NEW YEAR’S DAY IN FRANCE.

MODEL COTTAGE.

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.

PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1851.

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.”

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.

COMMUNION.

MARRIAGE

DEATH.

FOUR SONNETS TO THE FOUR SEASONS.

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.

(See Plate.)

SPRING.

SUMMER.

AUTUMN.

WINTER.

LIFE IN THE WOODS.—A SONG.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

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—

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.

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.”

“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.

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

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.

SCENE II.—A street. Crowds of people hurrying on.

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.

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.

[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.

END OF ACT I.

SABBATH LYRICS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

GOD THE GUARDIAN.—PSALM XI.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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—

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.

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.

OTHELLO TO IAGO.

BY R.T. CONRAD.

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:—

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—

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.

HOPE ON, HOPE EVER.

BY ROBERT G. ALLISON.

THE DRESSING ROOM.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Fig. 1.

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.

Fig. 3.

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.

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.

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.

ASTRÆA. 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.

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.”

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

THE VALENTINES.

CLAIRINELLE’S VALENTINE.

MAY’S VALENTINE.

CORNERS FOR POCKET HANDKERCHIEFS.

BIRTHDAY OF THE YEAR