to reach home almost as soon as this letter. I am treated in the kindest manner possible. My uncle, I think, really loves me, and I certainly love him very much. His wife is a splendid woman. She was once, I doubt not, very beautiful, and she looks exceedingly well now when she is dressed. She is very polite to me. I am, I believe, a welcome visitor; and she desires me to stay longer than I engaged to when I left home. I have not been out much, except with my uncle to see the curiosities with which the city abounds. I have seen but few of my aunt's friends. In truth, I suppose I have pleased her not a little by not wishing to be seen. I am from the country, you know; though she thinks I am making rapid progress in civilization. I judge so from the commendation she bestows upon my attempts to avoid singularity. I remember you used to commend me when I made successful efforts to govern my temper: aunt commends me for the manner in which I govern my limbs, or rather when they happen to move to please her without being governed. Last evening (I had not seen uncle since the day before at dinner), I was glad to find him in the parlor as I entered it. Aunt said to me, 'If you could enter the parlor in that way when company is present, you would make quite a sensation.' I can hardly help laughing to think what a matter of importance so simple a thing as putting one foot before the other becomes in the city. I suppose, if I were to live here, I should learn to sleep, and even to breathe, by rule. I was going to say to think by rule; but thinking is not in fashion. So far as I can learn, the thinking done here is confined to thinking of what others think about them. Aunt was originally taught to do everything by rule. Custom has become with her a second nature. Her manners are called fascinating; but to me they are formal and chilling. I suppose they are perfectly well suited to those who desire only the fascinating. You have taught me to desire something more. "I find myself deficient in the easy command of language which seems so natural here. I have been astonished to find what an easy flow of polished and tolerably correct language is possessed by some with whom language might rather be regarded as the substitute for, than the instrument of, thought. It must be owing to practice; though it is a mystery, to me how persons can talk so smoothly, and even so beautifully, without ideas. "I have seen a great many new things. I will tell you all about them when I get home. I long for that time to come, though it be only two days off. Every one has so much to do here, or rather in in such a hurry, that, were it not for my uncle's mercantile habit of keeping his word, I should not expect to see home at the appointed time. "I am glad I came, for many reasons. I did not know so well before how little the external has to do with happiness. As persons pass by and look through the plate glass upon the silk damask curtains, they doubtless think the owner of that mansion must be very happy. Now I believe my dear father is far more happy than my uncle. I do not believe that my uncle's magnificent parlors (I use strong language; but I believe they are regarded as magnificent by those who are accustomed to frequent the most richly furnished houses) have ever been the scene of so much happiness as our own plain _keeping-room_ has. I would not exchange our straight-backed chairs, which have been so long in the _home-service_, for the costly and luxurious ones before me, if the _adjuncts_ were to be exchanged also. I long to sit down in the old room and read or converse with my parents, by the light of a single candle. I prefer that homely light to the cut-glass chandelier which illuminates the parlors here. I love to see beautiful things, and should have no objection to possessing them, provided the things necessary to happiness could be added to them. Of themselves, they are insufficient to meet the wants of the heart. Instead of being discontented with my plain home, I shall prize it the more highly in consequence of my visit to this great Babel. Do not think I am ungrateful to my dear uncle and to his wife for their efforts to amuse me and make me happy. I should not be your daughter if I were. "Aunt has just come in, and has sent for me to her room. Kiss my dear father for me, and pray for me that I may be restored to you in safety. "Your affectionate daughter, "SUSAN." (To be continued.) * * * * * SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN! BY MISS E. BOGART. Sing me that song again! A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain; And as its echoes on my fancy break, _Heart-strings_ and _harp-chords_ wake. Sing to my viewless lyre! Each note holds mem'ries as the flint holds fire; And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play, Thought travels far away. And back, on laden wings, The music of my better life it brings; For years of happiness, departed long, Are shrined in that old song. Its cadence on my ear Falls as the night falls in the moonlight clear-- The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams, As I am lost in dreams. Sing on, nor yet unbind The chain that weaves itself about my mind-- A chain of images which seem to rise To life before my eyes. The veil which hangs around The past is lifted by the breath of sound, As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show The hidden things below. I listen to thy voice, Impelled beyond the power of will or choice, And to those simple notes' mysterious chime, My rushing thoughts keep time The key of harmony Has turned the rusted lock of memory, And opened all its secret stores to light, As by some wizard sprite. But now the charm is past, My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last, And harp-chords, stretched too far, refuse to play Longer an answering lay. The music-spell is o'er! And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore It is so old, 'tis time that it should die! Forget it--so will I. Let it in silence rest; Guarded by thoughts which may not be expressed There was a love which clung to it of old-- _That_ love has long been cold. Then sing it not again! The voice that seemed to echo back the strain Has filled succeeding years with discords strange And won my heart to change And thou mayst surely cull Songs new and sweet, and still more beautiful: Sing _new_ ones, then, to which no memories cling-- _Most_ memories have their sting. * * * * * COSTUMES OF ALL NATIONS.--SECOND SERIES. THE TOILETTE IN ENGLAND. CHAPTER I Ancient authors disagree in the accounts they give of the dress of the first inhabitants of Britain. Some assert that, previously to the first descent of the Romans, the people wore no clothing at all: other writers, however (and, probably, with more truth), state that they clothed themselves with the skins of wild animals; and as their mode of life required activity and freedom of limb, loose skins over their bodies, fastened, probably, with a thorn, would give them the needful warmth, without in any degree restraining the liberty of action so necessary to the hardy mountaineer. Probably the dress of the women of those days did not differ much from that of the men: but, after the second descent of the Romans, both sexes are supposed to have followed the Roman costume: indeed, Tacitus expressly asserts that they did adopt this change; though we may safely believe that thousands of the natives spurned the Roman fashion in attire, not from any dislike of its form or shape, but from the detestation they bore towards their conquerors. The beautiful and intrepid Queen Boadicea is the first British female whose dress is recorded. Dio mentions that, when she led her army to the field of battle, she wore "a various-colored tunic, flowing in long loose folds, and over it a mantle, while her long hair floated over her neck and shoulders." This warlike queen, therefore, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the Romans, could not resist the graceful elegance of their costume, so different from the rude clumsiness of the dress of her wild subjects; and, though fighting valiantly against the invaders of her country, she succumbed to the laws which Fashion had issued!--a forcible example of the unlimited sway exercised by the flower-crowned goddess over the female mind. With the Saxon invasion came war and desolation, and the elegancies of life were necessarily neglected. The invaders clothed themselves in a rude and fantastic manner. It is not unlikely that the Britons may have adopted some of their costume. From the Saxon females, we are told, came the invention of dividing, curling, and turning the hair over the back of the head. Ancient writers also add that their garments were long and flowing. The Anglo-Saxon ladies seldom, if ever, went with their heads bare; sometimes the veil, or _head-rail_, was replaced by a golden head-band, or it was worn over the veil. Half circles of gold, necklaces, bracelets, ear-rings, and crosses, were the numerous ornaments worn at that period by the women. It is supposed that mufflers (a sort of bag with a thumb) were also sometimes used. Great uncertainty exists respecting the true character of a garment much used by the Anglo-Saxon ladies, called a _kirtle_. Some writers suppose it to have meant the petticoat; others, that it was an under robe. But, though frequently mentioned by old authors, nothing can be correctly determined respecting it. Little appears to be known concerning the costume in Britain under the Danes; but we are told that the latter "were effeminately gay in their dress, combed their hair once a day, bathed once a week, and often changed their attire." [Illustration] The ladies' dress continued much the same till the reign of Henry the First, when the sleeves and veils were worn so immensely long, that they were tied up in bows and festoons, and _la grande mode_ then appears to have been to have the skirts of the gowns also of so ridiculous a length, that they lay trailing upon the ground. Laced bodies were also sometimes seen, and tight sleeves with pendent cuffs, like those mentioned in the reign of Louis the Seventh of France. A second, or upper tunic, much shorter than the under robe, was also the fashion; and, perhaps, it may be considered as the _surcoat_ generally worn by the Normans. The hair was often wrapped in silk or ribbon, and allowed to hang down the back; and mufflers were in common use. The dresses were very splendid, with embroidery and gold borders. [Illustration] About the beginning of the thirteenth century, the ladies found their long narrow cuffs, hanging to the ground, very uncomfortable; they therefore adopted tight sleeves. Pelisses, trimmed with fur, and loose surcoats, were also worn, as well as _wimples_, an article of attire worn round the neck under the veil. Embroidered boots and shoes formed, also, part of their wardrobe. The ladies' costume, during the reigns of Henry and Edward, was very splendid. The veils and wimples were richly embroidered, and worked in gold; the surcoat and mantle were worn of the richest materials; and the hair was turned up under a gold caul. [Illustration] Towards the year 1300, the ladies' dress fell under the animadversion of the malevolent writers of that day. The robe is represented as having had tight sleeves and a train, over which was worn a surcoat and mantle, with cords and tassels. "The ladies," says a poet of the thirteenth century, "were like peacocks and magpies; for the pies bear feathers of various colors, which Nature gives them; so the ladies love strange habits, and a variety of ornaments. The pies have long tails, that trail in the mud; so the ladies make their tails a thousand times longer than those of peacocks and pies." The pictures of the ladies of that time certainly present us with no very elegant specimens of their fashions. Their gowns or tunics are so immensely long, that the fair dames are obliged to hold them up, to enable them to move; whilst a sweeping train trails after them; and over the head and round the neck is a variety of, or substitute for, the wimple, which is termed a _gorget_. It enclosed the cheeks and chin, and fell upon the bosom, giving the wearer very much the appearance of suffering from sore-throat or toothache. When this head-dress was not worn, a caul of net-work, called a _crespine_, often replaced it, and for many years it continued to be a favorite coiffure. The writers of this time speak of tight lacing, and of ladies with small waists. In the next reign, an apron is first met with, tied behind with a ribbon. The sleeves of the robe, and the petticoat, are trimmed with a border of embroidery; rich bracelets are also frequently seen; but, notwithstanding all the splendor of the costume, the gorget still envelops the neck. * * * * * SONNET.--WINTER. BY LEWIS GRAHAM, M.D. Stern Winter comes with frowns and frosty smiles, The angry clouds in stormy squadrons fly, While winds, in raging tones, to winds reply; Old Boreas reigns, and like a wizard, piles, Where'er he pleases, with his gusty breath, The heaps of snow on mountain, hill, or heath, In strangest shapes, with curious sport and wild; But soon the sun will come with gentle rays, To kiss him while with fiercest storms he plays, And make him mild and quiet as a child. Though now the bleak wind-king so boisterous seems, And drives the tempest madly o'er the plain, He smiles in Spring-time soft as April rain, In Summer sleeps on flowers in zephyr-dreams. * * * * * BUBBLES. BY JOHN NEAL. "Hurrah for bubbles! I go for bubbles, my dear," stopping for a moment on his way through the large drawing-rooms, and looking at his wife and the baby very much as a painter might do while in labor with a new picture. "Bubbles are the only things worth living for." "Bubbles, Peter!--be quiet, baby!--hush, my love, hush! Papa can't take you now." Baby jumps at the table. "Confound the imp! There goes the inkstand!" "Yes, my dear; and the spectacles, and the lamp, and all your papers. And what, else could you expect, pray? Here he's been trying to make you stop and speak to him, every time you have gone by the table, for the last half hour, and holding out his little arms to you; while you have been walking to and fro as if you were walking for a wager, with your eyes rolled up in your head, muttering to yourself--mutter, mutter, mutter--and taking no more notice of him, poor little fellow, than if he was a rag-baby, or belonged to somebody else!" "Oh, don't bother! _Little arms_, indeed!--about the size of my leg! I do wish he'd be quiet. I'm working out a problem." "A problem! fiddle-de-dee--hush, baby! A magazine article, more like--_will_ you hush?" Papa turns away in despair, muttering, with a voice that grows louder and louder as he warms up-- "Wisdom and wit are bubbles! Atoms and systems into ruin, hurled! And now a _bubble_ burst! And now a WORLD! I have it, hurrah! _Can't_ you keep that child still?" "Man alive, I wish you'd try yourself!" "Humph! What the plague is he up for at this time o' night, hey?" "At this time o' night! Why what on earth are you thinking of? It is only a little after five, my dear." "Well, and what if it is? Ought to have been a-bed and asleep two hours ago." "And so he was, my love; but you can't expect him to sleep _all_ the time--there! there!"--trotting baby with all her might--"Hush-a-bye-baby on the tree top--there! there!--papa's gone a-huntin'--" "My dear!" "My love!" "Look at me, will you? How on earth is a fellow to marshal his thoughts--will you be quiet, sir?--to marshal his thoughts 'the way they should go'--Mercy on us, he'll split his throat!" "Or train up a child the way he should go, hey?" "Thunder and lightning, he'll drive me distracted! I wonder if there is such a thing as a ditch or a horsepond anywhere in the neighborhood." "Oh! that reminds me of something, my love. I ought to have mentioned it before. The cistern's out." "The cistern's out, hey? Well, what if it is? Are we to have this kicking and squalling till the cistern's full again, hey?" "Why what possesses you?" "Couldn't see the connection, that's all. I ask for a horsepond or a ditch, and you tell me the cistern's out. If it were full, there might be some hope for me," looking savagely at the baby, "I suppose it's deep enough." "For shame!--do hush, baby, will ye? Tuddy, tuddy, how he bawls!" "Couldn't you tighten the cap-strings a little, my dear?" "Monster! get away, will you?' "Or cram your handkerchief down his throat, or your knitting-work, or the lamp-rug?" "Ah, well thought of, my dear. Have you seen Mr. Smith?" "What Smith?" "George, I believe. The man you buy your oil of, and your groceries.--Hush, baby! He's been here two or three times after you this week." "Hang Mr. Smith!" "With all my heart, my love. But, if the quarter's rent is not paid, you know, and the grocer's bill, and the baker's, and the butcher's, and if you don't manage to get the bottling-house fixed up, and some other little matters attended to, I don't exactly see how the hanging of poor Mr. Smith would help us." "Oh hush, will you?" The young wife turned and kissed the baby, with her large indolent eyes fixed upon the door somewhat nervously. She had touched the bell more than once without being seen by her husband. "Wisdom and wit," continued papa, with a voice like that of a man who has overslept himself and hopes to make up for lost time by walking very fast, and talking very little to the purpose--"Wisdom and wit are bubbles"-- The young wife nodded with a sort of a smile, and the baby, rolling over in her lap, let fly both heels? at the nurse, who had crept in slyly, as if intent to lug him off to bed without his knowledge. But he was not in a humor to be trifled with; and so he flopped over on the other side, and, tumbling head over heels upon the floor, very much at large, lay there kicking and screaming till he grew black in the face. But the girl persisted, nevertheless, in lifting him up and lugging him off to the door, notwithstanding his outcries and the expostulatory looks of both papa and mamma--her wages were evidently in arrears, a whole quarter, perhaps. "Wisdom and wit are bubbles," continued papa; "dominion and power, and beauty and strength"-- "And gingerbread and cheese," added mamma, in reply to something said by the girl in a sort of stage-whisper. Whereupon papa, stopping short, and looking at mamma for a few moments, puzzled and well nigh speechless, gasped out-- "And _gingerbread and cheese!_ Why, what the plague do you mean, Sarah?" "Nothing else for tea, my love, so Bridget says. Not a pound o' flour in the house; not so much as a loaf, nor a roll, nor a muffin to be had for love or money--so Bridget says." "Nothin' to be had without _money_, ma'am; that's what I said." "Bridget!" "_Sir!_" That "_sir!_"--it was an admission of two quarters in arrear at least. "Take that child to bed this moment! Begone! I'll bear this no longer." The girl stared, muttered, grabbed the baby, and flung away with such an air--three quarters due, if there was a single day!--banged the door to after her, and bundled off up the front stairs at a hand-gallop, her tread growing heavier, and her voice louder and louder with every plunge. "_Sarah!_" "_Peter!_" "I wonder you can put up with such insolence. That girl is getting insufferable." The poor wife looked up in amazement, but opened not her mouth; and the husband continued walking the floor with a tread that shook the whole house, and stopping occasionally, as if to watch the effect, or to see how much further he might go without injury to his own health. "How often have I told you, my dear, that if a woman would be respected by her own servants, she must respect herself, and never allow a word nor a look of impertinence--_never! never!_--not even a look! Why, Sarah, life itself would be a burthen to me. Upon my word," growing more and more in earnest every moment--"Upon my word, I believe I should hang myself! And how _you_ can bear it--you, with a nature so gentle and so affectionate, and so--I declare to you"-- "Pray don't speak so loud, my love. The people that are going by the window stop and look up towards the house. And what will the Peabodys think?" "What do I care! Let them think what they please. Am I to regulate the affairs of my household by what a neighbor may happen to think, hey? The fact is, my dear Sarah--you must excuse me, I don't want to hurt your feelings--but, the fact is, you ought to have had the child put to bed three hours ago." "_Three_ hours ago!" "Yes, _three_ hours ago; and that would have prevented all this trouble." Not a word from the young, patient wife; but she turned away hurriedly, and there was a twinkle, as of a rain-drop, falling through the lamplight. A dead silence followed. After a few more turns, the husband stopped, and, with something of self-reproach in his tone, said-- "I take it for granted there is nothing the matter with the boy?" No answer. "Have you any idea what made him cry so terribly? Teething, perhaps." No answer. "Or the colic. You do not answer me, Sarah. It cannot be that you have allowed that girl to put him to bed, if there is anything the matter with him, poor little fellow!" The young wife looked up, sorrowing and frightened. "The measles are about, you know, and the scarlet fever, and the hooping-cough, and the mumps; but, surely, a mother who is with her child all night long and all day long ought to be able to see the symptoms of any and every ailment before they would be suspected by another. And if it should so happen"-- The poor wife could be silent no longer. "The child is well enough," said she, somewhat stoutly. "He was never better in his life. But he wanted his papa to take him, and he wouldn't; and reaching after him he tipped over the lamp, and then--and then"--and here she jumped up to leave the room; but her husband was too quick for her. "That child's temper will be ruined," said papa. "To be sure it will," said mamma; "and I've always said so." She couldn't help it; but she was very sorry, and not a little flurried when her husband, turning short upon her, said-- "I understand you, Sarah. Perhaps he wanted me to take him up to bed?" No answer. "I wonder if he expects me to do that for him till he is married? _Little arms_, indeed!" No answer. "Or till he is wanted to do as much for me?" No answer; not even a smile. And now the unhappy father, by no means ready to give up, though not at all satisfied with himself, begins walking the floor anew and muttering to himself, and looking sideways at his dear patient wife, who has gone back to the table, and is employed in getting up another large basket of baby-things, with trembling lips and eyes running over in bashful thankfulness and silence. "Well, well, there is no help for it, I dare say. As we brew we must bake. It would be not merely unreasonable, but silly--foolish--absolutely foolish--whew!--to ask of a woman, however admirable her disposition may be, for a--for a straightforward--Why what the plague are you laughing at, Sarah? What have you got there?" Without saying a word, mamma pushed over towards him a new French caricature, just out, representing a man well wrapped up in a great coat with large capes, and long boots, and carrying an umbrella over his own head, from which is pouring a puddle of water down the back of a delicate fashionable woman--his wife, anybody might know--wearing thin slippers and a very thin muslin dress, and making her way through the gutters on tip-toe, with the legend, "You are never satisfied!" "_Tu n'est jamais contente!_" Instead of gulping down the joke, and laughing heartily--or making believe laugh, which is the next best thing, in all such cases--papa stood upon his dignity, and, after an awful pause, went on talking to himself pretty much as follows:-- "According to Shakspeare--and what higher authority can we have?--reputation itself is but a _bubble_, blown by the cannon's mouth: and therefore do I say, and stick to it--hurrah for bubbles!" The young wife smiled; but her eyes were fixed upon a very small cap, with a mournful and touching expression, and her delicate fingers were busy upon its border with that regular, steady, incessant motion which, beginning soon after marriage, ends only with sickness or death. "_And_," continued papa--"_and_, if Moore is to be believed, the great world itself, with all its wonders and its glories--the past, the present, and the future, is but a '_fleeting show_.'" The young wife nodded, and fell to dancing the baby's cap on the tips of her fingers. "And what are _bubbles_," continued papa, "what are _bubbles_ but a 'fleeting show?'" The little cap canted over o' one side, and there was a sort of a giggle, just the least bit in the world, it was _so_ cunning, as papa added, in unspeakable solemnity-- "And so, too, everything we covet, everything we love, and everything we revere on earth, are but emptiness and vanity." Here a nod from the little cap, mounted on the mother's fingers, brought papa to a full stop--a change of look followed--a downright smile--and then a much pleasanter sort of speech--and then, as you live, a kiss! "And what are _bubbles_, I should be glad to know, but emptiness and vanity?" continues papa. "By all this, I am to understand that a wife is a bubble--hey?" "To be sure." "And the baby?" "Another." "And what are husbands?" "Bubbles of a large growth." "Agreed!--I have nothing more to say." "Look about you. Watch the busiest man you know--the wisest, the greatest, among the renowned, the ambitious, and the mighty of earth, and tell me if you can see one who does not spend his life blowing bubbles in the sunshine--through the stump of a tobacco pipe. What living creature did you ever know--" "Did you speak to me, my dear?" "No. Sarah, I was speaking to posterity." Another nod from the little cap, and papa grows human. "Yes!--what living creature did you ever know who was not more of a bubble-hunter than he was anything else? We are all schemers--even the wisest and the best--all visionaries, my dear." By this time, papa had got mamma upon his knee, and the rest of the conversation was at least an octave lower. "Even so, my love. And what, after all, is the looming at sea; the Fata Morgana in the Straits of Messina, near Reggio; or the Mirage of the Desert, in Egypt and Persia, but a sample of those glittering phantasmagoria, which are called _chateaux en Espagne_, or castles in the air, by the wondrous men who spend their lives in piling them up, story upon story, turrets, towers, and steeples--domes, and roofs, and pinnacles? and _therefore_ do I say again, hurrah for bubbles!" "What say you to the South Sea bubble, my dear?" "What say I!--just what I say of the Tulip bubble, of the Mississippi Scheme, of the Merino Sheep enterprise, of the Down-East Timber lands, of the Morus Multicaulis, of the California fever, and the Cuba hallucination. They are periodical outbreaks of commercial enterprise, unavoidable in the very nature of things, and never long, nor safely postponed; growing out of a plethora--never out of a scarcity--a plethora of wealth and population, and corresponding, in the regularity of their returns, with the plague and the cholera." "And these are what you have called _bubbles_?" "Precisely." "And yet, if I understood you aright, when you said, 'I go for bubbles--hurrah for bubbles'--you meant to speak well of them?" "To be sure I did--certainly--yes--no--so far as a magazine article goes, I did." "But a magazine article, my love--bear with me, I pray you--ought to be something better than a brilliant paradox, hey?" "Go on--I like this." "If you will promise not to be angry." "I do." "Well, then--however _telling_ it may be to hurrah for bubbles, and to call your wife a bubble, and your child another; because the world is all a 'fleeting show,' and bubbles are a 'fleeting show;' or because the Scriptures tell us that everything here is emptiness and vanity--and bubbles are emptiness and vanity; I have the whole of your argument, I believe?--is hardly worthy of a man, who, in writing, would wish to make his fellow-man better or wiser--" "Well done the bubble!--I never heard _you_ reason before: keep it up, my dear." "You never gave me a chance; and, by the way, there is one bubble you have entirely overlooked." "And what is that--marriage?" "No." "The buried treasures, and the cross of pure gold, a foot and a half long, you were talking with that worthy man about, last winter, when I came upon you by surprise, and found you both sitting together in the dark--and whispering _so_ mysteriously?" "Captain Watts, you mean, the lighthouse keeper?" "Yes. Upon my word, Peter, I began to think you were _up_ for California. I never knew you so absent in all your life as you were, day after day, for a long while after that conversation." "The very thing, my dear!--and as I happen to know most of the parties, and was in communication for three whole years with the leader of the enterprise, I do think it would be one of the very best illustrations to be found, in our day, of that strange, steadfast, unquenchable faith, which upholds the bubble-hunter through all the sorrows and all the discouragements of life, happen what may: and you shall have the credit of suggesting that story. But then, look you, my dear--if I content myself with telling the simple truth, nobody will believe me." "Try it." "I will!--Good night, my dear." "Don't make a long story of it, I beseech you.--Good night!" "Hadn't you better leave the little cap with me? It may keep you awake, my dear." "Nonsense. Good night!" and papa drops into a chair, makes a pen, and goes to work as follows:-- Now for it: here goes! In the year 1841, there was a man living at Portland, Maine, whose life, were it faithfully written out, would be one of the most amusing, perhaps one of the most instructive, books of our day. Energetic, hopeful, credulous to a proverb, and yet sagacious enough to astonish everybody when he prospered, and to set everybody laughing at him when he did not, he had gone into all sorts of speculation, head over heels, in the course of a few years, and failed in everything he undertook. At one time, he was a retail dry-goods dealer, and failed: then a manufacturer by water power of cheap household furniture, and failed again: then a large hay-dealer: then a holder of nobody knows how many shares in the Marr Estate, whereby he managed to feather his nest very handsomely, they say; then he went into the land business, and bought and sold township after township, till he was believed to be worth half a million, and used to give away a tithe of his profits to poor widows, at the rate of ten thousand dollars a year; offering the cash, but always giving on interest--simple interest--which was never paid--failed: tried his hand at working Jewell's Island, in Casco Bay, at one time, for copperas; and at another, for treasures buried there by Captain Kyd. Let us call him Colonel Jones, for our present purpose; that being a name he went by, at a pinch, for a short period. Well, one day he called upon me--it was in the year 1842, I should say--and, shutting the door softly, and looking about, as if to make sure that no listeners were nigh, and speaking in a low voice, he asked if I had a few minutes to spare. I bowed. He then drew his chair up close to mine, so near as to touch, and, looking me straight in the eyes, asked if I was a believer in animal magnetism; waiting, open-mouthed, for my answer. "Certainly," said I. Whereupon he drew a long breath, and fell to rubbing his hands with great cheerfulness and pertinacity. "In clairvoyance, too--_perhaps_?" "Most assuredly--up to a certain point." "I knew it! I knew it!" jumping up and preparing to go. "Just what I wanted--that's enough--I'm satisfied--good-by!" "Stop a moment, my good fellow. The questions you put are so general that my answers may mislead you." He began to grow restless and fidgety. "Although I am a believer in what _I_ call animal magnetism and clairvoyance, I would not have you understand that I am a believer in a hundredth part of the stories told of others. What I see with my own eyes, and have had a fair opportunity of investigating and verifying, that I believe. What others tell me, I neither believe nor disbelieve. I wait for the proof. Suppose you state the case fairly." "Do you believe that a clairvoyant can see hidden treasure in the earth, and that it would be safe to rely upon the assurances of such a person made in the magnetic sleep?" "No." "But suppose you had tried her?" "_Her!_ In what way?" "By hiding a watch, for example, or a bit of gold, or a silver spoon, where nobody knew of it but yourself?" "No; not even then." "_No!_ And why not, pray?" "Simply because, judging by the experiments I have been able to make, I do not see any good reason for believing that, because a subject may tell us of what we ourselves know, or have heretofore known, which I admit very common, therefore she can tell me what I do not know and never did know. My notion is--but I maybe mistaken--that she sees with my eyes, hears with my ears, and remembers with my memory; and that she can do nothing more than reflect my mind while we are in communication." "May be so; but the woman we are dealing with has actually pointed out the direction, and, at last, by a process of lining peculiar to herself, the actual position of what I had buried in the earth at a considerable distance, and without the knowledge or help of any living creature." "Could she do this _always_ and with _certainty_, and so that a third person might go to the treasure without help, on hearing her directions?" "Why no, perhaps not; for that some few mistakes may have occurred, in the progress of our investigations, I am not disposed to deny." "Probably. But, after all, were the directions given by her at any time, under any circumstances, definite and clear enough to justify a man of plain common sense in risking his reputation or money upon a third party's finding, without help, what you had concealed?" Instead of answering my question, the poor fellow grew uneasy, and pale, and anxious; and, after considering awhile, and getting up and sitting down perhaps half a dozen times before he could make up his mind what to say, he told me a story--one of the most improbable I ever heard in my life--the leading features of which, nevertheless, I know to be true, and will vouch for as matters of fact. There had been here, in Portland, for about six months, it appeared, a strange-looking, mysterious man--I give the facts, without pretending to give the words--who went by the name of Greenleaf. He was a sailor, and boarded with a man who kept a sailor boarding-house, and who, I am told, is still living here, by the name of Mellon. People had taken it into their heads that the stranger had something upon his mind, as he avoided conversation, took long walks by himself, and muttered all night long in his sleep. After a while, it began to be whispered about among the seafaring people that he was a pirate; and Mellon, his landlord, went so far as to acknowledge that he had his reasons for thinking so; although Greenleaf, on finding himself treated, and watched, and questioned more narrowly than he liked, managed to drop something about having sailed under the Brazilian flag. And, on being plied with liquor one day, with listeners about him, he went into some fuller particulars, which set them all agog. These, reaching the ears of Colonel Jones, led to an interview, from which he gathered that Greenleaf was one of a large crew commissioned by the Brazils in 1826; that, after cruising a long while in a latitude swarming with Spanish vessels of war, they got reduced to twenty-five men, all told. That one day they fell in with a large, heavily-laden ship, from which they took about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in gold and silver, and a massive gold cross, nearly two feet long, and weighing from fifteen to twenty pounds, belonging to a Spanish priest; but what they did with the crew and the passengers, or with the ship and the priest, did not appear. That, soon after getting their treasure aboard, they saw a large sail to windward, which they took to be a Spanish frigate; and, being satisfied with their booty, they altered their course, and steered for a desolate island near Guadaloupe, where, after taking out three hundred doubloons apiece, they landed, with the rest of the treasure packed in gun-cases, and hooped with iron; dug a hole in the earth and buried it; carefully removing the turf and replacing it, and carrying off all the dirt, and scattering it along the shore. That they took the bearings of certain natural objects, and marked the trees, and agreed among themselves, under oath, not to disturb the treasure till fifteen years had gone by, when it was to belong to the survivors. That, having done this, they steered for the Havana, and, after altering their craft to a fore-and-aft schooner, sold her, and shared the money. Being flush, and riotous, and quarrelsome, they soon got a-fighting among themselves; and, within a few months, by the help of the yellow fever, not less than twenty-three out of the whole twenty-five were buried, leaving only this Greenleaf and an old man, who went by the name of Thomas Taylor, and who had not been heard of for many years, and was now believed to be dead. A fortune-teller was consulted, and put into a magnetic sleep, and, if the description they had painted of the man they were after could be depended on by her, they would find him, under another name, in a national ship on the East India station. Here the Colonel began rubbing his hands again. It appeared, moreover, that Taylor and Greenleaf had met more than once, and consulted together, and made two or three attempts to charter a vessel; but, being poor and among strangers, and afraid of trusting to other people--no matter why--they finally agreed to lie by till they were better off, and not be seen together till they should be able to undertake the enterprise without help from anybody. "But," said Greenleaf. "I am tired of waiting. He may be dead for all I know He was an old man. At any rate, he is beyond my reach, out of hail; and so, d'ye see, if you'll rig us out a small schooner, of not more than seventy-five or eighty tons, I will go with you, and ask for no wages; and here's the landlord'll go, too, on the same lay; and, if you'll give me a third of what we find, I'll answer for Taylor, dead or alive, and you shall be welcome to the rest, and may do what you like with it." "Would they consent to go _unarmed_?" "Yes." And all these facts being communicated to some of our people, and agreed to, a small schooner was chartered--the Napoleon, of ninety tons; Captain John Sawyer was put in master, and Watts, who had followed the sea forty years, and is now the keeper of Portland light, supercargo. Not less than five, and it may be six, different voyages followed, one after the other, as fast as a vessel could be engaged and a crew got together; and, though nothing was "_realized_" but vexation, disappointment, and self-reproach, till the parties who had ventured upon the undertaking were almost ashamed to show their faces, there is not one of the whole to this hour, I verily believe, who does not stick to the faith and swear _it_ was no _bubble_; and they are men of character and experience--men of business habits, cool and cautious in their calculations, and by no means given to chasing will-o'-the-wisps anywhere. And now let me give the particulars that have since come to my knowledge, on the authority of those who were actually parties in the strange enterprise from first to last. Before they sailed on their first voyage, they consulted a fortune teller by the name of Tarbox, who, without knowing their purpose, and while in a magnetic sleep, described the place, and the marks, and the treasure, even to the cross of gold, just as they had been described by Greenleaf himself. But she chilled their very blood at the time by whispering that, within two or three weeks at furthest, there would be a death among their number. Greenleaf made very light of the prediction at first, but grew serious, and, after a few days, gloomy, and refused to go. At last, however, he consented, and they had a very pleasant run to the edge of the Gulf Stream, latitude 38° and longitude 67°, when--but I must give this part of the story in the very language of Watts himself, a man still living, and worthy of entire confidence. "We had been talking together pleasantly enough, and he seemed rather _chippur_. Only the night before, he had given me all the marks and bearings, and everything but the _distance_. He had never trusted anybody else in the same way, he said, but had rather taken a liking to me, and he kept back that one thing only that he might be safe, happen what must on the voyage. Well, we had been talking pleasantly together--it was about nine A.M., and the sea was running pretty high, and I had just turned to go aft, when something made me look round again, and I saw the poor fellow pitching head foremost over the side. He touched the water eight or ten feet from the vessel, but came up handsomely and struck out. He was a capital swimmer, and not at all frightened, so far as I could judge; for, if you'll believe me, squire, he never opened his mouth, but swum head and shoulders out of the water. At first, I thought he had jumped overboard; but afterwards, I made up my mind that he was knocked over by the leach of the foresail. I got hold of the gaff-topsail yard and run it under his arms, and threw a rope over him, and sung out 'Hold on, Greenleaf! hold on, and we'll save you yet.' But he took no notice of me, and steered right away from the vessel. I then called to Captain Sawyer that we would lower the boat, and asked him to jump in with me. There was a heavy sea on, and we let go the boat, and she filled; she _riz_ once or twice, and then the stem and stern were ripped out, and the body went adrift; and when I looked again, there was nothing to be seen of poor Greenleaf. We ran for Guadaloupe and sold our cargo, and then for St. Thuras's, and then for the island where the money was buried. I offered to go ashore with Mellon, the Dutchman, though Captain Sawyer tried to discourage me." "Well, you went ashore?" "I did." "And satisfied yourself?" "I did." "But how?" "I found the marks and the trees, and a well sunk in the sand with a barrel in it; and I came to a place where the turf had settled, and a--and a--and, from what I saw, I believe the money was there just as much as I believe that I am talking with you now." "You do!--then why the plague didn't you bring it home with you?" "I'll tell you, squire. Fact is, we all agreed to go shears when the voyage was made up. Greenleaf was to have a third, the Dutchman a third, and Williams and M'Lellan a third, to be divided between Mr. C--Colonel Jones, I should say--Captain Sawyer, and myself. But, the moment Greenleaf was out of the way, the Dutchman grew sulky, and insisted on having his part--making two-thirds; and finally swore he would have it, or _die_. This we thought rather unreasonable; and, as I had the chart with me, and all the marks, while the Dutchman had nothing to help him in the search, I determined to lose myself on the island, feel round the shore a little, for my own satisfaction, and then steal off quietly, and try another voyage, with fewer partners. You understand, hey?" "Well, my good friend, I don't ask you _how_ you satisfied yourself; but I may as well acknowledge that I have understood from another owner--Colonel Jones himself--that you carried probes and other mining tools with you, such as you had been using on Jewell's Island for a long while; and that in pricking, where you found the turf a little sunk, you touched something about the size of a small tea-chest, and square, three feet below the surface?" To this Watts made no answer. "And here ended the first voyage, hey?" "Yes." "How many were made in all?" "I made three trips, and Captain M'Lellan two--and it runs in my head there was another, but I am not sure. I returned from my third voyage on the 18th day of July, 1842, in the Grampus, a little schooner of about seventy-five tons." "Perhaps you would have no objection to tell me something about the other voyages?" "Well, squire, to tell you the truth, we didn't land at all on the second voyage. July 14th, we'd fell to leeward, and was beating up. I had been all night on the look-out--I was master that trip--and we had got far enough to bear up and run down under the lee of the island. We saw huts there, and twenty or thirty people, and we didn't much like their behavior. When they saw us, they ran down to the landing and took two boats and launched 'em. I offered to go ashore, if anybody would go with me. John Mac, he first agreed to it, but all the others refused; and then he said he would go if the others would. And then we steered for Portland Harbor." "Well, and the third voyage?" "That we made in the Grampus. Captain Josh Safford and Captain Bill Drinkwater went with us. We found two Spaniards upon the island. Their boats had gone to Porto Rico after provisions, they said. So Captain Safford, he gave them two muskets, with powder and ball, and they went off hunting goats. After this, I didn't consider myself justified in going ashore; and Captain Drinkwater complained a good deal of the liberty Safford took in supplying strangers with firearms. They might pop a fellow off at any time, you know, and nobody thereabouts would a ben the wiser." "And here endeth the third voyage, hey?" "Jess so." "Do you happen to know anything about the other two?" "Yes--for though I didn't go in the vessel, I knew pretty much all that happened. You see, Colonel Jones he went to work with the fortin-teller again; and he jest puts her to sleep, and tries her out and out, on Jewell's Island, where she found a skeleton fixed between two trees, and the walls of a hut, all grown over with large trees, and all the things he'd buried there; and then too, while we was at sea, she told him what we were doing, day by day, and they logged it all down: and when we got back and compared notes, we found it all true. Ah! he was a sharp one, I tell you! At last, he got her upon the track of Taylor. She found him in the East Indies, under another name, and shipped aboard one of our national ships. And so, what does he do but go to work and petition the Navy Department for Taylor's discharge, upon the ground that a grand estate had been left him--or, that he had large expectations, I forget which. He was very shy at first, and wouldn't acknowledge that he had ever gone by the name of Thomas Taylor. I dare say he had his reasons. But, after hunting him through hospitals, and navy yards, and sailor boarding-houses, and from ship to ship, the colonel he cornered him, and got him to say he would go with them. He told exactly the same story that Greenleaf did: I was taken sick, and couldn't go, and---stop--I'm before my story, I believe--they made their voyage without him. They landed, dug trenches, and blistered their hands, and spent over two days in the search, while the schooner lay off and on, waiting for them: but they found nothing. After they got back, however, the colonel he had a meeting with the owners, and satisfied them all, in some way--I never knew how--that they had just reversed the bearings, and hadn't been near the place. How he knew, I can't say, for he had never been there, to my knowledge, and I happen to know that they must have been pretty near the spot, for they found a sort of a hillock that I remembered, and they told me all about the bearings, and they agreed with my chart." "Well!--" "Well, the next time they went, they took Taylor with them, and everything went on smoothly enough till one day, when the voyage was almost up, Taylor he said to Pearce--'Pearce,' said he, 'to-morrow, at this time, I shall be a rich man; and now,' says he, 'Mr. Pearce,' says he, 'I must have my letters.' Upon this, up steps John Mac, and says he, 'Taylor,' says he, 'when you want any letters, you'll have to come to me for them; and I shall have to put you upon allowance.' And then Taylor--he was an old man-o'-warsman, you see, and he couldn't get along without his grog--he jest ups and says--'that's enough, capt'n. You may haul aft the sheet, tack ship, and go home. I shall tell you nothing more. As soon as the money is safe--I see how 'tis--old Taylor'll have to go overboard.' And he stuck to what he said, though he went ashore with them, just to show them that he knew every point of the compass--for he told them where they would find a couple of holes in the ledge--and they found them there, just as he said; and the first thing they saw, there was Taylor away up on the top of a high mountain, smoking a pipe. He had always told them he knew how to get up there; but they never believed him, because they had all tried and couldn't fetch it." "And he stuck to it, hey, and never told them anything more?" "Jess so." "And what became of Taylor? Is he living?" "No; he died in the hospital at Bath not more than five years ago." "And you still think the money was there?" "Think!--I am sure of it." "Do you believe it is there now?" "Do I!--Certainly I do!" Whereupon, all I have to say is--_Hurrah for bubbles!_ * * * * * SONNET.--QUEEN OF SCOTS. BY WM. ALEXANDER. Within a castle's battlemented walls, In crimsoned dungeon lay fair Scotia's queen: Like drooping sorrow seemed she oft to lean Her weary head. Pale, weeping memory recalls The beaming joys of her life's early day, Forever fled. Her spirit, palled with gloom, Anticipates sweet rest but in the tomb-- White wingéd Faith, her guardian one, alway There hovering nigh. 'Tis morn; dreams she no more; On Fotheringay's black scaffold now she stands, Clasping her cherished croslet in her hands, Anon to die. Her fate the loves deplore; The angel-loves, eke, waft her soul to heaven; Her faults, her follies, to her faith forgiven. * * * * * THE PIONEER MOTHERS OF THE WEST. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. MARY BLEDSOE. The history of the early settlers of the West, a large portion of which has never been recorded in any published work, is full of personal adventure. No power of imagination could create materials more replete with romantic interest than their simple experience afforded. The early training of those hardy pioneers in their frontier life; the daring with Which they penetrated the wilderness, plunging into trackless forests, and encountering the savage tribes whose hunting-grounds they had invaded; and the sturdy perseverance with which they overcame all difficulties, compel our wondering admiration. But far less attention has been given to their exploits and sufferings than they deserve, because the accounts we have received are too vague and general; the picture is not brought near us, nor exhibited With life-like proportions and coloring; and our sympathy is denied to what we are unable to appreciate. It will, I am sure, be rendering a service to those interested in our American story to collect such traditionary information as can be fully relied upon, and thus show something of the daily life of those heroic adventurers. The kindness of a descendant of one of those noble patriots who, after having won distinction in the struggle for Independence, sought new homes in the free and growing West,[1] enables me to present some brief notice of one family associated with the early history of Tennessee. The name of Bledsoe is distinguished among the pioneers of the Cumberland Valley. The brothers of this name--Englishmen by birth--were living in 1769 upon the extreme border of civilization, near Fort Chipel, a military post in Wyth County, Virginia. It was not long before they removed further into the wild, being probably the earliest pioneers in the valley of the Holston, in what is now called Sullivan County, Tennessee, a portion of country at that time supposed to be within the limits of Virginia. The Bledsoes, with the Shelbys, settled themselves about twelve miles above the Island Flats. The beauty of that mountainous region attracted others, who impelled by the same spirit of adventure, and pride in being the first to explore the wilderness, came to join them in establishing the colony. They cheerfully ventured their property and lives, enduring the severest privations in taking possession of their new homes, influenced by the love of independence, equality, and religious freedom. The most dearly-prized rights of man had been threatened in the oppressive system adopted by Great Britain towards her colonies; her agents and the colonial magistrates manifested all the insolence of authority; and individuals who had suffered from their aggressions bethought themselves of a country beyond the mountains, in the midst of primeval forests, where no laws existed save the law of Nature--no magistrate except those selected by themselves; where full liberty of conscience, of speech, and of action prevailed. Yet, almost in the first year of their settlement, they formed a written code of regulations by which they agreed to be governed; each man signing his name thereto. The pioneer settlements of the Holston and Watanga, formed by parties of emigrants from neighboring provinces, traveling together through the wilderness, were not, in their constitution, unlike those of New Haven and Hartford; but among them was no godly Hooker, no learned and heavenly-minded Haynes. As from the first, however, they were exposed to the continual depredations and assaults of their savage neighbors, who looked with jealous eyes upon the approach of the white men, and waged a war of extermination against them, it was perhaps well that there were among them few men of letters. The rifle and the axe, their only weapons of civilization, suited better the perils they encountered from the fierce and marauding Shawnees, Chickamangas, Creeks, and Cherokees, than would the brotherly address of William Penn, or the pious discourses of Roger Williams. During the first year, not more than fifty families had crossed the mountains; but others came with each revolving season to reinforce the little settlement, until its population swelled to hundreds; increasing to thousands within ten or fifteen years, notwithstanding the frequent and terrible inroads upon their numbers of the Indian rifle and tomahawk. The dwelling-houses were forts, picketed, and flanked by block-houses, and the inhabitants, for mutual aid and protection, took up their residence in groups around different stations, within a short distance of one another. Not long after the Bledsoes established themselves upon the banks of the Holston, Colonel Anthony Bledsoe, who was an excellent surveyor, was appointed clerk to the commissioners who ran the line dividing Virginia and North Carolina. Bledsoe had, before this, ascertained that Sullivan County was comprised within the boundaries of the latter province. In June, 1776, he was chosen by the inhabitants of the county to the command of the militia. The office imposed on him the dangerous duty of repelling the savages and defending the frontier. He had often to call out the militia and lead them to meet their Indian assailants, whom they would pursue to their villages through the recesses of the forest. The battle of Long Island, fought a few miles below his station, near the Island Flats, was one of the earliest and hardest fought battles known in the traditionary history of Tennessee. In June, 1776, more than seven hundred Indian warriors advanced upon the settlements on the Holston, with the avowed object of exterminating the white race through all their borders. Colonel Bledsoe, at the head of the militia, marched to meet them, and in the conflict which ensued was completely victorious; the Indians being routed, and leaving forty dead upon the field. This disastrous defeat for a time held them in check: but the spirit of savage hostility was invincible, and in the years following there was a constant succession of Indian troubles, in which Colonel Bledsoe was conspicuous for his bravery and services. In 1779, Sullivan County having been recognized as a part of North Carolina, Governor Caswell appointed Anthony Bledsoe colonel, and Isaac Shelby lieutenant-colonel, of its military company. About the beginning of July of the following year, General Charles McDowell, who commanded a district east of the mountains, sent to Bledsoe a dispatch, giving him an account of the condition of the country. The surrender of Charleston had brought the State of South Carolina under British power; the people had been summoned to return to their allegiance, and resistance was ventured only by a few resolute spirits, determined to brave death rather than submit to the invader. The Whigs had fled into North Carolina, whence they returned as soon as they were able to oppose the enemy. Colonels Tarleton and Ferguson had advanced towards North Carolina at the head of their soldiery; and McDowell ordered Colonel Bledsoe to rally the militia of his county, and come forward in readiness to assist in repelling the invader's approach. Similar dispatches were sent to Colonel Sevier and to other officers, and the patriots were not slow in obeying the summons. While the British Colonel Ferguson, under the orders of Cornwallis, was sweeping the country near the frontier, gathering the loyalists under his standard and driving back the Whigs, against whom fortune seemed to have decided, a resolute band was assembled for their succor far up among the mountains. From a population of five or six thousand, not more than twelve hundred of them fighting men, a body of near five hundred mountaineers, armed with rifles and clad in leathern hunting-shirts, was gathered. The anger of these sons of liberty had been stirred up by an insolent message received from Colonel Ferguson, that, "if they did not instantly lay down their arms, he would come over the mountains and whip their republicanism out of them;" and they were eager for an opportunity of showing what regard they paid to his threats. At this juncture, Colonel Isaac Shelby returned from Kentucky, where he had been surveying land for the great company of land speculators headed by Henderson, Hart, and others. The young officer was betrothed to Miss Susan Hart, a belle celebrated among the western settlements at that period, and it was shrewdly suspected that his sudden return from the wilds of Kentucky was to be attributed to the attractions of that young lady; notwithstanding that due credit is given to the patriot, in recent biographical sketches, for an ardent wish to aid his countrymen in their struggle for liberty by his active services at the scene of conflict. On his arrival at Bledsoe's, it was a matter of choice with the colonel whether he should himself go forth and march at the head of the advancing army of volunteers, or yield the command to Shelby. It was necessary for one to remain behind, for the danger to the defenceless inhabitants of the country was even greater from the Indians than the British; and it was obvious that the ruthless savage would take immediate advantage of the departure of a large body of fighting men, to fall upon the enfeebled frontier. Shelby, on his part, insisted that it was the duty of Colonel Bledsoe, whose family, relatives, and defenceless neighbors looked to him for protection, to stay with the troops at home for the purpose of repelling the expected Indian assault. For himself, he urged, he had no family to guard, or who might mourn his loss, and it was better that he should advance with the troops to join McDowell. No one could tell where might be the post of danger and honor, at home or on the other side of the mountain. The arguments he used no doubt corresponded with his friend's own convictions, his sense of duty to his family, and of true regard to the welfare of his country; and the deliberation resulted in his relinquishment of the command to his junior officer. It was thus that the conscientious, though not ambitious, patriot lost the honor of commanding in one of the most distinguished actions of the Revolutionary War. Colonel Shelby took the command of those gallant mountaineers who encountered the forces of Ferguson at King's Mountain on the 7th October, 1780. Three days after that splendid victory, Colonel Bledsoe received from him an official dispatch giving an account of the battle. The daughter of Colonel Bledsoe well remembers having heard this dispatch read by her father, though it has probably long since shared the fate of other valuable family papers. When the hero of King's Mountain, wearing the victor's wreath, returned to his friends, he found that his betrothed had departed with her father for Kentucky, leaving for him no request to follow. Sarah, the above-mentioned daughter of Colonel Bledsoe, often rallied the young officer, who spent considerable time at her father's, upon this cruel desertion. He would reply by expressing much indignation at the treatment he had received at the hands of the fair coquette, and protesting that he would not follow her to Kentucky, nor ask her of her father; he would wait for little Sarah Bledsoe, a far prettier bird, he would aver, than the one that had flown away. The maiden, then some twelve or thirteen years of age, would laughingly return his bantering by saying he "had better wait, indeed, and see if he could win Miss Bledsoe who could not win Miss Hart." The arch damsel was not wholly in jest, for a youthful kinsman of the colonel--David Shelby, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who had fought by his side at King's Mountain--had already gained her youthful affections. She remained true to this early love, though her lover was only a private soldier. And it may be well to record that, the gallant colonel who thus threatened infidelity to his, did actually, notwithstanding his protestations, go to Kentucky the following year, and was married to Miss Susan Hart, who made him a faithful and excellent wife. During the whole of the trying period that intervened between the first settlement of east Tennessee and the close of the Revolutionary struggle, Colonel Bledsoe, with his brother and kinsmen, was almost incessantly engaged in the strife with their Indian foes, as well as in the laborious enterprise of subduing the forest, and converting the tangled wilds into the husbandman's fields of plenty. In these varied scenes of trouble and trial, of toil and danger, the men were aided and encouraged by the women. Mary Bledsoe, the colonel's wife, was a woman of remarkable energy, and noted for her independence both of thought and action. She never hesitated to expose herself to danger whenever she thought it her duty to brave it; and when Indian hostilities were most fierce, when their homes were frequently invaded by the murderous savage, and females struck down by the tomahawk or carried into captivity, she was foremost in urging her husband and friends to go forth and meet the foe, instead of striving to detain them for the protection of her own household. During this time of peril and watchfulness little attention could have been given to books, even had the pioneers possessed them; but the Bible, the Confession of Faith, and a few such works as Baxter's Call, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, etc., were generally to be found in the library of every resident on the frontier. About the close of the year 1779, Colonel Bledsoe and his brothers, with a few friends, crossed the Cumberland Mountains, descended into the valley of Cumberland River, and explored the beautiful region on its banks. Delighted with its shady woods, its herds of buffaloes, its rich and genial soil, and its salubrious climate, their report on their return induced many of the inhabitants of East Tennessee to resolve on seeking a new home in the Cumberland Valley. The Bledsoes did not remove their families thither until three years afterwards; but the idea of settling the valley originated with them; they were the first to explore it, and it was in consequence of their report and advice that the expedition was fitted out, under the direction of Captain (afterwards General) Robertson and Colonel John Donaldson, to establish the earliest colony in that part of the country. The account of this expedition, and the planting of the settlement, is contained in the memoir of "Sarah Buchanan," vol. iii. of "Women of the American Revolution." The daughter of Colonel Bledsoe, from whose recollection Mr. Haynes has obtained most of the incidents recorded in these sketches, has in her possession letters that passed between her father and General Robertson, in which repeated allusions are made to the fact that to his suggestions and counsel was owing the first thought of emigration to the Cumberland Valley. In 1784, Anthony Bledsoe removed with his family to the new settlement of which he had thus been one of the founders. His brother, Colonel Isaac Bledsoe, had gone the year before. They took up their residence in what is now Sumner County, and established a fort or station at "Bledsoe's Lick"--now known as the Castalian Springs. The families being thus united, and the eldest daughter of Anthony married to David Shelby, the station became a rallying-point for an extensive district surrounding it. The Bledsoes were used to fighting with the Indians; they were men of well-known energy and courage, and their fort was the place to which the settlers looked for protection--the colonels being the acknowledged leaders of the pioneers in their neighborhood, and the terror, far and near, of the savage marauders. Anthony was also a member of the North Carolina Legislature from Sumner County. From 1780 to 1794, or 1795, a continual warfare was kept up by the Creeks and Cherokees against the inhabitants of the valley. The history of this time would be a fearful record of scenes of bloody strife and atrocious barbarity. Several hundred persons fell victims to the ruthless foe, who spared neither age nor sex, and many women and children were carried far from their friends into hopeless captivity. The settlers were frequently robbed and their negro slaves taken away; in the course of a few years two thousand horses were stolen; their cattle and hogs were destroyed, their houses and barns burned, and their plantations laid waste. In consequence of these incursions, many of the inhabitants gathered together at the stations on the frontier, and established themselves under military rule for the protection of the interior settlements. During this desperate period, the pursuits of the farmer could not be abandoned; lands were to be surveyed and marked, and fields cleared and cultivated, by men who could not venture beyond their own doors without arms in their hands. The labors of those active and vigilant leaders, the Bledsoes, in supporting and defending the colony, were indefatigable. Nor was the heroic matron--the subject of this notice--less active in her appropriate sphere of action. Her family consisted of seven daughters and five sons, the eldest of whom, Sarah Shelby, was not more than eighteen when she came to Sumner. Mrs. Bledsoe was almost the only instructor of these children, the family being left to her sole charge while her husband was engaged in his toilsome duties, or harassed with the cares incident to an uninterrupted border warfare. Too soon was this devoted wife and mother called upon to suffer a far deeper calamity than any she had yet experienced. On the night of the 20th July, 1788, the family were alarmed by hearing the horses and cattle running tumultuously around the station, as if suddenly frightened. Colonel Anthony Bledsoe, who was then at home, rose and went to the gate of the fort. As he opened it, he was shot down; the same ball killing an Irish servant, named Campbell, who had been long devotedly attached to him. The colonel did not expire immediately, but was carried back into the station, while preparations were made for defence. Aware of the near approach of death, Bledsoe's anxiety was to provide for the comfort of his family. He had surveyed large tracts of land, and had secured grants for several thousand acres, which constituted nearly his whole property. The law of North Carolina at that time gave all the lands to the sons, to the exclusion of the daughters. In consequence, should the colonel die without a will, his seven young daughters would be left destitute. In this hour of bitter trial, Mrs. Bledsoe's thoughts were not alone of her own sufferings, and the deadly peril that hung over them, but of the provision necessary for the helpless ones dependent on her care. She suggested to her wounded husband that a will should be immediately drawn up. It was done; and a portion of land was assigned to each of the seven daughters, who thus in after life had reason to remember with gratitude the presence of mind and affectionate care of their mother. Her sufferings from Indian hostility were not terminated by this overwhelming stroke. A brief list of those who fell victims, among her family and kinsmen, may afford some idea of the trials she endured, and of the strength of character which enabled her to bear up, and to support others, under such terrible experiences. In January, 1793, her son Anthony, then seventeen years of age, while passing near the present site of Nashville, was shot through the body, and severely wounded, by a party of Indians in ambush. He was pursued to the gates of a neighboring fort. Not a month afterwards, her eldest son, Thomas, was also desperately wounded by the savages, and escaped with difficulty from their hands. Early in the following April, he was shot dead near his mother's house, and scalped by the murderous Indians. On the same day, Colonel Isaac Bledsoe was killed and scalped by a party of about twenty Creek Indians, who beset him in the field, and cut off his retreat to his station, near at hand. In April, 1794, Anthony, the son of Mrs. Bledsoe, and his cousin of the same name, were shot by a party of Indians, near the house of General Smith, on Drake Creek, ten miles from Gallatin. The lads were going to school, and were then on their way to visit Mrs. Sarah Shelby, the sister of Anthony, who lived on Station Camp Creek. Some time afterwards, Mrs. Bledsoe herself was on the road from Bledsoe's Lick to the above-mentioned station, where the court of Sumner county was at that time held. Her object was to attend to some business connected with the estate of her late husband. She was escorted on her way by the celebrated Thomas S. Spencer, and Robert Jones. The party were waylaid and fired upon by a large body of Indians. Jones was severely wounded, and turning, rode rapidly back for about two miles; after which, he fell dead from his horse. The savages advanced boldly upon the others, intending to take them prisoners. It was not consistent with Spencer's chivalrous character to attempt to save himself by leaving his companion to the mercy of the foe. Bidding her retreat as fast as possible, and encouraging her to keep her seat firmly, he protected her by following more slowly in her rear, with his trusty rifle in his hand. When the Indians in pursuit came too near, he would raise his weapon, as if to fire; and, as he was known to be an excellent marksman, the savages were not willing to encounter him, but hastened to the shelter of trees, while he continued his retreat. In this manner he kept them at bay for some miles, not firing a single shot--for he knew that his threatening had more effect--until Mrs. Bledsoe reached a station. Her life and his own were, on this occasion, saved by his prudence and presence of mind; for both would have been lost had he yielded to the temptation to fire. This Spencer--for his gallantry and reckless daring, named "the Chevalier Bayard of Cumberland Valley"--was famed for his encounters with the Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on more than one occasion. His proportions and strength were those of a giant, and the wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvelous stories concerning him. It was said that, at one time, being unarmed when attacked by the Indians, he reached into a tree, and, wrenching off a huge bough by main force, drove back his assailants with it. He lived for some years alone in Cumberland Valley--it is said, from 1776 to 1779--before a single white man had taken up his abode there; his dwelling being a large hollow tree, the roots of which still remain near Bledsoe's Lick. For one year--the tradition is--a man by the name of Holiday shared his retreat; but the hollow being not sufficiently spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they were under the necessity of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home in the valley of the Kentucky River. But one difficulty arose; those dwellers in the primeval forest had but one knife between them! What, was to be done? for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity: it belonged to Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an article to part with it. He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way on his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River. When about to turn back, Spencer's heart relented: he broke the blade of his knife in two, gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow tree. Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed by a party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville. For nearly twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and escaped them all; but his hour came at last; and the dust of the hermit and renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on "Spencer's Hill," near the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and Knoxville. Bereaved of her husband, sons, and brother-in-law by the murderous savages, Mrs. Bledsoe was obliged alone to undertake, not only the charge of her husband's estate, but the care of the children, and their education and settlement in life. These duties were discharged with unwavering energy and Christian patience. Her religion had taught her fortitude under her unexampled distresses; and through all this trying period of her life, she exhibited a decision and firmness of character which bespoke no ordinary powers of intellect. Her mind, indeed, was of masculine strength, and she was remarkable for independence of thought and opinion. In person, she was attractive, being neither tall nor large, until advanced in life. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray and her complexion fair. Her useful life was closed in the autumn of 1808. The record of her worth, and of what she did and suffered, is an humble one, and may win little attention from the careless many, who regard not the memory of our "pilgrim mothers:" but the recollection of her gentle virtues has not yet faded from the hearts of her descendants; and those to whom they tell the story of her life will acknowledge her the worthy companion of those noble men to whom belongs the praise of having originated a new colony and built up a goodly state in the bosom of the forest. Their patriotic labors, their struggles with the surrounding savages, their efforts in the maintenance of the community they had founded--sealed, as they finally were, with their own blood, and the blood of their sons and relatives--will never be forgotten while the apprehension of what is noble, generous, and good survives in the hearts of their countrymen. [1] Milton A. Haynes, Esq., of Tennessee, has furnished me with this and other accounts. * * * * * MORE GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN, IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR. BY LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK. MY DEAR GODEY:-- I have not finished my gossip about children. I have a good deal yet to say touching their sensibilities, their nice discriminating sense, and the treatment which they too frequently receive from those who, although older than themselves, are in very many things not half so wise. If you will take up Southey's Autobiography, written by himself (and his son), and recently published by my friends, the brothers Harper, you will find in the portion of Southey's early history, as recorded by himself, many striking examples of the keen susceptibility of childhood to outward and inward impressions, and of the deep feeling which underlies the apparently unthoughtful career of a young boy. It is a delightful opening of his whole heart to his reader. One sees with him the smallest object of nature about the home of his childhood; and it is impossible not to enter into all his feelings of little joys and poignant sorrows. I am not without the hope, therefore, that, in the few records which I am about to give you; partly of personal experience and partly of personal observation, I shall be able to enlist the attention of your readers; for, after all, each one of us, friend Godey, in our own more mature joys and sorrows, is but an epitome, so to speak, the great mass, who alike rejoice and grieve us. I do not wish to exhibit anything like a spirit of egotism, and I assure you that I write with a gratified feeling that is a very wide remove from that selfish sentiment, when I tell you that I have received from very many parents, in different parts of the country, letters containing their "warm and grateful thanks" for the endeavor which I made, in a recent number of your magazine, to _create more confidence in childhood and youth_; to awaken, along with a "sense of _duty_"--that too frequent excuse for domestic tyranny--a feeling of generous forbearance for the trivial, venial faults of those whose hearts are just and tender, and whom "kindness wins when cruelty would repel." You must let me go on in my own way, and I will try to illustrate the truth and justice of my position. I must go back to my very earliest schooldays. I doubt if I was more than five years old, a little boy in the country, when I was sent, with my twin-brother, to a summer "district school." It was kept by a "school-ma'am," a pleasant young woman of some twenty years of age. She was positively my _first love_. I am afraid I was an awkward scholar at first; but the enticing manner in which Mary ---- (I grieve that only the faint _sound_ of her unsyllabled name comes to me now from "the dark backward and abysm of Time") coaxed me through the alphabet and the words of one syllable; encouraged me to encounter those of two (the first of which I remember to this day, whenever the baker's bill for my children's daily bread is presented for audit); stimulated me to attack those of three; until, at the last, I was enabled to surmount that tallest of orthoëpical combinations, "_Mi-chi-li-mack-i-nack_", without a particle of fear; the enticing manner, I say, in which Mary ---- accomplished all this, won my heart. She would stoop over and kiss me, on my low seat, when I was successful, and very pleasant were her "good words" to my ear. Bless your heart! I remember at this moment the feeling of her soft brown curls upon my cheek; and I would give almost anything now to see the first "certificate" of good conduct which I brought home, in her handwriting, to my mother, and which was kept for years among fans, bits of dried orange-peel, and sprigs of withered "caraway," in a corner of the bureau-"draw." All this came very vividly to me some time ago, when my own little boy brought home _his_ first "school-ticket." He is not called, however--and I rejoice that he is not--to remember dear companions, who "bewept to the grave did go, with true-love showers." "Oh, my mother! oh, my childhood! Oh, my brother, now no more! Oh, the years that push me onward, Farther from that distant shore!" But I am led away. I wanted merely to say that this "school-ma'am," from the simple _love_ of her children, her little scholars, knew how to teach and how to _rule_ them. I hope that not a few "school-ma'ams" will peruse this hastily-prepared gossip; and if they do, I trust they will remember, in the treatment of their little charges, that "the heart _must_ leap kindly back to kindness." Why, my dear sir, I used to wait, in the summer afternoons, until all the little pupils had gone on before, so that I could place in the soft white hand of my school-mistress as confiding a little hand as any in which she may afterwards have placed her own, "in the full trust of love." I hope she found a husband good and true, and that she was blessed with what she loved, "wisely" and _not_ "too well," children. Now that I am on the subject of children at school, I wish to pursue the theme at a little greater length, and give you an incident or two in my farther experience. It was not long after finishing our summer course with "school-ma'am" Mary ----, that we were transferred to a "man-school," kept in the district. And here I must go back, for just one moment, to say that, among the pleasantest things that I remember of that period, was the calling upon us in the morning, by the neighbors' children--and especially two little girls, new-comers from the "Black River country," then a vague terra incognita to us, yet only some thirty miles away--to accompany us to the school through the winter snow. How well I remember their knitted red-and-white woolen hoods, and the red-and-white complexions beaming with youth and high health beneath them! I think of Motherwell's going to school with his "dear Jenny Morrison," so touchingly described in his beautiful poem of that name, every time these scenes arise before me. Well, at this "man-school" I first learned the lesson which I am about to illustrate. It is a lesson for parents, a lesson for instructors, and, I think, a lesson for children also. I remember names _here_, for one was almost burned into my brain for years afterwards. There was something very imposing about "opening the school" on the first day of the winter session. The trustees of the same were present; a hard-headed old farmer, who sent long piles of "cord wood," beach, maple, bass-wood, and birch, out of his "own _pocket_," he used to say--and he might, with equal propriety, have said, "out of his own _head_," for surely _there_ was no lack of "timber;" Deacon C----, an educated Puritan, who could spell, read, write, "punctify," and--"knew grammar," as he himself expressed it; a thin-faced doctor, whose horse was snorting at the door, and who sat, on that occasion, with his saddle-bags crossed on his knee, being in something of a hurry, expecting, I believe, an "addition" in the neighborhood, to the subject of my present gossip--at all events, I well remember peeping under the wrinkled leather-flaps of the "bags" and seeing a wooden cartridge-box, with holes for the death-dealing vials; and last, but not least, the town blacksmith, who was, in fact, worth all the other trustees put together, being a man of sound common sense, with something more than a sprinkling of useful education. Under the auspices of these trustees, this "man-school" was thus opened for the winter. "Now look you what befell." For the first four or five days, our schoolmaster was quite amiable--or so at least he seemed. His "rules," and they were arbitrary enough, were given out on the second day; five scholars were "admonished" on the third; on the fourth, about a dozen were "warned," as the pedagogue termed it; and on the fifth, there was set up in the corner of an open closet, in plain sight of all the school, a bundle containing about a dozen birch switches, each some six feet long, and rendered lithe and tough by being tempered in the hot embers of the fire. These were to be the "ministers of justice;" and the portents of this "dreadful note of preparation" were amply fulfilled. I had just begun to learn to write. My copy-book had four pages of "straight marks," so called, I suppose, because they are always crooked. I had also gone through "the hooks," up and down; but my hand was cramped; and I fear that my first "word-copy" was not as good as it ought to have been; but I "run out my tongue and tried" hard; and it makes me laugh, even now, to remember how I used to look along the line of "writing-scholars" on my bench, and see the rows of lolling tongues and moving heads over the long desk, mastering the first difficulties of chirography; some licking off "blots" of ink from their copy-books, others drawing in or dropping slowly out of the mouth, at each upward or downward "stroke" of the pen. One morning, "the master" came behind me and overlooked my writing-- "Louis," said he, "if I see any more such writing as that, you'll repent it! I've _talked_ to you long enough." I replied that he had never, to my recollection, blamed me for writing badly but once; nor _had_ he. "Don't dare to contradict _me_, sir, but remember!" was his only reply. From this moment, I could scarcely hold my pen aright, much less "write right." The master had a cat-like, stealthy tread, and I seemed all the while to feel him behind me; and while I was fearing this, and had reached the end of a line, there fell across my right hand a diagonal blow, from the fierce whip which was the tyrant's constant companion, that in a moment rose to a red and blue welt as large as my little finger, entirely across my hand. The pain was excruciating. I can recall the feeling as vividly, while I am tracing these lines, as I did the moment after the cruel blow was inflicted. From that time forward I could not write at all; nor should I have pursued that branch of school-education at all that winter but that "the master's" cruelty soon led to his dismissal in deep disgrace. His floggings were almost incessant. His system was the "reign of terror," instead of that which "works by _love_ and purifies the heart." His crowning act was feruling a little boy, as ingenuous and innocent-hearted a child as ever breathed, on the tops of his finger-nails--a refinement of cruelty beyond all previous example. The little fellow's nails turned black and soon came off, and the "master" was turned away. I am not sorry to add that he was subsequently cowhided, while lying in a snow-bank, into which he had been "knocked" by an elder brother of the lad whom he had so cruelly treated, until he cried lustily for quarter, which was not _too_ speedily granted. But I come now to my illustration of the "law of kindness," in its effect upon myself. The successor to the pedagogue whom we have dismissed was a native of Connecticut. He was well educated, had a pleasant manner, and a smile of remarkable sweetness. I never saw him angry for a moment. On the first day he opened, he said to the assembled school that he wanted each scholar to consider him as _a friend_; that he desired nothing but their good; and that it was for the interest of _each one_ of them that _all_ should be careful to observe the few and simple rules which he should lay down for the government of the school. These he proclaimed; and, with one or two trivial exceptions, there was no infraction of them during the three winters in which he taught in our district. Under his instruction, I was induced to resume my "experiences" in writing. I remember his coming to look over my shoulder to examine the first page of my copy-book: "Very well written," said he; "only _keep on_ in that way, and you cannot fail to succeed." These encouraging words went straight to my heart. They were words of kindness, and their fruition was instantaneous. When the next two pages of my copy-book were accomplished, he came again to report upon my progress: "That is _well_ done, Louis, quite _well_. You will soon require very little instruction from _me_. I am afraid you'll soon become to excel your teacher." Gentle-hearted, sympathetic O---- M----! would that your "law of kindness" could be written upon the heart of every parent, and every guardian and instructor of the young throughout our great and happy country! I have often wondered why it is that parents and guardians do not more frequently and more cordially _reciprocate the confidence of children_. How hard it is to convince a child that his father or mother can do wrong! Our little people are always our sturdiest defenders. They are loyal to the maxim that "the king can do no wrong;" and all the monarchs they know are their parents. I heard the other day, from the lips of a distinguished physician, formerly of New York, but now living in elegant retirement in a beautiful country town of Long Island, a touching illustration of the truth of this, with which I shall close this already too protracted article. "I have had," said the doctor, "a good deal of experience, in the long practice of my profession in the city, that is more remarkable than anything recorded in the 'Diary of a London Physician.' It would be impossible for me to detail to you the hundredth part of the interesting and exciting things which I saw and heard. That which affected me most, of late years, was the case of a boy, not, I think, over twelve years of age. I first saw him in the hospital, whither, being poor and without parents, he had been brought to die. "He was the most beautiful boy I ever beheld. He had that peculiar cast of countenance and complexion which we notice in those who are afflicted with frequent hemorrhage of the lungs. He was _very_ beautiful! His brow was broad, fair, and intellectual; his eyes had the deep _interior_ blue of the sky itself; his complexion was like the lily, tinted, just below the cheek-bone, with a hectic flush-- 'As on consumption's waning cheek, Mid ruin blooms the rose;' and his hair, which was soft as floss silk, hung in luxuriant curls about his face. But oh, what an expression of deep melancholy his countenance wore! so remarkable that I felt certain that the fear of death had nothing to do with it. And I was right. Young as he was, he did not wish to live. He repeatedly said that death was what he most desired; and it was truly dreadful to hear one so young and so beautiful talk like this. 'Oh!' he would say, 'let me die! let me die! Don't _try_ to save me; I _want_ to die!' Nevertheless, he was most affectionate, and was extremely grateful for everything that I could do for his relief. I soon won his heart; but perceived, with pain, that his disease of body was nothing to his 'sickness of the soul,' which I could not heal. He leaned upon my bosom and wept, while at the same time he prayed for death. I have never seen one of his years who courted it so sincerely. I tried in every way to elicit from him what it was that rendered him so unhappy; but his lips were sealed, and he was like one who tried to turn his face from something which oppressed his spirit. "It subsequently appeared that the father of this child was hanged for murder in B---- County, about two years before. It was the most cold-blooded homicide that had ever been known in that section of the country. The excitement raged high; and I recollect that the stake and the gallows vied with each other for the victim. The mob labored hard to get the man out of the jail, that they might wreak summary vengeance upon him by hanging him to the nearest tree. Nevertheless, law triumphed, and he was hanged. Justice held up her equal scales with satisfaction, and there was much trumpeting forth of this consummation, in which even the women, merciful, tender-hearted women, seemed to take delight. "Perceiving the boy's life to be waning, I endeavored one day to turn his mind to religious subjects, apprehending no difficulty in one so young; but he always evaded the topic. I asked him if he had said his prayers. He replied-- "'_Once_, always--_now_, never.' "This answer surprised me very much; and I endeavored gently to impress him with the fact that a more devout frame of mind would be becoming in him, and with the great necessity of his being prepared to die; but he remained silent. "A few days afterwards, I asked him whether he would not permit me to send for the Rev. Dr. B----, a most kind man in sickness, who would be of the utmost service to him in his present situation. He declined firmly and positively. _Then_ I determined to solve this mystery, and to understand this strange phase of character in a mere child. 'My dear boy,' said I, 'I implore you not to act in this manner. What can so have disturbed your young mind? You certainly believe there is a God, to whom you owe a debt of gratitude?' "His eye kindled, and to my surprise, I might almost say horror, I heard from his young lips-- "'No, I don't _believe_ that there is a God!' "Yes, that little boy, young as he was, was an atheist; and he even reasoned in a logical manner for a mere child like him. "'I cannot believe there is a God,' said he; 'for if there were a God, he must be merciful and just; and he never, _never_, NEVER could have permitted _my father_, who was innocent, to be hanged! Oh, my father! my father!' he exclaimed, passionately, burying his face in the pillow, and sobbing as if his heart would break. "I was overcome by my own emotion; but all that I could say would not change his determination; he would have no minister of God beside him--no prayers by his bedside. I was unable, with all my endeavors, to apply any balm to his wounded heart. "A few days after this, I called, as usual, in the morning, and at once saw very clearly that the little boy must soon depart. "'Willie,' said I, 'I have got good news for you to-day. Do you think that you can bear to hear it?' for I really was at a loss how to break to him what I had to communicate. "He assented, and listened with the deepest attention. I then informed him, as I best could, that, from circumstances which had recently come to light, it had been rendered certain that his father was entirely innocent of the crime for which he had suffered an ignominious death. "I never shall forget the frenzy of emotion which he exhibited at this announcement. He uttered one scream--the blood rushed from his mouth--he leaned forward upon my bosom--and died!" * * * * I leave this, friend Godey, with your readers. I had much more to say; and, perhaps, should it be desirable, I may hereafter give you one more chapter upon children. * * * * * SONG OF THE STARS. E PLURIBUS UNUM--"_Many in One_." A NATIONAL SONG. BY THOMAS S. DONOHO. "E PLURIBUS UNUM!" The world, with delight, Looks up to the starry blue banner of night, In its many-blent glory rejoicing to see AMERICA'S motto--the pride of the Free! "E PLURIBUS UNUM!" Our standard for ever! Woe, woe to the heart that would dare to dissever! Shine, Liberty's Stars! your dominion increase-- A guide in the battle, a blessing in peace! "E PLURIBUS UNUM!" And thus be, at last, From land unto land our broad banner cast, Till its Stars, like the stars of the sky, be unfurled, In beauty and glory, embracing the world! * * * * * DEVELOUR. A SEQUEL TO "THE NIEBELUNGEN." BY PROFESSOR CHARLES E. BLUMENTHAL. CHAPTER I. The twenty-second of February, 1848, found Paris in a condition which only a Napoleon or a Washington could have controlled. The people felt and acted like a lion conscious that his fetters are corroded, yet still some what awed by the remembrance of the power which they once exercised over him. Poverty and want, licentious habits and irreligious feeling, had contributed to bring about a ferocious discontent, which needed only the insidious and inflammatory articles spread broadcast over the land by designing men to fan into an insurrection. Louis Philippe and his advisers exemplified the proverb _Quem Deus vuls perdere, prius dementas_, determined upon closing one of the best safety-valves of public discontent. The Reform Banquet had been prohibited, and _apparently_ well-planned military preparations had been made to meet any possible hostile demonstrations, and to quench them at the outset. Troops paraded through the city in every direction, and every prominent place was occupied by squadrons of cavalry or squads of infantry. Nevertheless, soon after breakfast the people collected at various points, at first in small numbers; but gradually these swelled in size in proportion as they advanced to what appeared the centre to which all were attracted, the _Place de la Concorde_. Shouts, laughter, and merriment were heard from all quarters of the crowd, and the moving masses appeared more like a body of people going to some holiday amusement, than conspirators bent upon the overthrow of a government. Just as a detached body of these was passing through the Rue de Burgoigne, a gentleman stepped out of one of the houses in that narrow street, and, partly led by curiosity and partly by his zeal for the popular cause, joined their ranks and advanced with them as far as the _Palais du Corps Legislatif_, where they were met by a troop of dragoons, who endeavored to disperse the crowd. Angry words were exchanged, and a few sabre blows fell among the crowd. One of the troopers, who seemed determined to check the advancing column, rode up to one who appeared to be a leader, and, raising his sword, exclaimed, "Back, or I'll cleave your skull!" But the youthful and athletic champion folded his arms, and, without the slightest discomposure, replied, "Coward! strike an unarmed man;--prove your courage!" The dragoon, without a reply, wheeled his horse, and rode to another part of the square. Just at that moment, another insolent trooper pressed his horse against the gentleman who had joined the crowd in the Rue de Burgoigne. The latter lifted his cane, and was about to chastise the soldier's insolence, when a man in a blouse and a slouched hat resembling the Mexican _sombrero_, arrested his arm, and whispered to him, "Do not strike! you are not in America: France is not as yet the place to resent the insolence of a soldier." Irritated at this unexpected interference, the gentleman endeavored to free his arm from the vice-like grasp of the new-comer, while he exclaimed, "Unhand me, sir! A free American is everywhere a freeman; and these soldiers shall not prevent me from proceeding and aiding the cause of an oppressed people." "Say rather a hungry people," replied the other; and then added with a smile, and in good English, "Has the quiet student of the Juniata been so soon transformed into a fierce revolutionary partisan? What would Captain Sanker say if he could see you thus turned into a hot-headed insurgent?" "I have heard that voice before," replied the stranger. "Who are you, that you are so familiar with me and my friends?" "One who will guide and advise you in the storm that is now brewing, which will soon overwhelm this goodly Nineveh, and in its course shake a throne to its foundation. But this is no place for explanations. Come--and on our way I will tell you who I am, and why I have mingled with this people, that know hardly, as yet, what they are about to do." While saying this, he drew his companion into the Rue St. Dominique, and disentangled him thus from the crowd, which, now no longer opposed by the dragoons, moved onward towards the _Pont de la Concorde_. After they had crossed the Rue de Bac, they found the streets almost deserted, and then the man with the slouched hat turned to his companion and said-- "Has Mr. Filmot already forgotten the pic-nic on the banks of the Juniata, and the stranger guest whom he was good enough to invite to his house?" Mr. Filmot, for it was he whom we found just now about to take an active part in the insurrection of the Parisian people, examined the features of his interlocutor closely and rather distrustfully, and finally exclaimed--"It cannot be that I see M. Develour in Paris and in this strange disguise? for only yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Karsh, in which he informs me that his friend is even now a sojourner at the court of the Emperor of Austria." "That letter was dated more than a month ago," replied Mr. Develour. "I left the Prater city in the beginning of last month, and, it appears, have arrived just in time to prevent Mr. Filmot from committing a very imprudent act, which, by the way, you will recollect, was predicted to you in the magic mirror. Had you asked my advice before you left your native land to pursue your studies in the modern Nineveh, I would have counseled you to wait for a more propitious season. But, as soon as I heard of your presence in the city, I determined to watch over you and to warn you, if your enthusiasm should lead you to take too active a part in the deadly strife that awaits us here." "You certainly do not think that a revolution is contemplated?" inquired Mr. Filmot. "Come and see," replied Develour, while he continued his walk down the Rue St. Dominique. They then passed through the Rue St. Marguerite, and entered the Rue de Boucheries. About half way down the street they stopped before a mean-looking house. Develour rapped twice in quick succession at the door, and then, after a short interval, once more, and louder than before, immediately after the third rap, the door was partially and cautiously opened, and some one asked, in an under tone, "What do you want?" "To see the man of the red mountain," replied Develour, in the same tone. "What is your business?" "To guide the boat." "Where do you come from?" "From the rough sea." "And where do you wish to go to now?" "To the still waters." After this strange examination, the door was fully opened, and the doorkeeper said, "You may enter." But when he saw Filmot about to accompany Develour, he stopped him, and inquired by what right he expected to gain admission. "By my invitation and introduction," said Develour, before Filmot had time to speak. "That may not be," replied the doorkeeper. "No one has a right to introduce another, except those who have the word of the day." "I have the word," said Develour; and then he whispered to him, "Not Martin, but Albert." After that he continued aloud, "Now go and announce me; we will wait here in the vestibule." As soon as the doorkeeper, after carefully locking the door, had withdrawn into the interior of the house, Develour turned to his companion and asked him, "Have you ever come across an account of the Red Man, whom many believe to have exercised a great influence over the mind of Napoleon?" "I have read some curious statements concerning an individual designated by that name; but have always considered them the inventions of an exuberant imagination," replied Filmot. "You will soon have an opportunity to form a more correct opinion. I hope to have the pleasure, in a few minutes, to introduce you to him. As for his claims to--" Before Develour had time to finish the sentence, a side door opened close by him, and a black boy, dressed in oriental costume, entered and bowed, with his hands crossed over his breast, and then said to Develour, in broken French, "The master told me to bid you welcome, and to conduct you into the parlor, where he will join you in a few minutes." * * * * CHAPTER II. Develour and Filmot followed their guide into a room fitted up in Eastern style. Divans made of cushions piled one upon another were placed all around the room, with small carpets spread before them. Light stands of beautiful arabesque work were tastefully distributed in various places, and in the centre played a small fountain fed by aromatic water. The lower part of the room contained a recess, the interior of which was concealed by a semi-transparent screen, which permitted the visitors to see that it was lit up by a flame proceeding from an urn. Heavy rich silk curtains, hung before the windows, excluded the glare of the sun, and were so arranged that the light in the room resembled that given by the moon when at its full. The atmosphere of the apartment was heavy with the perfumes of exotic plants and costly essences. The Moor requested them to be seated, and, again crossing his arms over his breast, he bowed and left the room. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Develour said to Filmot: "It is reported that the Red Man appeared four times to Napoleon, and each time, in order to expostulate with him about the course he was pursuing; that, during each visit, he advised him what to do, and accompanied his advice with the promise of success, in case he would follow his counsel; and a threat of defeat if he persisted in disregarding it. The last visit which he paid to the Emperor was shortly before the battle of Waterloo. Montholon was in the antechamber, when the man with the red cloak entered his master's apartment. After renewed expostulations, he urged the Emperor to make an overture to the allied powers, and to promise that he would confine his claims to France, and pledge himself not to attempt conquest beyond the Rhine. When Napoleon, though half awed, rejected this advice with some irritation, his visitor rose, and solemnly predicted to him a signal defeat in the next great battle he would be compelled to fight; and, after that, an expulsion from his empire; and then left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. "As soon as Napoleon had recovered from his surprise at the bold language and the sudden departure of his strange monitor, he hastened into the antechamber to call him back. But no one but Montholon was in the room, who, when questioned by the Emperor concerning the man who just left the cabinet, replied that, during the last half hour, no human being had passed through the antechamber, to seek ingress or egress. The sentinels on the staircases and at the gates were then examined, but they all declared that they had not seen any stranger pass their respective posts. Perplexed at this fruitless endeavor to recall the Red Man, Napoleon returned to his cabinet mystified and gloomy, disturbed by his self appointed monitor, and his predictions. Shortly afterwards, he fought the battle of Waterloo, and saw the prophecy fulfilled. He could never afterwards wholly divest himself of the belief that the Man in Red, as he was called by the officers, was an incarnation of his evil genius." Before Develour had ceased speaking, a door opened in the the lower part of the room, and an old man advanced, with a slow but firm step, towards the two friends. The new-comer appeared to be a man of more than threescore years and ten, though not a falter in his step, not the slightest curvature of his lofty figure, evinced the approach of old age. He was a little above the middle height, lofty in his carriage, and dignified in all his movements. A high forehead gave an intellectual cast to a countenance habitually calm and commanding, and to which long flowing silver locks imparted the look of a patriarch ruler. He was dressed in a velvet morning-gown, which was confined around his waist by a broad belt of satin, upon which several formulas in Arabic were worked with silver thread; and on his feet he had slippers covered with letters similar to those on his belt. As soon as Develour became aware of his presence, he advanced to meet him, and said a few words in Arabic; then, introducing his friend, he continued, in English--"M. Delevert, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr. Filmot. Nothing but a desire to afford him the pleasure of knowing you, the friend and admirer of his countrymen and their institutions, could have induced me to absent myself from my post this morning." "You are welcome, Mr. Filmot," said M. Delevour, "even at a time when our good city affords us little opportunity to make it a welcome place to a stranger." "On the contrary," replied Filmot, "to an American and a true lover of liberty, it seems to hold out a very interesting spectacle, if what I have seen and heard to-day is a fair indication of what is to come." "Ah," said M. Delevert, with a sad smile, "I fear that the philanthropic part of your expectations will be doomed to disappointment. But a fearful lesson will again be read to the oppressors of the people; a lesson which would have been more effectual if taught a year hence, but which circumstances prevent us to delay longer. In a few minutes, messengers will arrive from all parts of the city to report progress and the probable result. You will thus have an opportunity, if not otherwise engaged, to gain correct information of the insurrection in all quarters." "Will you be displeased with me, my friend," said Develour, "if I tell you that not only of M. Delevert, but also of the Red Man have I spoken to Mr. Filmot; and I have even promised him that he shall hear from that mysterious being a detail of one of his visits to the emperors?" "And can M. Develour think still of these things?" replied the old man, smiling good-humoredly. "How can they interest your friend Mr. Filmot--a citizen of a country where everything is worked for in a plain matter-of-fact way? What interest can _he_ feel in the various means that were employed in an endeavor to make the military genius of the great warrior an instrument to bring about a permanent amelioration in the condition of the people?" "The very mystery in which the whole seems enveloped," said Filmot, "would, in itself, be enough to interest me in it; particularly so now, when I have reason to believe myself in the presence of the chief actor--of him whom hitherto I have always regarded as the creation of an excited imagination." "And why a creature of the imagination?" inquired M. Delevert. "Is it because I had it in my power to appear before the Emperor and to leave him unseen by other eyes? Or is it because of the truth of my predictions? Neither was impossible; neither required means beyond those which the scientific student of the book of nature, when properly instructed, can obtain. I resorted once even to a use of the utmost powers of nature, as far as they are known to me, in order to entice him, by a palpable proof of my ability to aid him, to promise that he would become an instrument in the hands of those who sought to usher in the dawn of a happier age, the age of true liberty, true equality; an age in which every man and _woman_ would be able to feel, through the advantages of education and equal political and moral rights, unhampered by false prejudices, that all human beings were created free and equal. It was on the night before the battle of Austerlitz, when he, as was his frequent custom, visited the outpost, wrapped in his plain gray coat. At the hour of midnight, I presented myself before him, and offered to show him the plans of the enemy for the following day, on condition that he would not endeavor to meddle with anything he should see, except so far as necessary to obtain the promised information. He knew something of my ability to fulfil what I promised, and therefore did not doubt me, but gave his imperial word to fulfil his part of the compact. I then led him a few paces beyond the camp, and bade him be seated on a large stone, a fragment of an old heathen altar-stone. He had hardly taken his seat before a phantom-like being, in the garb of an officer in the Austrian army, was seen kneeling before him with a portfolio in his hand. Napoleon opened it, and found there all the information he desired. He complied strictly with his promise, and returned the portfolio as soon as he had taken his notes, and the officer disappeared like a vapor of the night. I then turned to the surprised monarch, and offered to repeat this specimen of my skill before every subsequent battle, if he would moderate his ambition and be content to be the first among his equals, the father of a wide-spread patriarchal family. But he angrily refused to listen to such a proposal, and, having somewhat recovered from his surprise, called for his guards to seize me. Fool! He stood upon a spot where I could have killed him without the danger of its ever becoming known to any one. While he turned to look for his myrmidons, the ground opened beneath my feet, and I disappeared before he had time to see by what means I escaped. "Twice have I thus visited Alexander of Russia, but with like results. Fate has decreed it otherwise. Freedom cannot come to mankind from a throne. But, from what my friend Develour has told you already, you may be astonished that we should have engaged, and still engage, in fruitless efforts, when we have gained from nature powers by which the sage is able to glance at the decrees. Alas! this earthly frame loads us with physical clogs that weigh us down, and throw frequently a film before the eyes which make even the clearest dim and short-sighted."' Here they were interrupted by a few raps at the inner door, which M. Delevert seemed to count with great attention; and then rising from his seat, he continued, without any change in the tone of his voice-- "The reporters are coming in. If you will accompany me to my reception-room, you will have an opportunity, shared by no other foreigner, to become acquainted with the mainsprings of this revolution; for such I am determined it shall become. Alas! would that it were of a nature to be the last one! But their haste prevents that altogether. Come, they are waiting for me." (To be continued.) * * * * * THE MOURNER'S LAMENT. BY PARK BENJAMIN. The night-breeze fans my faded cheek, And lifts my damp and flowing hair-- And lo! methinks sweet voices speak, Like harp-strings to the viewless air; While in the sky's unmeasured scroll, The burning stars forever roll, Changeless as heaven, and deeply bright-- Fair emblems of a world of light! Oh, bathe my temples with thy dew, Sweet Evening, dearest parent mild, And from thy curtained home of blue, Bend calmly o'er thy tearful child: For, when I feel, so soft and bland, The pressure of thy tender hand, I dream I rest in peace the while, Cradled beneath my mother's smile. That mother sleeps! the snow-white shroud Enfolds her stainless bosom now, And, like bright hues on some pale cloud, Rose-leaves were woven round her brow. I wreathed them that to heaven's pure bowers, Surrounded with the breath of flowers, Her soul might soar through mists divine, Like incense from a holy shrine. How changed my being! moments sweep Down, down the eternal gulf of Time; And we, like gilded bubbles, keep Our course amid their waves sublime, Till, mingled with the foam and spray, We flash our lives of joy away; Or, drifting on through Sorrow's shades, Sink as a gleam of starlight fades. Alone! alone! I'm left alone-- A creature born to grieve and die; But, while upon Night's sapphire throne, In yonder broad and glorious sky, I gaze in sadness--lo! I feel A vision of the future steal Across my sight, like some faint ray That glimmers from the fount of day. * * * * * OTHELLO TO IAGO. BY R.T. CONRAD. Accursed be thy life! Darkness thy day! Time, a slow agony; a poison, love; Wild fears about thee, wan despair above! Crush'd hopes, like withered leaves, bestrew thy way! Nothing that lives lov'st thou; nothing that lives Loves thee. The drops that fall from Hecla's snow 'Neath the slant sun, are warmer than the flow Of thy chill'd heart. Thine be the bolt that rives! Be there no heaven to thee; the sky a pall; The earth a rack; the air consuming fire; The sleep of death and dust thy sole desire-- Life's throb a torture, and life's thought a thrall: And at the judgment may thy false soul be, And, 'neath the blasting blaze of light, _meet me!_ * * * * * PERSONS AND PICTURES FROM THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. NO. I.--SIR WALTER RALEIGH AND HIS WIFE. It is commonly said, and appears generally to be believed by superficial students of history, that with the reigns of the Plantagenets, with the Edwards and the Henrys of the fifteenth century, the age of chivalry was ended, the spirit of romance became extinct. To those, however, who have looked carefully into the annals of the long and glorious reign of the great Elizabeth, it becomes evident that, so far from having passed away with the tilt and tournament, with the complete suits of knightly armor, and the perilous feats of knight-errantry, the fire of chivalrous courtesy and chivalrous adventure never blazed more brightly, than at the very moment when it was about to expire amid the pedantry and cowardice, the low gluttony and shameless drunkenness, which disgraced the accession of the first James to the throne of England. Nor will the brightest and most glorious names of fabulous or historic chivalry, the Tancreds and Godfreys of the crusades, the Oliviers and Rolands of the court of Charlemagne, the Old Campeador of old Castile, or the _preux_ Bayard of France, that _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_, exceed the lustre which encircles, to this day, the characters of Essex, Howard, Philip Sidney, Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, and Walter Raleigh. It was full time that, at this period, maritime adventure had superseded the career of the barded war-horse, and the brunt of the leveled spear; and that to foray on the Spanish colonies, beyond the line, where, it was said, truce or peace never came; to tempt the perils of the tropical seas in search of the Eldorado, or the Fountain of Health and Youth, in the fabled and magical realms of central Florida; and to colonize the forest shores of the virgin wildernesses of the west, was now paramount in the ardent minds of England's martial youth, to the desire of obtaining distinction in the bloody battle-fields of the Low Countries, or in the fierce religious wars of Hungary and Bohemia. And of these hot spirits, the most ardent, the most adventurous, the foremost in everything that savored of romance or gallantry, was the world-renowned Sir Walter Raleigh. Born of an honorable and ancient family in Devonshire, he early came to London, in order to push his fortunes, as was the custom in those days with the cadets of illustrious families whose worldly wealth was unequal to their birth and station, by the chances of court favor, or the readier advancement of the sword. At this period, Elizabeth was desirous of lending assistance to the French Huguenots, who had been recently defeated in the bloody battle of Jarnac, and who seemed to be in considerable peril of being utterly overpowered by their cruel and relentless enemies the Guises; while she was at the same time wholly disinclined to involve England in actual strife, by regular and declared hostilities. She gave permission, therefore, to Henry Champernon to raise a regiment of gentlemen volunteers, and to transport them into France. In the number of these, young Walter Raleigh enrolled, and thenceforth his career may be said to have commenced; for from that time scarce a desperate or glorious adventure was essayed, either by sea or land, in which he was not a participator. In this, his first great school of military valor and distinction, he served with so much spirit, and such display of gallantry and aptitude for arms, that he immediately attracted attention, and, on his return to England in 1570, after the pacification, and renewal of the edicts for liberty of conscience, found himself at once a marked man. It seems that, about this time, in connection with Nicholas Blount and others, who afterward attained to both rank and eminence, Raleigh attached himself to the Earl of Essex, who at that time disputed with Leicester the favors, if not the affection, of Elizabeth; and, while in his suite, had the fortune to attract the notice of that princess by the handsomeness of his figure and the gallantry of his attire; she, like her father, Henry, being quick to observe and apt to admire those who were eminently gifted with the thews and sinews of a man. A strangely romantic incident was connected with his first rise in the favor of the Virgin Queen, which is so vigorously and brilliantly described by another and even more renowned Sir Walter in his splendid romance of Kenilworth, that it shames us to attempt it with our far inferior pen; but it is so characteristic of the man and of the times that it may not be passed over in silence. Being sent once on a mission--so runs the tale--by his lord to the queen, at Greenwich, he arrived just as she was issuing in state from the palace to take her barge, which lay manned and ready at the stairs. Repulsed by the gentlemen pensioners, and refused access to her majesty until after her return from the excursion, the young esquire stood aloof, to observe the passing of the pageant; and, seeing the queen pause and hesitate on the brink of a pool of rain-water which intersected her path, no convenience being at hand wherewith to bridge it, took off his crimson cloak, handsomely laid down with gold lace, his only courtlike garment, fell on one knee, and with doffed cap and downcast eyes threw it over the puddle, so that the queen passed across dry shod, and swore by God's life, her favorite oath, that there was chivalry and manhood still in England. Immediately thereafter, he was summoned to be a member of the royal household, and was retained about the person of the queen, who condescended to acts of much familiarity, jesting, capping verses, and playing at the court games of the day with him, not a little, it is believed, to the chagrin of the haughty and unworthy favorite, Dudley, Earl of Leicester. It does not appear, however, that, although she might coquet with Raleigh, to gratify her own love of admiration, and to enjoy the charms of his rich and fiery eloquence and versatile wit, though she might advance him in his career of arms, and even stimulate his vaulting ambition to deeds of yet wilder emprise, she ever esteemed Raleigh as he deserved to be esteemed, or penetrated the depths of his imaginative and creative genius, much less beloved him personally, as she did the vain and petty ambitious Leicester, or the high-spirited, the valorous, the hapless Essex. Another anecdote is related of this period, which will serve in no small degree to illustrate this trait of Elizabeth's strangely-mingled nature. Watching with the ladies of her court, in the gardens of one of her royal residences, as was her jealous and suspicious usage, the movements of her young courtier, when he either believed, or affected to believe himself unobserved, she saw him write a line on a pane of glass in a garden pavilion with a diamond ring, which, on inspecting it subsequently to his departure, she found to read in this wise:-- "Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall--" the sentence, or the distich rather, being thus left unfinished, when, with her royal hand, she added the second line--no slight encouragement to so keen and fiery a temperament as that of him for whom she wrote, when given him from such a source-- "If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all." But his heart never failed him--not in the desperate strife with the Invincible Armada--not when he discovered and won for the English crown the wild shores of the tropical Guiana--not when he sailed the first far up the mighty Orinoco--not when, in after days, he stormed Cadiz, outdoing even the daring deeds of emulous and glorious--not when the favor of Elizabeth was forfeited--not in the long years of irksome, solitary, heart-breaking imprisonment, endured at the hands of that base, soulless despot, the first James of England--not at his parting from his beloved and lovely wife--not on the scaffold, where he died as he had lived, a dauntless, chivalrous, high-minded English gentleman. The greatest error of his life was his pertinacious hostility to Essex, originating in the jealousy of that brave, but rash and headstrong leader, who disgraced and suspended him after the taking of Fayal, a circumstance which he never forgave or forgot--an error which ultimately cost him his own life, since it alienated from him the affections of the English people, and rendered them pitiless to him in his own extremity. But his greatest crime, in the eyes of Elizabeth, the crime which lost him her good graces for ever, and neutralized all his services on the flood and in the field, rendering ineffective even the strange letter which he addressed to his friend, Sir Robert Cecil, and which was doubtless shown to the queen, although it failed to move her implacable and iron heart, was his marriage, early in life, to the beautiful and charming Elizabeth Throgmorton. The letter to which I have alluded is so curious that I cannot refrain from quoting it entire, as a most singular illustration of the habits of that age of chivalry, and of the character of that strange compound, Elizabeth, who, to the "heart of a man, and that man a king of England," to quote her own eloquent and noble diction, added the vanity and conceit of the weakest and most frivolous of womankind, and who, at the age of sixty years, chose to be addressed as a Diana and a Venus, a nymph, a goddess, and an angel. "My heart," he wrote, "was never till this day, that I hear the queen goes away so far off, whom I have followed so many years, with so great love and desire, in so many journeys, and am now left behind here, in a dark prison all alone. While she was yet near at hand, that I might hear of her once in two or three days, my sorrows were the less; but even now my heart is cast into the depth of all misery. I, that was wont to behold her riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, walking like Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her pure cheeks like a nymph, sometimes sitting in the shade like a goddess, sometimes singing like an angel, sometimes playing like Orpheus. Behold the sorrow of this world! Once a miss has bereaved me of all. Oh! glory, that only shineth in misfortune, what is become of thy assurance? All wounds have scars but that of fantasy: all affections their relentings but that of womankind. Who is the judge of friendship but adversity? or when is grace witnessed but in offences? There was no divinity but by reason of compassion; for revenges are brutish and mortal. All those times past, the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires, cannot they weigh down one frail misfortune? Cannot one drop of gall be his in so great heaps of sweetness? I may then conclude, '_spes et fortuna valete;_' she is gone in whom I trusted, and of me hath not one thought of mercy, nor any respect of that which was. Do with me now, therefore, what you list. I am more weary of life than they are desirous that I should perish; which, if it had been for her, as it is by her, I had been too happily born." It is singular enough that such a letter should have been written, under any circumstances, by a middle-aged courtier to an aged queen; but it becomes far more remarkable and extraordinary when we know that the life of Raleigh was not so much as threatened at the time when he wrote; and, so far had either of the parties ever been from entertaining any such affection the one for the other as could alone, according to modern ideas, justify such fervor of language, that Elizabeth was at that time pining with frustrated affection and vain remorse for the death of her beloved Essex; a remorse which, in the end, broke a heart which had defied all machinations of murdereous conspiracies, all menaces, all overtures of the most powerful and martial princes to sway it from its stately and impressive magnanimity; while Raleigh was possessed by the most perfect and enduring affection to the almost perfect woman whom he held it his proudest trophy to have wedded, and who justified his entire devotion by her love unmoved through good or ill report, and proved to the utmost in the dungeon and on the scaffold--the love of a pure, high-minded, trusting woman, confident, and fearless, and faithful to the end. It does not appear that Raleigh suspected the true cause of Elizabeth's alienation from so good and great a servant: perhaps no one man of the many whom for the like cause she neglected, disgraced, persecuted, knew that the cause existed in the fact of their having taken to themselves partners of life and happiness--a solace which she sacrificed to the sterile honors of an undivided crown--of their enjoying the bliss and perfect contentment of a happy wedded life, while she, who would fain have enjoyed the like, could she have done so without the loan of some portion of her independent and undivided authority, was compelled, by her own jealousy of power and obstinacy of will, to pine in lonely and unloved virginity. Yet such was doubtless the cause of his decline in the royal favor, which he never, in after days, regained; for, after Essex was dead by her award and deed, Elizabeth, in her furious and lion-like remorse, visited his death upon the heads of all those who had been his enemies in life, or counseled her against him, even when he was in arms against her crown; nor forgave them any more than she forgave herself, who died literally broken-hearted, the most lamentable and disastrous of women, if the proudest and most fortunate queens, in the heyday of her fortunes, when she had raised her England to that proud and pre-eminent station above rather than among the states of Europe, from which she never declined, save for a brief space under her successors, those weakest and wickedest of English kings, the ominous and ill-starred Stuarts, and which she still maintains in her hale and superb old age, savoring, after nearly nine centuries of increasing might and scarcely interrupted rule, in no respect of decrepitude or decay. Her greatest crime was the death of Mary Stuart; her greatest misfortune, the death of Essex; her greatest shame, the disgrace of Walter Raleigh. But with all her crimes, all her misfortunes, all her shame, she was a great woman, and a glorious queen, and in both qualities peculiarly and distinctively English. The stay and bulwark of her country's freedom and religion, she lived and died possessed of that rarest and most divine gift to princes, her people's unmixed love and veneration. She died in an ill day, and was succeeded by one in all respects her opposite: a coward, a pedant, a knave, a tyrant, a mean, base, beastly sensualist--a bad man, devoid even of a bad man's one redeeming virtue, physical courage--a bad weak man with the heart of a worse and weaker woman--a man with all the vices of the brute creation, without one of their virtues. His instincts and impulses were all vile and low, crafty and cruel; his principles, if his rules of action, which were all founded on cheatery and subtle craft, can be called principles, were yet baser than his instinctive impulses. He is the only man I know, recorded in history, who is solely odious, contemptible, and bestial, without one redeeming trait, one feature of mind or body that can preserve him from utter and absolute detestation and damnation of all honorable and manly minds. He is the only king of whom, from his cradle to his grave, no one good deed, no generous, or bold, or holy, or ambitious, much less patriotic or aspiring, thought or action is related. His soul was akin to the mud, of which his body was framed--to the slime of loathsome and beastly debauchery, in which he wallowed habitually with his court and the ladies of his court, and his queen at their head, and could no more have soared heavenward than the garbage-battened vulture could have soared to the noble falcon's pitch and pride of place. This beast,[1] for I cannot bring myself to write him man or king, with the usual hatred and jealousy of low foul minds towards everything noble and superior, early conceived a hatred for the gallant and great Sir Walter Raleigh, whose enterprise and adventure he had just intellect enough to comprehend so far as to fear them, but of whose patriotism, chivalry, innate nobility of soul, romantic daring, splendid imagination, and vast literary conceptions--being utterly unconscious himself of such emotions--he was no more capable of forming a conception, than is the burrowing mole of appreciating the flight of the soaring eagle. So early as the second year of his reign, he contrived to have this great discoverer and gallant soldier--to whom Virginia is indebted for the honor of being the first English colony, Jamestown having been settled in 1606, whereas the Puritans landed on the rock of Plymouth no earlier than 1620, and to whom North Carolina has done honor creditable to herself in naming her capital after him, the first English colonist--arraigned on a false charge of conspiracy in the case of Arabella Stuart, a young lady as virtuous and more unfortunate than sweet Jane Grey, whose treatment by James would alone have been enough to stamp him with eternal infamy, and for whose history we refer our readers to the fine novel by Mr. James on this subject. At this time, Raleigh was unpopular in England, on account of his supposed complicity in the death of Essex; and, on the strength of this unpopularity, he was arraigned, on the single _written_ testimony of one Cobham, a pardoned convict of the same conspiracy, which testimony he afterwards retracted, and then again retracted the retractation, and without one concurring circumstance, without being confronted with the prisoner, after shameless persecution from Sir Edward Coke, the great lawyer, then attorney-general, was found guilty by the jury, and sentenced, contrary to all equity and justice, to the capital penalties of high treason. From this year, 1604, until 1618, a period of nearly fourteen years, not daring to put him at that time to death, he caused him to be confined strictly in the Tower, a cruel punishment for so quick and active a spirit, which he probably expected would speedily release him by a natural death from one whom he regarded as a dangerous and resolute foe, whom he dared neither openly to dispatch nor honorably to release from unmerited and arbitrary confinement. But his cruel anticipations were signally frustrated by the noble constancy, and calm, self-sustained intrepidity of the noble prisoner, who, to borrow the words of his detractor, Hume, "being educated amid naval and military enterprises, had surpassed, in the pursuits of literature, even those of the most recluse and sedentary lives." Supported and consoled by his exemplary and excellent wife, he was enabled to entertain the irksome days and nights of his solitary imprisonment by the composition of a work, which, if deficient in the points which are now, in the advanced state of human sciences, considered essential to a great literary creation, is, as regarded under the circumstances of its conception and execution, one of the greatest exploits of human ingenuity and human industry--"The History of the World, by Sir Walter Raleigh." It was during his imprisonment also that he projected the colonization of Jamestown, which was carried out in 1606, at his instigation, by the Bristol Company, of which he was a member. This colony, though it was twice deserted, was in the end successful, and in it was born the first child, Virginia Dare by name, of that Anglo-Saxon race which has since conquered a continent, and surpassed, in the nonage of its republican sway, the maturity of mighty nations. In 1618, induced by the promises of Raleigh to put the English crown in possession of a gold mine which he asserted, and probably believed he had discovered in Guiana, James, whose avidity always conquered his resentments, and who, like Faustus, would have sold his soul--had he had one to sell--for gold, released him, and, granting him, as he asserted, an unconditional pardon--but, as James and his counselors maintain, one conditional on fresh discoveries, sent him out at the head of twelve armed vessels. What follows is obscure; but it appears that Raleigh, failing to discover the mines, attacked and plundered the little town of St. Thomas, which the Spaniards had built on the territories of Guiana, which Raleigh had acquired three-and-twenty years before for the English crown, and which James, with his wonted pusillanimity, had allowed the Spaniards to occupy, without so much as a remonstrance. This conduct of Raleigh must be admitted unjustifiable, as Spain and England were then in a state of profound peace; and the plea that truce or peace with Spain never crossed the line, though popular in England in those days of Spanish aggression and Romish intolerance, cannot for a moment stand the test either of reason or of law. Falling into suspicion with his comrades, Sir Walter was brought home in irons, and delivered into the hands of the pitiless and rancorous king, who resolved to destroy him--yet, dreading to awaken popular indignation by delivering him up to Spain, caused to revive the ancient sentence, which had never been set aside by a formal pardon, and cruelly and unjustly executed him on that spot, so consecrated by the blood of noble patriots and holy martyrs, the dark and gory scaffold of Tower Hill. And here, in conclusion, I can do no better than to quote from an anonymous writer in a recent English magazine, the following brief tribute to his high qualities, and sad doom, accompanied by his last exquisite letter to his wife. "His mind was indeed of no common order. With him, the wonders of earth and the dispensations of heaven were alike welcome; his discoveries at sea, his adventures abroad, his attacks on the colonies of Spain, were all arenas of glory to him--but he was infinitely happier by his own fireside, in recalling the spirits of the great in the history of his country--nay, was even more contented in the gloom of his ill-deserved prison, with the volume of genius or the book of life before him, than in the most animating successes of the battle-field. "The event which clouded his prosperity and destroyed his influence with the queen--his marriage with Elizabeth Throgmorton--was the one upon which he most prided himself; and justly, too--for, if ever woman was created the companion, the solace of man--if ever wife was deemed the dearest thing of earth to which earth clings, that woman was his wife. Not merely in the smiles of the court did her smiles make a world of sunshine to her Raleigh; not merely when the destruction of the Armada made her husband's name glorious; not merely when his successes and his discoveries on the ocean made his presence longed for at the palace, did she interweave her best affections with the lord of her heart. It was in the hour of adversity she became his dearest companion, his 'ministering angel;' and when the gloomy walls of the accursed Tower held all her empire of love, how proudly she owned her sovereignty! Not even before the feet of her haughty mistress, in her prayerful entreaties for her dear Walter's life, did she so eminently shine forth in all the majesty of feminine excellence as when she guided his counsels in the dungeon, and nerved his mind to the trials of the scaffold, where, in his manly fortitude, his noble self-reliance, the people, who mingled their tears with his triumph, saw how much the patriot was indebted to the woman. "Were there no other language but that of simple, honest affection, what a world of poetry would remain to us in the universe of love! You may be excited to sorrow for his fate by recalling the varied incidents of his attractive life: you may mourn over the ruins of his chapel at his native village: you may weep over the fatal result of his ill-starred patriotism: you may glow over his successes in the field or on the wave: your lip may curl with scorn at the miserable jealousy of Elizabeth: your eye may kindle with wrath at the pitiful tyranny of James--but how will your sympathies be so awakened as by reading his last, simple, touching letter to his wife. "'You receive, my dear wife, my last words, in these my last lines. My love, I send you that you may keep it when I am dead; and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no more. I would not with my will present you with sorrows, dear Bess--let them go to the grave with me and be buried in the dust--and, seeing that it is not the will of God that I should see you any more, bear my destruction patiently, and with a heart like yourself. "'First--I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words express, for your many travels and cares for me, which, though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world. "'Secondly--I beseech you, for the love you bear me living, that you do not hide yourself many days, but by your travels seek to help my miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child--your mourning cannot avail me that am dust--for I am no more yours, nor you mine--death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. "'I cannot write much. God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep. Beg my dead body, which, when living, was denied you, and lay it by our father and mother--I can say no more--time and death call me away;--the everlasting God--the powerful, infinite, and inscrutable God, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom. "My dear wife--farewell! Bless my boy--pray for me, and let the true God hold you both in his arms. "'Yours, that was; but now, not mine own, "'WALTER RALEIGH.'" "Thus a few fond words convey more poetry to the heart than a whole world of verse. "We know not any man's history more romantic in its commencement, or more touching in its close, than that of Raleigh--from the first dawn of his fortunes, when he threw his cloak before the foot of royalty, throughout his brilliant rise and long imprisonment, to the hour when royalty rejoiced in his merciless martyrdom. "Whether the recital of his eloquent speeches, the perusal of his vigorous and original poetry, or the narration of his quaint, yet profound 'History of the World,' engage our attention, all will equally impress us with admiration of his talent, with wonder at his achievements, with sympathy in his misfortunes, and with pity at his fall." When he was brought upon the scaffold, he felt the edge of the axe with which he was to be beheaded, and observed, "'Tis a sharp remedy, but a sure one for all ills," harangued the people calmly, eloquently, and conclusively, in defence of his character, laid his head on the block with indifference, and died as he had lived, undaunted, one of the greatest benefactors of both England and America, judicially murdered by the pitiful spite of the basest and worst of England's monarchs. James could slay his body, but his fame shall live forever. [1] I would here caution my readers from placing the slightest confidence in anything stated in Hume's History (_fable?_) of the Stuarts, and especially of this, the worst of a bad breed. * * * * * HOPE ON, HOPE EVER. BY ROBERT G. ALLISON. If sorrow's clouds around thee lower, E'en in affliction's gloomiest hour, Hope on firmly, hope thou ever; Let nothing thee from Hope dissever. What though storms life's sky o'ercast Time's sorrows will not always last, This vale of tears will soon be past. Hope darts a ray to light death's gloom, And smooths the passage to the tomb; Hope is to weary mortals given, To lead them to the joys of heaven Then, when earth's scenes, however dear, From thy dim sight shall disappear-- When sinks the pulse, and fails the eye, Then on Hope's pinions shall thy spirit fly To fairer worlds above the sky. Then hope thou on, and hope thou ever; Let nothing thee from Hope dissever. * * * * * THE DRESSING ROOM. [Illustration] Full bodies not gathered in at the top, but left either quite loose, or so as to form an open fluting, are becoming very fashionable; but they require to be very carefully made, and to have a tight body under them, as otherwise they look untidy--particularly as the age of stiff stays has departed, we trust never to return, and the modern elegants wear stays with very little whalebone in them, if they wear any at all. In our figures, the one holding the fan has the body of her dress, which is of spotted net, fluted at the top; the skirt is made open at the side, and fastened with a bouquet of roses. The petticoat, which is of pink satin, has a large bow of ribbon with a rose in the centre, just below the rose which fastens the dress. The sleeves are also trimmed with bunches of roses; and the gloves are of a very delicate pale pink. The other dress is of white net or tarlatan, made with three skirts, and a loose body and sleeves. The upper skirts are both looped up with flowers on the side, and large bows of very pale-yellow ribbon. Ribbon of the same color is worn in the hair, and the gloves are of a delicately tinted yellowish white. [Illustration] The dress of the standing figure is of rich yellow brocaded silk, trimmed with three flounces of white lace, carried up to the waist, so as to appear like three over skirts, open in front. The body is trimmed with a double berthe of Vandyked lace, which is also carried round the sleeves. The gloves are rather long, and of a delicate cream-color. The hair is dressed somewhat in the Grecian style so as to form a rouleau round the face--the front hair being combed back over a narrow roll of brown silk stuffed with wool, which is fastened round the head like a wreath. A golden bandeau is placed above the rouleau. The sitting figure shows another mode of arranging the hair. The back hair is curiously twisted, and mixed with narrow rolls of scarlet and white; and the front hair is dressed in waved bandeaux, or it may be curled in what the French call English ringlets. Plain smooth bandeaux have almost entirely disappeared; but bandeaux, with the hair waved, or projecting from the face, are common. * * * * * KNITTED FLOWERS. AMERICAN MARYGOLD. The prettiest are in _shaded orange_-colored wool (of four threads), which must be split in two, as the Berlin wool. Begin with the darkest shade. Cast on eight stitches, work them in ribs, four in each row, knitting two stitches; and purling two; both sides must be alike. Continue this till you come to the beginning of the lightest shade; then begin to decrease one stitch at the beginning of every row, till only one stitch remains in the middle; fasten this off, break the wool, and begin the next petal with the darkest shade. Eight petals will be required for each flower. Every petal must be edged with wire; and, in order to do this neatly, you must cover a piece of wire with wool--the middle of the wire with one thread only of brown split wool--and the sides with a lighter shade, to correspond with the color of the petal; sew this round with the same shades of wool. To make up the flower, it will be necessary to form a tuft of the same shaded wool, _not_ split. This is done by cutting five or six bits of wool about an inch long, and placing them across a bit of double wire; twist the wire very tight, and cut the ends of the wool quite even; fasten the eight petals round this, near the top, which can be done either by twisting the wires together or by sewing them round with a rug needle. CALYX.--The calyx will require four needles. Cast on twelve stitches, four on each of three needles. Knit in plain rounds till you have about half an inch in length; then knit two stitches in one, break the wool some distance from the work, thread it with a rug needle, and pass the wool behind the little scallop, so as to bring to the next two stitches; work these and the remainder of the stitches in the same manner. Cover a bit of wire with a thread of brown wool, sew it with wool of the same color round the top of the calyx, following carefully the form of the scallops; turn the ends of the wire inside the calyx, and place the flower within it. Tie the calyx under the scallops with a bit of green silk, gather the stitches of the lower part of the calyx with a rug needle and a bit of wool, and cover the stem with split green wool. Another way of making this flower is by knitting the petals in brioche stitch; but if done thus, nine stitches must be cast on the needle at first, instead of eight, and the flower finished exactly as directed. BUDS.--The buds are made just in the same manner as the tuft which forms the heart of the flower, only that they must be formed of lighter shades of wool, mixed with a little pale-green wool. The wool must be tightly fixed on the wire by twisting, and then cut very smooth and even. It must be inserted in a small calyx, made as before. LEAVES.--Each leaf, or small branch, is composed of seven leaflets, of the same size--one at the top, and three on each side; they must be placed in pairs, at a distance of about an inch between each pair. _First leaflet._--Cast on one stitch in a bright, but rather deep shade of yellowish-green wool. Knit and purl alternate rows, increasing one stitch at the beginning of every row till you have seven stitches on the needle; then knit and purl six rows without increase; decrease one stitch at the beginning of the two following rows, and cast off the five remaining stitches. Repeat the same for the six other leaflets. Each leaf must have a fine wire sewn round it, and the stems covered with wool. * * * * * CHENILLE WORK [Illustration: No. 1.--The pattern, full size.] No. 1.--_A new style of Head-Dress. Worked in the second size crimson chenille, with No. 4 gold thread._ Take a card-board of three inches deep and fifteen inches long, and fasten to the edge of it eleven strands of chenille and gold thread placed together; leave a space of one inch between each strand; the length of the gold and chenille thread must be twenty-four inches. Take the first two threads from the left-hand side, pass the two next under them; tie them in a knot, the two outer over the two centre threads (chenille or gold thread, as may be), and then pass them through the loop formed on the left, and so on till the last row. The shape is an uneven triangle, nine inches from the top corner to the centre, and seven inches from the middle of the front to the centre. When finished, cut off the board, and sew round two sides of the work a fringe of gold thread, which is to fall over the neck. [Illustration: No. 2.--A portion, full size, with fringe.] No. 2.--_Another style of Head-Dress. With white and pink second size chenille._ This is made nearly in the same manner as No. 1, with chenille, one yard long; but, after having made the first knot, pass a pearl bead on each side, and then make the second knot--the measurement of the meshes to be three-quarters of an inch. When the work is finished, the whole will be twelve inches square. Pass round it an India-rubber cord, which will form the fastening. The ends left from the work to be separately knotted together with silver thread, to hang down, forming a very large and rich tassel. [Illustration: No. 3.--A portion of the pattern, full size.] No. 3.--_Head-Dress of blue and silver. In chain crochet, silver cord No. 5, with second size of crochet chenille, light blue_. Eight chain stitches, the last of which is plain crochet, and so on continued. In the two middle stitches of the chenille take up the silver, and in the middle stitches of the silver take up the chenille, each going in a slanting way, once over and once under each other, as the drawing (No. 3) will show. The chenille is worked one way, and the silver goes the other way, contrary to regular crochet work. The whole is worked square, eighteen inches in square; and, when finished, every loop is taken up with fine India-rubber cord, to form the shape. Put round it a silver fringe one inch and a half deep. * * * * * CHEMISETTES AND UNDERSLEEVES. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] [Illustration: Fig. 2.] All fashionable promenade and evening dresses being cut with an open corsage and loose sleeves, the chemisettes and wristbands become of the greatest importance. There is something very neat in the close coat dress, buttoned up to the throat, and finished only by a cuff at the wrist; but it is never so elegant, after all, as the style now so much in vogue. This season, the V shape from the breast has given place to the square front, introduced from the peasant costumes of France and Italy. It will be seen in fig. 1, which is intended to be worn with that style of corsage, and corresponds to it exactly. The chemisette is composed of alternate rows of narrow plaits and insertion, and is edged with muslin embroidery to correspond. It is decidedly the prettiest and neatest one of the season, and will be found inexpensive. [Illustration: Fig. 3.] [Illustration: Fig. 4.] Fig. 2 has two bands of insertion, surrounded by embroidered muslin frills; the small collar is also edged in the same way. This may be worn with the ordinary V front, or with the square front boddice we have alluded to. Figs. 3 and 4 are some of the new fashionable undersleeves. It will be noticed that they are very full, and edged with double frills. For further description, see Chit-Chat in December number. * * * * * ON A CHILD ASLEEP. BY JOHN A. CHAPMAN. See, in that ray of light that child reposes, Calmly as he a little angel were; And now and then his eyes he half uncloses, To see if his bright visions real are. But what his visions are God only knoweth, For that sweet child forgets them day by day; Like breeze of Eden, that so gently bloweth, They leave no trace when they've passed away. 'Tis thus that innocent childhood ever sleepeth. With half closed eyes and smiles around its mouth, At sight of which man's sunken heart upleapeth, Like chilléd flowers when fanned by the sweet south. Sleep on, sweet child, smile, as thou sleepest, brightly, For thou art blest in this thy morning hour; And, when thou wakest, thou shalt walk more lightly Than crownéd king, or monarch throned in power. * * * * * EDITORS' TABLE. One perplexing question is settled, viz., that ninety-nine does not make a hundred. Those transcendentally erudite men who contended that the nineteenth century commenced on the 1st of January, 1800, have at last learned to count correctly. So we may venture to affirm, with fear of raising an argument, that this New-Year's Day, 1851, begins the last half of this present century. Here, then, we stand on the dividing ridge of Time, the topmost pinnacle of humanity; and, looking backward over the vast ocean of life, we can discern amidst the rolling, heaving, struggling surges, which have engulfed so many grand hopes, and towering aims, and strong endeavors during the world's voyage of half a century, that important victories have been won, wonderful things discovered, and great truths brought out of the turmoil in which power, pride, and prejudice were contending fifty years ago. At the beginning of the century, the stirring themes were deeds of war. Now, the palm is won by works of peace. In 1801, the Old World was a battle-field, the centre and moving power of destruction being placed in London. Now, 1851 finds "the whole world kin," as it were, busy in preparing for such an Industrial Convention as was never held since time began: and this, too, centres in London. What trophies of mind and might will be there exhibited! Not victories won by force or fraud, with their advantages appropriated to exalt a few individuals; but real advances made in those arts which give the means of improvement to nations, and add to the knowledge, freedom, and happiness of the people! We are not intending to enlarge on this theme, which will be better done by abler pens. We only allude to it here, in order to draw the attention of our readers to one curious fact, which those who are aiming to place women in the workshop, to compete with men, should consider: namely, that none, or very few specimens of female ingenuity or industry will be found in the world's great show-shop. The female mind has as yet manifested very little of the kind of genius termed mechanical, or inventive. Nor is it the lack of learning which has caused this uniform lack of constructive talent. Many ignorant men have studied out and made curious inventions of mechanical skill; women never. We are constrained to say we do not believe woman would ever have invented the compass, the printing-press, the steam-engine, or even a loom. The difference between the mental power of the two sexes, as it is distinctly traced in Holy Writ and human history, we have described and illustrated in a work[1] soon to be published. We trust this will prove of importance in settling the question of what woman's province really is, and where her station should be in the onward march of civilization. It is not mechanical, but moral power which is now needed. That woman was endowed with moral goodness superior to that possessed by man is the doctrine of the Bible; and this moral power she must be trained to use for the promotion of goodness, and purity, and holiness in men. There is no need that she should help him in his task of subduing the world. He has the strong arm and the ingenious mind to understand and grapple with things of earth; but he needs her aid in subduing himself, his own selfish passions, and animal propensities. To sum up the matter, the special gifts of God to men are mechanical ingenuity and physical strength. To women He has given moral insight or instinct, and the patience that endures physical suffering. Both sexes equally need enlightenment of mind or reason by education, in order to make their peculiar gifts of the greatest advantage to themselves, to each other, to the happiness and improvement of society, and to the glory of God. Such are the principles which we have been striving to disseminate for the last twenty years; and we rejoice, on this jubilee day of the century, that our work has been crowned with good success, and that the prospect before us is bright and cheering. The wise king of Israel asserted the power and predicted the future of woman in these remarkable words, "Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come." And so it will be. But the elevation of the sex will not consist in becoming like man, in doing man's work, or striving for the dominion of the world. The true woman cannot work with materials of earth, build up cities, mould marble forms, or discover new mechanical inventions to aid physical improvement. She has a higher and holier vocation. She works in the elements of human nature; her orders of architecture are formed in the soul. Obedience, temperance, truth, love, piety, these she must build up in the character of her children. Often, too, she is called to repair the ravages and beautify the waste places which sin, care, and the desolating storms of life leave in the mind and heart of the husband she reverences and obeys. This task she should perform faithfully, but with humility, remembering that it was for woman's sake Eden was forfeited, because Adam loved his wife more than his Creator, and that man's nature has to contend with a degree of depravity, or temptation to sin, which the female, by the grace of God, has never experienced. Yes, the wife is dependent on her husband for the position she holds in society; she must rely on him for protection and support; she should look up to him with reverence as her earthly guardian, the "saviour of the body," as St. Paul says, and be obedient. Does any wife say her husband is not worthy of this honor? Then render it to the office with which God has invested him as head of the family; but use your privilege of motherhood so to train your son that he may be worthy of this reverence and obedience from his wife. Thus through your sufferings the world may be made better; every faithful performance of private duty adds to the stock of public virtues. We trust, before the sands of this century are run out, that these Bible truths will be the rule of faith and of conduct with every American wife and mother, and that the moral influence of American women will be felt and blessed as the saving power not only of our nation, but of the world. Our hopes are high, not only because we believe our principles are true, but because we expect to be sustained and helped by all who are true and right-minded. And this recalls to our thoughts the constant and cheering kindness which has been extended to our periodical during the long period it has been attaining its present wide popularity. We must thank these friends. [1] "Woman's Record; or Biographical Sketches of all Distinguished Women, from the Creation to the Present Time. Arranged in Four Eras. With Selections from the Female Writers of each Era." The work is now in the press of the Harpers, New York. * * * * TO THE CONDUCTORS OF THE PUBLIC PRESS. Our Friends Editorial, who, for the last twenty years, have manifested uniform kindness, and always been ready with their generous support, to you, on this jubilee day, we tender our grateful acknowledgments. We have never sought your assistance to us as individuals. Your office should have a higher aim, a worthier estimation. You are guardians of the public welfare, improvement, and progress. Not to favor the success of private speculation, but to promote the dissemination of truths and principles which shall benefit the whole community, makes your glory. We thank you that such has been your course hitherto in regard to the "Lady's Book." The public confidence, which your judicious notices of our work have greatly tended to strengthen, is with us. The chivalry of the American press will ever sustain a periodical devoted to woman; and the warm, earnest, intelligent manner in which you have done this deserves our praise. Like noble and true knights, you have upheld our cause, and we thank you in the name of the thousands of fair and gentle readers of our "Book," to whom we frankly acknowledge that your steady approval has incited our efforts to excel. We invoke your powerful aid to sustain us through the coming years, while we will endeavor to merit your commendations. None know so well as you, our editorial friends, what ceaseless exertions are required to keep the high position we have won. But the new year finds us prepared for a new trial with all literary competitors; and, with the inspiring voice of the public press to cheer us on, we are sure of winning the goal. In the anticipation of this happy result, we wish to all our kind friends--what we enjoy--health, hope, and a HAPPY NEW YEAR. * * * * To CORRESPONDENTS.--The following articles are accepted: "A Dream of the Past," "Sonnet--The God of Day," &c., "My Childhood's Home," "Town and Country Contrasted," "The Artist's Dream," "The Tiny Glove," "The Sisters," and "The Lord's Prayer." Ellen Moinna's story came too late for the purpose designed. We do not need it. * * * * MANUSCRIPT MUSIC ACCEPTED: "All Around and All Above Thee;" "Oh, Sing that Song again To-Night!" (excellent); "Hope on, Hope Ever;" "The Musing Hour;" "La Gita in Gondola;" "To Mary," by Professor Kehr. Our friends who send us music must wait patiently for its appearance, _if accepted_. Months must sometimes elapse, as our large edition renders it necessary to print it in advance. Those who wish special answers from our musical editor will please mention the fact in their communications. * * * * * EDITORS' BOOK TABLE. From GEORGE S. APPLETON, corner of Chestnut and Seventh Street, Philadelphia:-- THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN MILTON. Edited by Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. Illustrated with engravings, designed by John Martin and J.W.M. Turner, R.A. We noticed an edition of "Paradise Lost" in our November number. Here, however, we have a complete edition of the modern Homer's works, including "Paradise Regained," and all his minor poems, sonnets, &c. These editions are pleasing testimonials of the renewed interest which the public are beginning to manifest for the writings of standard English authors, in preference to the light and ephemeral productions of those of the present day, who have too long held the classical taste and refinement in obedience to their influences. The illustrations of this edition are very beautiful. THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS; _containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence, with a New Life of the Poet, and Notices, Critical and Biographical_. By Allen Cunningham. This edition of the works of the great Scottish poet cannot fail to attract the attention of all who admire the genius and independence of his mind, and of all who wish a full and correct copy of his productions, compiled under the supervision of a man who was himself an excellent poet, and capable of fairly distinguishing the beauties and powers of a poetical mind. EVERYBODY'S ALMANAC AND DIARY FOR 1851; _containing a List of Government Officers. Commerce and Resources of the Union, Exports of Cotton, and General Information for the Merchant, Tradesman, and Mechanic, together with a Complete Memorandum for every day in the year_. A neat and valuable work. We have received from the same publisher the following works, compiled for the special benefit of little children and of juvenile learners and readers, all of which are appropriately illustrated:-- LITTLE ANNE'S ABC BOOK. LITTLE ANNE'S SPELLER. MOTHER GOOSE. By Dame Goslin. THE ROSE-BUD. _A Juvenile Keepsake._ By Susan W. Jewett. GREAT PANORAMA OF PHILADELPHIA. By Van Daube. With twenty-three illustrations. * * * * From HENRY C. BAIRD (successor to E.L. Carey); Philadelphia:-- THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY. With illustrations by C.W. Radclyffe. Edited, with a memoir, by Henry Reed, Professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. Great pains have evidently been taken by the editor and the publisher to render this not only the most complete and accurate edition of the works of Gray that has ever been presented to the American public, but also one of the most superbly embellished and beautifully printed volumes of the season, which has called forth so many works intended for presentation. THE BUILDER'S POCKET COMPANION. This volume contains the elements of building, surveying, and architecture, with practical rules and instructions connected with the subjects, by A.C. Smeaton, Civil Engineer, &c. The inexperienced builder, whether engaged practically, or in the investment of capital in building improvements, will find this to be a very valuable assistant. THE CABINET-MAKER'S AND UPHOLSTERER'S COMPANION. This work contains much valuable information on the subjects of which it treats, and also a number of useful receipts and explanations of great use to the workmen in those branches. The author, L. Stokes, has evidently taken great pains in the arrangement and compilation of his work. HOUSEHOLD SURGERY; _or, Hints on Emergencies_. By John F. South, one of the Surgeons to St. Thomas's Hospital. The first American, from the second London edition. A highly valuable book for the family, which does not pretend, however, to supersede the advice and experience of a physician, but merely to have in preparation, and to recommend such remedies as may be necessary until such advice can be obtained. There are many illustrations in the work which will greatly facilitate its practical usefulness. * * * * From LEA & BLANCHARD, Philadelphia:-- THE RACES OF MEN. _A Fragment._ By Robert Knox, M.D., Lecturer on Anatomy, and Corresponding Member of the National Academy of Science in France. The character and tendency of this "fragment," or "outlines of lectures," to use the author's own terms, are such as cannot be suddenly determined upon or understood. This will appear the more evident to the reader from the assurance which he also gives, that his work runs counter to nearly all the chronicles of events called histories; that it shocks the theories of statesmen, theologians, and philanthropists of all shades. He maintains that the human character, individual and national, is traceable solely to the nature of that race to which the individual or nation belongs, which he affirms to be simply a fact, the most remarkable, the most comprehensive which philosophy has announced. * * * * From T. B. PETERSON, 98 Chestnut Street. Philadelphia:-- HORACE TEMPLETON. By Charles Lever. The publisher of this work deserves the thanks of the reading public for presenting it with a cheap edition of so interesting a publication. It has already passed the ordeal of the press, and has been received, both in Europe and in America, as one of the most entertaining productions that has appeared for many years, not excepting "Charles O'Malley," and the other mirth-inspiring volumesof the inimitable Lever. THE VALLEY FARM; _or, the Autobiography of an Orphan_. Edited by Charles J. Peterson, author of "Cruising in the Last War," &c. A work sound in morals and abounding in natural incident. RESEARCHES ON THE MOTION OF THE JUICES IN THE ANIMAL BODY, AND THE EFFECTS OF EVAPORATIONS IN PLANTS; _together with an Account of the Origin of the Potatoe Disease, with full and Ingenious Directions for the Protection and Entire Prevention of the Potatoe Plant against all Diseases_. By Justus Liebig, M.D., Professor of Chemistry in the University of Giessen; and edited from the manuscript of the author, by William Gregory, M.D., of the University of Edinburgh. A valuable treatise, as its title sufficiently indicates. * * * * From PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & Co., Boston, through T.B. PETERSON, Philadelphia:-- A PEEP AT THE PILGRIMS IN SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX. _A Tale of Olden Times._ By Mrs. H.V. Cheney. Those who feel an interest in the records and monuments of the past, and who desire to study the characteristics of the Pilgrim Fathers, and Pilgrim Mothers and Daughters, will not fail to avail themselves of the graphic delineations presented to them in this entertaining volume. SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMATIC WORKS. No. 25. Containing "Troilus and Cressida," with a very fine engraving. * * * * From JOHN S. TAYLOR, New York, through T.B. PETERSON, Philadelphia:-- LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS AND THE ADIRONDAC. By the Rev. J.T. Headley. Also, THE POWER OF BEAUTY. By the same author. Illustrated editions. * * * * From LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia:-- MOSAIQUE FRANCAISE: _ou Choix De Sujets Anecdotiques, Historiques, Littéraires et Scientifiques, tirés pour La Plupart D'Auteurs Modernes_. Par F. Séron, Homme de lettres, l'un des rédacteurs du Journal Française; Les Monde des enfans, Revue Encyclopédique de la jeunesse de 1844 à 1848, etc.; Professeur de Langue et de Littérature Française à Philadelphie. This work appears to have been compiled with great care, from works by the best French authors. Every subject has been carefully excluded that could in any manner wound or bias the preconceived opinions of the American reader in relation to religious or political freedom. * * * * From HARPER & BROTHERS, New York, through LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia:-- MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS CHALMERS, D.D., LL.D. By his son-in-law, the Rev. Wm. Hanna, LL.D. The appearance of the second volume of these memoirs will be hailed with pleasure by the admirers of Dr. Chalmers, whose reputation as a Christian minister, and as a writer of extraordinary beauty and power, has long preceded these volumes. GENEVIEVE; _or, the History of a Servant Girl_. Translated from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine. By A.A. Seoble. ADDITIONAL MEMOIRS OF MY LIFE. By A. De Lamartine. THE PICTORIAL FIELD BOOK OF THE REVOLUTION. No. 8. This excellent and patriotic work fully sustains the spirit and interest that marked its commencement. * * * * From the PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, New York, through A. HART, Philadelphia:-- THE OLD MAN'S HOME. By the Rev. William Adams, M.A., author of the "Shadow of the Cross," &c. With engravings, from designs by Weir. Sixth American edition. An affecting tale, written in a familiar style, and peculiarly calculated to impress upon the youthful mind the importance of those moral and religious truths which it is the aim of the author to inculcate. * * * * From GOULD, KENDALL & LINCOLN, Boston, through DANIELS & SMITH, Philadelphia:-- THE PRE-ADAMITE EARTH: _Contributions to Theological Science_. By John Harris, D.D., author of "The Great Teacher," &c. The present volume is the "third thousand," which we presume to mean the "third edition," revised and corrected, of this work, which may be considered a successful effort to reconcile the dogmas of theology with the progress of philosophy and science. The style of the author is argumentative and eloquent, evincing great knowledge and zeal in the development of the interesting subjects connected with his treatise. RELIGIOUS PROGRESS: _Discourses on the Development of the Christian Character_. By William R. Williams. Comprising five lectures originally prepared for the pulpit, and delivered by their author to the people under his charge. These lectures are chaste and graceful in style, and sound and vigorous in argument. * * * * From TICKNOR, REED & FIELDS, Boston. BIOGRAPHICAL ESSAYS. By Thomas De Quincey, author of "Confessions of an English Opium Eater," etc. This is the second volume of Mr. De Quincey's writings, now in course of publication. It contains biographical sketches of Shakspeare, Pope, Charles Lamb, Goethe, and Schiller, accompanied by numerous notes, which, with the author's acknowledged taste, will give a new interest to these almost familiar subjects. ASTR�A. _The Balance of Illusions._ A poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, August 14, 1850, by Oliver Wendell Holmes. This poem contains many beautiful gems, interspersed with some satirical descriptions of men and manners, which prove Mr. Holmes to be a caustic as well as an amusing writer. * * * * NEW MUSIC. We have received from Mr. Oliver Diston, No. 115 Washington Street, Boston, a collection of beautiful music, got up in his usual taste. _The Prima Donna Polka._ By Edward L. White. _The German Schottisch._ By T.S. Lloyd. And _The Starlight Polka._ Three excellent polkas, with music enough in them to draw the proper steps from every heel and toe in the land. _Oh, Come to the Ingleside!_ A sweet ballad by Eliza Cook, the music by W.H. Aldridge. _A Mother's Prayer._. By J.E. Gould. _The Araby Maid._ By J.T. Surenne. _Old Ironsides at Anchor lay._ One of Dodge's favorite songs, the words by Morris, the music by B. Covert. _A Little Word._ By Niciola Olivieri (!). _The Parting Look._ Words by Henry Sinclair, music by Alex. Wilson. Embellished by a fine lithograph. _The Dying Boy._ Another of Dodge's favorite songs. The words are by Mrs. Larned, and the music by Lyman Heath. This song has also a fine engraving. Mr. Diston has also commenced the publication of Beethoven's Sonatas for the piano forte, from the newly revised edition, published by subscription in Germany. * * * * MESSRS. LEE & WALKER, No. 162 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, are now publishing "_Lindiana_," a choice selection of Jenny Lind's songs, with brilliant variations by the untiring Chas. Grobe. The first is the "Dream." In the hands of Professor Grobe, we cannot doubt the entire success of the enterprise. The series is dedicated to "our musical editor," who fully appreciates the compliment and returns his sincere thanks. * * * * Our old friend Mr. James Conenhoven, associated with Mr. Duffy, has opened a new music store at No. 120 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. From Mr. C.'s known taste and knowledge of the business, we anticipate his entire success, and cheerfully recommend our friends to make his early acquaintance in his new career. They have sent us the _Silver Bell Waltz_, by Mr. Conenhoven himself, and _Solitude_, a beautiful song by Kirk White, the music by John Daniel. Both are very handsomely got up, and are valuable accessions to a musical portfolio. * * * * OUR TITLE-PAGE.--Those who are fond of Fashions other than colored will be gratified with our title-page, which contains at least fifty figures. * * * * PRINTING IN COLORS.--We give another specimen in this number, of printing in colors from a STEEL plate. We believe that we have the only artisans in this country that can do this kind of fancy work. The present specimen, which we are willing to contrast with any other plate in any magazine for this month, is entirely of American manufacture. * * * * We will send a copy of the November and December numbers of the Lady's Book, containing the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, gratis, to any religious publication with which we do not exchange, if it will signify a wish to have them. * * * * NEW-YEAR'S DAY IN FRANCE.--All who have visited this gay country at the season of the holidays, will be struck with the graphic power displayed by our artist in the plate that graces the present number. * * * * ORIGINAL DESIGNS.--The four principal plates in this number, viz., The Constant, The Four Eras of Life, The Four Seasons, and The Double Fashion Plate, as well as several of the wood engravings, are from original designs. This originality has never before been attempted in any magazine of any country. We do not remember an instance of the kind in any of the English annuals. It is our intention to be ever progressive. Our original designs last year were numerous: among them the never-to-be-forgotten Lord's Prayer and Creed. "The Coquette," the match plate to "The Constant," will appear in the March number. It will be seen by this number that we are able to transcend anything we have yet presented. Our Book, this year, shall be one continuous triumph. As we have only ourselves for a rival, our effort will be to excel even the well-known versatility and beauty which our Book has always exhibited. * * * * PROFESSOR BLUMENTHAL.--We omitted to include among our list of contributors this gentleman's name. It was an oversight; but the professor shows, by his article in this number, that he has not forgotten us. * * * * ARTHUR'S STORY.--With but one exception, Mr. Arthur writes for his own paper alone. The story in this number will amply repay a careful perusal. It will be completed in the March number. * * * * T. S. ARTHUR'S HOME GAZETTE.--In our acquaintance with newspaperdom, as Willis would say, which extends over a period of twenty-two years, the history of this paper is the most singular of any in our recollection. Ample capital was provided to meet any exigency that might arise; but, strange to say, not a penny of it has been used. But we were too hasty; for, when we consider who is its editor, it must be confessed it is _not_ strange. The paper has paid for itself from the start. Perhaps another instance of the kind lives not in the memory of that well-known person, "the oldest inhabitant." Mr. Arthur now counts his subscribers by thousands, nearly by tens of thousands. The rush for it has been unexampled--so much so as to make it necessary to reprint early numbers, and even to telegraph for extra supplies of paper, so rapidly has it been exhausted. Mr. Arthur has struck a vein that will render a voyage to California entirely useless to him. His advertisement will be found in this number. * * * * We will mention one fact, and our subscribers will see the remon of it. We give no preference as regards the first impressions from the plates. If a plate wears in the printing, we have it retouched, so that all may have impressions alike. With our immense edition, the greatest ever known, this we find sometimes necessary. * * * * On reference to our advertisement in this number, it will be seen what is in store for the subscribers to Godey. When we announce the fact that the plates are engraved in the same style as those they have seen, "The Lord's Prayer," "The Evening Star," "The Creed," "We Praise Thee, O God," and those contained in the present number, they will conclude that a rich treat is to be obtained for the trifling outlay of $3. Would it not be a convenient method, where it is difficult to obtain a club of five subscribers, to remit us $10 for a club of five years? Any person remitting $10 in advance, will be entitled to the Lady's Book five years. We cannot forbear inserting the following notices:-- "The Lady's Book is the best, most sociable, and decidedly the richest magazine for truth, virtue, and literary worth now published in this country."--_Indiana Gazette._ "In matter of sentiment, and light literature, and elegant embellishments of useful and ornamental art, Godey's Lady's Book takes the lead of all works of its class. We have seen nothing in it offensive to the most fastidious taste."--_Church Quarterly Review and Ecclesiastical Reporter_. "We find it difficult, without resorting to what would be thought downright hyperbole, to express adequately the admiration excited by the appearance of this last miracle of literary and artistic achievement."--_Maine Gospel Banner_. The above are unsolicited opinions from grave authorities. * * * * NEW MATTER FOR THE WORK TABLE.--The ladies will perceive that they have been well cared for in this number. We again give, for their benefit, two new styles of work, "The Chenille Work," and "Knitted Flowers". THE HAIR WORK will be continued in our next number. * * * * * BLITZ HAS ARRIVED.--What joy this will carry into the minds of the young! Blitz, the conjurer, the kind-hearted Blitz, who dispenses his sugar things amongst his young friends with such a smile--and they are real sugar things, too; they don't slip through your fingers, except in the direction of your mouth, like many of the things he gives the young folks to hold--is at his old quarters, the Lecture-room at the Museum. * * * * A.B. WARDEN, at his jewelry and silver ware establishment, S.E. corner of Fifth and Chestnut streets, has an immense variety of beautiful and valuable presents for the season. He is the sole agent for a new style of watch lately introduced into this country, approved by the Chronometer Board at the Admiralty, in London, which is warranted. Orders by mail, including a description of the desired article, will be attended to. * * * * The Weber Minstrels is the title assumed by some gentlemen of this city, who intend to give concerts here and elsewhere. We commend them to our friends of the press in the various places they may visit. We can speak confidently of their singing; and we arc sure that, wherever they go, their manners as gentlemen and their talent as singers will commend them to public favor. * * * * FROM OUR MUSICAL EDITOR. BERKSHIRE HOTEL, _Pittsfield, Mass._, _Sept. 22, 1850._ MY DEAR GODEY.--You know I do not often _brag_ of _Hotels_, and it is perhaps out of the line of the "Book." But, in this particular instance, I know you will excuse me, when I write of a spot in which you would delight. I wish, in the first place, to introduce you to MR. W.B. COOLEY, the perfect pink of landlords, wearing a polka cravat and a buff vest, externally; but he has a heart in his bosom as big as one of the Berkshire cattle. If you ever come here--and by _you_, I mean the 100,000 subscribers to the Lady's Book, don't go anywhere else, for _here_ you will find a home--a regular New England _home_. His table is magnificent--his beds and rooms all that any one could ask; and his friendly nature will make you perfectly _at home_. Indeed, it is the only hotel I have been at, on my protracted tour, where I have felt perfectly _at home_. How I wish you, and your wife and daughters, and lots of our mutual friends, were here with me. We would have glorious times--music, dancing, singing, sight-seeing, conversation, &c. &c. I cannot write much; but I wish you to understand that this is the _ne plus ultra_ of hotels. Don't fail to patronize it. Lebanon Springs and the Shaker settlement are within a short ride. Yours ever, J.C. * * * * VARIOUS USEFUL RECEIPTS, &c., OF OUR OWN GATHERING. Rice for curry should never be immersed in water, except that which has been used for cleaning the grain previous to use. It should be placed in a sieve and heated by the steam arising from boiling water; the sieve so placed in the saucepan as to be two or three inches above the fluid. In stirring the rice a light hand should be used, or you are apt to amalgamate the grains; the criterion of well-dressed rice being to have the grains separate. * * * * ARROW-ROOT FOR INVALIDS.--The practice of boiling arrow-root in milk is at once wasteful and unsatisfactory; the best mode of preparing enough for an invalid's supper is as follows: Put a dessertspoonful of powder, two lumps of sugar, into a chocolate cup, with a few drops of Malaga, or any other sweet wine; mix these well together, and add, in small quantities, more wine, until a smooth thick paste is formed. Pour boiling water, by slow degrees, stirring all the while, close to the fire, until the mixture becomes perfectly transparent. * * * * CUSTARD OR SPONGE-CAKE PUDDING, WITH FRUIT SAUCE.--Break separately and clear in the usual way[1] four large or five small fresh eggs, whisk them until they are light, then throw in a very small pinch of salt, and two tablespoonfuls of pounded sugar; then whisk them anew until it is dissolved: add to them a pint of new milk and a slight flavoring of lemon, orange-flower water, or aught else that may be preferred. Pour the mixture into a plain well buttered mould or basin, and tie securely over it a buttered paper and a small square of cloth or muslin rather thickly floured. Set it into a saucepan or stewpan containing about two inches in depth of boiling water, and boil the pudding very gently for half an hour and five minutes at the utmost. It must be taken out directly it is done, but should remain several minutes before it is dished, and will retain its heat sufficiently if not turned out for ten minutes or more. Great care must always be taken to prevent either the writing paper or the cloth tied over the pudding from touching the water when it is steamed in the manner directed above, a method which is preferable to boiling, if the preceding directions be attended to, particularly for puddings of this class. The corners of the cloth or muslin should be gathered up and fastened over the pudding; but neither a large nor a heavy cloth should be used for the purpose at any time. Three or four sponge biscuits may be broken into the basin before the custard is put in; it must then stand for twenty minutes or half an hour, to soak them, previously to being placed in a saucepan. The same ingredients will make an excellent pudding, _if very slowly baked_ for about three quarters of an hour. Four eggs will then be quite sufficient for it. [1] That is to say, remove the specks with the point of a fork from each egg while it is in the cup; but if this cannot be adroitly done, so as to clear them off perfectly, whisk up the eggs until they are as liquid as they will become, and then pass them through a hair sieve: after this is done, whisk them afresh, and add the sugar to them. * * * * By particular request we again publish the following receipt:-- NEW RECEIPT FOR A WASHING MIXTURE. BY MISS LESLIE. Take two pounds of the best brown soap; cut it up and put it in a clean pot, adding one quart of clean soft water. Set it over the fire and melt it thoroughly, occasionally stirring it up from the bottom. Then take it off the fire, and stir in one tablespoonful of _real_ white wine vinegar; two large tablespoonfuls of hartshorn spirits; and seven large tablespoonfuls of spirits of turpentine. Having stirred the ingredients well together, put up the mixture _immediately_ into a stone jar, and cover it immediately, lest the hartshorn should evaporate. Keep it always carefully closely covered. When going to wash, nearly fill a six or eight gallon tub with soft water, as hot as you can bear your hand in it, and stir in two large tablespoonfuls of the above mixture. Put in as many white clothes as the water will cover. Let them soak about an hour, moving them about in the water occasionally. It will only be necessary to rub with your hands such parts as are very dirty; for instance, the inside of shirt collars and wristbands, &c. The common dirt will soak out by means of the mixture. Wring the clothes out of the suds, and rinse them well through _two_ cold waters. Next put into a wash kettle sufficient water to boil the clothes (it must be cold at first), and add to it two more tablespoonfuls of the mixture. Put in the clothes after the mixture is well stirred into the water, and boil them _half an hour_ at the utmost, not more. Then take them out and throw them into a tub of cold water. Rinse them well through this; and lastly, put them into a second tub of rinsing water, slightly blued with the indigo bag. Be very careful to rinse them in _two_ cold waters out of the first suds, and after the boiling; then wring them and hang them out. This way of washing with the soap mixture saves much labor in rubbing; expedites the business, and renders the clothes very white, without injuring them in the least. Try it. * * * * DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION PLATE. We challenge comparison in the design and execution, to say nothing of the accuracy, of our fashion plate. The first is as pretty a home scene as one could wish, and the costumes are brought in naturally. For instance, the promenade dress of the visitor, _Fig. 1st_. A plain stone-colored merino, with green turc satin, a coat or martle made to fit close to the figure, with sleeves demi-width. The trimming is not a simple quilting, like that worn the past season, as it would at first appear, but an entirely new style of silk braid put on in basket-work. Drawn bonnet of apple-green satin, lined with pink, and, with a small muff, the dress is complete. _Fig. 2d_ is a morning-dress, that would be very pretty to copy for a bridal wardrobe. In the engraving, it is represented of pink silk, with an open corsage, and sleeves demi-long. The chemisette is of lace, to match that upon the skirt, and is fastened at the throat by a simple knot of pink ribbon. The trimming of the dress is quilled ribbon, and the cap has a band and knot of the same color. _Fig. 3d_ is a mourning costume of silk, with four rows of heavily-knotted fringe upon the skirt, and the sleeves trimmed to correspond. The figures of the children are simple and easily understood. The pelisse of the little girl has an edge to correspond with the muff. In the second and out-door scene, the artist has very happily given us a glimpse of sleigh-riding in the city. The pedestrians are tastefully dressed, the first figure having one of the most graceful cloaks of the season; it is of stone-colored Thibet cloth, and is trimmed with a fold of the same corded with satin. The sleeves are peculiar, and deserve particular attention. The bonnet is of uncut velvet, with satin bands. The dress of the second figure will be found very comfortable. It is of thick Mantua silk; trimmed heavily down the entire front breadth. The sacque, of the same, is lined with quilted white satin, as are the loose open sleeves. The sleeves of the dress open in a point at the wrist, to display the undersleeves. The bonnet is a pink casing, with bouquet of roses. * * * * CHIT-CHAT UPON PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR JANUARY. EVENING DRESS.--Of all the uncomfortable sensations one can experience in society, that of being over or _under_-dressed is the most uncomfortable. It fetters your movements, it distracts your thoughts, and makes conversation next to impossible, unless you have an extraordinary degree of moral courage. We can speak from experience, and so can any of our lady readers, we venture to say. "Come early; there won't be more than half a dozen people," says your friend, as she flies out of your room at the hotel, after having given you notice that a few of her intimates are to meet you that evening at her house. Take her at her word, of course. Go at half past seven, and ten to one the gas will not be turned on, and your hostess is still at her toilet. Presently, in she sails, making a thousand apologies at having been detained, and is so glad that you have kept your promise and come early. You look at her elaborate toilet, and think your old friend has become extravagantly fond of dress if this is her reception of half a dozen people. An hour, almost an hour by the marble time-piece, drags on. Not a visitor appears. At length, you are refreshed by a faint tinkle of the door bell. A lady shortly enters, saying, "Don't think me a Goth for coming so early." After she is introduced to you, a stolen glance at the clock. Early! It is half-past eight. What time do they intend to come? But now they arrive faster and faster, and each more elaborately dressed than the last, it seems to your startled eyes. A triple lace skirt glides in. You look at your dark green cashmere in dismay. Low neck and short sleeves! Yours is up to the throat. But you mentally thank your mantua-maker for inserting undersleeves; they are quite consoling. Dozens of white kid gloves! You have not even mitts, and your hand is fairly red with the same blush that suffuses your face. In fine, it is an actual party, dancing, supper, and all, given to you; and yet there you sit, among entire strangers dumb from annoyance, and awkward for the first time in many years, perhaps. But you will not be caught so again. You are wiser from fearful experience. A similar invitation is met with an appeal to your very best party dress, and you go armed _cap-à-pie_, even to white satin slippers. The clock strikes nine as you enter the room, and there is your truth-loving hostess, with her half dozen plain guests, who had given you up, and are sorry you cannot stay long, "as they see you are dressed for a party." Capital suggestion! Make the most of it, and retire as soon as possible under that plea. We appeal to you, ladies, whether this is a fancy sketch; and yet sometimes it is not the fault of the hostess--you really do not know how you are expected to arrange your toilet. It is to obviate this evil that we propose giving a few plain hints on evening dress. We once knew a very nice lady, who had come to town for the purpose of taking music lessons. She was entirely unfamiliar with the etiquette of the toilet, and living at a boarding house, there was no one she felt at entire liberty to consult. A gentleman invited her to the opera. She was wild with delight. It was a cold winter's night, and she dressed accordingly. She wore a dark merino dress and cloak, a heavy velvet bonnet and plumes, and thick knit gloves, dark also. The gentleman looked astonished, but said nothing; and imagine her consternation, when she found herself in the centre of the dress circle, in the midst of unveiled necks and arms, thin white dresses, and white kid gloves. At once the oddity of her mistake flashed across her; but she bore it with unparalleled firmness, and enjoyed the music notwithstanding. The lorgnettes attracted by her costume, found a very sweet face to repay them, and her naive and enthusiastic criticism interested her companion so much that he forgot all else. And how should she have dressed? Cloaks--and what is an opera toilet without a cloak?--are nothing more than sacques of bright cashmere or velvet, lined with quilted silk or satin, with loose flowing sleeves. A shawl is, of course, thrown over this out of doors. One of the prettiest cloaks of this season was made by Miss Wharton, of black satin, with a hood lined with Pompadour pink. But cashmere is less expensive, and may be trimmed with pointed silk or satin, and lined with the same colored silk. Your dress is not of so much consequence, if it is light, for the cloak conceals it. But the undersleeves should be very nice, and white kid gloves are indispensable. A scarf or hood may be worn to the door of the box, and then thrown over the arm. The hair is dressed with very little ornament this winter; but, whatever the head-dress adopted, the two chief points are simplicity and _becomingness_. Dress hats are allowed; but, as they obstruct the view of others, are not desirable. Nearly the same dress is proper for a subscription concert, where you are sure of a large audience; of course, where Jenny Lind is the attraction, the same thing is certain. All her concerts are _dress_ concerts. But, for a ballad _soirée_, or the first appearance of any new star, a pretty hat, with an opera cloak or light shawl, is quite sufficient. For panoramas, negro minstrels, or evening lectures, an ordinary walking costume is sufficient, and it would be very bad taste to go with the head uncovered. A party dress should be regulated by the invitation, in a measure. In "sociables," the most sensible of all parties, a light silk, mousseline, or cashmere, is sufficient, with short sleeves and a pretty collar. Gloves are by no means indispensable, and many prefer black silk mitts. If the number of invitations exceeds twenty-five, a regular evening dress is expected, as well as at weddings, receptions, or a dancing party. A full evening costume we have often described, and shall give some new styles next month. Of course, we have spoken only of young ladies, a more matronly style being expected from their chaperons. For instance, caps at the opera or concerts, a charming variety of which were seen at Miss Wilson's November opening. Turc satins, velvets, and brocades are to those in place of white tulle or embroidered crepes. And again, our hints of course are intended for the city alone, and for the guidance of those who are making that perilous venture, a "first winter in society." FASHION. * * * * * THE BOOK OF THE NATION. GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK FOR 1851, LITERARY AND PICTORIAL, DEVOTED TO AMERICAN ENTERPRISE, AMERICAN WRITERS, AND AMERICAN ARTISTS. * * * * The publisher of the Lady's Book having the ability, as well as the inclination, to make the best monthly literary, and pictorial periodical in this country, is determined to show the patrons of magazines to what perfection this branch of literature can be brought. He has now been publishing the Lady's Book for twenty-six years and he appeals to his subscribers and the public whether the "Book" has not improved every year, and he now pledges his well-earned reputation that, in the MORALITY and SUPERIORITY of his literature, and in the PURITY and BEAUTY of his engravings, THE LADY'S BOOK FOR 1851 SHALL EXCEED EVERY OTHER MAGAZINE. The literary department will still be conducted by MRS. SARAH J. HALE, whose name is now recognized throughout our country as the able champion of her sex in all that pertains to the proper rights of woman. Arrangements have been made with other than our well known contributors, and we shall have the pleasure of adding to the following some writers of great celebrity, whose names have not yet appeared in the "Book." Mrs. J.C. Neal, Mrs. E.F. Ellet, Enna Duval, Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, Mrs. A.F. Law, The Author of Miss Bremer's Visit to Cooper's Landing, Mrs. L.G. Abell, Mrs. O.M.P. Lord, Kate Berry, Mrs. S.J. Hale, F.E.F., Mary Spenser Pease, The Author of "Aunt Magwire," Mrs. C.F. Orne, Mrs. J.H. Campbell, W. Gilmore Simms, H.T. Tuckerman, Park Benjamin, Hon. R.T. Conrad, John Neal, Tom Owen (the Bee Hunter), Alfred B. Street, George P. Morris, Rev. H.H. Weld, H. Wm. Herbert, Professor Wm. Alexander, Professor Alden, Professor John Frost, T.S. Arthur, Richard Coe, Herman Melville, Nathl. Hawthorn, and a host of other names, which our space will not permit us to mention. In short, no efforts will be wanting to retain for Godey's Lady's Book the proud title of THE LEADING PERIODICAL IN AMERICA. It will be seen that we have commenced furnishing original designs for our MODEL COTTAGE department, than which no set of illustrations have ever given more satisfaction. THE LADIES' DEPARTMENT is one that we particularly pride ourselves upon. We have been the first to give everything new in this line--Crochet Work, Knitting, Netting, Patch Work, Crochet Flower Work, Leather Work, Hair Braiding, Ribbon Work, Chenille Work, Lace Collar Work, D'Oyley Watch Safes, Children's and Infants' Clothes, Caps, Capes, Chemisettes, and, in fact, everything that we thought would please our readers. In addition, we have also commenced the publication of UNDOUBTED RECEIPTS for Cooking, Removing Stains, and every matter that can interest the head of a family. GODEY'S RELIABLE FASHION PLATES. This department will be under the sole superintendence of a lady--one of our first modistes--who receives proof sheets of the fashions direct from Paris, and is intimately connected with the publishers in that city. This favor is granted to her exclusively. They are arranged, under her direction, to suit the more subdued taste of American ladies. There is no other magazine in America that can be equally favored. We have so long led in this department that the fact would hardly be worth mentioning, excepting that others claim the merit that has so long been conceded to the "Book." They will be got up, as usual, in our superior style to the French. NEW MUSIC, PRINTED SEPARATE on tinted paper. This is another advantage that Godey possesses over all others. A gentleman is engaged expressly to attend to this department, and no music is inserted in the "Book" that has not undergone his strict supervision. ILLUSTRATIONS. In artistic merit, the "Book" will still retain its pre-eminence, and, in order to show the public wherein our superiority will consist, we give the titles of some of the plates that we have now on hand ready for use, all of which will be given in succession. It will be observed that we have, in a measure, quit the beaten track of copying from engravings, as most of our plates are from original designs, prepared expressly for the "Book," by CROOME, ROTHERMEL, TUCKER, PEASE, DALLAS, PETERS, & GILBERT. Those that are not from original designs, prepared expressly for us, are from the original painting. Furthermore, the publisher of the "Book" would state that they are ALL STEEL PLATES, and that there is not a WOOD-CUT amongst them. We will not deceive by publishing a list of plates without, at the same time stating whether they are engraved on wood or steel. It may as well be also stated that Mr. Tucker, our own artist, than whom no one stands higher in America, has been in London for more than a year, and all his plates are now finished. One series of our plates in line engraving will be CONSTANCY AND COQUETRY, done in a style to defy any imitation in mezzotint, GOOD COUNSEL AND EVIL COUNSEL, DRESS THE MAKER AND DRESS THE WEARER * * * * * [Illustration] THE VALENTINES. The fires of February lit the hearth, And shone with welcome lustre on the brows Of two most lovely maidens, as they sat Expecting, in their heart of hearts, the notes Called "_Valentines_," that February brings Upon its fourteenth day, to tell, in rhyme, All fair and gentle ladies whether they Have made new conquests, or have kept the old As fresh as new-blown roses in the hearts Of their admiring slaves. One of the girls (Laughing and lovely was she), ever won High hearts to do her bidding, dreaming it No sin that _all_ should yield her love and homage, Yet was no trifling, passionless coquette. Her winning beauty was the standing toast Of the wide neighborhood, and serenades From many a gallant woke the sleeping echoes Beneath her window, and her name was like The silvery pealing of a tinkling bell; (Perhaps 'tis yours, fair reader,) "Clairinelle." May sat beside her with a graver air, Something more matronly controlled her mien; Yet was she not a sighing "sentimentalist," But, like her cousin Cary, could be gay: Two Valentines had come for these fair girls, Which made the dimpled smiles show teeth like pearls Pray, read those tender missives--here they are-- CLAIRINELLE'S VALENTINE. The maiden I love is the fairest on earth, Her laugh is the clear, joyous music of mirth; I think of the angels whenever she sings-- She's a seraph from Heaven, but folding her wings. The least little act that she doeth is kind; Her goodness all springs from a beautiful mind. I love her much more than I know how to tell; Let her do what she will, it is always done well: Her voice is the murmur the mild zephyr makes As it steals through the forest and ruffles the lakes: Her eyes are so gentle, so calm, and so blue, That I'm sure that she's constant, and trusting, and true: Her features are delicate, classic, and pure: Her hair is light chestnut, and I'm almost sure That the sunbeams that bathe it can't set themselves free: Her teeth are like pearls from the depths of the sea. A bee in a frolic once stung her red lip, And left there the honey he hastened to sip: Let her go where she will, she is always the belle, And her name, her sweet name, is the fair Clairinelle. MAY'S VALENTINE. MY UNSENTIMENTAL COUSIN:-- The moon was half bewildered by the vexing clouds That did beset her in her path serene, Veiling her beauty with their envious shrouds, Hiding her glorious, most majestic mien. There was a depth of silence in the night-- A mist of melancholy in the air-- And the capricious beams of Dian's light Gave something mystic to the scene most fair. I gave my cousin Dante's divine "Inferno," _Imploring_ her to read _il primo canto_. "Lo giorno s'andava," she drawled; but, tired of plodding, Directly fell asleep, and pretty soon--_was nodding_!! "Cousin, sweet cousin," cried I out, "awake! I long for sympathy--compassion on me take: They say yon stars are worlds--dost think 'tis so?" "Really, my--dear (_a yawn_), I--don't exactly know." "Cousin," said I, "upon a night like this, Back to the heart steal distant memories From out the vista of the waning past"-- "Harry, I've caught the horrid fly at last!" Shades of the angry Muses! worse and worse! She disappears!--is gone!--_to knit a crochet purse_!! "Cousin, come back again!" in vain I cried; Echo (the mocking-bird!) _alone_ replied. CARA. * * * * * CORNERS FOR POCKET HANDKERCHIEFS. [Illustration] * * * * * BIRTHDAY OF THE YEAR [Illustration]