[277]

DESIGNED AND ENGRAVED EXPRESSLY FOR GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK.

GODEY’S

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Engraved expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book by W. E. Tucker
Printed by H. Quig.

SONNET.—AUDUBON.[A]

[278]

SPRING.—A BALLAD

SPRING.
Engraved expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book by J.B. Neagle.

YE COME TO ME IN DREAMS.

[280]

THE TINY GLOVE.—A MAY-DAY STORY.

CHAPTER I.

Bright, gladsome May-day!—the fairest maiden
in all the train of the merry “Queen of Seasons.”
May-day! what happy scenes this word recalls—the
day of all days for childhood’s pleasures! I see
the little darlings tripping along the streets of my
native town with baskets on their chubby arms,
smiles on their lips, and happiness in their eyes,
soon clustered in merry groups on some favorite
spot in the suburbs, laughing and chatting, arranging
their pic-nic dinners, or sporting beneath the
shady trees.

But to my story. A mile or two from the village
of A. were collected some fifty or sixty little girls
and boys, for the purpose of celebrating their annual
holiday. The May-pole, bedecked with flowers of
every hue and form, towered aloft, and around its
base they frisked and gamboled like so many little
fairies. Some were “wafted in the silken swing”
high up among the boughs of the beech and elm;
others sought the brink of the rippling rivulet, and
amused themselves with ruffling its smooth surface
or looking at their mirrored faces. Far down the
streamlet, and alone, was quietly seated a little girl,
weaving into garlands the buds and blossoms which
grew around her in wild profusion, caroling with a
bird-like voice snatches of some favorite air, ever
and anon raising her violet eyes and looking round
her in wondrous delight. Her childish face was
strikingly beautiful; around her small perfect mouth
there rested an angel smile, and her short brown
curls were parted on a forehead of matchless contour.

She wove and sang, and smiled a sunny smile,
and seemed wholly unconscious of a pair of bright
black eyes fixed upon her from the opposite bank.
At length she turned, as if to listen; and soon upon
the air floated distinctly sounds of “Alice! little
Alice!” and she bounded away to her playmates.
No sooner had she disappeared than the owner of
the black eyes—a boy, seemingly of twelve years,
clad in a green jacket ornamented with silver buttons,
loose white trowsers, and wide-brimmed straw
hat, which but partly concealed his glossy black
hair—sprang across the water and possessed himself
of the tiny glove which lay forgotten on the
bank, and which had once covered the hand of
“little Alice.”

“Alice, my dove, you have brought but one glove
from the May frolic.”

“I lost the other one yesterday. I don’t think I
forgot it May-day, mamma.”

“Well, dear, go put this one away until you find
the mate.”

“Yes, mamma.”

CHAPTER II.

‘Tis night in a boarding-school. The doors of
many small rooms open on the dreary hall, and the
glimmering light through the key-holes tells of the
fair students within. One is partly open, and
through it we see two young girls standing near a
toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass of
rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness
about her snowy shoulders. The other is rummaging
amid the elegant trifles which decorate the table.

“Alice,” she began, “many, many times have I
seen this beautiful little glove among trumpery, and
often thought I’d beg of you its history, but always
forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned.”

“Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight
years old I lost the fellow, and put this one away
until I should find it. Years have rolled away; but
it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then
enjoyed, that I have never been able to part with it,
and still treasure it as an index to the bright scenes
of the past.”

CHAPTER III.

Again I beg the reader to pass over two years—short
to you who possess health and plenty, long to
those in disease and want—and come with me to
the heights of the Alleghanies, crowded with stately
trees all covered with snow and ice, with here and
there thick clambering evergreens, looking all the
richer for their bright unsullied winter caps. Slowly
and laboriously do the wheels of a heavy traveling
carriage wind along the rugged ascent, while
the heaving flanks and dilated nostrils of the noble
steeds bear witness to the toilsome pathway. Muffled
in cloaks and furs, we scarcely recognize, in
the inmates of the coach, our two school-girls, lately
emancipated from their narrow cell and the
thraldom of school-laws. We would willingly linger
to admire with them the grandeur and sublimity
of these props of heaven; but we will not attempt
a description of that which was among the mightiest
works of Him, the Almighty; so we pass over the
perilous and impressive journey, nor pause until,
again in her own village, again on the steps of her
dearly loved home, Alice Clayton is pressed to her
mother’s bosom.[281]

Now under her father’s roof, she has become the
glad child again. We see her first with her companion,
Kate Earle, wandering about the spacious
drawing-rooms, now tastefully arranging the folds
of the heavy satin curtains, or decorating the tables
with rich bouquets; then trying the full, clear tones
of the piano; and at last, taking a delighted survey
of the whole, she trips away into the long dining-hall,
contemplates a moment the iced pyramids,
foamy floats, transparent jellies, &c., then, arm in
arm, they seek their chamber, and are soon busily
engaged in the witching duties of the toilet.

Night hurries on, and the cold moon looks calmly
down the quiet village: but soon, no longer silent,
we hear quickened foot-falls, rolling carriages, the
hum of busy tongues, and occasionally a silvery laugh
floats out upon the cool night air. Before the
stately, and now brilliantly-lighted, mansion of Mr.
Clayton they pause, ascend the steps, and are lost
to view. But we will enter and look upon the
happy throng assembled here to welcome back their
former playmate, sweet Alice Clayton. Ah, how
tenderly she greets them! Now do her soft eyes
light up and flash with intense joy as she receives
her numberless guests with unaffected grace, presenting
many to her visitor, Kate Earle. The music
and the dance begin, youth and beauty eagerly
join the circle, while the older ones retire to the
whist-tables, none marking the speedy flight of the
rosy hours. Some are there, strangers to the fair
idol of the brilliant concourse: one of these, a
youth of striking mien and unusual elegance, is now
seeking a presentation from her father. With a
good-humored smile, he bows assent, and together
they seek our heroine.

“Come, Alice dear, make your prettiest bow to
my young friend, Percy Clifford.” Then, in a
mock whisper, he added, “Guard well your heart,”
and left her, smiling maliciously at the painful
blushes which his remark had summoned to her
cheeks.

However, the low, easy tones of Clifford’s voice
soon reassured her, and a half hour glided away so
pleasantly that her father’s warning was forgotten,
or, if remembered, but too late. I don’t mean to
say that Alice really gave her heart away before
the asking; but that night when she and Kate were
repeating the sayings and doings of their late guests,
Percy Clifford’s name was oftener on her lip, and
when, with arms entwined, they slept the sleep of
innocence, Perry Clifford’s musical voice and captivating
smile alone hovered round her pillow.

CHAPTER IV.

Again and again they met; already had the finely-modeled
features of Alice Clayton gained an indescribable
charm from the warm feelings of her
pure, ardent heart, which sprang up irresistibly to the
surface. No wonder that Percy Clifford yielded to
the idolatrous affection which grew and strengthened
in his bosom for the fair girl. No wonder that
his passion knew no restraint when he pressed his
lips on her innocent brow, and drew in his clasp
Alice, his betrothed.

“My sweet Alice!—my ‘little Alice;’ for so I
love to call you. The dear name recalls the little
brown-haired beauty who sat upon the bank weaving
into garlands the bright flowers, none half so
lovely as herself, while from the depths of her gentle
heart gushed out a song as witching and melodious
as the carolings of all the feathered tribe.
Then, a boy, did I first gaze enraptured on your infantile
beauty; then did my heart unclose to the
lovely vision which it has since treasured through
years and absence, joy and sorrow. My father always
granted my request to prosecute my studies
at his country seat near A., and, unknown, unnoticed,
I followed you through girlhood, and experienced
my first pang when you left me for the distant
seminary.

“None can tell the overwhelming sorrow, the
keen agony which succeeded your absence; my
only solace was to seek the streamlet and mingle
my boyish tears with its limpid waters. Again I
met you; and I have since wondered how I could
so well act the stranger—how I could speak so
calmly when my heart was bursting. Soon all
doubts and fears were banished—you loved me!
I saw it in the tearful eye, the flickering cheek.
And now, Alice, dearest one, you are mine! With
this, you see this little glove. It will tell you
how you have always reigned, as now, in the heart
of Percy Clifford.”

And how can I describe her joy as, half laughing,
half crying, she kissed again and again the little
wanderer, and how that night she placed it mated
in his hand, emblem of themselves?

SONNET

[282]

GARDEN ORNAMENTS.

In the present number of the Lady’s Book, we
give a style of fountains somewhat different from
that given in our last.

Should the house be in a style suitable, a drooping
fountain, like that shown in the engraving, may be
used; and the central part may be altered to suit a
Gothic or an Elizabethan house.

Whatever pattern may be adopted, there are certain
rules to be attended to in the construction of all
fountains, in order to make them play. A fountain
may be formed wherever there is either a natural or
artificial supply of water some feet higher than the
level of the surface on which the fountain is to be
placed. This supply of water is called the head, and
its height varies according to circumstances. Where
a drooping fountain is to be adopted, the head need
be very little higher than the joint from which the
water is expected to issue; but where the fountain
is to form a jet, the head must be six inches, a foot,
or more, higher than the height to which the jet is
expected to rise; the height required varying according
to the diameter of the jet. When the jet is
small, say about the eighth of an inch in diameter,
the height of the head above that to which the jet
of water is expected to rise need not be above six
or eight inches.

In the mountainous parts of the country, ornamental
fountains may be constructed with very little
trouble or expense. The water which flows from
springs in hill-sides may be made to form the head.
It may be conducted to the fountain through leaden
or earthen pipes, or pipes made of any material that
is perfectly water-tight. If these pipes be extended
to the door of the dwelling, excellent water may be
at all times available—thus answering the double
purpose of ornament and use.[283]

MODEL COTTAGE.

This cottage contains, on the ground floor, an entrance
lobby, a; staircase, b; kitchen, c; parlor, d;
tool-house, e; pantry and dairy, f; back-kitchen, g;
wood-shed, h; dust-hole, i; water-closet, k; and
cow-house, with brew-house oven, l.

The cow-house is connected with a court-yard,
which contains a shed for hay and straw, piggeries,
with a manure-well connected with the water-closet.
The platform, on three sides of this dwelling, forms
a handsome walk, from which there is a door into
the court-yard.

The bed-room floor contains a best bed-room, m;[284]
a second bed-room, n; a third bed-room, o; and a
stair, p.

General Estimate.—14,904 cubic feet, at 10 cents
per foot, $1,490.40; at 5 cents, $745.20.

FLOWERS.

What a volume of thought and feeling is contained
in the simple flower! As the lightnings
which flash along the firmament of heaven, or the
thunders which startle the silence of eternity, are
typical of His anger and might—so are the beauty
and simplicity of a flower typical of His purity and
mercy.

A flower is no insignificant object. It is fraught
with many a deep though mute lesson of wisdom.
It teaches us that even itself, the brightest ornament
of the vegetable world, must fade away and die—and
the life which we prize so highly may be seen,
as in a mirror, through its different changes.

The withered leaflet is like unto a crushed and
broken heart. Its fading loveliness is like the approach
of age as it throws its mantle of wrinkled
care over the form of some lovely specimen of
humanity. Its sweet fragrance is like the joys and
pleasures of our breasts ere they have been contaminated
by the rude touches of the world.

The dew-drop which, at morning’s dawn, rests
upon the half-oped bud, is like the tear which dims
the infant’s speaking eye when his childish glee has
been reproved by the voice of affection.

A flower represents mankind in the changes of
infancy, youth, manhood, and old age. The young
bud is infancy; the bursting flower is youth; the
flower full blown is manhood, and the withered and
tailing leaf is the type of old age.

Its uses are various and manifold. Sometimes
the promptings of affection lead us to place it, in its
purity and beauty, over the tomb of some beloved
friend, where, shedding around its fragrance, it
steals upon our senses like the memory of the departed
being beneath. Sometimes the hand of pride
will pluck it from its stem, to deck the hair of the
blooming bride, or add by its odor to the festive
scene. And not unfrequently it is the mute bearer
of some fond tale of love to the ecstatic sense of
her whose heart and feelings are at length justified,
by its sweet language, in the thoughts they so long
have harbored. It soothes the cares of the troubled
soul, and alleviates the pangs of sorrow. It
wins upon us by its modest though blooming appearance,
and its gentle influence steals into our
bosoms and softens our natures.

Study the flowers, and behold the wisdom, the
goodness, and mercy of the Almighty. Anatomize
them, and behold the innumerable parts which form
and make up the whole, and the system and order
with which they are joined together.

Refinement dwelleth among the flowers. There
the affections of our hearts are given license to
rove, and there the enthusiasm of our nature overcomes
the diffidence of our feelings. Voluntary
homage arises to the Maker of objects so fair and
beautiful, and the soul in the contemplation sighs
itself away in a delicious reverie. Not less beautifully
than truly has it been said:—

[285]

GOOD FOR EVIL

Their new home was a little bijou of a cottage,
and Cora went to work with a light heart. The
furniture was of the very plainest kind; but about
the little rooms there was an air of comfort and
refinement that told of a woman’s careful hand.
Here and there hung pictures of her own painting.
In each apartment were one or two shelves, neatly
stained and varnished, on which were placed a few
choice books. On the top stood the nicely-trimmed
lamp—thus making feminine ingenuity serve the
double purpose of library and bracket. The little
octagon work-table, in one corner, held a porcelain
vase, daily ornamented with fresh flowers, for in
the sunny South the flowers bloom perpetually; and
the white counterpane on the small French bedstead
in Cora’s “spare room,” tempted one to long for an
invitation from her sweet self to occupy it. How
proud and happy her husband felt as together they
took their first regular meal after the confusion was
over, and Cora’s housekeeping began in good earnest!

A few weeks afterwards, she received a box containing
her mother’s old-fashioned but costly set of
China—and her tears fell fast and thick as she looked
once more on the well-known cups her childish lips
had so often pressed. No gift could have been so
precious in her eyes, and she kissed the souvenir of
her early days with reverence. Many little trifles
had the good mother added to the welcome present—trifles
that Cora could not buy, because she could not
afford it; and her heart yearned towards her only parent,
as she uncovered one after another of the home
treasures. An antique-looking silver coffee-pot, with
cream-jug and sugar-bowl, made Cora’s little table
look like the most recherché in the land. Had Laura
seen it, she would have cried with spite; for, now
that she had driven her sister-in-law from the house,
the remembrance of her own cruelty and injustice
made her hatred more bitter still. She had but one
wish, and that was to see her brother and his innocent
wife in actual want!

Even in the street poor Cora was not safe from
her violent rage. If by chance they met, Laura’s
eye would flash, her cheeks grow pale, her lips
quiver, and she would pass, followed by Clara and
Fanny, with a look of scorn and gesture of defiance,
which they would endeavor to imitate as closely as
they could, as a token of respect to their now
wealthy sister. Their father had long repented
of his unkindness, but his weak mind bent to that
of Laura; and so they were as strangers—they who
should have been as closely united as God had made
them! To Lewis they made professions that disgusted
him; but, at Cora’s request, he still paid Mr.
Clavering the respect of calling occasionally. It
was an unhappy state of things indeed; but heartless,
worldly people have no ties, and easily sever
the closest, should they bind inconveniently; so it
cost Laura and her sisters neither pang nor remorse
to outrage a brother’s feelings. Margaret yearned
towards Cora, and, as often as she saw her, expressed
the same unchanging affection, but dared
not openly avow her regret at her absence.

One day, as Cora sat in her room plying her needle,
she heard some one enter the back gate. In a
moment Maggie was in her arms, weeping and
laughing by turns. She had stolen away, and came
to spend the whole day.

“Darling Maggie!” said Cora, kissing her again
and again, “how kind of you to come! Lewis will
be so happy, too!”

“Ah, Cora!” replied Margaret, untying her bonnet,
“if you knew what a time I had to get here!
We were all invited out to dinner; I positively refused
to go—having laid my plans for you, sweetest!
Laura was so ill-humored, and the others so intent
upon themselves, that they did not remark my
eagerness to remain. But they insisted on my going,
until I suggested that the carriage would not
hold us all, large as it is, and so they drove off to
Rivertown in grand style, leaving me at length
alone. I danced with joy! I almost screamed. But
I kept quiet enough till T knew they were not going
to return for some odd glove, a handkerchief, or
Fanny’s eternal powder bag, and then started off.”

“This shall be a jour de fête, then, my own
Margaret; and I will put up this work to show you
my sweet little home. Oh, Maggie!” continued
Cora, clasping her hands, “were it not for the indifference
of your father and sisters to my poor
Lewis, I would be the happiest woman on the wide
earth. He deserves so much affection, for he has
given his own so earnestly.”

A few tears fell from her eyes, but she brushed
them away and smiled again. Margaret sighed,
but was silent. This was a subject upon which
she never conversed, from her decided disapprobation
of the course adopted towards two beings so
dearly loved. She remembered, with bitterness and
trembling, the thirty-sixth verse of the tenth chapter
of St. Matthew: “For a man’s enemies shall be
they of his own household,” and pondered deeply
over the means of reconciliation. But to-day she
had determined to be happy, and Cora was delighted[286]
at her open admiration of their little ménage. The
China and silver particularly charmed her—first,
with their beauty; and secondly, with the air of
luxury they gave her brother’s modest table. They
were moreover, articles of real value that were
Cora’s, no matter what the contingency; and Margaret’s
gentle heart rejoiced at what she termed
“their first piece of luck.”

How these two chatted! How they valued each
moment of the time allowed them! Maggie drew
out her thimble and insisted upon being employed,
and the hours flew lightly over their heads until
noon, when Lewis entered.

“Maggie!” he cried, as she flew out from behind
the door where she had concealed herself. “This
is indeed a pleasure.”

This affectionate greeting made her burst into
tears; and she held her head, for a few moments,
against his breast.

“How kind of you, dear sister, to brave all, and
come to us at last! I wish it were for ever; but
we are such ungrateful mortals that we never rest
satisfied with present blessings. You have been
happy to-day, darling,” continued Lewis, as Cora
entered. “I can tell that by looking at you.”

“Ay, Lewis, as merry as a cricket ever since
Maggie came before me, like a good angel, this
morning. Do get the girls to go out and spend the
day again, my own pet sister, and gleam on Lewis
and me before we begin to pine again for one of
your soft kisses.”.

“I wish you could put me in a cage, like a stray
bird,” said Margaret, with a smile of love. “I
think I should like a jailer like Cora, and be content
to stay captive for ever.”

But, alas! dinner was over, and they had only
the afternoon left them. Maggie remained until it
was nearly dusk, that she might get an early cup
of tea from Cora’s pretty China; then, with Lewis
and his wife at her side, sauntered slowly home.
The tears sprang into her eyes as she bade them
adieu, and she had just rung the bell when the carriage
containing her sisters drove up the street.
Fortunately, it was too dark for them to recognize
her companions, and she succeeded in getting rid
of her bonnet and mantle before they had managed
to get out, as Laura insisted upon being carried in
the parlor by poor Mr. Phillips, because he had
taken, at dinner, a little more wine than was positively
good for him. But he succeeded, in despite
of occasional glimpses of two wives, four sisters-in-law,
and two Mr. Claverings. Laura was placed
on a sofa, where she lay until after the tea tray was
carried out, and then, calling her husband once more,
desired to be taken to her room.

Fanny and Clara sat discussing the dinner, the
furniture, and the guests, and both seemed rather
out of spirits. The old gentleman walked up and
down the piazza, thinking deeply, and Margaret
alone looked fresh and happy.

“Who was there, Fanny?” asked she, at length.

“Oh, a stupid set! Excepting ourselves and Mr.
and Mrs. Denton, there was not a decent creature
there. Nearly all married people and old bachelors.
I declare, I have no patience with such incongruous
assemblies!”

“There was Mrs. Hildreth’s brother! He is
quite a beau, I’m sure; and Clara expressed unbounded
admiration of his mustaches and whiskers
a few days since.”

“Yes, he was there, and is certainly a very unexceptionable
young man. But what is the use of one
beau among four girls? The two Clays were there,
looking as forlorn as Shakspeare’s nightingale: and
Clara monopolized Henry Bell, as though he belonged
to her.”

“Certainly I did,” said Clara; “and so would
you, if he had given you the chance. Did you ever
see such a dress as Betty Clay had on? She looked
like a buckwheat cake in it.”

“And Mrs. Stetson’s hair, Clara? Did you notice
it? Screwed up behind into an almost invisible
little catogan, and put over her ears so tight that
she looked as if she had been in the pillory and
came out with her ears off.”

“Was the dinner in good style?” again inquired
Maggie.

“Yes, but too elaborate. Those people that have
not always been upper tens think it necessary to
crowd their tables, and ruin one’s digestive organs.
I declare, I thought I should swoon when that last
course came in. I was actually crammed with
dinner, and looked forward to dessert with a hope
of relief!”

“And those two Charlotte Russes! As if one
were not enough, with all that ice-cream and jelly!
Mrs. Hildreth said, at least half a dozen times, how
careful Soufflée was about having sweet cream, in
spite of the scarcity and expense. The idea of
hinting to guests the cost of their entertainment!
These parvenu people are too absurd. I wish they
would learn bienséance before they rise.”

“So you had a dull day?” said Margaret, thinking
of hers.

“Not precisely dull, but tedious. Laura does torment
poor Phillips so, that it makes us uncomfortable;
and when people have to ‘smile and smile,’ as
we do, to gloss it over, it seems like that intense
desire to gap in stupid company, and the struggle to
look as though you merely meant to show now
very wide awake you were. I do wish Laura would
confine her rudeness to ourselves; but no one ever
dared tell her so but Lewis, and he will never trouble
himself to do it again.”

“I wonder what he is doing now!” said Fanny.
“I declare, I almost forgot his existence. And that
horrid woman, too! She had better do something
for herself, before she causes her husband to beg!”

“Depend upon it, Fanny, neither Lewis nor Cora
would do that.”

“Oh! you are their sworn champion, Margaret,
we all know. But you cannot do them any good,
child—be sure of it. I wish she would go home, or
make Lewis mad, so that he could send her there.”[287]

“Fanny!” cried Margaret, shocked, “how unfeeling!”

“Pshaw! Did she not rob us of Lewis? Papa
is poorer than ever; and we go about dressed in
shabby clothes, through her fault. Lewis used to
pay all our little bills, and now——.”

“And now,” interrupted Margaret, “instead of
remembering his generosity with gratitude, you
abuse him for trying to be happy according to his
own ideas. You almost get on your knees to Laura
if she but gives you a cast-off ribbon. Be as full
of deference to Lewis for past favors.”

“We are obliged to curry favor with Laura,”
said Clara, lowering her voice. “She has us all
pretty much under her control since she promised
to live with us after her marriage.”

“Excuse me,” said Maggie, “but I am not by any
means under Laura’s dominion. She makes me no
presents, and I make her no protestations. I am
civil to Mr. Phillips, however—and that is more
than you are, Clara.”

“I am afraid,” said she, laughing, “Laura is so
entichée of her love that she does not like us to
pay him attention. Cora won her eternal hatred by
speaking gently to him.”

“How she must abuse us now!” exclaimed Fanny,
after a pause. “I expect Lewis is tired of our
very names. She was always a vulgar thing, any
how.”

“Vulgar!” cried Margaret. “You go rather too
far, my dear sister. Cora is as far from being vulgar
as your own particular self—and you are not
sincere when you say so. Moreover, I believe she
mentions our family as seldom as possible. I wish
that she could forget us, I am sure—for she was
brutally treated.”

“Do hush, Maggie; here is papa, and you have
half persuaded him to think as you do. He seems
actually conscience-stricken about Lewis’s leaving
home. I would not be surprised to find him visiting
Cora after a while.”

“Where do they live, I wonder?” asked Fanny.
“Laura will never let papa know, if she can help
it; and they might go to Kamschatka before we
Would discover it.”

“Come, girls, go to your rooms,” said Mr. Clavering,
entering. “You talk too much, and too
lightly. Go to bed, and sleep if you can. It is
more than I have been able to do since you sent
my poor boy from his father’s house.”

The next morning at breakfast Laura seemed a
little more amiable, and began discussing plans for
the summer excursions. Spring had set in, and
many were changing town homes for country ones.

“I vote for Dingleford,” said Phillips, with a
sudden burst of valor.

“You!” said his wife, with a look of scorn—”you!”

Mr. Phillips retired into himself, like Mr. Jenks
of Pickwickian memory, that being the only retirement
he was allowed; and Laura went on without
further notice.

“We will to Brooksford. The girls can come;
for I will pay Clara’s expenses, and papa can easily
do the rest. I heard the Martins, the Hildreths, and
the Fentons say they were going.”

“Thank you for my share,” said Margaret. “I
stay at home; your fashionable friends are my
aversion.”

“You are so foolish, Maggie! You will never
marry in the world.”

“Tant mieux, I have no ambition to become madame.
My tastes are very simple, indeed. ‘Liberty
for me!’ is my motto.”

And it was arranged that Fanny and Clara should
accompany Laura to Brooksford to meet their
friends, leaving Margaret and her father at home to
brave dust, heat, and musketoes as they could.

The old gentleman went to his counting-room to
sit and think; Maggie applied herself to some
household occupation; Laura retired to her chamber
to fret like a peevish child; and Fanny and
Clara prepared themselves to go down to the front
parlor to receive morning calls.

The bell rang, and the visits began. The consequence
of each was easily determined by the reception
of the hostess, whose smiles were dispensed
more freely to some than to others. Mrs. Markham
seemed determined to outstay them all, and,
being one of the “ultras,” was encouraged to do so.
The dinner was once more discussed, as she had
been one of the invited, and Clara once more voted
it a bore.

“I expected as much when I sent my refusal,”
said Mrs. Markham. “I hate dinners; they are
always dull and stupid. How can it be otherwise
when people meet expressly to eat?”

“And Mrs. Hildreth’s piano is such an old kettle,
too! I felt it almost an insult to be asked to play on
it.”

“Yes; with such a sweet voice as yours, Clara,
you ought to have a perfect instrument. But where
is Mrs. Clavering? She seems to have withdrawn
herself entirely from the world; we never see her
now.”

“She is not here,” said Clara, coldly. “She
does not live with us.”

“No! Where is she then?” inquired Mrs. Markham,
with more interest than Clara liked. “She
is a lovely creature. George fell quite in love with
her.”

The girls seemed embarrassed; but Fanny’s amiable
expression advanced to the rescue—

“The fact is, dear Mrs. Markham, we were
somewhat disappointed in Lewis’s wife. She is
very beautiful and accomplished, and, I dare say,
means well—in fact, I’m sure that her heart is very
good, and all that; but she hurt poor Laura’s feelings
so dreadfully one day that we really had to
notice it in spite of our love for Lewis. It almost
breaks my heart to think of it; but Cora was so
violent after Laura once advised her, in a mild, sisterly
way, to be more economical (she was extravagant),
that we felt it our duty to rise against it; and[288]
she left the house in great displeasure, making poor
Lewis believe, of course, what she liked. I don’t
think she meant it,” continued Fanny; “but it
seemed unkind. I do not think she intended to be”—

“Then why did you notice it?” asked Mrs. Markham,
abruptly. “I would have found what palliation
I could to prevent such a break up of ties.”

This was something of a poser, and the two sisters
exchanged glances; but Fanny once more exerted
her soft tones in behalf of “poor Laura.”

“You know we could not hesitate between our
own sister and Mrs. Clavering. We could not have
her insulted by a stranger, however ignorant she
may be of intentional wrong.”

“But your brother is—your brother, is he not?”

Here Laura entered, and the conversation was
stopped, to the infinite relief of Fanny and Clara,
who began to see that there was really nothing to
boast of in their treatment of Cora. The truth was,
Mrs. Markham had been on the opposite side of the
street when they one morning brushed against their
sister-in-law with their usual impertinence, and,
amused at the scene, she tried to find out the cause
of it. On her return home, after her endeavors, she
related what she knew to her brother, and made her
comments.

“Really, George, the idea of trying to persuade
people that Cora Clavering is a monster is, beyond
everything, absurd; as if everybody didn’t see how
unwelcome the poor thing was, how shabbily they
served her, and how they tried to hide her when
she came among them. Why, they never invited a
soul to meet her as a bride; and when I asked for
her the day I called, you would have thought I
mentioned a troublesome animal.”

“She is too pretty, Helen,” said her brother.
“That Mrs. Phillips is a perfect tartar, and her sisters
have no heart for anything but show. They
would sell their father for their love of fashion.”

“All but Margaret, George.”

“All but Margaret; and she is as far above them
as heaven is above earth. She must have had some
other ‘bringing up’ than theirs. I would swear
that she never ill treated Mrs. Clavering.”

“Not she! Maggie loves her devotedly.”

“Then that is sufficient proof to me of her perfect
innocence and their own falsehood. Mark that,
Helen, Margaret’s love proves that Mrs. Clavering
is worthy of kind and gentle treatment.”

One day Cora looked through the blind and saw
her father-in-law before the gate. He looked wistfully
in, and stood for a few moments with his hand
on the latch. She would have gone out to meet
him; but, remembering their parting, felt reluctant
to expose herself to farther insult. But her heart
yearned towards the poor old man, as she looked at
his bent form and face of care. He was her husband’s
father, and as such excited her sympathy.
On Lewis’s return, she mentioned the circumstance
to him.

“I wish he had seen you, dearest; he is sorry for
the past, and doubtless wished to come in, but dared
not. He and Maggie are alone at the house. I met
her to-day, and she told me she was coming soon to
see you.”

Dear Maggie! She came soon, and announced
her approaching marriage with Mrs. Markham’s
brother, George Seymour. She, whose motto was
“Liberty for me!”

“But, you see, Cora, I could not resist George;
and all this time I have loved him without being
certain how it would terminate. I want to be married
in church; so does he; and you and Lewis
will come and sit near me. Laura and the girls are
coming home for a week, and I want to persuade
papa to return with them. He will be so lonely
without me! We leave an hour or two after the
ceremony.”

“And when will you be back?” asked Cora, as
the tears fell from her eyes. “How I shall miss
you, darling!”

“We are going North to see George’s mother,
and, of course, will not be back before the fall. You
will write constantly, Cora?”

“Of course I shall; it will be one of my pleasures
to do so. May you be happy, dear Margaret—God
knows you deserve it! Lewis and I will both be at
church, dearest, with hearts full of love for you and
your future husband.”

Margaret blushed, and, kissing her, tripped away
with a light heart.

A few days after, she was in church to have her
destiny for ever changed. The long bridal veil
concealed her sweet face, but her low, distinct tones
reached the brother and sister, sending a prayer into
the heart of each for that young thing’s future.

It was over—Margaret’s vows were spoken; her
husband led her from the altar with a look of pride,
and friends pressed forward to congratulate her.
Tenderly met she the warm embrace of the two
that loved her so well, and her last words to Cora
were a low whisper—

“Take care of my father!”

The others passed their brother’s wife unheeded,
though they spoke to him a few words. They had
ceased to care for him, and he was no more than an
acquaintance.

The carriages whirled away, and the bride left
her home to learn another’s ways and habits. Laura
returned to Brooksford with her sisters. They
could not remain at home; nor would their father
go with them. He tired of the world, and felt how
little they cared for his comfort.

Soon he fell ill, and sent for Lewis. Cora was
alone when the message came, and flew to see him.
She was shocked at the change, and insisted upon
removing him to her own home. Once in that dear
little room, he seemed better, and, when Lewis
came in, fell asleep clasping his hand. Kindly
watched Cora by the old man, soothing him, reading
to him, and attending to his every want. He seemed
so grateful, and would follow her light form with
his eyes until the tears flowed from them. But he[289]
gained no strength; the doctor shook his head and
thought this a bad symptom. He could not “minister
to a mind diseased,” and the cares of business
had shattered that weak spirit. Lewis wrote to his
sisters; but they thought he was only too easily
alarmed, and wrote in return for further tidings.
Their letter came when their father lay speechless
in a state of paralysis.

Fanny arrived in haste. Mr. Clavering knew
her; but his look turned from her to Cora, who
held out her hand to her sister with an expression
of earnest sympathy. Fanny saw it, and burst into
tears. Lewis led her from the room, and an hysterical
fit was the consequence. Her screams
reached the old man’s ear, for he looked troubled;
but Cora signed to the servant to close the door,
while she sat down beside him, trying to soothe him
into sleep. He soon fell into a quiet slumber, and
she then went to Fanny’s assistance.

Her quiet but efficient help succeeded in calming
her, and together the three watched all night by
their father’s bed. He looked so pleased as he
opened his eyes and saw them together. Cora bent
down and kissed him, as she read his look, and once
more held out her hand to Fanny. He signed for
her to come nearer. She kneeled at his side, and
laid her young, sweet cheek to his, and once more
he closed his eyes. Towards morning he grew
weaker, and a few hours after he had gently breathed
his last, Laura, her husband, and Clara arrived.

Their grief was loud and violent, and painful to
witness. If any feeling of remorse visited their
hearts, none knew it, for no reproach escaped their
lips. Fanny alone seemed stricken, and turned to
Cora for comfort.

Mr. Clavering was buried by the side of his wife.
His children followed him to the grave; but in all
that crowd not one mourned him as Cora did. She
loved the poor old man that clung to her so like a
child; and as she looked at Lewis and beheld his
manly grief, she grieved anew over their short
separation.

The most becoming mourning was chosen, and
the most fashionable bombazine bonnets ordered.
Laura and Clara hated black, and thought it a dreadful
thing to wear such an uncomfortable dress in
the summer. But custom was not to be braved, and
they all appeared at church the Sunday after, looking
very proper, having asked Cora into their pew.
There was no longer an excuse for refusing to speak
to her, and they had requested her to appear with
them in public once more, thinking, perhaps, that
the world would expect it—the world, with its
countless eyes, ears, and tongues!

Poor Margaret! Sorrow came soon to disturb
her newly-found bliss, and she returned earlier than
she had intended, to weep over her father’s grave.
Her pale face bore witness to her suffering, and
Seymour’s tenderness alone called her from her indulgence
of her grief. How she blessed Cora for
her care of her father! How she loved her for her
forgiving spirit!

She saw her now almost daily, for they lived so
near; and Cora had this one cause for thankfulness
as troubles gathered around her little fireside. Lewis
had striven with superhuman strength to increase
his slender capital, but in vain. Cora, whose stout
heart never failed her, retrenched here and there,
deprived herself almost of the necessaries of life to
try and stay the storm. When her husband remained
at the office instead of returning to tea, Cora’s
evening meal was a slice of dry bread with a cup
of weak Bohea. For him she prepared some dish
set by from dinner, which she had seen him relish.

Turning down the lamp that the oil might not
waste, she would sit wondering how she could help
her darling Lewis. She knew how much he would
object to have her apply to her mother, and, hating
to grieve that tender parent’s heart, she wrote
cheerfully and hopefully when her heart was
weighed down by anxiety. Lewis was growing
thin, his buoyant spirit was gone, and she wept
over that, indeed. Maggie dreamed not of the cause,
but she, too, remarked the change in both, and felt
doubly uneasy about these two so dear to her. She
questioned Cora closely; but Cora was a sealed
book this time. Lewis was peculiarly sensitive
upon the subject of his poverty, and could not bear
the thoughts of the triumph it would occasion Laura
when she knew that his wife was really in distress.
Slowly, but alas too surely, the little sum diminished,
and Cora would soon lose her dignity of banker.
She opened the drawer and counted the remainder
with a deep sigh, and began to feel how terrible it
was to be poor. Not that she repined for herself—oh
no!—but the idea of her husband’s wan face was
like a dagger in her heart. She looked around her;
there was nothing within her modest dwelling that
could be parted with, nothing but her mother’s gift,
and she knew that Lewis would not hear of that.
In a few days, she would be forced to tell him that
the drawer was empty, and not a cent left to provide
for even their scanty wants. She buried her face in
her hands.

She did not see the servant enter, and Nora stood
some time at the door watching her with a look of
sympathy, for she knew a portion of her mistress’s
sorrow, and felt it, too.

“Won’t I put on some more coal, Mrs. Clavering?”
at length she asked.

Cora looked up; the fire was quite out, and it
was a cold night, but she had not heeded it.

“Never mind, Nora; my husband will soon be
home now, and it would be useless. You know he
never sits up long after he returns.”

“But it is a cold, wet night, ma’am, and Mr.
Lewis will want to dry his clothes,” persisted Nora.

“Is it a wet night, Nora?”

“Lord bless you, Mrs. Clavering, it has been
pouring down rain for an hour past!” and she ran
back to the coal house, returning in a second with
the scuttle. “You see, ma’am,” continued Nora,
as she lighted the fire and the cheerful light filled
the room, “you thinks too much. I’ve been here[290]
half a dozen times to-night, and seen you a ponderin’
on sad things. It won’t do, ma’am; thinking
don’t fatten folks.”

Cora smiled, and Nora went on. She was privileged,
for she had been a servant in old Mrs. Clavering’s
family, and at her instance came to live
with Cora when her household cares began.

“You see, Miss Cora”—(Nora never said Mrs.
Clavering more than once or twice)—”I know what
ails you, and you ought not to take on about it so.
The darkest hour ‘s before the dawn, and your
dawn an’t come yet.”

“I wish it were, Nora,” said Cora, smiling again.
“But there is a hope, at all events, for worse than I
am. You say that you know why I am sad, Nora,
and I am sure that you feel for one whom you have
served so long. Now, is there nothing I can do to
help Mr. Clavering that you know of? Nothing
that will enable me to keep you? for, as things are
now, there is no use in concealing that I could no
longer afford to employ a servant, were there no
brighter prospect.”

“Takes two to make a bargain, Miss Cora, and
you couldn’t send me off if I didn’t choose to go,”
said Nora, stoutly. “It’s a hard thing to see you
work, but I s’pose it’s got to be. Would you sew,
ma’am? I’m sure I could get plenty of that.”

“Certainly I would, gladly I would,” said Cora,
eagerly. “So keep your word, Nora, and bring me
something to do as soon as you can. You know
how nicely I can do fine work.”

But Nora was crying, and went out of the room.
Her pride for “the Claverings” was sadly humbled,
and her “poor Miss Cora too unhappy!” She kept
her promise, however; and long after the portfeuille
lay useless in the drawer, Cora’s busy fingers
earned wherewith to supply the every-day wants of
the house. What mattered it if her bonnet grew
rusty and her gloves were mended? She was always
pretty and neat, and had always that sweet
fresh color that a consciousness of right sent to her
cheek. The same glad smile ever welcomed her
husband, the same rich, clear voice sang the touching
songs he loved, and he seemed to catch a portion
of her undying spirit.

He returned home one evening earlier than usual,
and going up to Cora, threw something into her lap.

“That is for the bank, my singing-bird: it is a
long time since I made a deposit, is it not? Oh,
Cora!” and Lewis’s deep voice faltered as he said
it—”oh, Cora, if you knew how I dreaded to have
you tell me that it was all gone, when I had no more
to give! What hours of misery I have endured,
my darling, since I came so near actual want! And
you, my noble-hearted wife, how bravely you gazed
at the coming clouds—how firmly you awaited the
storm!”

“And has the storm ceased, Lewis?—is the sunshine
returning?”

“There is a glimpse of it shining through the
crevice, Cora, and I dare hope for better times, even
with no prospects. I feared this, dearest, when my
poor father sent me on the wide world with the
slender sum I placed in your hands. It must be all
gone now; is not your drawer empty? for, with
your strict economy, it has lasted beyond my expectations.”

Cora smiled, and brought a little chair to sit beside
him. Fondly he stroked her shining hair as
she leaned her head against him, and all sense of
sorrow left his breast as this, his treasure, was so
near. Holding one little hand, he watched the arch
smile upon those beautiful lips.

“Tell me, rose-bud, how is your bank now?
Have you not also dreaded to mention its emptiness
to your gloomy husband?”

“I have, indeed, Lewis; but there is something
yet in the drawer, and I shall not touch your present
supply for a while, as I do not need it.”

“You do not need it, Cora! Surely, dearest, you
must have used all that I gave you at first; it was
not even sufficient for our wants till now; for I have
often wondered at your ingenuity in providing as
you have. You have not parted with anything you
valued, Cora?”

She shook her head—

“Not at all. Do you miss any of my pet china,
my silver, or my cherished books?” asked she,
laughingly.

“Then how is it, Cora, that you have managed
so well?”

“Oh, I was blessed by the fairies at my birth, and
am a successful mesmerizer, too. I have the power
of making you see more than is before you.”

“Let me see your account book, then, queen of
spirits. I had no idea that I had married a banshee.
Where is your book?”

“I keep my own accounts, Mr. Lewis, so please
you. This is a liberty I will not allow.” And Cora
ran to her drawer and turned the key, thus preventing
the discovery of her labor of love.

But she confined herself too closely, and it was
not long before her face began to grow pale and her
temples throb through the night. Lewis was
alarmed, and sent a physician. He prescribed exercise,
country air, and quiet; three luxuries of
which poor Cora had been deprived for months, and
Lewis was more wretched than ever.

In the morning early, before Cora had risen, Nora
went to him and told all. Her young lady should
not work herself to death; hiding it from Mr. Lewis
was a sin, and so she made bold to betray her.
Lewis bowed his head and wept; she had, indeed,
been firm in adversity; she had, indeed, been true to
her word, and kept a stout heart. How he loved
her! how willingly he could have knelt before her!
The scene that passed between them I could not
think of describing; it must be imagined by the kind-hearted
reader, by the sacrificing wife, and the
grateful, devoted husband. One load was taken
from the mind of Lewis, the absence of local disease
in his cherished one, and he thankfully turned his
thoughts to the Great Source of all his joys, blessing
him for the trials he sent that he might be purified.[291]
Poor as he was, destitute of expectation as he felt
himself to be, he left home with a light heart. His
gem, his bright, beautiful Cora was not threatened
with a loss of health. She had promised to rest,
and now she would find her roses once more.

During all this time, Margaret had watched her
brother and sister with intense anxiety, and, suspecting
the cause of their altered looks, set her little
head to work to find out more. On a visit to Laura,
she mentioned Lewis and his appearance of delicate
health. Cora’s name she never breathed before her
hard-hearted persecutor.

“Oh, they are so poor; no wonder!” cried she,
with a look of scorn. “I suppose they are starving.
I wonder they are not begging.”

“God forbid!” said Margaret, earnestly. “Have
you heard anything?”

“Yes; Phillips told me Lewis did not make a
cent, and wondered how they had lived till now.
The other evening, Mr. Layton was here and asked
me about Lewis, saying he could not find his house.
He wished to offer him the situation of head clerk
in the establishment of Layton, Finlay & Co.”

“And what did you tell him?” asked Margaret,
breathlessly.

“Oh, I told him there was no use in doing anything
of the kind, as he would not be able to keep
Lewis long, his habits of negligence were so irremediable.”

“Great God of heaven!” cried Margaret, starting
up and standing before her sister. “You did not
tell him that, Laura!”

“Indeed, I did! I have no idea of seeing that
wife of his benefited in any way. She married him
poor; let her remain so.”

Margaret was gone in an instant. She almost
flew down the street to her husband’s office, and,
fortunately, met him on her way. In a few words,
she related to him what had passed.

His indignation was not less than hers; and, before
a quarter of an hour elapsed, George Seymour
was closeted with Mr. Layton, his cheek flushed
and his eye bright with excitement, as, without one
word of circumlocution, he told the plain, unvarnished
truth.

Mr. Layton was much shocked, and hastened to
make his offer to Lewis Clavering in “plain black
and white.” Before night, the note was received,
and Lewis and his inimitable Cora had the prospect
of comfort and happiness with the surely-coming
salary of two thousand a year. Their grateful reception
of this intervention in their behalf, their unmurmuring
hearts at past suffering, would form a
bright example to hundreds possessing perfect independence
and no cares.

Laura’s disappointment knew no bounds. Margaret’s
joy was complete. How she and Cora talked
over this good fortune, and how silvery and sweet
their merry laughter seemed to Lewis and Seymour,
who were listening to every word these two said.
They were now discussing a marriage on the tapis.

Clara was fortunate enough to secure an offer
from a widower with a son older than his future
stepmother. But Mr. Penrose was very rich, and
could be hid, like Tarpeia of old, under jewels and
gold. Clara loathed, and would often turn from him
with disgust, as her eye fell upon his great clumsy
form “fitting tight” (as the mantua-makers say) to
the Louis Quatorze, in which he regularly ensconced
himself. His false teeth were unexceptionable; his
cheeks round and shiny. He bore one resemblance
to poor Uncle Ned:

Margaret ventured a hint upon the disparity of
age and disposition, a sad inequality to bring into
married life. But Laura talked so loudly in favor
of wealth and Mr. Penrose’s consequence, that she
was forced to be silent. Fanny, too, approved Clara’s
wisdom and prudence. It was an excellent
match; Clara had shown herself a woman of determination,
superior to the foolish girls who prated
of love and cottages. Let a man be esteemed before
he was loved, and there would be no doubt of
perfect harmony afterwards.

“So write your cards for the reception-day, Clara,
and we will have a grand ball in the evening.
You shall be married with éclat becoming your
prospects.”

“A ball, Laura!” cried Maggie. “Have you
forgotten our mourning?”

“No, indeed; I wish I had. But, as we have
worn it now nearly a year, I’m going to take the
opportunity of leaving it off on Clara’s wedding day.
So will she and Fan.”

“But, Clara,” said Maggie, turning to her, “our
father has not been dead a year yet! Leave off
mourning if you will; but, for mercy’s sake, do not
outrage decency by going to a ball, even if you have
no feeling on the subject.”

“I agree with Laura, Margaret. We have been
in prison long enough. I do not wish to begin my
married life in seclusion. We have had soirées
only six or seven times since papa died, and I went
to one polka party at Mrs. Hildreth’s. I’m sure I
have been dull enough to suit any one.”

“You do not pay our father the respect that Cora
does, and she is only our sister-in-law.”

“Don’t bring up her name,” said Laura; “I hate
to hear it. Clara may send her a piece of cake if
she likes, but she shall not be asked here; though
I’m willing that Lewis should be invited, to show
what I think of her.”

“They would not come, depend upon it,” said
Margaret; “nor shall I; so do not expect me. You
will be much blamed.”[292]

“Pshaw!” said Clara. And so she was married,
having issued cards to all her fashionable friends.
Her reception-day was very brilliant, the fête the
gayest of the season; and the bride and groom left
the next afternoon for their wedding tour, amid the
applause of the waiters, who regaled themselves on
the scraps of the feast and the half bottles of champagne
that were left to evaporate.

A year after, no one would have recognized the
gay and elegant-looking Clara Clavering in the faded
Mrs. Penrose. Her elephantine spouse was not so
amiable as before marriage; and the poor wife was
heard to say that, after all, wealth was not the principal
thing in marriage; she would prefer a competency
and happiness.

Laura’s health was much impaired by her unceasing
fretfulness and ill humor, and eventually
her sight became affected. Sitting in a dark room,
unable to read or sew, deprived of every amusement,
she wept herself blind at last! Reduced to
this melancholy state, Cora Clavering once more
stepped across the threshold from which she had
been so rudely thrust, and offered her aid to the
sufferer. Her gentle hand applied the cooling compressions
to Laura’s swollen lids; her noiseless
footstep could cross the room and not disturb her if
she slept. That low sweet voice never grated
harshly on the sensitive ear of the invalid, and she
learned to long for her coming as a captive for freedom.
Fanny clung to her as a guardian angel; for
from how many heartaches did Cora’s presence
save her! Margaret watched with her, and together
they persuaded Laura to submit to an operation;
and she requested that it might not be delayed.

But on Cora she leaned for support in the hour
of trial, and, clasping her hand firmly, said that she
was prepared. Faithful and true, that voice encouraged
her through the trying moments. That
slender arm supported her head, and seemed so
strong; and until the bandages were removed from
her eyes, still that slight form glided about to supply
her bitter enemy’s every want.

But at length Laura could see once more, and
light had come, too, upon her darkened soul. Sitting
one evening in Cora’s little parlor, she glanced
around with a look of admiration upon its plain
furniture, its absence of luxury, and remembered
the perfect content of its happy mistress. While
she, surrounded by all that wealth could afford, had
made herself and everything around her wretched.
Fanny had often dreamed of flying to Cora for
shelter from bitter words and reproaches, and Clara
had long since ceased to visit the sister from whose
lessons she had learned to be that misguided thing,
a worldly woman.

“You may well love Cora, Lewis,” said Laura,
as she saw how fondly he watched her every motion;
“she seems to have the secret of exorcising
evil spirits, and replacing them with good ones,
besides being the best nurse, the best wife, and the
most sunshiny soul that ever was on earth.”

“Don’t flatter me, Laura,” said Cora, laughing,
and giving Margaret’s baby a toss that made the
little creature clap its hands with delight. “Lewis
told me once he thought he had married a banshee.”

“He married what is as rare as a banshee,” said
Margaret, who had been sitting at Laura’s side,
knitting a tidy for the arm-chair her skillful fingers
had embroidered to embellish Cora’s little Eden.
“He has the brightest jewel in the world, in a wife
that can forgive, forget, and return, without even
seeming to be aware of it, ‘good for evil.'”

SPRING.

[293]

WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.

MRS. LINCOLN.

The following letter (never before published)
from Mrs. Mercy Warren to Mrs. Lincoln will
be found interesting. Mrs. Lincoln was the eldest
sister of Josiah Quincy, Jr., to whom allusion is
made in the letter. Her husband, a brother of
General Lincoln, died before the Revolution, and
she resided, during the war, with her father, Josiah
Quincy, at Braintree, now Quincy, in the mansion,
now the summer residence, of President Quincy.
One of her letters to her brother, Samuel Quincy,
who left Boston with other loyalists, published in
“Curwen’s Memoirs” (page 562), is full of eloquence.
She afterwards married Ebenezer Storer,
of Boston, and died, at the age of ninety, in 1826, a
few weeks after the decease of her early friend,
John Adams. She was for many years a correspondent
of Mrs. Adams, and a life-long friendship
subsisted between them. They were often together
at the family mansion at Quincy, where, in 1824,
she welcomed Lafayette to her father’s residence.
The present Mrs. Quincy’s mother, Mrs. Maria S.
Morton, was there on that occasion. This lady had
resided at Baskenridge, New Jersey, during a seven
years exile from New York, where her husband,
an eminent merchant, left part of his property, devoting
the profits of the sale of the rest to the cause
of American independence. He died during the
war, leaving Mrs. Morton with six children. Washington
and all his officers were frequent guests at
her house, and some of the stirring incidents of the
campaign in New Jersey occurred in her immediate
neighborhood. She was born at Raub, on the banks
of the Rhine, and lived to the age of ninety-three,
passing the last twelve years with her daughter.
She retained her powers to the last, and often beguiled
the attention of President Quincy’s children
with the narrative of the times when, as he used to
say, “the women were all heroines.” She died at
his residence at Cambridge.

REBECCA WILLIAMS.

One of the early adventurers in the Valley of Ohio
River was Isaac Williams. After he became a resident
of the West, he explored its recesses, traveling
along the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid
waters of the Missouri. In 1775, he married a
youthful widow, Rebecca Martin, the daughter of
Joseph Tomlinson, of Grave Creek. Her first husband
had been a trader with the Indians, and was
killed in 1770. She was born in 1754, on the banks
of the Potomac, in Maryland, and removed to Grave
Creek with her father’s family in the first year of
her widowhood. Since that time she had lived
with her unmarried brothers, keeping house for
them, and would remain alone in their dwelling
while they were absent on hunting excursions.
She was young and sprightly in disposition, and had
little knowledge of fear. In the spring of 1774, she
paid a visit to her sister, who had married a Mr.
Baker, and resided upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite
Yellow Creek. It was soon after the celebrated
massacre of Logan’s relatives at Baker’s
station. Rebecca made her visit, and prepared to
return home as she had come, in a canoe alone, the
distance being fifty miles. She left her sister’s
residence in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe
till dark. Then, knowing that the moon would
rise at a certain hour, she neared the land, leaped
on shore, and fastened her craft to some willows
that drooped their boughs over the water. She
sought shelter in a clump of bushes, where she lay
till the moon cleared the tree tops and sent a broad
stream of light over the bosom of the river. Then,
unfastening her boat, she stepped a few paces into
the water to get into it. But, as she reached the
canoe, she trod on something cold and soft, and
stooping down discovered, to her horror, that it
was a human body. The pale moonlight streamed
on the face of a dead Indian, not long killed, it was
evident, for the body had not become stiff. The
young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no
scream, for the instinct of self-preservation taught
her that it might be dangerous. She went round
the corpse, which must have been there when she
landed, stepped into her bark, and reached the
mouth of Grave Creek, without further adventure,
early the next morning.

In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling
the fire, blowing the coals on her knees, she
heard steps in the apartment, and, turning round,
saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He
shook his tomahawk at her threateningly, at the
same time motioning her to keep silence. He then
looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing
her brother’s rifle hanging on hooks over the
fireplace, he seized it and went out. Rebecca
showed no fear while he was present; but, immediately
on his departure, left the cabin and hid herself
in the standing corn till her brother came home.

Her second marriage was performed with a simplicity
characteristic of the times. A traveling
preacher, who chanced to come into the settlement,
performed the ceremony at short notice, the bridegroom
presenting himself in his hunting-dress, and
the bride in short-gown and petticoat of homespun,
the common wear of the country.

This Rebecca Williams afterwards became famous
among the borderers of Ohio River for her
medical skill, and the cure of dangerous wounds.
She was with Elizabeth Zane at the siege of Fort
Henry, at Wheeling, and there exercised the healing
art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers. In
1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians
became so frequent that the settlement at Grave
Creek was broken up. It was in a dangerous locality,
being on the frontier, and lower down the
river than any other.

In December, 1777, when the British army was
in possession of Philadelphia, and the Americans in
winter quarters at Valley Forge, Major Tallmadge
was stationed for some time between the two
armies, with a detachment of cavalry, for the purpose
of observation, and to circumscribe the range
of the British foraging parties. The horses of his
squad were seldom unsaddled, nor did they often
remain all night in the same position, for fear of a
visit from the enemy.

At one time the major was informed that a country
girl had gone into Philadelphia with eggs, to
obtain information. It is supposed she had been
employed for that purpose by Washington himself.
Desirous of seeing her, Tallmadge advanced towards
the British lines, and dismounted at a small
tavern called “The Rising Sun,” within view of
their outposts. In a short time, the young woman
came from the city and entered the tavern. She
communicated the intelligence she had gained to
the major; but their conversation was interrupted
by the alarm that the British light horse were approaching.
Stepping to the door, Tallmadge saw
them riding at full speed chasing in his patroles.
No time was to be lost, and he threw himself on his
horse. The girl besought him to protect her: he
told her to mount behind him, which she did, and
they rode three miles at full speed to Germantown.
There was much firing of pistols during the ride,
and now and then wheeling and charging; but the
heroic damsel remained unmoved, nor uttered one[295]
expression of fear after she was on horseback.
Tallmadge mentions her conduct with admiration
in his journal.

On the approach of winter, when the British army
retired from the active service of the field, they
were usually distributed, while in possession of
Long Island, in the dwellings of the inhabitants
within the lines. An officer, at first, visited each
house, and, in proportion to its size, chalked on the
door the number of soldiers it must receive. The
first notice the good hostess commonly had of this
intrusion was the speech, “Madam, I am come to
take a billet on your house.” The best mansion
was always reserved for the quarters of the officers.
In this way were women forced into the society of
British officers, and, in order to conciliate their good
will and protection, would often invite them to tea,
and show them other civilities.

The “New London Gazette,” dated November
20, 1776, states that several of the most respectable
ladies in East Haddam, about thirty in number, had
met at the house of J. Chapman, and, in four or five
hours, husked about two hundred and forty bushels
of corn. “A noble example,” says the journal,
“and necessary in this bleeding country, while
their fathers and brothers are fighting the battles of
the nation.”

Lossing records a similar agreement on the part
of the Boston women.

The “New York Spectator,” April 13th, 1803,
forty-seven years old, announces the arrival in New
York of Mrs. Deborah Gannett, the “Deborah Samson”
whose memoir appeared in a former number
of the “Lady’s Book.” It says: “This extraordinary
woman served three years in the army of
the United States, and was at the storming of Yorktown
under General Hamilton, serving bravely, and
as a good soldier. Her sex was unknown and unsuspected,
until, falling sick, she was sent to the
hospital, and a disclosure became necessary. We
understand this lady intends publishing her memoirs,
and one or more orations which she has delivered
in public upon patriotic subjects. She, last
year, delivered an oration in the Theatre at Boston,
which excited great curiosity and did her much
credit.”

This curious confirmation of the account given
of her in the memoir alluded to should be a sufficient
answer to the ill-natured criticism of the
“London Athenæum,” which, reviewing “The
Women of the American Revolution,” endeavors to
throw discredit on the whole story, by ridiculing it
as utterly improbable and romantic, though the
critic does not bring proof to controvert a single
statement, nor assign any ground for his doubt but
“we surmise.”

HOME; OR, THE COT AND TREE.

[296]

COUNTRY CHARACTERS.

THE LAST OF THE TIE-WIGS.

One of my earliest village reminiscences is a
vision of old Captain Garrow, in his old-fashioned,
square-skirted coat, plush shorts, silk stockings,
shoe buckles, and, to crown the whole, his venerable
tie-wig. He was a character, the captain. He was
a relic of a past age, an antique in perfect preservation,
a study for a novelist or historian. Born in
Massachusetts before the rebel times, he had taken
an active part in the Revolution; served as commissary,
for which his education as a trader had qualified
him; and the rank of captain which was attached
to the office had given him the title he bore
in his old age. When the war was over, his savings
(very moderate, indeed, they were, for the captain
was as honest as daylight) were invested in a
stock of what used to be called English goods, but
what are now, through the increase of manufactures
in our own country, denominated dry goods; I
think it rather fortunate for our village that the
worthy captain pitched upon it for his residence,
and for the sale of his well-selected English goods.
His strict old-fashioned notions of commercial honor
and punctuality gave a tone to the whole trade
of the place, which lasted for a long time. His
modest shop was a pattern of neatness and economy.
His punctual attendance at all hours, his old bachelor
gallantry to the lady customers, and his perfect
urbanity to all, furnished an example to younger
traders; while his stiff adherence to the “one price”
system, while it saved the labor and vexation of
chaffering, gave a stability to his establishment
which made it respectable in the view of all sensible
people.

Worthy Captain Garrow! well do I remember
you at the meridian of your glory, the head “merchant”
of our village, the acknowledged arbiter
elegantiarum in all matters of chintz and linen, and
lace and ribbons, and all the et ceteras of ladies’
goods. Your opinion was law; for you were known
to be the soul of honor, and your word in all engagements
was reckoned as good as another man’s bond.

But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and
Vandals came down upon us in the shape of cheap
English goods’ merchants. They inundated the
place with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave
unlimited credit, sold at almost any price you would
offer, and seemed only anxious to have all the villagers’
names in their books, and to double the consumption
of English goods. The consequence was
that the thoughtless part of the population deserted[297]
the worthy captain’s shop, which henceforward received
the custom only of the old steady-going people.
His ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its
weather-beaten sign, was put out of all countenance
by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs, and
plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain,
however, foreseeing the result, bore it all with a
dignity and quiet worthy of his character. He
“guessed” that the importers in Boston and New
York were destined to suffer at a future day; and so
it turned out; for, after charging many thousand
dollars in their books to people who were not very
punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all
failed; their stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and
their book debts were handed over to the lawyers
by assignees.

After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of
cheap merchants succeeded them, with precisely
the same result. Meantime, the captain kept the
noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original
character of his own modest establishment.
He had grown rich, but exhibited none of the airs
of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too dignified
to be insolent.

Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the
captain, now quite an old man, was near the close
of his career, calling at his shop with my cousin
Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase
with ready money a piece of Irish linen. When
she had examined the captain’s stock, and was
about to make a purchase, she happened casually to
remark that Irish linen was sold sometimes at a
lower price.

“O yes, my dear,” answered the captain—he
always called a lady, old or young, “my dear”—”O
yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way,
where the big sign is, for less money. They will
sell it to you, I dare say, at half price, and cheat
you at that. But their goods are not like mine.
They will generally take less than they ask you at
first; but I never have but one price. I was bred
a merchant before chaffering came into fashion.
You can go and trade with them if you like, however.”

Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the
captain’s weak point, hastened to apologize, concluded
her purchase, and was careful in future to
respect the captain’s sensitiveness on the subject
of cheap goods.

Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer
over the wide world, the captain had been gathered
to his fathers. Having no relatives, he directed the
executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune
to the establishment of an asylum for orphans,
which still remains a monument of his sterling
goodness and public spirit.

TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT

[298]

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

ACT V.

SUSAN CLIFTON OR, THE CITY. AND THE COUNTRY.

CHAPTER XVI.

After a partial recovery from the fatigues of the
journey to the homestead, Mr. Richard Clifton appeared
to be much improved in health, and strong
hopes were entertained that his recovery would be
complete. He manifested the proper showings of
regret for the loss of his companion, though he had
felt towards her none of that ardor of affection, and
had enjoyed with her none of those felicities which
had mingled in his visions of domestic life before he
had become a prosperous man of the world. It was
sad to have death enter his dwelling; it was sad to be
left with no one whom he could call his own. Some
of that loneliness which had long preyed upon him
was, perhaps, unconsciously set to the loss of her
who had filled but a small place in his heart, though
she had been the wife of his bosom for a score of
years, and had found in him all she expected in a
husband; perhaps it would be scarce too much to
say—all she desired.

In a few days, he was able to leave his chamber
and sit with the family, though his feeble step and
sunken eye contrasted strangely with the proud
bearing which he exhibited but a few weeks before.

Susan devoted herself to his care, and his attachment
for her seemed to increase daily. While her
father was busy with the labors of the farm, and
her mother was occupied with household cares, she
talked with him, read to him, sung to him, and in
every way strove to make the time pass pleasantly,
and to woo back to his veins the tide of health.

For a time there was an encouraging prospect of
success, but the prospect was soon overcast. After
the first rallying, he remained stationary for a time,
and then began, almost imperceptibly, to decline.
The cough, that grew more and more distinct and
hollow, and profuse night sweats, awoke the most
anxious solicitude on the part of his loving friends.
Susan had, from the first, feared that he would not
recover; but she had given no expression to her
fears. Her father had entertained the most confident
hopes, till the symptoms above noticed forced
upon him the conviction that his brother was passing
to the tomb. The faithful physician could not lessen
that painful conviction. If the air of the country and
careful nursing could not raise the patient, the case
was hopeless. The soft breezes of autumn, and the
ministerings of pure affection, seemed to be in vain.

“Brother,” said Richard, one morning, “I should
be glad to have you sit with me to-day, if your business
will permit. If you should suffer a little loss
thereby, it will be abundantly made up to you before
long.”

This was the first allusion he had made to the
probable result of his disease. A tear stood in every
eye, but no word was spoken, except in reply to his
request.

“I will make arrangements in course of half an
hour,” said Henry, “that will allow me to be with
you.”

He did so, and from that hour was seldom absent
from his brother’s side.

“What has become of Harry Ford?” said Richard
as they were sitting in the warm sunlight in the
piazza, where they used to sit together long years
ago. Autumn was creeping on apace, but the air
was still bland and balmy. Harry was one of their
early and most intimate playmates—a fine, cheerful,
open-hearted boy, whose parents were the practical
advocates of “the let-alone, do-nothing policy,” in
regard to education. Still, to the surprise of many,
Harry conducted himself well in boyhood, and gave
promise of becoming a worthy man.

“Harry Ford,” replied Henry, “died a few years
ago in the poor-house.”

“Died in the poor-house! How came that to pass?”

“He became very intemperate, and, of course,
very poor; and, in his last days, he was so abusive
to his family, that they were obliged to send him to
the poor-house.”

“Whom did he marry?”

“Jane Sullivan. You remember her?”

“Yes, very well; though I do not know that I
have thought of her for twenty years. I remember
we used to sit near each other in school, and I could
never whisper to her without causing her to blush.”

“She has led a very unhappy life. Harry’s prospects
were good when she married him, but he soon
joined an infidel club in the next town, and his
course was then rapidly downwards till it ended in
the drunkard’s grave.”

“Jane was a lovely girl; next to”—. It was
in his mind to say—next to Margaret Gray, she was
the finest girl in school. “What has become of
James Rogers?”

“He lives in the southern part of the township.
He is poor, and lives by days’ work. He has a
large family, and has had a great deal of sickness in
it; but he is one of the happiest men I know. He
is poor in this world’s goods, but is rich towards
God.”

“He appeared to be one of the most promising
young men in the place, when I left it.”[303]

“He was; and, for a while, he was very successful
in the business in which he was engaged, but a
reverse overtook him, and he lost all. He paid all
his debts, and since then has been very poor.”

“A hard case!”

“He has often expressed joy at his failure.”

“Is he insane?”

“By no means. This failure was the means of
securing a title to a more enduring inheritance.”

“Is Amy Brace living?”

“Yes. She is also poor. Her husband is a well-meaning,
but most inefficient man.”

“All my old acquaintances seem to be poor.”

“None have been prospered in this world as my
brother has. There are some who are comfortably
well off, and a few who have an undoubted title to
the riches of eternity.”

The rich man sighed deeply, but made no reply.
After a long interval of silence, he remarked—

“Life has been, to most of us, a very different
thing from what we expected.”

“You have realized your expectations as to
wealth.”

“Yes; but if I had my life to live over again, I
would not pay the price at which I gained it. I
have never been happy, but only preparing to be so.
Sickness has come, and death is coming! What
has all my life been worth? The few hours that I
have spent with your family this summer have been
almost the only happy ones I have passed for years,
and they gave me almost as much pain as pleasure,
by making me feel that I had thrown away my life.”

“It is not too late to repair, in part, your error.”

“I cannot live my life over again. Oh that I
could!”

The emotion with which these words were uttered
so deeply affected Henry, that, for a moment, he
could not speak. Hope sprung up in his heart that
the seed sown in early life, by a pious father’s hand,
might, though long buried beneath the cares of the
world, spring up and bear fruit ere the winter of
death should come.

“You cannot,” said he, “undo what you have
done; but you can repent and receive the pardon of
Him before whom we must all shortly stand.”

“I am too proud, too hard-hearted, to repent. I
have delayed it, or rather, refused to do it, too long.
I feel exhausted, and must retire to my room.”

He rose, and, leaning on the arm of his brother,
Went to his apartment. That brother retired to
pour out his heart in prayer for the prodigal who
gave such hopeful indications of coming to himself.

CHAPTER XVII.

For a day or two subsequent to the conversation
recorded in the last chapter, the invalid was unable
to leave his room. He seemed desirous of being
left alone. Henry was earnest in the hope that he
was communing with his own heart. When he
again joined the family, it was with a paler countenance,
and yet there was an expression of peace
resting upon it, that led to the hope that he was
beginning to contemplate without dread the great
change that was before him. He listened with attention
as his brother spoke of matters relating to
the unseen world, and asked questions which could
be prompted only by an inquiring spirit. Still he
avoided any further expression of his feelings.

One evening, Horace Larned called to see Susan.
She compelled him, as it were, to spend half an
hour in the society of her uncle, who scanned his
features with interest, and asked him a few courteous
questions, and was greatly pleased with the
directness and manliness of his replies. When Horace
and Susan had withdrawn, he remarked to
Henry—

“That young man is engaged to Susan?”

“He is.”

“I like him. He appears well. I like him for
his mother’s sake. I wrote to her, offering to assist
him in his education, but the offer was declined, and
the money returned. Why was it? Does she retain
a prejudice against me?”

“I presume not. She is at peace with all mankind,
and with her Maker. The young man has a
very independent, self-relying spirit. Probably he
dictated the letter you received.”

“Was that before he was engaged to Susan?”

“When did you write her?”

“Immediately after my return to the city.”

“They were not engaged then, at least not in
form.”

“As things now are, would he refuse to receive
aid from me?”

“I do not know. Susan can probably tell.”

“I must speak with her on the subject.”

The next time he was left alone with Susan, he
said—

“Susan, my dear daughter, for so I must call
you, though you would not give me leave to do so,
I wish to do something for young Larned.”

Susan made no reply, except by a crimson blush.

“Pardon me for speaking so abruptly. I have
not a great while to stay with you, and I must say
what I have to say directly and without preface.”

“That is the way in which I would have every
one speak to me,” said Susan.

“There is nothing which I can do for your welfare
and happiness which I do not desire to do. My
property will soon be of no value to me, for I shall
shortly be in my grave. I wish to know if you
cannot devise some way by which I can assist
young Larned in his education. Set your wits to
work, and, having succeeded, inform me. I am
growing faint, and shall require assistance to be enabled
to reach my room.”

Susan called her father, who was at hand, and,
supported by them both, the invalid succeeded in
reaching his room. He then fainted quite away.
Susan was greatly alarmed, as she had never before
seen one in a state of temporary insensibility. So
perfect an image of death could not be witnessed[304]
for the first time without agitation and even terror.
By a prompt application of remedies, consciousness
was soon restored. He was feeble and dispirited,
and Susan remained by his bedside. Unable or
disinclined to engage in conversation, he pointed to
the Bible. She read to him. He listened with interest,
and when she paused would request her to
proceed. She read till the shadows of evening rendered
it necessary for her to lay aside the volume.

“There is much there,” said he, “that I do not
comprehend.”

“Is there not much there that you can comprehend,
and much that you can believe, though it
transcend your comprehension? Do you find any
difficulty in understanding this assertion, ‘God so
loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in him might not perish,
but have everlasting life?'”

“I believe it. I do not doubt the truth of any
declaration of the Bible; but there is an air of unreality
about the truths which prevents my acting as
I should, if I really felt them to be true. I find that,
in order to believe, one needs to have the heart of a
little child. My heart is soiled, and hardened, and
chilled by the devotion of my life to the world. I
would that I could become a child again!”

“That very desire indicates that you are approaching
the temper of mind which will authorize
you to rely on the Divine promises.”

“Do you think so? Do not encourage me to hope
unless you are sure you are authorized to do so.
Do you believe that one who has given himself for
a lifetime to the world, to the pursuit of that which
he must leave behind him when he enters another
world—do you believe that one who has been so unwise
and so wicked can recover what he has wilfully,
not to say willingly, lost?”

“I do not think that one can, strictly speaking,
recover what he has lost. That is, he cannot be
what he would have been, if he had rightly employed
his time and advantages. The hours that
are passed can never be recalled, nor the particular
blessings of which they might have been ministers.
Still, provision is made for those who have pursued
the course you have described—provision whereby
they may be made partakers of the Divine mercy.”

“But, in order that one may be a partaker of that
mercy, he must have a peculiar temper of mind.
His heart must be delivered from the hardness induced
by a lifetime of neglect of duty. I am far
from possessing that temper.”

“Your consciousness of want is a hopeful sign.
Let me, my dear uncle, presume to offer you advice.
Do not strive to bring your mind into a condition
which you imagine will render you an appropriate
object of the Divine mercy, but go at once to
your Heavenly Father and tell him all your faults,
and all your difficulties, and all your wants. A
sense of need is all the preparation that is necessary
for our approach to him. It was this sense of need
that induced the prodigal to arise and go to his
father. The manner in which he was received
teaches us in what manner our Heavenly Father
will receive us.”

Richard Clifton listened to the words of that
young girl with more interest than he had ever
listened to the report of the most successful voyage.
He was not in the least displeased at being compared
to the prodigal son. He determined at once
to follow the advice so simply and affectionately
given. He closed his eyes and concentrated the
energies of his soul in mental prayer. The truths
of the Bible were no longer to him dim and unreal.
They were distinct realities. He felt that it was
no vague desires and indefinite longings to which
he was giving expression in order to relieve his
feelings. He was conscious of offering petitions to
a Being who was near at hand and not afar off.

The effort of mind and heart thus put forth was
exhausting to his feeble frame. It was followed by
a quiet slumber. When Susan perceived that he
slept, she stole softly from the room, and hastened to
acquaint her father with her hopes respecting the
preparation which her uncle was making for his
last journey.

CHAPTER XVIII.

When Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber,
an expression of calmness rested upon his countenance.
It was plain that deep despondency was no
longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly
increased, so that, on a very mild day for the season,
the brothers once more sat beneath the walnut
which had shaded their sports in childhood. The
direction which was given to their conversation by
Richard was most gratifying to his brother. They
spoke of the blessed example and pious teachings
of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to
find how deeply those teachings had been engraven
on his brother’s memory. The toils and cares of a
life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated
them. The interest with which he dwelt upon
them led to the hope that they had now something
more than a place in his memory.

“Is it not too much to believe,” said Richard, in
the course of their conversation, “that one whose
manner of life has been so different from his”—alluding
to their father—”should leave the world in
peace and meet him in a better one?”

“We are to believe the declarations of Holy
Writ—its promises as well as its denunciations.”

“True, that is the only thing that can enable one
to look into the narrow house without a shudder.
How mistaken are those who suppose life is not
lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have
hope for the future; but I still feel that I have lost
my life.”

Henry’s heart was too full to allow him to make
any reply to his brother’s declaration.

“We have passed many happy days in our youth
under the shade of this tree. We shall never sit
together here again.”[305]

“We may.”

“I am nearer the close of my journey than you
are aware. I am warned by a feeling here,” laying
his hand on his heart, “to regard every day as
my last.”

“It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak
thus composedly respecting the trying hour.”

“Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before
I die.” A smile was upon his countenance as
he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his tones.

“I will go and see her, and make known your
request. She will not fail to grant it, I am sure.”

“Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray.
Help me now to my room, when I have taken one
more view of this scene, from which I do so earnestly
wish I had never departed.”

He gazed for some moments on the landscape
which had delighted his youthful vision, and entered
the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a smile upon
his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling
of the widow, and made known to her his brother’s
request.

“I never expected to meet him again in this
world. I cannot disoblige him; nor would I fail to
comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather not
meet him.”

“He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven
him; and I trust He, to whom we must all
look for forgiveness, has done the same.”

“If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him.
I supposed he had chosen his portion, and that it
would be said of him, as of the rich man of old,
‘Son, thou hast had thy good things;’ and yet I
could never fully believe that the child of so many
prayers, the child of so faithful a father, could perish
at last; though I know that to his own Master must
each one stand or fall—that each one must give account
of himself to God. I will go with you at
once.”

When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which
Richard Clifton was lying upon a sofa, being too
feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept. He
extended his hand, which was taken in silence by
Mrs. Larned, who sat down by his side and wept
with him.

“Margaret,” said he—the word caused her to
start as though a sword had pierced her—”you
have come to forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I
had anything laid up against any human being. I
pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never had
anything laid up against you.”

“I have always done you the justice to think so.
I knew you were incapable of cherishing unkindness
towards any one, however unkindly you may
have been treated. You have been happy, and I
have not. Do you remember the time we last
walked together by the streamlet that flows from
the rock spring?”

“I do.”

“I enjoyed more happiness in that walk than I
have enjoyed in the possession of all my wealth.”

“I should be ungrateful if I were to say that I
have not been happy; though I have had many
trials. I learned long ago not to look for happiness
here, but to prepare for it hereafter.”

“You have been what men call poor; but you
have been far richer than I have been. You have
had treasures of the heart. You did not marry till
you had a heart which you loved as Margaret Gray
was capable of loving; and you have a noble boy.”

“Richard Clifton is still, in part at least, what he
once was!”

“You believed me changed into stone, or a bale
of goods?”

“I certainly believed you changed. I supposed
that you had taught your heart to love that alone
which you had made the chief object of your pursuit.”

“I tried to do so. I tried to persuade myself that
I had done so. I habitually used language which implied
I had succeeded. I deceived others; I could
not deceive myself. I felt that I was not happy,
despite all my efforts to persuade myself that I was.
I then tried to persuade myself that I was not less
happy than others. I have been acting a part ever
since I left this place. I have been unhappy, and I
deserved to be unhappy.”

“God makes abundant provision for the happiness
of his creatures.”

“For time and for eternity. I have failed to avail
myself of that made for the former; I hope I shall
not fail in respect to the latter. And yet what right
have I, who have caused much unhappiness and so
little happiness to others, to expect it hereafter?”

“None of us can enter heaven of right, but
through mercy and the merits of another.”

“I wish your son had come with you. I wish to
see him and Susan together, and to charge them to
hold the treasures of the heart in higher estimation
than all other treasures. I am sure they will do so.
It is a great comfort to me to know that my beloved
Susan is to marry the son of Margaret Gray.”

“Horace will come and see you to-morrow,” said
she, rising and extending her trembling hand. “I
must not stay longer.”

“Do not go yet.”

“You are becoming exhausted.”

“Read to me,” pointing to the book.

She took the book and turned to a suitable portion.

“Sit where I can see your countenance, if you
please.”

She could not refuse his request. He gazed upon
her as she read, in tones which called vividly to remembrance
those of other days, a consoling portion
of the Words of Him who brought life and immortality
to light. She then rose, wiped away a tear,
silently pressed his hand, and withdrew.

Horace called the next morning, but did not receive
the expected charge. During the silence of
the night, Richard Clifton had ceased to be an inhabitant
of earth.

[306]

INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AUDUBON.

No department of natural history presents a more
pleasing view than ornithology. All the associations
connected with it are beautiful and inspiring.
It takes its votary into the green fields and
dark forests, leads him to the mountain tops, and
furnishes excitement among the quiet retreats of
the sequestered valley. Upon the feathered race
have been expended the richest adornments of nature.
There are no precious metals, no choice
gems, no rare flowers, no rainbow tints that cannot
find a rival counterpart in the plumage of birds;
and to this transcendent beauty are added a varied,
but always attractive form, a physiognomy expressive
of love, of power, of unshrinking bravery.
They have also voices almost human in their tones;
voices that are associated with every pleasing recollection
of innocence and youth because of their
sweetness—and voices that startle because of their
ferocity.

The habits of birds present examples of well-regulated,
of almost Christianized society. They
are married, and are given to marriage; they set up
a comfortable establishment, which is the result of
their own industry. They provide plentifully for
their offspring, and educate them in the way they
should go, and when they are old they never depart
from it. The birds rise early to procure food, and
retire with the setting sun; as husbands they are
gallant, as wives loving. All that they do, or say,
or look may be said to interest and form universal
theme for admiration. Birds rejoice in creation. In
the solitary fastnesses and eternal solitudes where
the eye of man never penetrates or his mind worships,
the voice of the bird is heard caroling forth
praise. And what in the wide world is so hearty
in its nature, or so guileless, as the singing bird?
How often has its innocent voice awakened conscience
in the mind of the depraved or reproved the[307]
complaining spirit! Who can hear the caroling
even of the tiny wren without catching its exultant
spirit? We have seen it on a Sabbath sunny morning
mounted upon a bud-crowded limb of the Cherokee
rose, giving out its song as if its heart and
body would separate in its enthusiasm; and when
you thought it had soared to its highest note, it
would begin again, and pour forth a torrent of love,
gratitude, praise, and prayer, commingled in such
varied and soul-thrilling ecstasy that the little creature
trembled and vibrated as if it were the chosen
and valiant exponent of some rapturous and mighty
soul. Such are birds, the intelligent and ornamental
companions of man, the most prominent image
among the associations and pleasing recollections
of childhood, and one of the most admirable and
wonderful beauties presented to his maturest mind.

Scientifically speaking, it would seem that the
birds, by their familiarity, were prophets in their
own country, and therefore very much without
honor. The poet mentioned them in his sonnets,
and everybody loved them; the gallant cock and
the fierce eagle were honored as the insignia of
mighty nations; but the few who examined their
history and wrote of their habits were more readily
satisfied with imperfect illustrations and meagre descriptions
than were those who devoted their energies
to exhibit the habits of animals, vipers, or
fishes. It may be stated as a remarkable fact that,
until recently, the ornithologist was incomparably
behind his compeers in science in illustrating his
department, choicest of all though it be in the varied
phase of animated nature.

To Audubon is the world indebted, not only for
the most magnificent work on ornithology ever produced,
but also for one of the most magnificent
monuments ever raised by industry and genius.
Take his book, examine his drawings, read his descriptions,
ponder upon his reminiscences, and then
turn to the most eminent of those who have preceded
him, and all instantly become tame and commonplace.
It is like going from the primitive forests
into the stove-heated library; it is like exchanging
the moving, living, teeming bird, fluttering and flying
in its native haunts, for the imperfectly preserved
specimens of the museum; all is motionless,
eyeless—dead.

Of the mind that has accomplished so much it is
difficult to speak in exaggerated praise. It may be
safely asserted that Audubon had one of the most
enduring that has left any impress upon the present
century. He is always clear and complete in
everything he undertakes. He is profuse in his
originality, and yet boldly, at times, absorbs the
labor of others; yet he so entirely renovates, inspires,
and makes their industry his own, that his
indebtedness is unthought of by the world.

The secret of Audubon’s success will be found in
his close pursuit of nature; of her mysteries he has
been of the truest, and therefore one of her most
favored priests. No labor by him was ever withheld,
no toil evaded. Turning over the pages of
his works, you can trace him to the tropics, where
he worships and wonders; anon, he gives the witnessed
history of the solitary feathered life that inhabits
those inhospitable regions where the marble
blue of the eternal snow scarcely ever reflects a ray
of sunshine. While you read with delight of the
canvass-back duck that fell beneath his rifle in the
placid waters of the Chesapeake, he is suddenly,
upon another page, struggling with the gigantic
albatros in the surge-lashed waters of the Californias.
You read on, and become lost in the green
field and gentle sloping hill; you wander beside the
gently running rivulet and inland lake, and rest in
the shade of honeysuckle bowers. Changing still,
you are ushered into the miasmatic swamps and
dark fens in which only live the blear-eyed heron
and repulsive bittern; and then, lifted on the wings
of imagination, you climb the embattled rocks and
precipices of the Cordilleras, dividing admiration
of the rising sun with the eccentric flights of the
mighty vulture as he wheels downward in his
greetings of the god of day. Such is Audubon,
who will ever be remembered as long as mind answers
in admiration and sympathy with mind. He
has stamped his memory in a work, and associated
his name with a family that will endure in freshness
when the mightiest monuments now existing will,
like the pyramids, become unmeaning heaps; for
his name and immortality will ever be recalled by
the fanning pinions of every feathered inhabitant of
the air.

The minute history of Audubon’s remarkable
work, from its conception to its completion, would
involve the recital of some of the most exalted and
interesting traits of character ever recorded. Audubon
has slightly touched upon one or two incidents
of discouragement that would, of themselves,
have been sufficient to dishearten a less
energetic being; but the years of toil and sacrifice
he endured, and the ten thousand obstacles he overcame
besides those he alluded to, will never be
known. The fair ladies who have, in the luxurious
library, admired the feathered songsters of our continent,
that so gracefully sped their way over the
nature-illuminated page—who have seen so cunningly
illustrated the domestic life of the house
wren and the wild home of the eagle—will not be
less interested if they know that to the enlightened
assistance of one of their own sex is the world
greatly indebted for Audubon’s ornithology.

The early history of Audubon seems to be this:
He grew up unconscious of his powers, save as they
were displayed in a genuine love of nature; arriving
at manhood’s estate, he married a lady of rare
accomplishments and liberal fortune. With a growing
family, he desired, through active business, to
increase his estate, and in a few years found himself
the victim of profitless mercantile speculations,
and, pecuniarily, a ruined man. At an age when
others think of retiring from the active scenes of
life, Audubon started, not only anew, but upon an
enterprise of doubtful success, and one that demanded[308]
wealth and years of industry to accomplish.
Misfortune seemed to awaken the latent fire within
him, and his mind suddenly overflowed with spirit-images
of the feathered race, and his then comparatively
unskilled fingers grasped the pencil to give
form and shape to the struggling thought—but alas!
the possibility. Where was the patron to cheer the
seer upon this dreary pilgrimage? Who would care
for his beloved family through the long years of his
unfinished venture? Let the answer be found in
our imperfect story.

Many years since, we were standing at the door
of a country post office, listening, with others, to the
reader of the only “latest paper” that had come to
hand. He delivered the news, social and political,
with a loud voice, and finally, under the head of
“items,” struck upon something as follows: “The
Emperor of Russia, on his recent trip from England
homewards, took extreme pleasure in looking over
Audubon’s great work upon the birds of America,
and, as a token of his admiration, sent the author a
gold snuff-box studded with diamonds.”

“What’s that?” inquired an old but plain citizen.
“The Emperior Roosia give Audubon a diamond
snuff-box studded with gold! Well, that is a
good one, and comes up to my understanding of
these aristocrats. Why, I knew Audubon for
years, and a lazier, good-for-nothing, little bird,
double-bar’l shot-gun shooting fellow I never
knew;” and, with another broadside at the want
of appreciation of character displayed by the Emperor
of Russia, and by royal personages generally,
our well-meaning friend walked away.

This familiar allusion to Audubon, for the first
time, informed me of the fact that, in the vicinity of
my own home in Louisiana, had Audubon and his
family resided for years; and, as I became better
acquainted with his works, I could readily perceive
that the rich and undulating lands of the Felicianas,
their primitive forests, their magnolia groves, and
ever-blooming gardens, suited well the taste and
pursuits of the naturalist; for the merry descendants
of many of those immortalized beauties that
grace his book still, in congregated thousands, fill
the air with song and flight.

From few did Audubon attract attention; there
was nothing in his seeming wastefulness of time to
command respect. The sportsmen with whom he
was surrounded seldom “sighted” their weapons
on anything less than a lordly buck, and as they
saw nothing in Audubon but what appeared before
their eyes, they measured their own ambition with
no little sarcasm against one who “found game in
the chickadee and humming-bird.” But Audubon
lived in a world of his own; for weeks he slept in
the forest, that he might make himself acquainted
with the habits of some, but for him unknown, bird.
For days, he hung like a spectre upon the margin
of the Dismal Swamp, until the flamingo, swan, and
wild duck heeded not his familiar presence. Placing
a powerful telescope under the broad, spreading
tree, he drew the laborious and tiny birds, as they
built their nests, within his visual grasp, and counted
each stick, and twig, and moss, and hair, until
the little fabric was complete. In time, he returned
to his charge, and, by the same artificial means,
watched and admired the growing family, saw the
food that reared the young, admired the tender endearments
of the married birds, and recorded the
whole with the faithfulness of a Pepys, and with the
pastoral sweetness of a Collins or Shenstone.

“I remember, as if it were but yesterday, Audubon’s
first appearance in New Orleans,” said a now
widely-distinguished gentleman to me; “and I
shall never forget,” he continued, “his industry
and enthusiasm, his utter devotion to his favorite
pursuit. In those days, many Indians brought game
to the city to sell, and Audubon soon had these wild
sons of the forest in his employ. Every farthing
that the most self-sacrificing economy could save
went to purchase birds; and it was a picturesque
sight to see the then unknown naturalist surrounded
by his wild confederates, who, by the gratification
of their natural habits, brought him many of the
rich-plumaged aquatic birds that first formed subjects
of his pencil. At this time, the courtly language
of the Tuileries was his familiar tongue;
and although, with the heartfelt approbation of the
literary world, Audubon has placed himself among
the most pleasing and original of the ‘prose writers
of America,’ yet his first written descriptions were
in a language foreign to that identical with his
fame, and many of these earliest and most happy
essays were so complete, that the finished student
easily rendered them into our common language,
and, without effort, retained that freshness and
beauty that have since distinguished the English
compositions of Audubon himself.”

“In everything,” said another of Audubon’s most
observing friends, “did Audubon follow nature. If
he shot a duck, the grasses and the weeds among
which it was found formed the accessories of his
drawing. If he brought an eagle down from his
eyrie, the very deadened limb that last bore the impress
of his talons was secured at any sacrifice, and
the bird reappeared just as he first attracted the eye
of the naturalist. This care extended to the humblest
of the feathered tribe; the apple-tree blossom,
the thorn, the ripe fruit, the gigantic caterpillar, the
variegated spider, the interlaced horse-hair, the soft
down, the fragrant woodbine, myrtle, and jasmine,
the honeysuckle and sweet pea, and a thousand
other hints of rural life crowd in profusion the
drawings of his birds, until they appear complete
pictures, stories perfectly told.”

Audubon, in jotting down his thoughts, has sometimes
gone beyond the office of ornithologist, and
given us glimpses of life in the backwoods that
many have deemed exaggerations. Respectable
authorities in other matters have cautioned too
ready credence to these strange tales, and denied
the truth of them, because not in the circle of his
favorite pursuit. Let these skeptics come to Louisiana
and visit, as we have done, among those who[309]
now remember his habits, and they will admit that
Audubon, by his solitary journeys, his long residence
in the forests, his keen eyes, and his intense
industry, would unfold phases of the great book of
creation unrevealed to the less studious mass of
mankind.

In the hospitable mansion of W. G. J., in the
parish of West Feliciana, if one will look into the
parlor, they will see over the piano a cabinet-sized
portrait, remarkable for a bright eye and intellectual
look. The style of it is free, and there is an individuality
about the whole that gives security of a
strong likeness. Opposite hangs “a proof impression”
of “the bird of Washington,” a tribute of a
grateful heart to an old friend. The first is a portrait
of Audubon, painted by himself; the other is
one of the first engravings that ever reached the
United States of that immortal series that now make
up the great work of the unsurpassed naturalist.

In the family holding these pleasing mementos,
the “Audubons” lived for many years. There
were evidences of this constantly occurring from
day to day. It was with no ordinary interest that
I examined a number of rude and unfinished drawings,
rough sketches, that formed the practice that
finally produced such perfection. Among the many
was a charcoal likeness of a great horned owl,
whose light ashy plumage and socketless eyes gave
it a most ghastly appearance. Masterly as these
sketches were, yet there was an evident want of
that strange symmetry and correctness that mark
Audubon’s finished works. This I mentioned to J.

“Ah,” said he, “I watched his improvement
almost day by day; and how could it be otherwise
with one who was so entirely devoted to his pursuits?”
And then were poured forth a hundred
reminiscences, alike characteristic, and in the highest
degree honorable to the heads and hearts of the
“family of Audubon.”

And now was developed to me, until then unknown,
an incident in the unwritten part of Audubon’s
history. Here, in the bosom of a refined
family, lived for many years his accomplished wife,
devoting her time to the education of her own sex.
Those thus under her charge are now in the perfection
of womanhood, and their superior manners
and mental cultivation speak of the care and devotedness
of their instructor and friend. Here it was
that the wife of the great naturalist bid him go forward
with his work, and not only cheered him on,
but threw the acquirements of her own industry
into the glory of the future. It was her example,
and her voice of encouragement, and her power to
help that enabled Audubon to triumph; and thus
did she identify herself and her sex “with the most
splendid work which art has erected to the honor of
ornithology.”

THE YOUNG ENTHUSIASTS.

CHAPTER I.

The western portion of the State of North Carolina
is by no means densely populated even at this
day, though much more so than it was half a century
ago, the time at which the principal incidents I
am about to relate occurred.

This part of the State is remarkable for the beauty
and grandeur of its mountain scenery, its fertile soil,
and the salubrity of its climate. The bracing mountain
air has brought back the bloom of health to the
wan cheek of many an invalid; and rock, and
stream, and waterfall have filled many a heart with
rapturous delight. The wild deer bounds through
the forest, and the hoarse bay of hounds, the encouraging
shout of the huntsman, and the shrill report
of the deadly rifle are sounds that frequently meet
the traveler’s ear. As in all mountainous regions,
the inhabitants are hospitable and generous almost
to a fault. Their doors are ever open to the stranger,
and, in many cases, they take the offer of payment
for their accommodations as an insult. Most
of the nobler virtues are shrined in their honest bosoms;
but such is the fertility of their valleys, that
very little labor is sufficient to procure them the
necessaries of life, and, as the quantity of labor is
everywhere proportioned to the necessity for it, we
find them, in general, indolent and careless—rich in
that best of Heaven’s gifts, contentment. The facilities
of this region for manufactories are, perhaps,
unsurpassed by any portion of the globe, and, with
an energetic and industrious population, it would
soon become one of the most flourishing sections of
our Union.

But enough of this. I did not intend to enter into
a minute description of the country, and almost unconsciously
penned the above. I proceed with my
story.

Among the mountains, not far from the line which
separates North from South Carolina, but on the
side of the former State, stood, at the period of which
I write, a house built after a fashion still prevalent
in that region, and which is called a “double cabin.”
Two cabins, built of logs, are erected ten or twelve
feet apart, and generally two stories high, and then
connected under one roof, forming pleasant rooms,
and also a cool passage between the cabins, where
the members of the family usually spend their evenings
during the summer months. In the house
above mentioned lived Amos Kelford, a hardy[310]
mountaineer, with a wife and several children, of
which Daniel, the hero of my tale, was the eldest.

This Daniel was a strange youth, and, although
now only twenty years old, possessed a maturity of
mind and a ripeness of intellect rarely to be met with
in one of his age. Having been reared among mountains,
those master efforts of Nature’s handiwork, his
ideas, even from childhood, had ever blended with
the beautiful and sublime. A glance at his countenance,
his broad pale forehead, his large and full
blue eyes, and light sandy hair, was sufficient to
show to a physiognomist that his intellectual predominated
over his physical powers. His form was
slight, but perfectly symmetrical, and his features,
but for a bold and full developed line here and there,
would have been considered feminine.

He had ever been considered an anomaly. From
his earliest years, he had loved to sit upon some
gray old rock and gaze upon the towering peaks
around him, and see their summits glittering in the
sun or wrapped in mist that enfolded them like
mountain robes. This latter he liked best; for even
then, in the sunny days of childhood, at an age when
most children care for nothing but romp and play, he
leaned to the darker side of Nature, and the blue
mist, curling in a thousand fantastic forms, or settling
like a pall around the lofty summits of giant
peaks, had a charm for him which the sunshine
failed to impart. He gazed upon the falling leaves
of autumn rather than the bursting buds of spring,
upon the gathering shades of night rather than the
blushing beams of the morning sun.

As he grew up and learned to read, nothing accorded
so well with his disposition as to take a
volume and wander off beside some waterfall, or
ascend some peak, or, when the sun was hot, to retire
into some cave or crouch beneath some overhanging
rock, and there read and ponder whole days
together. There was a mystery thrown around him,
a kind of indifference and a lack of interest in almost
everything in which those of his age usually feel
interested. His own parents looked upon him and
sighed and wondered, but could not fathom the
depths of his mind, nor learn the bent of his eccentric
genius. He was ever mild, ever ready to render
any assistance in his power to those in need,
and ever obedient to the commands of his parents
and teachers; but he obeyed, as he always acted,
with a calm indifference, and without any show of
interest. Rarely was he seen to smile; but sometimes,
when wrapped in his own reflections and
heedless of everything around him, his eyes would
kindle, and a placid, but peculiar smile would play
about his thin lips, indicating that pleasant thoughts
were in his mind; but whether of past scenes or
only of future imaginary joys none could tell. And
oftentimes this smile would suddenly vanish as
you gazed upon him, and a dark cloud would settle
over his countenance. His brow would become
contracted, his lips compressed, and the expression
of his eyes sad and gloomy. Then, as if to seek
solace, or a diversion of his thoughts, he would
take up a book and wander off into some secluded
spot and read and meditate, occasionally noting
down with his pencil certain sentences from what
he read, or recording certain ideas suggested thereby.

But there was one being on whom Daniel Kelford
looked without his usual indifference, and for whom
he felt a pure and lasting affection. This was Elinor
Manvers, the daughter of one of the wealthier
class of farmers, who resided about four miles from
Mr. Kelford’s. Elinor was sixteen years old, and
as beautiful as the hour is that visit the Mussulman’s
dreams. Her sylph-like form, the classic regularity
of her well-defined features, her large and languishing
dark eyes, all bespoke a mind deeply imbued
with the spirituel; but still she was a true-hearted
woman, a sprightly and merry mountain lass. She
loved to pour forth her wild gay songs, and hear the
echoes of her finely-modulated voice among the tall
cliffs of the mountains. Her step was as free and
agile as that of the untamed deer; and to all except
Daniel Kelford she was a lively companion, and
could ring forth her clear laugh with all the free
exuberance of feeling to which her nature seemed
inclined; but when with him she was conscious of
a mysterious and undefined awe settling upon her
mind, and depriving her of the power of appearing
gay and frolicsome. Her true nature was as yet
undeveloped and unknown even to herself, and the
influence which Daniel exerted over her, and was
destined to exert, was the mould by which her soul
was to be formed. There was something repulsive
and yet attractive about him, and though she
shrank from him, she could not deny to herself that
she loved him, and the consciousness of her love
was mingled with both pain and pleasure. Her
feelings towards him were of two kinds, directly
opposite to each other, and yet so mingling together
that she could not entertain the one without admitting
the other. She shuddered when she reflected
upon the depth of her love, and yet she would not
have torn it from her heart for worlds; for there
was a satisfaction and a sense of bliss always blending,
confusedly and unintelligibly, it is true, with the
horror that darkened through her soul. In his presence,
she felt ill at ease, and yet there was a vacuum
created by his absence which nothing but his
presence could fill. He had spoken to her of love,
of its beauty and holiness, of its depth and power,
but no vows had yet been interchanged; and although
she would have preferred death to the certainty
that he never would declare his love to her,
yet she dreaded the declaration, and could not think
with calmness on the moment when it was to be
made. There was something in the earnest flashing
of his eyes when he gazed upon her that startled
and almost terrified her; and yet there was a charm
in those looks that thrilled her inmost soul with
pleasure, and she could have wished he might gaze
thus for ever. His words, too, fell with a strange
emphasis and a peculiar force upon her ears; but
there was a music in them that sank into her heart[311]
and awakened a sense of joy that nothing else could
stir.

The hand of destiny seemed to be guiding her to
some awful fate, of which presentiment made her
fully conscious; but the path to which was strewn
with so many charms she willingly, ay anxiously,
trod it, and would not have turned back if she could.

CHAPTER II.

Daniel Kelford had fitted him up a little study
room, in which he spent most of his time. Books
were his idols, and he worshiped them with more
than a pagan zeal. His table was strewn with
antique and curious volumes, many of them abounding
in the wild and marvelous, and in these his
whole soul seemed absorbed. The love-sick and
sentimental had no charm for him; but he sought
rather the abstruse and mysterious, bending all his
energies to the comprehension of the one and the
unraveling of the other. Vague dreams, as it were,
flitted through his mind, highly colored by his diseased
fancy, and all wearing a supernatural hue.
Metaphysics was his darling study. He maintained
that, as every particle of matter is dependent on
those surrounding it, and as all are bound and held
together by attraction, making one whole, and as it
is impossible to conceive of one single particle existing
independently and unconnected with any
other, so every idea is linked with others forming
one mind, and a single isolated idea is as impossible
as a single and independent particle of matter; and
that as various as are the shapes of objects constituted
by the combination of particles, so various are
the minds formed by the combination of ideas. And
as idea linked with idea rose in his mind, he followed
on, weaving a chain as incomprehensible to
most minds as the inextricable windings of the Cretan
labyrinth, until, at length lost in the mazy whirl
of his own thoughts, the eye of fancy grew dim and
reason tottered on her throne.

Reader, let me conduct you to that little study-room.
We will look in at the window near which
Daniel sits. It is night, a calm moonlit night of
May, and the mingled notes of various night birds
and innumerable insects, together with the chastened
scenery of the surrounding mountains, as rock, and
stream, and cliff, and waterfall appear in the softened
beams, are enough to draw the most devoted of
ordinary students from their books to contemplate
the mighty book of nature, printed in the type of
God, its sublime capitals rendering it legible to every
observer. But for Daniel Kelford these things now
possess no interest. They are unseen and unthought
of; for every power of his soul is centered upon the
contents of a small roll of manuscript which lies
before him. He bends over it, takes up sheet after
sheet, his interest increasing as he reads, until he
has but one thought, one desire; and that is to understand
and to reduce to practice the strange things
there taught. Beside him dimly burns his untrimmed
lamp, for he does not think to bestow any attention
upon it. He has found embodied in words
thoughts and ideas that have long floated like shapeless
visions through his soul, but which he never
could grasp, confine, and reduce to language.

The night wears on; it is late; he has read every
page of that strange manuscript; but he reads it
again and again, unmindful of the flight of time—a
wild light sometimes flashing from his large eyes,
and a mysterious expression gathering over his
countenance. Were the aged man whose hand
penned these words now alive, he could fall at his
feet and worship him as a god.

But let us turn for a moment, and see from whence
he obtained this wonderful manuscript.

Just on the line dividing the States of North and
South Carolina, is an eminence called “Cæsar’s
Head.” When, how, or why it obtained this name
I have never been able to learn. Over its top now
passes a turnpike road; but, at the period of which
I write, all over and around it was almost an uninterrupted
wilderness. The southern, or rather the
southwestern side is nearly perpendicular, and fronts
towards the celebrated Table Rock in Greenville
District, S. C. From its summit, this rock, as well
as many other curious and interesting objects, is in
full view. The whole scenery in that direction is,
perhaps, unsurpassed by any in the whole mountain
range; and, consequently, “Cæsar’s Head” was
one of Daniel Kelford’s favorite places of resort.

One day he went to visit this spot, and, as he approached
it, he perceived an old man lying at the
root of a tree, or rather leaning on his elbow with
his back resting against the tree, and his eyes, over
which the film of death was fast gathering, bent intently
on the view before him. Daniel went up to
him with his usual indifferent appearance, but ready
to impart any assistance that might be in his power.
As he drew near, the old man turned to him and
said—

“You have come at last: I was expecting you.”

“And why were you expecting me?” asked
Daniel.

“Because I knew that you were coming here at
this hour,” was the reply.

“And how knew you that?” asked Daniel.

“The means by which I obtained my information,”
replied the old man, “may one day be familiar
to you; but I have not time now to explain them
to you. Be content for the present to know that I
have, or rather have had, the power to gain information
of future events. My time to leave this
world is now come, and I cannot look beyond the
grave except, as other mortals, by the eye of faith.
I have inquired concerning you, and know you better,
perhaps, than you know yourself, though you
never met my eyes until now. I knew that I was
to die at this hour, and that you were to meet me
here to see me draw my last breath, and to receive
from me this manuscript, which I have prepared expressly
for you; for I know your nature, your insatiate[312]
thirst for knowledge, your perseverance and
enthusiasm, and that you would improve the information
herein contained. I have written it in your
own language. Take it, it is yours; but do not
break the seal that binds it until I am buried.”

Daniel took the roll which the old man extended
to him, and begged that he might go for assistance.

“No,” said the old man; “I want no company
but yours. Death is not hard, and I have but a few
moments more to live. You see that I am calm; I,
who have experienced almost every vicissitude of
life incident to both the palace and the mountain
cave, can here lay me down and place my hand
upon my heart and call my God to witness that I
die in peace with all men, and without a single fear
or dread. I only ask that you will see me decently
interred.”

The tears gushed into Daniel’s eyes as he gave
the promise. The old man perceived it and said—

“Do not weep for me, my young friend, but rather
weep for yourself. My troubles are over, but yours
have scarcely begun. Ignorance loves to persecute
knowledge; but there is one blessing attendant on
true wisdom; for it renders its possessor impervious
to the darts that are hurled at him, and he rises
above the petty animosities of earth and feels an inward
satisfaction, a proud consciousness of superiority
that the ignorant can never know.”

The eyes of the old man, sunken and dim, were
turned upon the young man as he spoke, and his
wrinkled features assumed an expression of joy
rarely seen upon the human countenance, even when
in health and prosperity. He was above the ordinary
size of men, and his large frame stretched along
the earth looked like some mountain god taking his
rest. His long white eyebrows arched boldly above
his eyes, and his silvery hair was brushed back,
leaving his massive brow bared to the gentle sunbeams
as they streamed through the dense foliage
of the overhanging trees. There was a serenity
and an expression of benignity about his countenance
that irresistibly attracted the heart of Daniel Kelford,
and made him reverence him. He seated himself
by the old man, and raising his head leaned it
against his bosom.

“Thank you, my young friend,” said the aged
man; “I shall now die without a struggle. I am in
no pain; and as I yet have a little time left me, I
will talk with you about Elinor Manvers.”

“Elinor Manvers!” exclaimed Daniel, with surprise.
“Do you know her?”

“I have seen her once,” said the old man; “and
he who has done that can never forget the vision of
beauty that has blest his eyes. But I know her
well. I know her soul is as pure as her own mountain
streams; but it is unformed, and to you is committed
its nurture. You can assimilate it to your
own, or absorb it within your own, and make it soul
of your soul, one and inseparable, imbuing it with
the same thirst for knowledge, the same exalted
aspirations. She loves you with an intensity never
excelled; and already the shadow, or rather the
light, of your spirit is upon her; but she can shake
off the influence when you are away from her.
Marry her, and be with her all the time, infusing
your soul into hers, making her a fit companion to
share your joys on earth and your perfect bliss in
Heaven. Open to her the treasures of knowledge,
and she will twine her affections so firmly about
you that even death cannot sever them.”

The old man’s voice grew weak and husky, and
turning his eyes calmly upon the face of his young
friend, he said—

“I can tell you no more. Read the manuscript,
and you will know enough to enable you to learn
all. My time has come, and all is peace.”

As he spake, he folded his arms upon his breast,
closed his eyes, and yielded his spirit, without a
groan or murmur, to his God.

Daniel returned home and told his father of the
old man’s death, but said nothing about the manuscript
he had received. It he carried to his own
room and locked within his trunk. Mr. Kelford
and Daniel, with two or three of the neighbors, went
and brought the old man’s body to Mr. Kelford’s
house, where it remained until the next day, when
they buried it, wondering who the stranger was and
whence he came.

It was night when Daniel returned home, and,
after hastily eating a few mouthfuls, he hurried to
his room, brought forth the manuscript, broke the
seal, and read it.

CHAPTER III.

The manuscript was as follows:—

It may seem strange to you, my young friend,
to be thus familiarly addressed by one who is a
stranger to you, and one whom you have never
even seen as yet; but, although I am unknown to
you, you are not unknown to me, neither shall I die
without your seeing me. You will see me but once,
and that will be just as my soul flutters on the verge
of eternity. Yes, you will see me in that blissful
moment when I shall launch my bark from the
strand of Time upon the ocean of Eternity, and be
admitted into Heaven, the great temple of perfect
knowledge, where I shall be able to ascend step by
step, and endowed with capacity to understand
those things which the mind, while confined within
its corporeal prison house, can never comprehend.
Peruse these pages, and you will know how I know
you. Peruse, and be wise as I am, and as few before
me have been, and perhaps fewer after me will
be.

My name is Don Ricardus Carlos, and I am one
of the once royal family of Spain. I say the once
royal family, for, as you know, the reign of the Carloses
has ceased; and I am glad of it. A new era
is dawning upon the world, when knowledge shall[313]
be diffused among the people, and they shall see and
feel that their hereditary rulers are tyrants who oppress
them; and they will rise and hurl them from
their thrones. A century from this hour, and the
names of king and emperor, of lord and sovereign,
will only be remembered as titles once applied to
certain men whom the fortune of birth gave an imaginary
superiority over their fellow men in general,
and endowed with a privilege of ruling the temporal
destinies of the toiling millions. That era has already
dawned in splendor. This very nation is an
example of it, and this nation is destined to revolutionize
the world; not by the sword, though it be
mighty in arms and rich in heroes, but by its example,
its peaceful and prosperous course. Man never
was made to be forced into measures. The Almighty
placed in his heart an aversion to coercion
as applied to himself. This is what we call pride;
and the same pride which leads him to hate coercion
as applied to himself, leads him to desire to
coerce others. This is one of the curses of God
upon mankind for their disobedience, intended to
keep them at strife. Hence arise wars and bloodshed,
and the direst scourges that visit the earth.
Man must be led by persuasion, must be induced by
example to embrace even that which is for his own
good; and, as I said, this nation will by its example
revolutionize the world. It has deluged France in
blood, for its time has not yet come; but it will
come, and the land of the vine will yet be free. The
throne of England—proud mistress of the sea as she
loves to be styled, but as she cannot much longer be
styled—will fall. Ireland, long crushed beneath the
iron tread of despotism, will arise and hurl her
chains from her and take her stand among the republics
of the earth. Even my own beloved, but
degraded Spain, and sunny Italy, the land of the
olive, ruled for a thousand years by the usurper of
Heaven’s prerogative, will yet be free. The crowns
that now, heavy with jewels, adorn the heads of
sovereigns, will yet be trampled into the dust by the
rough feet of those whose necks their wearers now
bow down and trample down. The People is the
only sovereign, and when knowledge shall have
opened the eyes of the people to the excesses committed
by their rulers, and to their own rights, they
will turn and exercise their power—the power delegated
to them, and to none other, by Heaven. But
they must learn; and they will learn by example
sooner than by any other means. This continent
was reserved for such a glorious purpose—the renovation
of society, the upbuilding of the temple of
true liberty.

I was instructed in all the lore of my country,
both ancient and modern. My eagerness to obtain
knowledge, and the facility with which I acquired
it, were noted, and the most skillful teachers were
procured for me. I was surrounded by all the
pomp and pageantry of royalty; but these had no
charms for me. Every luxury which wealth could
procure was at my command, but I cared for nothing
but knowledge. It was the one all-absorbing thought
of my mind, and in it I lived, moved, and had my
being. I outstripped all my teachers, and they declared
themselves unable to teach me any more. I
was pronounced by all the ripest scholar of my age;
but still I was not satisfied. What I had learned
only increased my desire for more, and in vain I
sought a teacher more learned than myself. The
extent of my knowledge amazed the wisest and
most profound scholars among my countrymen; but
still there was a vacuum in my soul, a yearning to
know more, and I felt miserable because I had nothing
more to learn.

But “fickle fortune,” as it is generally, but erroneously
termed, turned her scale. It was not mere
fortune or chance, but destiny; and destiny is the
will of God. My family was deposed and forced to
flee. Of course, we fled to America—to these United
States; for where else do the weary find repose
and the oppressed an asylum and a home?

With no inconsiderable fortune, I made my way
to the mountains, and in a pleasant valley in the
western part of Virginia I built me a cottage, and
there determined to reside, and prosecute my studies
and researches. My desire for knowledge had not
abated by my change of fortune, and I began to cast
about me for some new study. Those who had
known me in Spain thought I stood upon the pinnacle
of the temple of knowledge; but I knew there
must be something beyond the height to which I
had yet risen, or else my mind would not be so disquiet
and so anxious to learn more. I reasoned thus
with myself: The temple of knowledge is founded
on Earth and Time; but the structure reaches into
Heaven and Eternity. I have ascended to the topmost
step of the earthly part, and now I must pierce
the dividing line and ascend yet higher. I reflected
that Heaven was purity, and he that would enter
into it must be pure, must lay aside all mere earthly
and sensual affections, and become in all his thoughts
and actions uninfluenced by selfish motives—in a
word, that he must separate his soul from his body,
and enter with the former, leaving the latter on
earth. This I knew was generally effected by death,
and then came the desire to die; but again I reflected
that that was a sinful desire, and would retard
my progress. If I should take my own life, the
very act would debar me from the prize for which I
did it.

I commenced schooling my mind and subduing my
bodily propensities. I abstained from all food, except
just enough to keep me alive and in health. I
supplied the wants of nature, but nothing more. I
practiced self-denial in almost everything, forcing
myself to act directly opposite to the promptings of
my carnal mind. I retired now to the wildest parts
of the mountains, to fill my soul with awe at beholding
the stupendous grandeur of nature; and now to
the sunny valleys, the babbling rills, and murmuring
waterfalls, to drink in gladness and joy. I visited
the poor, bestowing gifts upon them, wandering
far and near in search of objects of charity, until my[314]
fortune was exhausted, and I was left with but a
scanty pittance for my support. But I gloried in
my poverty, remembering that the Scriptures teach
that money is a hindrance, the love of it an insuperable
barrier, to the perfection of human virtue.
Knowledge was all I cared for; wealth sank into
less than nothingness when compared with it.

My great aim was to arrive to an exalted state of
purity, in order to attain to higher knowledge. I
would not suffer myself to think of anything unconnected
with the Great Author of its existence. At
length I found myself undergoing a gradual change.
The thoughts of earth and earthly things became
irksome to me, and I could banish them from my
mind at pleasure. My thoughts were as much at
my command as my actions. I could think upon a
particular subject, or leave off thinking on it at will,
just as I could put my limbs in motion, or leave
them at rest, as I pleased.

One day I seated myself by the side of a little rill,
the magnificent white blossoms of the laurel waving
over me, and the wild vines creeping with serpentine
folds around the boughs of the neighboring
trees, forming an arbor above the quiet stream. It
was a lovely spot, and might well have been fancied
the favorite resort of the mountain genii, when they
wished to retire to solitude and indulge in reverie.

Here I determined to try the experiment of willing
myself a spirit, separate from my body and independent
of it. It required some effort for me to
do this; but gradually I seemed to lose my bodily
form, and to become independent of the laws of
gravitation. In a few moments the change was
complete; and no sooner was it so than I heard a
voice, mild and sweet beyond anything which it is
in the power of the imagination to conceive—

“Mortal,” said the voice, “behold what the eyes
of sinful mortal never saw!”

I turned, and beheld a form bright as the sun; but
it did not dazzle my eyes. On the contrary, I loved
to look upon it; and as I gazed I felt a joy diffusing
itself through my soul never dreamed of before, and
so perfect that I was wholly abandoned to it.

“I am thy good angel,” again spake the voice;
“and thy mind, subdued to thy own control, and
exerted in a pure and holy direction, has so far removed
the scales with which earthly passions blind
the human eyes, that thou art permitted, though still
mortal, to see me, an immortal, and hear my voice.
Thy desire for knowledge shall be gratified, for thou
seekest it not for any evil end. Listen, and I will
give thee thy first lesson in a course of study new
to and unheard of by thee.”

I listened and heard strange yet sweet words, and
drank in with eagerness the instruction imparted to
me. But, as I only learned a portion at that time,
and have continued at different periods since to learn
more, I will not here attempt to set down the words
then uttered to me, or to recount the particular
points on which I was enlightened at the different
times; but will throw together a portion of the information
I have acquired during the whole time,
selecting such as I shall think most likely to interest
you, and to fire you with a desire to obtain
more from the same source from which I have obtained
mine; for man, even while living on this
earth, and consequently mortal, may, through the
attributes of immortality, learn much that is incomprehensible
to the mere mortal mind.

Every human being on this wide world is attended,
from his birth to his death, by two angels,
the one good, the other evil. Neither has any
power to prompt its charge to action either bodily
or mentally, for the will is free to choose for itself;
but when once a course of acts or thoughts is commenced,
then both have power, and each acts in
direct opposition to the other, causing the mind to
waver and alternate between good and evil, embracing
sometimes the one and sometimes the other,
as the respective angels obtain the mastery. If a
man’s thoughts and actions be good, his good angel
endeavors to encourage him to persevere in them,
while his evil one wars against them; and if his
thoughts and actions be evil, his evil spirit urges
him on, while his good one tries to restrain him.
Hence the life of man is one continued warfare, the
two spirits for ever battling against each other, and
each in its turn exulting in victory and mourning
over defeat. But, let which may be vanquished, it
does not easily abandon the contest. The human
will can always decide the strife with regard to any
particular thing, and cast the victory on either side
it pleases, and, with traitorous fickleness, it fights
sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the
other.

Man, in general, is not sunk to that depth of depravity
in which he is frequently represented—a
depth so low, so dark, and so wretched as to be
wholly incapable, with his own human nature, unaided
and left to himself, to think a holy thought or
perform a righteous act. If this were the case, the
evil angel would ever prove victorious, and the
good one would retire in despair, and leave the poor
human being the prey of the powers of darkness.
Men have much to say about the foreknowledge of
God, the predestination and election of the human
race, or of a portion of it, and such like. These are
fruitful themes of controversy, as unavailing as they
are absurd. God does not reckon time, for it is
finite and he is infinite. He knows only eternity,
in which there is neither past nor future, but an
ever-abiding present, without beginning or end.
Without freedom of will it would be impossible for
man to be an accountable being. If the angels
which attend him through life had the power to
prompt him to action, then they would have the
entire rule over him, and they alone would be held
accountable for his course. True, it is possible
that either spirit may be subdued, and the mind reduced
entirely under the control of the other;
this can only take place where the mind concurs
with the victorious spirit, and continues to concur[315]
with it, and willingly yields to its control, and therefore
the mortal is still the accountable one, and the
one with whom God will finally reckon.

When the good spirit, from a long series of defeats,
yields all hope of ever again obtaining the
ascendancy over its dark rival, and flees in despair
from the soul over which it has watched, then the
mind and body of the person become devoted with
all their powers to the devil, the prince of the spirit
that presides over him. He then receives a kind
of supernatural power; but it is not of that kind by
which good may be wrought, but seeks to set friends
at variance and to array man against his fellow-man.
It even endues him, who is subject to its undisputed
sway, with the power of working a species
of miracles; but the effects of these miracles are
always noxious. This is what has usually been
termed witchcraft. The spirit of evil becomes
visible and audible to him who is invested with this
fearful power, and he is no longer regarded by the
eye of Heaven as one who may even possibly free
himself from the master he serves, and repent and
find forgiveness. His good angel is gone from him
to return no more; for God hath said, “My spirit
shall not always strive with man.” Beyond this
world his doom is irrevocably sealed, and his lot
cast among the forever damned.

On the other hand, by deeds of charity and love,
and by a life of extraordinary purity, the evil spirit
may be expelled, and the soul left to the undisputed
sway of the good one. He who is thus freed from
the power of his evil angel has the power of seeing
and hearing his good one, and of learning things incomprehensible
to the generality of his race. To
him the fountains of knowledge are unsealed, and
he learns, while yet on earth, much that is reserved
to be learned in Heaven after we have become a
new order of beings, endowed with new intelligence.
It is sin only that blinds our sight and darkens our
minds, and, consequently, the more effectually we
can free ourselves from sin the better are we prepared
for the reception of knowledge. Perfect
knowledge can only be attained by perfect purity,
and hence perfect knowledge is perfect bliss; and
the highest bliss of heaven is to perfectly understand
all things. On earth, corrupted and polluted
as it is by sin, there can be no perfect knowledge,
and, consequently, no perfect bliss. And although
there are different degrees of knowledge in Heaven,
yet every degree is perfect, and affords perfect bliss
so far; and, as we ascend step by step up the heavenly
temple of knowledge, perfect bliss will be
added to perfect bliss, and thus will we go on until
we reach the summit and possess ourselves of all
the blissful attributes of God himself. The more
knowledge we attain on earth, provided it be applied
to good, the higher will be the grade to which
we will be admitted in Heaven, and consequently
the more perfect our bliss there; but if it be directed
towards the attainment of an end transgressing
the laws of God and furthering evil, the more intense
will be the sufferings in the world of punishment.

It is an incontrovertible law of natural philosophy,
that not an atom of matter can be annihilated;
and it is a law as applicable to the immaterial as
to the material world. Every act we have ever
committed, every word we have ever spoken, and
every thought that has ever flitted through our
minds, remains as indestructible as the throne of
Omnipotence itself. Here on earth we act, speak,
and think, and then forget the deeds we have done,
the words we have spoken, and the thoughts we
have harbored; but on the day of the final reckoning,
when our spirits shall re-enter our arisen bodies,
every thought, word, and deed shall recur to
us as vividly as though they had taken place at that
very instant. Thus every one has his whole life
spread before him, takes in all at a glance, and becomes
his own judge; and as his conscience approves
or condemns him, so is he approved or
condemned by God. And although men are accountable,
yet this does not exempt their good
angels from being judged also. Their course is
judged, and if they have been remiss in performing
the duties assigned them, and have not watched
diligently over the souls committed to their charge,
then they receive the reward due to their negligence;
and as those souls over which they kept
watch are the gainers or losers by their conduct,
therefore it is permitted them to judge them, as St.
Paul saith, “Know ye not that the angels are to be
judged by us?”

By our will, as I said, we can always cast the
victory on the side of either our good or evil angel,
as we choose; and when, by a long series of victories
achieved over our evil angel by the combined
powers of our will and our good angel, we are entirely
freed from our evil one, then the veil of sin
and imperfection which obscures our spiritual sight
is so far removed as to enable us to behold and
converse with our good angel, and to learn much,
not only of spiritual matters, but also of the future
destinies of nations and individuals. It is thus that
I have learned of thee, and of the influence which
this nation is to exert over the world, dethroning
tyrants, extirpating royalty, and making all men
“free and equal.” It is thus that I have learned
the hour at which I am to undergo that change
which men call death.

Remember that purity is what is required—purity,
at no matter what sacrifice of inclination. As
you read this, your good angel stands at your right
side, and your evil one at your left, nearest your
heart; but both are invisible to you because you
are neither wholly pure nor wholly polluted. In
the former case your good spirit would be visible,
in the latter your evil one. They are striving
for you, the one endeavoring to urge you to
purity, the other to drag you down to degradation.
I am convinced, though even my angel
does not know, that you will cast your WILL on the[316]
side of virtue, and go on in your high career of
knowledge.

And here I will close. If you avail yourself of
the information I have imparted, I have said enough;
if not, all that I have said is in vain, and but labor
lost. You are very dear to me, and, as I write,
you grow still dearer. But I am yet to see you,
and to hold converse with you for a little while:
and the reason that I now write nothing concerning
Elinor Manvers is that I shall speak face to face
with you about her. Farewell.

MORAL COURAGE.

Yes, there was death in the house. The closed
windows told it to the passers-by; and the crape
which hung heavily from the door, tied with a black
ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was
laid low. Strangers looked at it with a glance of
curiosity and hurried past, forgetting the next moment,
in the bright sunshine and busy avocations of
life, that they had received a solemn warning to
prepare for a like mysterious change. Acquaintances
walked with a slower step, as it caught the
eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be
passing within that house of mourning.

Friends said it was “a great blow,” and wondered
vaguely what would become of the wife and
children; and some knelt at night surrounded by
unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless
praying with a full heart for those who had
so suddenly been left desolate.

The day of the funeral came, and the husband and
father was carried from the home that had been
almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath “the
cold clod of the valley,” and the weeping family
clung to each other, and sobbed and prayed as that
first dreary night came on, and they recognized all
the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are
daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and
some dance to the music of gay revelry, while
others put on the “garments of heaviness” with
breaking hearts.

And then the return to actual life! How harassing
it is when our thoughts are with the dead and
the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton found the
sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh
kindness, she found her brother waiting one morning,
scarce a week from the day that had made her
a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He
had an ungracious task before him; for he was
forced to communicate what was galling to his
pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly interested
in the intelligence. Mr. Burton’s affairs
were left in almost inextricable confusion; a pittance,
a mere pittance, of some two hundred a year
was all that would remain to his family; and what
was this when their annual expenditure had been
thousands? He was luxurious in taste, and had
not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an
indulgent father, and had lavished uncounted sums
upon his children. He had not intended to be unjust
to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of
those who seem to think a long life secured to
them by present health, and, being in excellent
business, thought it time to “lay by” when the
children were educated and his boys began to “look
out for themselves.” Besides, he belonged to one
of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he
was not to be outshone by any of them.

But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable
decree, he had been suddenly removed
from them? Let us see if he had been “a just
man,” as was pompously stated in his epitaph.
Lucy, the eldest daughter, was but nineteen, beautiful,
accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an
old friend. She was provided for, said the world,
and, of course, their relatives could take charge
of the younger children—Grace, ten, Willie and
George, the one just entered at a classical school,
and the other almost ready for college, although
only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have enough to
maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was
charitably settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion
of the last opera night by the ladies, or a
sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose
feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.

Such a conversation was passing that very morning,
as Mrs. Burton sat listening to a hurried account
of the pressing liabilities that would sweep
away even her own marriage portion when, for the
first time in a shielded, prosperous life, care and
business anxiety came upon her. It is not strange
that she was completely bewildered by the new
aspect of affairs. She had thought her domestic
loss too great a sorrow to bear up under, and now
all this crushing weight added to it! What was to
be done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to
propose. Lucy would probably marry soon, and
Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable
home with her, and be of great assistance to the
young wife in managing her domestic concerns[317]
The children would be distributed among Mr. Burton’s
relatives. He himself would take George
into his counting-house. He was old enough to be
of some service.

Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all
her thoughtlessness, she was both fond and proud
of her children, and to have them taken from her
was to bereave her of every earthly happiness.
And George, with his quick mind and high ambition,
to be tied down in a counting-room, when he
had talent for anything in the profession he already
looked forward to, the law! Willie, proud, spirited,
affectionate Willie, and her beautiful Grace,
dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She
could not bear the thought.

But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been
summoned to join the deliberation, and astonished
her uncle not a little by the firmness with which
she said—

“That never will do, sir!”

“Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more
feasible plan. Does Mr. Allan intend to ‘marry the
whole family?'”

The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark
brought a flush to the young girl’s face, and
a fire to her eyes that made her more like her
haughty relative than ever, as she answered—

“I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did
not know there was any need of consultation. No
doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago, that—my
father—that we were still secured a home at least.”
And her voice faltered; for she could not yet speak
that name without tears, and the harshness of their
situation was forced upon her painfully.

“Well, leave him out of the question. Something
must be done. Creditors are at your very
door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as
you are living on Wilton carpets and dining with
silver that has never yet been paid for.”

Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her
daughter, as if she could in reality suggest some
plan by which everything could readily be arranged.
She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy’s
tone and manner.

“I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet,”
she said, passing her hand hurriedly across her
brow; “but to-morrow: at least we can be in
peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of,
that, so long as I have health and strength, my mother
and brothers shall not be dependent on any
one.”

“Those hands work, indeed!” returned Mr. William
Burton, glancing almost contemptuously on the
white fingers locked so resolutely together, on which
sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of
her lover. “Go to Allan with your resolution, and
see what he will say. Come, come now, don’t be
obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George’s
child, and as like him as you can be. I mustn’t get
vexed with you. I know it’s a great shock. I feel
it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with
trouble we can’t help.”

It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes
gushes of bitter tears, that Lucy trod the floor of her
room all that long afternoon, while her mother received,
in the parlor below, visits of condolence
from friends and acquaintances, who came, some
because custom required it, and others because they
had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome
a kindly sympathy had been in their affliction. The
children, Grace and Willie, sat reading together
with their arms about each other until the twilight
came, and they began to wonder what made sister
stay away alone so long, and finally deputed George
to go “very softly” and see if she would not come
down to tea, “as Doctor Howard was still talking to
mamma, and they were very lonely.”

“Come in,” said Lucy, as she recognized her
brother’s voice; and then she made him sit down
beside her, and led him to talk of their future life
and what he had intended to accomplish. It had
been in the boy’s mind all day, and he spoke very
earnestly. He would be so industrious after this,
and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle
Thomas, and then mamma should come and live
with him, when Lucy was married and the children
grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond
anticipations and throw the shadow of care over
that bright young face, from which she had parted
back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly
into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave
up her first resolve of telling him all the truth, but
said—

“Dear brother, what if it should be necessary for
us to move into a smaller house, and for you to
give up study and go into business for a few years
until we get rich again, and Willie is large enough
to help himself a little?”

The shadow came, after all, and the boy’s face
lost its eager, hopeful look.

“I knew it would be hard, and that you do not
like business; but we all have to bear trials. Think
of poor mamma; for her sake, George. And because
it would be right,” she added, after a moment.
“But we will talk more about this some
other day; only think of it, brother, and be brave.
Ask strength from Heaven to do rightly,” and she
pointed to her dressing-table, where an open Bible
lay, stained with tears.

Ah, how many schemes she revolved in her mind
that night, when she could not sleep, and envied the
calm repose of Grace, who shared her room, and
was lying so quietly beside her. And then she rose
and turned to her Bible again, as she had never
sought it before, although it had always been dear
to her; for she was of those who had “remembered
their Creator in the days of their youth.”
One sentence caught her attention; no doubt she
had read it a hundred times before, but she never
had known its meaning until now.

“In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will
direct thy paths.“

How full of hope and assurance it was! and something
like a smile quivered about her lips as she[318]
knelt and laid her heart open to the Father of the
Fatherless.

But several days passed before anything like a
feasible plan suggested itself. Mrs. Burton was
ready to do anything Lucy thought best; but her
mind seemed to be paralyzed by the succession
of misfortunes. Yet still another trial remained for
the devoted girl, and harder to bear, that it came so
unexpectedly.

“I cannot do as you wish,” she said to her lover,
when her resolution was finally taken. “God only
knows how hard the struggle has been, and still is.
But I should despise myself if I turned from one
duty to take up another. How could I expect a
blessing upon it? We are both young; I but nineteen,
you twenty-three. Five years from now we
shall still have a long life before us, and then we
shall be all the happier for this self-denial. Is it
asking too much of you?—too great a sacrifice,
James?”

“I cannot understand you, Lucy. Don’t speak
enigmas.”

“Well, then, have I not explained it clearly?—that
my labor is necessary to my mother and all of
them, until the younger children are old enough to
act for themselves; and, even to be your wife,
great happiness as it would be to me, I cannot desert
them.”

“You are a noble girl, Lucy,” he said, as you
would admire anything that was beautiful in a picture
or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that
he did not feel with her—”could not understand
her,” as he had said.

“And do you not think I am right?”

“I can’t say that I do—that is, exactly. I can’t
see that you are bound to waste five years, the best
years of life, when the family can be otherwise provided
for. You say your uncles have offered to do
all that is necessary; your mother would always be
welcome in my house.” And James Allan actually
regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a
perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the
proposal, and “going on” with a match that more
worldly friends now advised him against. There
was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous
merchant and the ruined bankrupt.

“You never have had brothers and sisters,
James.”

“And so shall love you all the better, darling.
You will have none to be jealous of.”

“Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles
in the path of my duty. Tell me, am I selfish towards
you?”

She did not think he could say “yes,” or feel it.
She knew that if the probation had been proposed
to her for his sake, she would have consented joyfully,
happy in the power to show how true her
love was, and she would have strengthened and
encouraged him in every way.

He was silent for a moment, and then he said,
slowly—

“And what do you propose to do? Teach, I
suppose.” It grated upon his ear to think that any
one who would be hereafter connected with him
should use time or talent in her own support. He
would much rather have given the necessary sum
outright; but that Lucy would not listen to.

“No, I shall not teach.”

“And what in creation will you do?” he ejaculated,
surprised from his accustomed politeness into
an abrupt betrayal of native rudeness.

“I am going to learn a trade and work at it, and
have a shop, when I can manage one.”

“Good heavens, Lucy, you are mad! What has
put such an insane idea into your head?”

“Thought, thought—constant, harassing, anxious
thought. As a teacher or governess I could do little
more than support myself; and I know I have
taste and enterprise, and George will assist me, and
I feel I shall succeed.”

“Never to be my wife afterwards!”

“James!” and she started to her feet, the hot
blood mounting to her face. She could not believe
she had heard aright, and came back to him, laying
her hand upon his arm and looking beseechingly
into his face. He was angry now. Pride, and
more than pride, vanity, were aroused. What!
his wife to have been behind a counter!—to hear it
said, in after years, “O yes! Mrs. Allan was a shop
girl!” It was not that his treasure would be exposed
to rude and unfeeling association; it was not
that he would shield her from toil! He shook her
from him—

“As true as I am speaking, if you persist in this,
I will never marry you!”

“You never shall!“

She turned quietly, but firmly, and went towards
the door. There were no tears, no expostulations.
It was not her nature. Neither was that deep emphatic
tone the voice of passion. But a mask had
dropped from the real character of one she had almost
reverenced, who had been invested by the
halo of her love with every high and noble quality.

“Lucy!”

No answer; and then the woman triumphed, and
she turned her face so that he could see how deadly
pale she was, as she said, not raising her eyes—

“God bless you, James, for the happiness of the
past!”

He knew that he was forgiven; but he also felt
that, outwardly, there could be no reconciliation.
In an instant, all her goodness and purity came into
his mind. He felt all that he had lost when too
late to regain it. But he stifled remorse and regret
by pride and fancied injury, as he left the house
never to return again.

There followed a wretched, stormy interview
with her uncle, whose anger knew no bounds
when Lucy told him that her engagement with
James Allan was broken, and for what reason. She
was called “idiot” and “ungrateful,” her scheme
was ridiculed and discouraged, until Mrs. Burton
even began to take her brother’s view of the case,
and think that her daughter had acted inexcusably[319]
when, with a little forbearance, she could have retained
the care and love of one who had a father’s
sanction to call her wife. And finally threats were
tried to induce her to use her influence to reconcile
the family to the first plan proposed; for Mr. William
Burton solemnly declared that, if the daughter
of his brother disgraced the family by becoming “a
milliner’s girl,” he would disown her, and his children
should never recognize her again.

This was a great trial, but a harder one had been
borne, and Lucy found a friend to uphold her in
her course when she was sorely tempted to abandon
it. Dr. Howard had been for many years their
family physician, and had watched her from earliest
childhood with no little interest. His daughter
Mary was Lucy’s most intimate friend, and through
her he heard of all that was passing in the family
of his deceased friend. His little carriage was
standing at the door as Mr. Burton left the house,
the morning of the last interview, and Lucy, still
sitting in the parlor, her head upon her hands, lost
in deep and painful thought, was roused by his kindly
voice and fatherly manner, to be comforted by his
sympathy and strengthened by his approval.

“I know all, my little daughter,” said the warm-hearted
old gentleman. “As for that James Allan,
you’ve had a lucky escape, and I’d willingly see
him”—

“Doctor!” interrupted Lucy, for she could not
hear that once loved name spoken of so harshly.

“Well, well, I suppose you were fond of him, or
you never could have promised what you did. But
we won’t think of that part of the subject. Now
tell me exactly what you want to do, and then we
will see if there’s a possibility of accomplishing
it.”

So Lucy unfolded her plans more fully than she
had yet done to any one. Their milliner was a widow
lady who had under her direction one of those
large work-rooms employing twenty or thirty girls.
Her customers were among the wealthiest and most
fashionable people in the city, and, as she was very
intelligent and a person of excellent taste, they frequently
consulted her about an entire wardrobe, and
in this way Lucy had often listened to her conversation.
Only one month ago, her mother and herself
were taking Mrs. Hill’s advice with regard to
her own trousseau, a part of which was already
purchased; and while Lucy was waiting for her
mother to call for her, she had been much interested
in a history of Mrs. Hill’s own business experience,
resulting from a report that she was thinking of retiring
before long. Lucy found, to her amazement,
that, in twenty years, she had not only educated her
family, but saved enough to make her entirely comfortable.
This conversation might have been forgotten,
had not a necessity for exertion been forced
so suddenly upon her; and knowing, from the salaries
of her own teachers, that she could not hope to
do more than maintain herself in that way, Mrs.
Hill’s success flashed upon her mind as an encouraging
precedent.

At first, she scarcely counted the cost, it is true.
She forgot that it would make an entire change in
her social position, strange as it may seem in a so-called
republican country, and, above all, in a city
where “all men” were first declared to be “equal.”
She could not judge, from her own true, affectionate
nature, the result such a decision would have upon
her future prospects in domestic life. That was the
thought which cheered her at first, the beacon star
that was to guide her through all toil and self-denial;
but it had been quenched, with all else that had
made life bright to her. And as yet she knew nothing
of actual physical fatigue or deprivation; this
was yet to break upon her.

Dr. Howard, like a true friend, pointed out all
this, kindly, it is true, but in the strongest colors;
and when he found that even then she did not give
up her scheme, he patted her glossy curls as he
would have done Mary’s, and said she was “a little
heroine,” and he did not doubt that she could
succeed.

“Whoever show themselves weak enough to
desert you, my child,” he said, “you have always
a friend in me, remember that; and you must use
me whenever you want advice or assistance. Don’t
hesitate to come to me in all your little trials and
troubles, and my house shall be a second home to
you.”

Then, to have her mind relieved of all anxiety on
this score at once, for he saw the sad changes the
past few weeks had made in her worn face, he proposed
to go at once and consult Mrs. Hill, and see
how they could manage time and terms. It seemed
a long hour to Lucy before the sound of his carriage-wheels
was heard again; but he came at last, his
face beaming with pleasure, and told her how heartily
Mrs. Hill had entered into her plans, that she
would herself direct the short apprenticeship, and
engage her services when it was completed. There
was a little note from the lady herself, so full of
good will and kindliness, that the young girl’s faith
in human nature was revived, and her path seemed
indeed “directed” by the God in whom she trusted.

How thankfully she reviewed the events of the
day to her mother that night, with a look more like
happiness than she had worn since her father’s
death. And Mrs. Burton seemed, for the first time,
interested in it, and was thankful for everything that
would keep them all together.

George was enthusiastic, as he always was in
everything he entered into, and, throwing his arms
about her neck, declared she was “the best sister in
the world, and he had no doubt she would make a
fortune.” The younger children could not, of
course, fully understand the case, but knew that
something pleasant had happened and they were indebted
to Lucy for it. It was the happiest night the
Burtons had known since their father’s death.

[320]

TAKING CARE OF NUMBER ONE.

“Every one for himself.” This was one of
Lawrence Tilghman’s favorite modes of expression.
And it will do him no injustice to say that he usually
acted up to the sentiment in his business transactions
and social intercourse; though guardedly,
whenever a too manifest exhibition of selfishness
was likely to affect him in the estimation of certain
parties with whom he wished to stand particularly
fair. In all his dealings, this maxim was alone regarded;
and he was never satisfied unless, in bargaining,
he secured the greater advantage, a thing
that pretty generally occurred.

There resided in the same town with Tilghman—a
western town—a certain young lady, whose father
owned a large amount of property. She was
his only child, and would fall heir, at his death, to
all his wealth. Of course, this young lady had attractions
that were felt to be of a most weighty
character by certain young men in the town, who
made themselves as agreeable to her as possible.
Among these was Lawrence Tilghman.

“Larry,” said a friend to him one day—they had
been talking about the young lady—”it’s no use
for you to play the agreeable to Helen Walcot.”

“And why not, pray?” returned Tilghman.

“They say she’s engaged.”

“To whom?”

“To a young man in Columbus.”

“Who says so?”

“I can’t mention my authority; but it’s good.”

“Engaged, ha! Well, I’ll break that engagement,
if there’s any virtue in trying.”

“You will?”

“Certainly. Helen will be worth a plum when
the old man, her father, dies; and I’ve made up
my mind to handle some of his thousands.”

“But certainly, Larry, you would not attempt to
interfere with a marriage contract?”

“I don’t believe any contract exists,” replied the
young man. “Anyhow, while a lady is single I
regard her as in the market, and to be won by the
boldest.”

“Still, we should have some respect for the
rights of others.”

“Every one for himself in this world,” replied
Tilghman. “That is my motto. If you don’t take
care of yourself, you’ll be shoved to the wall in
double quick time. Long ago, I resolved to put
some forty or fifty thousand dollars between myself
and the world by marriage, and you may be
sure that I will not let this opportunity slip for any
consideration. Helen must be mine.”

Additional evidence of the fact that the young
lady was under engagement of marriage soon came
to the ears of Tilghman. The effect was to produce
a closer attention on his part to Helen, who,[321]
greatly to his uneasiness, did not seem to give him
much encouragement, although she always treated
him with politeness and attention whenever he
called to see her. But it was not true, as Tilghman
had heard, that Helen was engaged to a young
man in Columbus; though it was true that she was
in correspondence with a gentleman there named
Walker, and that their acquaintance was intimate,
and fast approaching a love-like character.

Still, she was not indifferent to the former, and,
as he showed so strong a preference for her, began,
gradually, to feel an awakening interest. Tilghman
was quick to perceive this, and it greatly
elated him. In the exultation of his feelings, he
said to himself—

“I’ll show this Columbus man that I’m worth
a dozen of him. The boldest wins the fair. I
wouldn’t give much for his engagement.”

Tilghman was a merchant, and visited the east
twice every year for the purpose of buying goods.
Last August, he crossed the mountains as usual.
Some men, when they leave home and go among
strangers, leave all the little good breeding they
may happen to have had behind them. Such a man
was Tilghman. The moment he stepped into a
steamboat, stage, or railroad car, the every-one-for-himself
principle by which he was governed manifested
itself in all its naked deformity, and it was at
once concluded by all with whom he came in contact
that, let him be who he would, he was no
gentleman.

On going up the river, on the occasion referred
to, our gentleman went on the free and easy principle,
as was usual with him when in public conveyances;
consulting his own inclinations and tastes
alone, and running his elbows into any and everybody’s
ribs that happened to come in his way. He
was generally first at the table when the bell rang;
and, as he had a good appetite, managed, while
there, to secure a full share of the delicacies provided
for the company.

“Every one for himself,” was the thought in his
mind on these occasions; and his actions fully
agreed with his thoughts.

On crossing the mountains in stages as far as
Cumberland, his greedy, selfish, and sometimes
downright boorish propensities annoyed his fellow-passengers,
and particularly a young man of quiet,
refined, and gentlemanly deportment, who could
not, at times, help showing the disgust he felt. Because
he paid his half dollar for meals at the taverns
on the way, Tilghman seemed to feel himself licensed
to gormandize at a beastly rate. The moment
he sat down to the table, he would seize
eagerly upon the most desirable dish near him, and
appropriate at least a half, if not two-thirds, of what
it contained, regardless utterly of his fellow-passengers.
Then he would call for the next most desirable
dish, if he could not reach it, and help himself
after a like liberal fashion. In eating, he seemed
more like a hungry dog, in his eagerness, than a
man possessing a grain of decency. When the
time came to part company with him, his fellow-travelers
rejoiced at being rid of one whose utter
selfishness filled them with disgust.

In Philadelphia and New York, where Tilghman
felt that he was altogether unknown, he indulged
his uncivilized propensities to their full extent. At
one of the hotels, just before leaving New York to
return to Baltimore, and there take the cars for the
West again, he met the young man referred to as a
traveling companion, and remarked the fact that he
recognized and frequently observed him. Under
this observation, as it seemed to have something
sinister in it, Tilghman felt, at times, a little uneasy,
and, at the hotel table, rather curbed his greediness
when this individual was present.

Finally, he left New York in the twelve o’clock
boat, intending to pass on to Baltimore in the night
train from Philadelphia, and experienced a sense of
relief in getting rid of the presence of one who appeared
to know him and to have taken a prejudice
against him. As the boat swept down the bay,
Tilghman amused himself first with a cigar on the
forward deck, and then with a promenade on the
upper deck. He had already secured his dinner
ticket. When the fumes of roast turkey came to
his eager sense, he felt “sharp set” enough to have
devoured a whole gobbler! This indication of the
approaching meal caused him to dive down below,
where the servants were busy in preparing the
table. Here he walked backwards and forwards
for about half an hour in company with a dozen
others, who, like himself, meant to take care of
number one. Then, as the dishes of meat began to
come in, he thought it time to secure a good place.
So, after taking careful observation, he assumed a
position, with folded arms, opposite a desirable dish,
and awaited the completion of arrangements. At
length all was ready, and a waiter struck the bell.
Instantly, Tilghman drew forth a chair, and had the
glory of being first at the table. He had lifted his
plate and just cried, as he turned partly around—”Here,
waiter! Bring me some of that roast
turkey. A side bone and piece of the breast”—when
a hand was laid on his shoulder, and the
clerk of the boat said, in a voice of authority—

“Further down, sir! Further down! We want
these seats for ladies.”

Tilghman hesitated.

“Quick! quick!” urged the clerk.

There was a rustling behind him of ladies’ dresses,
and our gentleman felt that he must move. In his
eagerness to secure another place, he stumbled over
a chair and came near falling prostrate. At length
he brought up at the lower end of the table.

“Waiter!” he cried, as soon as he had found a
new position—”waiter, I want some of that roast
turkey!”

The waiter did not hear, or was too busy with
some one else to hear.

“Waiter, I say! Here! This way!”

So loudly and earnestly was this uttered, that the
observation of every one at that end of the table[322]
was attracted towards the young man. But he
thought of nothing but securing his provender. At
length he received his turkey, when he ordered
certain vegetables, and then began eating greedily,
while his eyes were every moment glancing along
the table to see what else there was to tempt his
palate.

“Waiter!” he called, ere the first mouthful was
fairly swallowed.

The waiter came.

“Have you any oyster sauce?”

“No, sir.”

“Great cooks! Turkey without oyster sauce!
Bring me a slice of ham.”

“Bottle of ale, waiter,” soon after issued from
his lips.

The ale was brought, the cork drawn, and the
bottle set beside Tilghman, who, in his haste,
poured his tumbler two-thirds full ere the contact
of air had produced effervescence. The consequence
was that the liquor flowed, suddenly, over
the glass, and spread its creamy foam for the space
of four or five inches around. Several persons sitting
near by had taken more interest in our young
gentleman who was looking after number one than
in the dinner before them; and, when this little incident
occurred, could not suppress a titter.

Hearing this, Tilghman became suddenly conscious
of the ludicrous figure he made, and glanced
quickly from face to face. The first countenance
his eyes rested upon was that of the young man
who had been his stage companion; near him was
a lady who had thrown back her veil, and whom he
instantly recognized as Helen Walcot! She it was
who stood behind him when the clerk ejected him
from his chair, and she had been both an ear and
eye-witness of his sayings and doings since he
dropped into his present place at the table. So
much had his conduct affected her with a sense of
the ridiculous, that she could not suppress the smile
that curled her lips; a smile that was felt by Tilghman
as the death-blow to all his hopes of winning
her for his bride. With the subsidence of these
hopes went his appetite; and with that he went
also—that is, from the table, without so much as
waiting for the dessert. On the forward deck he
ensconced himself until the boat reached South Amboy,
and then he took good care not to push his
way into the ladies’ car, a species of self-denial to
which he was not accustomed.

Six months afterwards—he did not venture to call
again on Miss Walcot—Tilghman read the announcement
of the young lady’s marriage to a Mr.
Walker, and not long afterwards met her in company
with her husband. He proved to be the traveling
companion who had been so disgusted with
his boorish conduct when on his last trip to the
east.

Our young gentleman has behaved himself rather
better since when from home; and we trust that
some other young gentlemen who are too much in
the habit of “taking care of number one” when
they are among strangers, will be warned by his
mortification, and cease to expose themselves to the
ridicule of well-bred people.

A HINDOO BELLE.

[323]

DEVELOUR.

CHAPTER IX.

Develour and his associates left the little house
in the Ruelle des Jardiniers and marched down the
Rue de Charenton, in order to avoid being seen by
any sentinel which the revelers of the Rue Montgallet
might have had the precaution to place before
the door. Caleb and Develour walked at the head
of the troop, followed by Bertram and Filmot with
the père between them. When they reached the
barrière, they met with an unexpected interruption
from a small body of municipal guards, who stood
like statues in the gloomy shade of a temporary
guard-house. Their sudden appearance, and the
quick and decisive qui vive of their brave young
Captain St. Leger, disconcerted Develour for a moment;
but Caleb whispered to him—

“Halt the men, while I give this young fire-eater
the watchword, which he begins to suspect is not
in our possession.”

Then advancing a few steps, he, in a low tone,
but loud enough for the officer to hear, spoke the
word “Philippe and Amelia;” then immediately
resumed his former position, while he said “Pass,
guard of the throne.” Develour’s band then turned
into the Ruelle de Quatre Chemins, and marched up
the Rue de Trois Chandelles until they came to an
alley, into which they went. About the middle of
the alley, they halted before a massive gate, which
opened into the garden of Madame Georgiana’s pied
à terre. Here a whispered conversation took place
as to the best mode of gaining entrance into the garden
They had expected to find it open; for so their
spy had reported it to have been at an early hour of
the evening. Disappointed, some proposed to break
it down; but this was rejected, on account of the
noise which would attend such an effort, and might
give the alarm to the revelers. Others proposed to
send for a locksmith; but this was considered as
consuming too much time, when every moment was
of the greatest value. At last Bertram, who, with
Caleb, had taken no part in the discussion, said—

“If the grille is not surmounted with spikes too
large to cross, I will soon have it open. At any
rate, I will try. Come, Père Tranchard, let us have
your ladder.”

The silken cords were soon uncoiled, and Bertram,
with one dextrous throw, fastened the hooks
around the cross-bars between the spikes. He then
mounted the ladder, and bade the père follow him.
Poor Père Tranchard, notwithstanding his many
excuses, was compelled to share the perilous ascent
When the two had reached the top, Bertram ordered
his frightened companion to crawl along the
grille to the wall, and there, perched in a very uneasy
position, remain a sentinel in the avenues from
the house; he then coolly surveyed the ground on
the other side of the gate, and, after a few seconds
of deliberation, drew the ladder after him, and lowered
it into the garden. Not the slightest noise betrayed
the presence of a living being, and he congratulated
himself already upon his success while
descending the lowest rounds, when his progress
was suddenly arrested by some one who seized the
collar of his coat, without any warning except an
inarticulate grumbling noise. The rain and the thick
darkness prevented him from seeing his assailant;
but, when he turned in order to lay hold of him, he
found a shaggy head coming in contact with his face.
As soon as he felt the hair brush against his cheek,
he gave a low laugh, and said—

“Down, Carlo, down! It is Bertram.”

His four-footed assailant, a large dog of the African
lion breed, immediately relinquished his hold,
and crouched at the feet of his old master.

“Just so,” muttered Bertram. “I thought Jacquelin
would not like to go the rounds to-night, and
would confide his post to thee, Carlo. Come, let
us go and hunt for thy new master.”

He then walked cautiously towards the house,
the lower windows of which opened into the garden,
and showed a brilliantly illuminated apartment,
in which a table, covered with all the appurtenances
of an epicurean supper, was set out. The
room was filled with a number of gentlemen in
every variety of dress. Bertram, in his approach to
the house, took advantage of every tree to conceal
his person, in order to get as near as possible without
being observed. When he had come near
enough to distinguish the persons in the room, he
stopped, and surveyed the scene and the ground with
the eye of a soldier, and, after a few moments, muttered—

“A precious set of scoundrels, indeed, we have
here. Grandan—I suppose come to make converts
to socialism; no need of that here; Malin, Sotard,
Egal, and Létour, who have no property of their
own, are already too willing to divide that of other
people. There, too, are Longchamp, Bouchon, and
Labotte, and not a woman with them: that is
strange, were it not for the wine, which accounts
for their presence here. But I must hasten to obtain[324]
the key. I wonder where that scoundrel Jacquelin
has gone to.”

He then gave a low and prolonged whistle. It
was answered, after a few seconds, by another from
an upper window, and soon afterwards a man came
out of the house and looked around in the garden;
but the darkness prevented him from distinguishing
anything. Bertram repeated, in the mean time, his
signal, while he drew off from the house towards a
thick clump of trees, to which the man followed,
guided by the signal whistle. As soon as they had
reached the trees, Bertram seized him in his powerful
arms, and, after he had put his handkerchief
over his mouth, told him to give up the key of the
garden gate. The terrified gardener placed the keys
in his hands. Bertram then tied him to a tree, and
left the poor wretch, almost frightened to death,
exposed to the drizzling rain which now began to
fall.

When he returned to the gate, he found his companions
impatient to gain admittance, and poor Père
Tranchard begging in whispers to be released from
his elevated situation, assuring them that it was too
dark to see anything or anybody from his post, and
that the place was too narrow for him to continue
there any longer. Bertram laughed, and told him to
come down; that they had no need any longer for his
valuable services as a look-out.

When Develour and his companions entered the
garden, Caleb, who had hitherto remained inactive,
took the command of the little party, and every one
obeyed at once, as if it had been expected that he
would lead the attack. He divided them into two
divisions, one to be led by Develour and Bertram,
and the other by himself and Filmot, but told them
that they were to separate only when the servants
and followers should have been secured in the hall
of the domestics. He then ordered them all to cover
their faces with the masks, and advance. A few
minutes brought them to the very door of the hall
in which the domestics and others in the pay of the
conspirators were already carousing, and were so
completely absorbed in political disputes and drinking
wine, filched from the supply for the supper-room,
that they did not observe the intruders until they
were surrounded. Before they had time to recover
from the surprise, they were seized, disarmed, and
tied, and instant death was threatened to everyone
in case of any attempt at an alarm. After the servants
and guards had been thus disposed of, Caleb
said to Develour—

“Thou and Bertram must now secure the masters.
Let Bertram speak; it is better that thy voice
be not recognized. Endeavor, above all things, to
gain the lower part of the room, and lock the small
door thou wilt see there. Here we separate. I
leave the men with thee, if thy friend will volunteer
to be my companion.”

“Willingly,” replied Filmot. “Lead the way.”

When the two had passed out of the room, Bertram
said to Tranchard—

“Now, worthy père, can you tell us how many
doors lead out of that supper-room into some of the
secret recesses of this rat-trap?”

“Your companion with the broad-brimmed hat
seems to know; for he has told you to take care of
the lower door.”

“Is there no other, worthy père? For, remember,
if any of these men escape into a secret hiding-place,
I will provide you with a higher perch than
yonder wall, and will secure you to it by a rope
around the neck.”

Tranchard turned pale at these words, and replied,
with a trembling voice—

“There is another; but promise me that you
yourself will not enter it, and I will point it out to
you. Otherwise,” he continued, with a firmer voice,
heaving a deep sigh, “you may hang before I’ll tell
you.”

“Never fear,” said Bertram, with a laugh; “we
have no idea—at least not to-night—to trust our
heads into any of the traps which this she-devil may
have contrived here.”

“Well, then, if you touch the golden rose by the
side of the large mirror over the Cupid, it will slide
aside, and you may enter by a stairs into the cellar
underneath the room.”

“We will take care of it, but you must now remain
by my side, worthy père, till I have tested
your veracity.”

Then turning to his men, he dispatched two squads
to different parts of the house, with directions to
secure the two regular places of egress from the
room.

CHAPTER X.

The conspirators, in the mean time, unconscious
of the danger which threatened them, were discussing
with one another the various topics which were
uppermost in their minds. Joubart, who had just
joined the party, after listening for a few moments
to some remarks from Egal, exclaimed—

“Gentlemen, our situations, our precedents are
very different, and our parts are very singular. You
are all republicans at all hazards. I am not a republican
of that school. And yet at this moment I
am going to be more republican than you are. The
fact that I am now here is itself a decisive declaration
of it. Let us understand one another. Like
you, I regard a republican government as the only
instrument for the advancement of the general truth
which a nation should incorporate in its laws. But
I have just come from the chamber, and I fear we
are not strong enough, not prepared as yet to accomplish
this. I have still misgivings. I am not therefore
an absolute republican like yourselves; but I
am a politician, and a politician of the highest cast.”
At these words, smiles were exchanged among the
conspirators. “Well, as a politician, I now think[325]
it is my duty to refuse the support you are willing
to offer me at this hour.”

“Well, refuse and play the part of a coward, if
you will; that of a traitor you dare not play,” exclaimed
Bouchon, in his brutal manner.

“There is no need of falling out by the way,”
said Grandan. “We need Joubart, and he needs
us. That little speech will do very well for the
chamber; there it would tell. Here we understand
one another. Not one of us will risk his head without
a probability of success. Joubart has not seen
Delevert; else he would know that the mine is
well dug, and will and must explode before to-morrow
evening. The chiefs of the Cabet, St. Simon,
Lébout, Carac, Tuvir, and five others, whose
names I must not mention now, have drawn their
followers together to act under the orders of the
secret council. The council has decreed a permanent
sitting until its object is accomplished; and
accomplished it will be at all hazards.”

“What can keep Madame Georgiana so long?”
whispered Labotte to Longchamp. “She promised
to be with us by ten o’clock, and bring with her
the fair Louise. It is past ten now, and I told the
coachman to draw up before the little door in the
wall on the Ruelle des Trois Chandelles.”

“I am afraid,” replied Longchamp, “that you
and Bouchon will get into trouble by your intrigues,
and draw your friends also into difficulties. Diable!
are there no pretty girls in France besides this
Louise? and what possessed Bouchon to fall in love
with the picture of this American half savage?”

“Hist! hist! Bouchon will hear you. As to his
affair, all I can say there is no accounting for taste.
Mine is of a different nature. Louise has charms
besides those of her person. The happy possessor
of that fair devotee will also be entitled to receive
an annual revenue of one hundred thousand francs;
no trifling consideration. But the girl is not aware
that she is heir to such wealth; and, if she were,
would not be able to establish her claim without the
aid of certain papers, which I alone know where to
find.”

“Well, there maybe some reason in your passion,
but I see none in that of Bouchon. However,
let us go in quest of our fair hostess. We can do
so without any one being aware of our object.”

Before they had time to rise from their seats the
door flew open, and Bertram, with Develour and his
followers, all armed to the teeth, entered the room.
Not a word was spoken by either party for a few
seconds. The conspirators were speechless from
surprise and momentary fear; while the others executed
their movements rapidly and in silence, according
to Bertram’s orders, who wished to surround
them before they would have time to alarm the
house. M. Trouvier was the first who recovered
from his surprise, and, seizing his pistols, was about
to rise from his chair; when Bertram, who had now
placed himself behind Malin’s chair, with his back
to the large mirror, leveled a short rifle at his head,
while he said, with his deep guttural voice—

“Down, sir! down to your seat! Let not a man
stir from his place, if he wishes to keep his life!”

“What is the reason of this attack?” inquired
Trouvier. “Do you come to rob us? If so, we
will give you our purses, and free us from the intrusion.”

“Your purses,” exclaimed Bertram, with a mocking
laugh, “would not be heavy to carry. Joubart’s
poetry and purse are chaff, easily carried away
by a breath. Grandan and Egal might furnish better
stores, if they had sufficiently gulled the people to
entrust them with their money for a common stock.
And you, M. Trouvier, with Sotard and Malin, have
enough to do to keep your seditious paper afloat;
you certainly have nothing to offer except empty
promises to pay.”

“Betrayed!” groaned Joubart, as he threw himself
back in his chair.

“What, then, is your object in coming here?”
inquired Trouvier. “Why are we surrounded by
armed men hiding their faces beneath masks?”

“To compel you not to leave this room for two
hours from this time; and, to this end, to tie your
hands and feet and fasten you to the chairs which
you now occupy,” replied Bertram, with the utmost
nonchalance, when he saw that the men had by this
time managed to place themselves behind nearly
every chair around the table.

“Never!” exclaimed Bouchon, who was a large
and powerful man—”never will I submit to such
disgrace while I can defend myself!”

And, with one bound, he sprang across his chair
towards Bertram, but dropped almost on his knees
when he felt the iron grasp of the veteran upon his
shoulders. And that grasp continued until the burly
form was bent like that of a child by a man.

Labotte had risen during the confusion which this
scene created, and endeavored to escape by the
lower door, while others had sought to leave by
the ordinary entrances; but Develour stood a fierce
sentinel before the only safe passage for escape, and
repulsed the miscreant with a bitterness which
would have led him to kill the mercenary wretch,
if higher obligations had not interposed.

The other conspirators were also met everywhere
by leveled pistols and drawn swords. They finally
submitted to their fate, and were bound one by one
by Bertram and his attendants. When Père Tranchard
pretended to assist in tying Létour, he managed
to whisper to him—

“In two hours you will be freed. Take care to
remove the deposits from the secret chamber underneath;
the secret is betrayed.”

As soon as they had secured the prisoners. Bertram
and Develour locked the outer doors, and then
passed through that over which Develour had stood
guard into a smaller chamber without any apparent
outlet. Bertram ordered Tranchard to show them
the means of egress from that room.

“There are two,” replied the père, who had
managed to lay hold of a bottle of wine before he
left the supper-room, and with which he had fortified[326]
his inner man. “One, here to the right, leads
into the garden, and the other, to the left, opens on a
staircase which brings you into Mademoiselle Develour’s
boudoir.”

“Open the one to the left. Quick, quick! Caleb
may need help!” exclaimed Bertram.

The père obeyed by touching a spring, which
caused one of the panels to slide aside. They all
then rushed up the stairs into the room, into which
the reader has been introduced in a previous chapter.
But the room was now vacant, the windows open,
and not a sign of a human being anywhere. Develour,
who had hitherto acted in silence, absorbed in
his anxiety for the safety of Louise, now broke forth
in bitter reproaches to Bertram—

“This, then, is your boasted wisdom! this the
end of all your promises of success! Caleb assured
me that in this room I should find her, and receive
her safely into my arms. Where is she now?
Where is Caleb, and what has become of Filmot?
Have I lost both Louise and my friend?
But here is another door; let us see what it conceals.”

Turning the key, he beheld Madame Georgiana
lying upon a sofa reading “Indiana,” and making
notes to it with a pencil. When Bertram saw who
the occupant of the room was, he whispered—

“Speak not; she knows your voice. I will
interrogate her.”

But, before he had time to say a word, she rose
and inquired if they had come to release her?

“Release you from what?”

“From the confinement to which a burly savage,
a friend of yours, I suppose, has condemned me.”
She then began to relate what had taken place in
that room a few minutes before their entrance.

“And whither have they gone? and how long
ago?”

“They left about ten minutes before you entered;
as to whither, I do not know. If you have not met
them, they must have left either by the window or
through the green panel-door, which opens on a
passage by which one can reach the Ruelle.”

Bertram then compelled the lady to open the
panel-door, and after ordering his men to remain
for one hour in the house, and to suffer no one to
enter or leave it, he accompanied Develour down
to the street. When they reached the pavement,
they saw a carriage just turn the Rue des Trois Labres,
and a few loiterers looking after it. Bertram
inquired of one of them if that carriage had passed
the house? He replied that it had halted there for
more than an hour; but that, a few minutes ago,
two gentlemen came out with a lady and entered
the carriage; that the elder of the two had shown
a card to the coachman, and told him to drive ventre
à terre to the Rue des Terres Fortes.

When Develour heard this, he said, hurriedly, to
Bertram—

“I must leave you; my work here is accomplished;
though I have but half succeeded. I must
now fulfil another duty. Before morning dawns, I
shall know where Louise is. Farewell, Bertram,
but not for ever. When we meet again, I shall be
better able to thank you.”

“Nay, nay, we may meet again before to-morrow
night. Fear not; all is well which Arabacca counsels;
all ends well which he undertakes.”

With these words, he turned and went into the
house, and Develour hastened to the Rue de Burgoigne.

A SPRING CAROL.

[327]

UNDERSLEEVES AND CAPS.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

Open sleeves are still in vogue, and being more
than ever worn for light summer materials, we
continue our cuts in illustration of various favorite
styles.

Fig. 1 is of embroidered muslin, intended to
come just above the elbow, where it is fastened by
a small gum-elastic bracelet, which will be found
the neatest support for a demi-sleeve. The wrist
has three rows of rich cambric edging, made to fall
over the hand. This is more suitable for a spring
silk than a lighter dress.

Fig. 2. of plain cambric, with embroidered cuff
and band. The edging in this case is made to fall
back towards the elbow. It will be noticed that
undersleeves are worn as full as ever, and make the
most elegant finish to a tasteful toilet.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

Fig. 3 is a breakfast cap of spotted muslin, with
double rows of quilling, arranged in a very graceful
roll, extending around the crown. The broad
strings are of the muslin, with a delicate edging of
Valenciennes lace. Pale violet ribbon may be used
instead, and also for the bow on the cap.

Fig. 4, also a breakfast cap, is in a similar,
though more tasteful style, the bow of rose-colored
ribbon in the centre being a novelty, and the square
crown preferred by many. The border is closely
quilled, as in Fig. 3. Many ladies prefer to quill
for themselves, which may easily be done, an iron
intended for the purpose being easily procured at a
small expense.[328]

ETRUSCAN LACE CUFF.

Make a chain of 106 loops with thread No. 80;
turn back and work in double crochet, always working
on one side, commencing at the right-hand side
of foundation.

1st row.—Single open crochet, with thread No. 90.

2d row.—Double crochet.

3d row.—5 chain, 7 long; repeat.

4th row.—7 chain, 5 long; repeat.

5th row.—7 chain, 3 long; repeat.

6th row.—5 chain, 5 long; repeat.

7th row.—3 chain, 7 long; repeat.

8th row.—3 chain, 9 long; repeat.

9th row.—3 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 7 long;
repeat.

10th row.—4 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 5 long;
repeat.

11th row.—5 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 5 long;
repeat.

12th row.—5 stitches of 3 chain crochet, 3 long;
repeat.

Crochet the ends with double crochet.

13th row.—12 chain, 2 long; repeat. Work this
row round each end of the cuff, and work the band
in double crochet with thread No. 80, missing every
fourth stitch of foundation.

KNITTED FLOWERS.

Cast on ten stitches with white split Berlin wool.

1st row.—Make one stitch, knit two through the
row.

2d row.—Purled.

Fasten on a pale and delicate shade of lavender.

3d row.—Make one stitch, knit three, turn back,
purl the same stitches (take a deeper shade of lavender),
and continue to work in alternate plain and
purled rows (increasing only in the plain rows),
until you have seven stitches on the needle.

Now fasten on a still darker shade of lavender in
the ninth purled row, and knit and purl alternately
six more rows, making one stitch at the beginning
of the plain row, and taking two stitches together
at the beginning of the purled rows. Cast off the
seven stitches, which completes one petal. Break
the wool about a yard and a half from the work,
thread a rug needle with it, and bring the wool
along the left edge of the petal first made to the
next stitches on the needle. Make one stitch, knit
three, turn back, and continue exactly as for the
first petal. When you have thus worked all the
stitches into five petals, cover a wire, by twisting
one thread of split lavender wool round it, and sew
it round the edges of the petals. Mount the flower
on a piece of wire to form a stem, having first
placed five short yellow stamens in the centre of
the corolla; twist all the wires together, and cover
the stem with green wool.

Leaves.—Cast on one stitch with a pretty bright
shade of green split wool.

1st row.—Make one stitch, knit one.

2d row.—Make one, purl two.

3d row.—Make one, knit three.[329]

4th row.—Make one, purl the row.

5th row.—Make one, knit one, make one, knit two.

6th row.—Make one, purl the row.

7th row.—Knit the row, increasing one before and
one stitch after the middle stitch.

8th row.—Purl the row.

Knit and purl alternately four rows without, and
begin decreasing one stitch at the beginning of every
row, both knitted and purled, till you come to the
last two stitches, which knit as one. Sew a wire
round the edge of each leaf. These leaves must be
made in pairs, two of each size; but as several
different sizes will be required, this will be easily
effected by increasing the second size to nine stitches
instead of seven; the third to eleven stitches; and,
if a still larger leaf be required, the fourth to thirteen
stitches. The leaves must be placed two by
two along the stem, opposite to each other, each
pair crossing the preceding one. There must be
no spring wire for the stem, as the periwinkle is a
running plant.

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

Fig. 1.
Fig. 2.	Fig. 3.
Fig. 4.	Fig. 5.
Fig. 6.

Fig. 1 is a small cupboard-sideboard for a neatly
furnished cottage parlor, in which there is not much
room.

Figs. 2 and 3 are plain Grecian chairs for the parlor.

Figs. 4 and 5 are parlor elbow-chairs, in the Grecian
style.

Fig. 6 is an elbow-chair for the work-room. It
has a work-box drawer underneath the seat.[330]

EDITORS’ TABLE.

The high-toned chivalry of American men towards
the female sex is remarkable, and therefore we were
astonished, as well as pained, when a friend brought
to our notice the following remarks, inserted in a
literary work[E] of much merit, where we should not
have looked for such a violation of truth and manly
sentiment as is manifested in this outrageous attack on
the character of Madame de Staël. We quote the article:—

“George Sand has written her ‘Confessions’ in the
style of Rousseau, and a Paris bookseller has contracted
to give her a fortune for them. The three greatest—intellectually
greatest—women of modern times have
lived in France, and it is remarkable that they have
been three of the most shamelessly profligate in all history.
The worst of these, probably, Madame de Staël,
left us no record of her long-continued, disgusting, and
almost incredible licentiousness, so remarkable, that
Chateaubriand deemed her the most abandoned person
in France, at a period when modesty was publicly derided
in the Assembly as a mere ‘system of refined
voluptuousness.’ Few who have lately resided in
Paris are ignorant of the gross sensualism of the astonishing
Rachel, whose genius, though displayed in no
permanent forms, is not less than that of the Shakspeare
of her sex, the forever-to-be-famous Madame Dudevant,
whose immoralities of conduct have perhaps been
overdrawn, while those of De Staël and Rachel have
rarely been spoken of save where they challenged direct
observation. We perceive that Rachel is to be in
New York next autumn with a company of French
actors.”

“‘Tis a pity when charming women talk of things
that they don’t understand,” is as true as if it had been
promulgated by a man, and the author of the above
extraordinary statements will perhaps allow that, in a
few cases, the same may be predicated of the other sex.
Some aspirants for literary fame, before attaining much
knowledge of life or of books, are fond of attempting
to startle by deviating from received opinions; they
advance monstrous paradoxes in morals, and strive to
produce a sensation by differing from the good and the
wise. They have heard the vulgar adage that genius
and common sense seldom go together, and they begin
by rejecting common sense as a part of genius. Common
sense would suggest the advantage of knowing
something of the history of an illustrious person before
describing his or her character; and, as we feel assured
no man who has an American heart would wish to advance
or maintain falsehoods against a woman, and
one over whom the tomb has closed, we take pleasure
in giving the writer in the “International” some information
about Madame de Staël.

In the first place, he has been grossly imposed upon
concerning Chateaubriand. We have lately read the
“Mémoires d’outre Tombe,” a work we recommend to
the author of the article, in which he will find much information,
and, what perhaps he values more, amusement;
and, what is to our present purpose, he will find
that Chateaubriand entertained the most sincere friendship
and the highest respect for this lady, whom he
constantly calls “the illustrious,” “the admirable.”
Madame de Staël was the intimate friend of his sister,
the charming Lucille; and also she was, as almost
every one knows, the friend, mentor, and protector of
Madame Récamier. Chateaubriand gives a very pathetic
description of the last days of Madame de Staël,
to whose dying chamber he was admitted; her name is
constantly recurring through his journals, and never
mentioned but in honorable terms. In one place he describes
her thus:—

“The personal appearance of Madame de Staël has
been much discussed; but a noble countenance, a pleasing
smile, an habitual expression of goodness, the absence
of all trifling affectation or stiff reserve, gracious
manners, an inexhaustible variety of conversation,
astonished, attracted, and conciliated almost all who
approached her. I know no woman—I may say no
man—who, with the perfect consciousness of immense
superiority, can so entirely prevent this superiority
from weighing on or offending the self-love of others.”

Madame de Beaumont, a valued friend of the family
of Chateaubriand, was taken by some of its members
to Italy, where she died of consumption. Madame de
Staël wrote to condole with Chateaubriand on this occasion;
here are the reflections upon her letter made in
his Journal: “This hasty letter, so affectionate and
hurried, written by this illustrious woman, affected me
extremely. If Heaven had permitted our friend to look
back upon this earth, such a testimony of affection
would surely have been grateful to her.”

If Chateaubriand were “permitted to look back upon
earth,” what would he think of the vile aspersions upon
the character of “this illustrious woman” attributed to
him?

There have been many biographies written of Madame
de Staël (none of which ever allude to what the
writer in the “International” calls her “disgusting
and almost incredible licentiousness”). We will advert
here to two; one by Madame Necker de Saussure, well
known in America for writings of a moral and religious
nature; the other by the Duchess D’Abrantes, who thus
begins her memoirs: “For a French woman to write
the life of Madame de Staël is certainly a happy privilege,
since France boasts the honor of her birth, though
she is among those minds that belong to the entire
world, and her whole sex should call her sister with a
noble pride, which they may cherish with perfect safety.
Madame de Staël descends to posterity with merits so
great and so various, that few besides herself you
claim a part of her title. Her fame is spotless, a true
child of genius, but free from its aberrations. The love
of right, the abhorrence of falsehood, a rare combination
of generous affections, constituted the womanly heart to
which nature, in a happy mood, lavished all the virtues
of one sex and all the powers of the other.”

It is very well known that M. Rocca, the second
husband of Madame de Staël, “a man of high honor[331]
and of great intelligence” (Chateaubriand really says
so), was unable to survive her loss, and died shortly
after her, it was admitted, through grief. The Duchess
D’Abrantes says, upon this: “He was of an age when
life still offered pleasure, the world glory; but, being
hopeless of ever again finding so perfect a being to occupy
his heart, he formed no other wish, after closing
her eyes, than that of rejoining her. A woman thus
loved must have been truly excellent.” And, we will
add, this love was entirely founded upon and maintained
by her moral qualities, as she was then fifty
years old and in failing health.

Madame Necker de Saussure observes, “Madame de
Staël’s goodness was thorough; her noble, generous
heart rose to heroism when the interest of her friends,
or even of her foes, demanded energy.” This was
proved by the numbers she saved and concealed during
the terrors of the Revolution. In every part of Europe
she was courted and esteemed by the best society,
and, if time and our pages permitted, we could quote
tributes to her merits from a long list of eminent men,
whose superiority places them above the petty aim of
depressing female genius by slandering the woman who
has well won its laurels. To advert to a few of these
memorials: Schlegel, who knew her intimately, said
she was “Femme grande et magnanime jusque dans les
replis de son âme,” which is curiously echoed by the
well-known verse, that might serve as a translation—

At the time of Madame de Staël’s death, Lord Byron
commented at length on the event in one of his notes to
“Childe Harold.” After expatiating on her merits as an
author, he goes on—

“But the individual will gradually disappear as the
author is more distinctly seen: some one, therefore, of
all those whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of
easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles
of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues
which, although they are said to love the shade, are, in
fact, more frequently chilled than excited by the domestic
cares of private life. Some one should be found
to portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned
those dearer relationships, the performance of whose
duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets,
than seen in the outward management, of family intercourse;
and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of
genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indifferent
spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate,
but to describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion,
the centre of a society, ever varied, and always
pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition
and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give
fresh animation to those around her. The mother tenderly
affectionate and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly
generous, but still esteemed, the charitable
patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those
whom she cherished, and protected, and fed. Her loss
will be mourned the most where she was known the
best; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and
more dependents, may be offered the disinterested regret
of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of the
Leman Lake, received his chief satisfaction from contemplating
the engaging qualities of the incomparable
Corinna.”

In “Modern French Literature,” M. de Véricour,
the learned and excellent author, gives an exalted place
to the works of Madame de Staël, and to the extraordinary
and beneficial influence she had exercised by her
literary supremacy in overpowering the baneful influence
of what he calls “the mocking spirit” of French
writings, which had injured morals as well as good
taste. He does not, of course, allude to her private
character, because no question of its purity had ever
been raised. Who, in describing the excellence of
Mrs. Hemans’ writings, would think of adding that
she was a virtuous woman? But, if Mary Wollstonecraft
were named, who would not express their regret,
at least, that she had sinned? Thus, M. Véricour
does when describing the genius of George Sand. The
absence of any shadow of reproach in connection with
Madame de Staël is proof that no shadow of reproach
existed.

To return to the writer in the “International” (we
are loth to believe it was written by either of the editors);
as he appears, by the place he gives to “George
Sand” and “Rachel,” to be profoundly ignorant on the
subject of the “intellectually greatest women of modern
times,” we will intimate to him two or three
about whom it might be well for him to gain some information,
were it only to avoid blunders. We will
not be so exacting as to perplex him with Mrs. Somerville,
for we are aware it is not every one who can invent
a slander whose mind could appreciate “The Connection
of the Physical Sciences;” neither will we
refer him to Mrs. Barrett Browning, whose “genius,”
as pronounced by grave and reverend critics, “is of
the highest order, strong, deep-seeing, enthusiastic,
and loving,” because such divine poetry and deep science
would be evidently out of his line; but Miss
Edgeworth, the author of “Frank” and “Harry and
Lucy;” surely he might understand her lessons, if he
would read them: these lessons always inculcate truth,
are sound, improving, and elevating, and the intellect
must have been great that could see moral truths so
clearly.

The author of the paragraph appears to consider
stage-playing as wonderfully intellectual, and his pattern
of this greatness in “modern times” is Rachel.
Was there not a certain Mrs. Siddons, whose genius in
the histrionic art was superior to that of any living
actress, and whose character was unimpeachable?
According to the best French critics, men of taste and
literary fame, who do not write anonymously, but subscribe
their articles with their names, Rachel is only
good in one line, which is passion or violence. In tender
heroines, they say, she fails, and they seem to consider
her powers altogether limited; for these opinions
we refer the writer in the “International” to the
“Revue des Deux Mondes.” Were Rachel the intellectual
prodigy he pronounces her to be, still the poor
despised child, who sang in the streets and was brought
up without law or Gospel, must have fallen into vice
rather from the sad want of training than from having a
good understanding, as he, in Irish parlance, intimates.

A similar remark is also true of Madame Dudevant:
her intellectual greatness did not plunge her into licentiousness;
she fell before she ever wrote a book; and
though we do not wish to screen her from the odium
her reckless course has deserved, yet it should be recorded
in pity that her fine powers of mind were misdirected
by a false and frivolous education, that the
examples and flatteries of the most fascinating but corrupt
society on earth have led her on and sustained
her; yet she, by the light which her own high intellectuality
has developed, is changing her course, if the
examples furnished by her writings are true. Her later
works are greatly improved in their moral tone; yet[332]
there is no diminution, but an increase of mental
power.

Among the very extensive catalogue of French women
justly famed, the selection by the writer in the
“International” proves that he takes his views from
what he hears;—if he would but read more, and gossip
less, he would be amazed as “knowledge unrolled its
ample page before him.” We will not trouble him
with the Reformers of Port-Royal, who certainly did
some things greater than acting plays, for, to appreciate
these ladies, requires an acquaintance with the
theological and political history of their era. We will
pass over the exalted patriot and gifted woman, Madame
Roland, whose intellectual greatness, unsurpassed
by that of any man of her times, or by any woman
now living in France, was based on moral virtue;
but it seems a pity he should not know of Madame de
Sevigné, because even schoolboys have really heard of
her. The wit, learning, true sentiment, and graceful
style of Madame de Sevigné have won the approval of
critics and moralists; intellectually great, she was a
model of domestic virtue. In one of her celebrated letters,
she says we must distinguish between “un âne et
un ignorant“—one is “ignorant” from want of instruction,
âne from want of brains. Would it not be well
for the writer in the “International” to heed this distinction?
Æsop has a very pertinent fable on the living
ass kicking the dead lion.

To Correspondents.—The following articles are
accepted: “My Flowers, my Gem, and my Star,”
“To Susan,” “Halcyon Day,” “My Book,” “The
Coronal,” “Perseverance,” “My Summer Window,”
“Reaping,” “Sonnet,” “The Country Grave-Yard,”
“To Oliver Perry Allen, U.S.N.,” “To Nina,” “To
Helen at the South.”

“A Tale of the Backwoods” would be accepted,
were it not for the condition annexed. We should not
be able to publish it at present. Will the author inform
us if he is willing to wait? The like reason—want of
room—compels us to decline a very large number of
MSS. this month.

“F. H.” is informed that we have returned her MSS.
through “Adams’ Express.” We sincerely hope we
may not be again troubled from that source. If any
definite direction had been given, it would have been
returned long since.

Music Accepted: “The Gondola Waltz,” by a lady
of Georgia; “A Spring Song,” by C. T. P., of Chambersburg.
Although accepted, the above cannot appear
for some months, as we have many previously accepted
musical compositions on hand.

EDITOR’S BOOK TABLE

From George S. Appleton, 164 Chestnut Street,
Philadelphia:—

LETTERS FROM THREE CONTINENTS. By
M., the Arkansas Correspondent of the “Louisville
Journal.” These letters will be found highly interesting
to the American reader; the views and reflections
of the author, sustained by lifelike and graphic
sketches, being in unison with our republican feelings,
and illustrative of our free institutions.

From Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia:—

A SCHOOL DICTIONARY OF THE LATIN LANGUAGE.
By Dr. J. H. Kaltschmidt. In two parts.
I. Latin—English. This work has been highly recommended
by the best classical teachers in the United
States.

From James K. Simon, Philadelphia:—

SCENES AT HOME; OR, THE ADVENTURES
OF A FIRE SCREEN. By Mrs. Anna Bache. This
little work contains nine familiarly written stories on
practical moral duties, which the author has very properly
dedicated to the young ladies of this country.
We hope her dedication will not be overlooked by those
to whom it has been made, and that they will duly profit
by the good sense and amiable qualities of her book.

From Harper & Brothers, New York, through
Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia:—

MELVILLE. A Franconia Story. By the author
of the “Rolla Books.” A most agreeable and instructive
book for the perusal of youthful readers, appealing
to the highest and purest sympathies of the heart.

FOREIGN REMINISCENCES. By Henry Richard
Lord Holland. Edited by his son, Henry Edward Lord
Holland. This is neither a work of history nor a work
of romance; but, nevertheless, it is a work which will
have its effect on the nerves of retired politicians and
superannuated diplomatists. It is made up of such gossip
and scandals as were ripe in Europe from the commencement
of the French Revolution to the period of
the Restoration. They are presented by an English
nobleman, who assures his readers that he can only
vouch for the anecdotes he has recorded by assuring
said readers that he believes them himself. To all
such as are willing to receive the author’s “impressions”
as vouchers, this work will therefore prove very
interesting.

THE HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA, FROM THE ADOPTION OF THE
FEDERAL CONSTITUTION TO THE END OF
THE SIXTEENTH CONGRESS. By Richard Hildreth.
In three volumes. Vol. I. Administration of
Washington. The American public have already been
placed under obligations to Mr. Hildreth for the colonial
and revolutionary history of this country, and here
we have the first volume of a work which promises, as
a correct record and review of important events, to be
equally interesting to the political, philosophical, and
commercial student.

JANE BOUVERIE; OR, PROSPERITY AND
ADVERSITY. By Catherine Sinclair, author of “Sir
Edward Graham,” etc. The intention of the author
of this excellent little volume, as she declares herself,
was to develop, through the more attractive medium
of a story, the trials, the duties, and the pleasures of domestic
life. Her laudable intentions have been crowned
with a success which will commend her work to the
consideration of judicious readers of every class.[333]

From R. P. Putnam, New York, through A. Hart,
Philadelphia:—

THE PRAIRIE. A Tale. By the author of “The
Deerslayer,” etc. This is the fifth volume of Mr.
Cooper’s revised edition of the “Leather Stocking
Tales.”

SALANDER AND THE DRAGON. A Romance
of Hartz Prison. By Frederic William Shelton, M. A.,
of St. John’s Church, Huntington, N. J. A very interesting
little allegory, in which the author has admirably
succeeded in his design of illustrating the danger
of uttering, or of lending a willing ear to, unkind words
and insinuations against the reputations of neighbors
and acquaintances. It is peculiarly adapted for the
younger classes of readers, and will doubtless have a
tendency to establish in their minds the importance
of a strict adherence to the principles of justice and
charity.

LAVANGRO; the Scholar, the Gipsy, the Priest.
By George Borrow, author of “The Bible in Spain,”
and “The Gipseys of Spain.” Same agent.

From Adrianne, Sherman & Co., Astor House,
New York:—

PARNASSUS IN PILLORY. A Satire. By Motley
Manners, Esq. We were greatly alarmed, not on
our own account, but on account of the “Poets of
America,” when we read the author’s first six lines,
addressed to an ancient satirist:—

From Gould & Lincoln, Boston:—

THE OLD RED SANDSTONE: New Walks in an
Old Field. By Hugh Miller. Designed, like that sterling
work of his, “Foot-prints of the Creator,” to
elucidate the connection between geological science
and Revealed religion. This “Old Red Sandstone” has
passed through fourteen editions in England, and will
doubtless be as popular in America. It is just the book
for the people—for mothers to study and talk over to
their children.

PRINCIPLES OF ZOOLOGY. By Louis Agassiz
and A. A. Gould. This is an excellent text-book for
students and schools.

From Walker & Richards, Charleston, S. C.:—

THE POETICAL REMAINS OF THE LATE
MARY ELIZABETH LEE. With a Biographical
Memoir. By S. Gilmer, D. D. The work is worthy
of the eminent clergyman, who has given us the delineation
of one of the loveliest characters among the
good and gifted of the gentle sex. We commend the
book to the young and lovely.

THE CITY OF THE SILENT. A Poem. By W.
Gilmore Simms. Delivered at the consecration of the
“Magnolia Cemetery.” A production of much merit,
which does credit to the taste and genius of its distinguished
author.

From W. B. Zieber, Philadelphia:—

A ROMANCE OF THE SEA-SERPENT. A work
which, if not more wonderful than the romances of
Dumas, has a better claim to public favor. It contains
some truth in the authenticated memoranda about sea-serpents
which ancient and modern lore furnishes. We
should observe that the work is written in the rhymed
style of D’Israeli’s “Contarini Fleming.”

From Dunigan & Brothers, New York:—

LYRA CATHOLICA. This work is beautifully
bound, and printed in the best style.

LITTELL’S LIVING AGE: Boston.

MRS. WHITTLESEY’S MAGAZINE FOR MOTHERS
AND DAUGHTERS: New York.

The above are excellent works of their kind. The
first named, a weekly, contains admirable selections
from foreign journals; the second, a small monthly,
intended for the religious instruction of the family circle.
Its editor is a lady worthy of high esteem.

Serials, Pamphlets, &c.—”The History of Pendennis:
his Fortunes and Misfortunes, his Friends and
his greatest Enemy.” By W. M. Thackeray. Harper
& Brothers, New York. For sale by Lindsay & Blakiston,
Philadelphia. Price 25 cents. This number completes
the work.—”Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution.”
No 11. Harper & Brothers, New York.
For sale by Lindsay & Blakiston, Philadelphia. Price
25 cents.—”The Queen’s Necklace; or, the Secret
History of Louis the Sixteenth.” By Alexander Dumas.
Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Complete
in two volumes. Price 50 cents. Published and
for sale by T. B. Peterson. 98 Chestnut Street.—”The
City Merchant; or, the Mysterious Failure.” With
numerous illustrations. Published and for sale by Lippincott,
Grambo & Co. (successors to Grigg & Elliot),
Philadelphia.—”Cruising in the Last War.” By
Charles J. Peterson, author of “Arnold at Saratoga,”
etc. Complete in one volume. Price 50 cents. T. B.
Peterson, publisher, 98 Chestnut Street.—”The Mentor.”
A Magazine for Youth. Rev. Hastings Weld,
editor. Is sustained with great zeal and ability.—”Stanfield
Hall.” An Historical Romance. By J. P.
Smith, Esq., author of “The Jesuits,” etc. W. F.
Burgess, New York, T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.—”Pictorial
Life and Adventures of Guy
Fawkes, the Chief of the Gunpowder Treason.” By
William Harrison Ainsworth. With twenty-four illustrations.
T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.—”Wacousta;
or, the Prophecy.” An Indian Tale. By
Major Richardson, author of “Ecarte,” &c. Revised
edition. Dewitt & Davenport, New York.—”Life’s
Discipline.” A Tale of the Annals of Hungary. By
Talvi, author of “Helois,” etc. For sale by G. S.
Appleton, Philadelphia.—No. 34 of “Shakspeare’s
Dramatic Works.” Titus Andronicus. Boston edition.
For sale by T. B. Peterson.—”Life and Adventures of
Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist.” By Henry Cockton,
author of “Silver Sound,” etc. Complete in one volume.
Price 50 cents. T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia.—”The
Howards.” A Tale founded on facts. By D. H.
Barlow, A. M. Philadelphia: published by Getz [334]&
Buck. This is a very interesting story, intended to
enforce the benefits of life insurance.[F]—”Report of the
Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane for the Year
1850.” By Thomas S. Kirkbride, M. D., Physician of
the institution—”Reveries of an Old Maid, embracing
Important Hints to Young Men intending to Marry,
illustrative of that celebrated Establishment, Capsicum
House, for Furnishing Young Ladies.” Forty-five engravings.
Wm. H. Graham & Co., 120 Fulton Street,
New York.—”The British and Foreign Medico-Chirurgical
Review, or Quarterly Journal of Practical
Medicine and Surgery.” Number thirteen of this valuable
work has been received from Daniels & Smith, 36
North Sixth Street.—”Oregon and California; or,
Sights in the Gold Region and Scenes by the Way.”
By Theodore T. Johnson. With a map and illustrations.
Third edition. With an appendix, containing
full instructions to emigrants by the overland route to
Oregon. By Hon. Samuel R. Thurston, Delegate to
Congress from that territory. Also the particulars of
the march of the Regiment of U. S. Riflemen in 1849,
together with the Oregon Land Bill. Lippincott,
Grambo & Co., Philadelphia.—”The Initials.” A
Story of Modern Life. Three volumes of the London
edition complete in one. Same publishers.

Music.—From Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street:
“To One in Heaven. Now Thou art Gone.” Words
by Thomas I. Diehl. Music by R. S. Hambridge. The
plaintiveness of the music of this piece is admirably
adapted to the deep sensibility which pervades every
line of the poetry.

Drawing.—The publisher, G. S. Appleton, 164 Chestnut
Street, Philadelphia, has furnished us with a set of
“Easy Lessons in Landscape,” by F. N. Otis. These
primary lessons in pencil drawing are accompanied by
copious instructions, which will be found of the greatest
use to beginners in this agreeable accomplishment.

Publisher’s Department.

Our Perfect May Number.—”May-Day Morning,”
a plate prepared expressly for our cover—it is
worthy of a better place; “The Language of Flowers;”
“Spring,” beautifully colored; and a splendid
and truthful “Fashion Plate.”

We think our present issue will convince our subscribers
that we intend to give them not only the ornamental,
but the useful. In this number may be found
everything calculated to interest a lady, from the superb
fashion plate to the building of cottages, and cottage
furniture. An eminent publisher of this city observed
to us, “You have been of great advantage to
our country in one respect, for the publication of your
model cottages has greatly tended to beautify our suburbs
and those of other large towns.”

Our Model Cottages.—Nothing could have given
us more pleasure than to find that this original feature
of the “Lady’s Book” has been duly appreciated by
our numerous readers and correspondents. From every
section of our country, we have received the most flattering
testimonials, as well in relation to the beauty
of our designs, as to their great utility in establishing a
taste for the erection of convenient and comfortable
homes in the rural districts, or even in the forests that
abound in our favored land. We are truly gratified to
see the change that has come over the spirit of our designers
and builders in our own vicinity, on the shores
of the Delaware, since we began to publish our designs,
and to suggest plans as well of convenience as of elegant
embellishment. This, then, is one of the original
features of the “Book,” of which we think we may be
justly proud; but our readers will readily confess that
it is only one of the numerous original features which
have rendered the “Book” the precedent in literature,
in the arts, and in the cultivation of the useful sciences.

We commend the following sentiment, from the
“Michigan Sentinel,” to all true Americans:—

“The duty of every American is to support his own
country’s interest, in every respect, first. Our American
Magazines have called out and supported an array
of talent, in a particular line, of which we are proud,
and which we are bound by patriotism to reward.”

Here is another from the “Kentucky News Letter:”—

“‘Godey’ is on our table. Beautiful! Do you wish
to see it? Well, once for all—we will not lend it. Its
price is three dollars a year. The copy sent us is reserved
for binding, and we cannot afford to have it defaced
by lending.”

We knew that the January number of “Godey” was
a decided “hit;” but our Georgia correspondent seems
to have got the tallest kind of a “smite” from one of
our fair poetesses. If one can do such execution, what
may be expected of a broadside from a whole solid column
of such charming contributors as the “Lady’s
Book” can boast? Hear him:—

“Mr Godey—dear Sir: I did not think to trouble
you so soon again, but the singular beauty of the
‘sylphs’ and the ‘sonnets’ inspired my muse to utter
the following:—

We are happy to find that the ladies have their husbands’
interest so much at heart. Several orders have
been received since our last for “Breban’s Interest Tables,”
the advertisement of which appears on our
cover.

We have been favored with an engraving representing
the “Family Seat of George C. Sibley, Esq.,” at
Linden Wood, near St. Charles, Mo. It must be a
place of exceeding beauty.

Cameos.—We have on several occasions called the
attention of our readers to the perfect likenesses produced
in cameo by Mr. Peabody, whose room is in
Chestnut Street near Fifth. One of the most perfect
specimens of his cutting, which we recently had the pleasure
to examine, is the likeness of General Patterson,[335]
our well-known fellow-citizen. Heretofore,
we fear our friends have not paid sufficient attention to
this beautiful art, or given it that encouragement it so
richly merits. We hope, however, that the time is at
hand when the able and persevering artist will be fully
appreciated and rewarded for all his skill and labor in
the introduction of these accurate and beautiful memorials
of love and friendship.

Impure Milk.—A lawsuit was recently brought, in
New York, against our friend Howard, of the Irving
House, to recover the sum of two hundred dollars, alleged
to be due for milk delivered for the use of said
establishment. On the trial, it was proved that the
milk contracted for was to have been from cows fed
upon grass, hay, and grain, and that the milk furnished
was from cows fed upon swill, the offal, or remains of
the distillery, and that they were tied up in stalls until
they died of a loathsome disease. It gives us pleasure
to state that the trial resulted in a verdict for Mr.
Howard, the judge remarking, in his charge, that the
proprietor of the Irving House was “entitled to the
thanks of the community for exposing the base fraud.”
We will merely add that he is deserving also of the
confidence of the traveling community for his efforts to
minister for the preservation of their health, as well as
for their pleasure and convenience.

The Crystal Palace of Concord.—In this number
of the “Book” we present our readers with a view
of the largest and most magnificent building in the
world, erected in Hyde Park, London, to contain the
contributions of all nations for the great exhibition
shortly to take place. It is 1848 feet long by 408 broad,
covering about eighteen acres of ground. Number
of columns, 3230. The total cubic contents will be
33,000,000 feet, giving room for eight miles of exhibition
tables. There are 282 miles of sash bars and 900,000
superficial feet of glass. The cost has been estimated
at £150,000, or about $750,000. Mr. Hardinge, of Cincinnati,
had proposed to cover the iron columns, etc.,
with a kind of porcelain or variegated enamel, giving
them the richness and beauty of the choicest polished
marble, and of the most precious stones, such as agate,
jasper, &c.

Prisoner’s Friend.—Charles Spear, the active and
benevolent editor of this paper, has called the attention
of big friends and the public to the volume which will
commence in September. Mr. Spear’s efforts in behalf
of suffering humanity have long since entitled him to
the consideration and the support of every generous and
feeling heart. The journal which he publishes under
the title of “Prisoner’s Friend,” is conducted with
great earnestness, but with great propriety, and is calculated,
by its peaceful and Christian tone, to elicit the
patronage of all parties and all denominations.

Laces, Embroideries, etc.—Kimmey’s, No. 177
Arch Street, through the industry and attention of its
proprietors, has become a favorite store with many of
the ladies of our city. The extensive choice and elegant
assortment of cambric open work collars and cuffs,
cambric rufflings, lace sleeves, embroidered collars and
cuffs, elegant style of infants’ waists, superior kid
gloves, etc. etc., which they have always on hand,
have attracted the attention and the patronage of numerous
tasty and fashionable purchasers.

To make Prune Tart.—Scald the prunes, take out
the stones, and break them; put the kernels into a little
cranberry juice with the prunes and some sugar; simmer,
and when cold make a tart of the sweetmeat, or
eat it in any other way.

To make Aspic Jelly.—Put a knuckle of veal into a
small stock-pot, with a knuckle of ham, two calves’
feet, and the trimmings of poultry; season this with
onions, carrots, and a bunch of sweet herbs; pour into
it half a bottle of white wine and a ladleful of good
broth; set it over the stove till it is reduced to a light
glaze, then cover the meat with good broth, throw in
two glasses of isinglass, and let it boil for three hours;
then strain, and clear the jelly with white of eggs.
When used, it must be melted, and poured just warm
over the chicken or tongue.

Imitation Curry Powder.—An admirable imitation
of the oriental stimulant, curry powder, can be made
by reducing to powder the following materials, mixing
them well together, and keeping them in a tightly-corked
bottle: Three ounces of turmeric, the same of
coriander seed, one ounce of ground ginger, the like
quantity of ground black pepper, a quarter of an ounce
of cinnamon, the same weight of cumin seed and of
cayenne, and half an ounce of cardamoms.

To Clean Woodstock Gloves.—Wash them in soap
and water till the dirt is out, then stretch them on
wooden hands, or pull them out in their proper shape.
Do not wring them, as that puts them out of form, and
makes them shrink; put them one upon another and
press the water out. Then rub the following mixture
over the outside of the gloves: If wanted quite yellow,
take yellow ochre; if quite white, pipe clay; if between
the two, mix a little of each together. Mix the
color with beer or vinegar. Let them dry gradually,
not too near the fire, nor in too hot a sun; when about
half dried, rub them well, and stretch them out to keep
them from shrinking and to soften them. When they
are well rubbed and dried, take a small cane and beat
them; then brush them; when this is done, iron them
rather warm with a piece of paper over them, but do
not let the iron be too hot.

To Dress Cold Turkey or Fowl.—Cut them in
sizeable pieces, beat up an egg with a little grated nutmeg,
pepper, and salt, some parsley minced fine, and a
few crumbs of bread; mix these well together, and
cover the turkey with this batter; then broil, or warm
them in a Dutch oven. Thicken a little gravy with
some flour, put a spoonful of catsup or other sauce, lay
the meat in a dish, and pour the sauce round it; garnish
with slices of lemon.

Hunter’s Beef, as it is called, is a round of beef
into which a quarter of a pound of saltpetre finely powdered
is well rubbed. Next day, mix half an ounce of
cloves, an ounce of black pepper, the same quantity of
ground allspice, with half a pound of salt; wash and
rub the beef in the brine for a fortnight, adding every
other day a tablespoonful of salt. Have ready an
earthen pan deep enough to hold the joint, and lay suet
an inch deep at the bottom; rub the beef in coarse[336]
cloths till perfectly free from the salt and spice, put it
in the pan with a quart of water, some more suet on
the top, and cover it with a thick coarse crust. Bake
for seven hours, pour off the gravy, and place the meat
upon a proper dish; do not cut it till cold.

To Clean Black Satin.—Boil three pounds of potatoes
to a pulp in a quart of water; strain through a
sieve, and brush the satin with it on a board or table.
The satin must not be wrung, but folded down in cloths
for three hours, and then ironed on the wrong side.

Fashions.

Now Be Careful

Engraved expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book by J.I. Pease.

Evening Costumes.—Fig. 1. Dinner-dress or robe
of richly-embroidered Mantua silk, of delicate rose color,
the flowers in white, of a regular and tasteful pattern.
A scarf of the same, with broad flowing ends, is
knotted a little to the right, and hangs gracefully to the
knee. A jupe of fine embroidered muslin is worn below
this, and a chemisette of the same completes the
corsage. The sleeves very loose and flowing, with undersleeves
clasped by heavy gold bracelets. The head-dress
is of lace, with bouquets of moss-rose buds.

Fig. 2.—Ball-dress of rich white silk, with a deep
flounce of French lace, put on with a heading of narrow
satin ribbon. The upper flounce, also of black
lace, though narrower, is fastened on each side with
bouquets of natural flowers. The corsage is plain,
with a berthe to match the flounces, also fastened by
bouquets. A narrow undersleeve of white lace comes
a trifle below the berthe. It will be noticed that the
hair is dressed plainly, slightly puffed behind the ear,
and in a twist roll at the back of the head. A most
graceful style for young ladies.

Evening Dresses—See description

As there are always a quota of weddings in the spring,
following the Washington campaign, we give an elaborate
bridal costume, more as a suggestion than a model,
it must be confessed, for those who like novelties.

Fig. 1 presents an evening costume for a bride, the
head-dress a wreath of white roses mingled with orange
blossoms. The dress itself is white crape over white
satin, and the front of the skirt may be ornamented with
bouquets to match the wreath. The berthe of the corsage
is composed of folds of white tulle.

Fig. 2.—Bridal-dress of rich white satin, with side
trimmings for the skirt of lace, headed by narrow satin
ribbon. The corsage is high at the back, but sloped
somewhat lower in front, over which there is a lace
pelerine, which is brought down to a point in front.
Sleeves demi-long, and edged with white satin ribbon,
undersleeves of rich lace, and bracelets to be worn at
taste and discretion. The bridal wreath is of jasmine
and orange flowers, and confines a tulle veil very full
and long.

Early as it is, our ladies are already commencing to
think of preparations for the Springs, and of bathing-dresses,
in which to enjoy the cool surf of Cape May or
Newport. The exquisite gossamer fabrics of Levy’s,
Beck’s, and Stewart’s are now in the hands of the mantuamaker,
and very soon we shall hear that the town is
deserted. The sidewalks will cease to blush with the
delicate colors of an outdoor spring costume, and the
plain ginghams of those of the fair sex who are not like
the lilies of the field in the matter of daily toil, take
the place of rainbow silks and soft mousselines. At
present, Chestnut Street is a scene of enchantment.
Not more beautiful the fresh spring foliage of neighboring
woods than the delicate emerald tinting of dresses
and ribbons that adorn our ladies; and then the pale
violet, so suggestive of wood flowers; the blue, as ethereal
as the cloudless sky; and, above all, the rose color
shading the cheek of the dangerous brunette, who
knows perfectly well that it is the most becoming shade
she can wear. There is a flutter of scarfs and a rustling
of mantillas that call to mind the swaying of the
aforementioned foliage, and those dainty straw bonnets,
the little brims filled with lace and violets, only too
real, of the floating sprays of lily of the valley and the
jasmine. We like the cottage bonnet when it is in
fashion. There is something marvelously winning in
the close shape, teazing you by its very coyness into an
admiration; but when they are laid aside, and the
brims, like certain stocks, have a tendency to look upwards,
we wonder we ever could have admired any
other than the coquetish little shape one meets at
every turn. It is a fact worth observing and recording
that, in proportion to the tendency of gentlemen’s hats
to narrow, the ladies’ bonnets expand; the crown of
the one becomes, season by season, more retreating,
while the other flares an open defiance. We might
moralize were we not sober chroniclers of the court
of fashion, and were we not admonished by the envoy
from his serene highness, “the printer,” now waiting
at our elbow, that “the form is almost completed.”

So we must leave our gossip for the few hints we are
able to gather for our lady readers on the matter of
“making up.” Loose sleeves, and they vary from a
quarter to half a yard in width, as suits the wearer’s
fancy, are still in vogue. In-doors, no undersleeves
are needed for the summer, particularly for young ladies,
but for a street costume there is every variety of
undersleeves. We refer the ladies to our cuts of two
that are especially in favor, and would recommend another
for those who like them open at the wrist, composed
of alternate rows of rich embroidered insertion
(muslin) and Valenciennes lace, quilled closely, the last
row facing the edge which falls just at the wrist. An
undersleeve for the evening may be made in this manner,
but should have only one row of insertion and
edging.

Bodices are still worn, and belts and buckles seem
going out. The back of the corsage has also a point,
which many wear quite deep. We would commend
the present fashion of lacing the corsage of an evening-dress,
as it gives the figure much more to advantage
than the compression of hooks and eyes, but it is too
troublesome for a walking-dress.

The hair is dressed quite plainly, although there has
been an attempt to revive the tiers of puffs so fashionable
some twenty years since. There are few faces
which will bear the test, and Grecian braids and bandeaux
are much more universally becoming.

Gaiters are worn as ever, and black satin slippers
are preferred at evening parties. However, as these
are not just at present, we reserve our hints upon evening
dress until a future number.

[337]

THE CRYSTAL PALACE LONDON.

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