Full text of "Godey's Lady's Book September 1864"

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EVENING DRESS.

Fig 1. — Evening-dress of white silk, brocaded with bunches of brilliant colored flowers. Over-skirt of illusion, causrht
np with roses and leaves. Corsage low, with a short puffed sleeve. A scarf of white silk, figured with gold-color, is
fastened on the left shoulder with a rose, and passes over the corsage to the right side, wliere it falls in long streamers.
The hair is heavily crimped, and dressed with a gilt butterfly and vvhite plumes.

Fig. 2. — Dress of rose-colored silk, gored and trimmed with black velvet. A wreath of roses forms the coiffure.

196

THE ESTRAMADTIRA.

[From the establishmeut of G Brodie, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Yoigt, from actual articles

of costume.]

The stylo presented this month shows that in the mutation of fashion the mantilla is a<,min in the ascendant. For
the early portion of the season they are worn in heavy taffetas, but later in velvet. The ornament consists of massy
crochet headed fringe. This chaniclcr of trimming will probably be exceedingly fashionable throughout the winter.

16* 197

HOME JACKET.

{Front view.)

This jacket can be made of any mat^ial, but for the present season silk or piquf. is the most suitable. It fits the
figure quite closely, and is made with a coat sleeve. The braiding can be done with either silk or mohair braid,
And the jacket is edged with a narrow fluted ruffle.

198

HOME JACKET.

{Side view.)

199

FASHIONABLE BONNETS.— (>See Description, Fashion Department)

200

SILK PALETOT FOR A YOUNG LADY.

{Front and Back views.)

Trimmed with rich gimp and bugle trimming. This style is also very suitable for cloth.

201

INITIAL LETTERS, FOR MARKING.

BEAIDING PATTERN. ,

EMBEOIDEEY PATTERN FOR THE END OF A SCARF,

SUITABLE FOR MERINO, SILK, OR MUSLIN.

203

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204

GODEY'S

00I1 irair Ipagapt

PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1864.

"TAKING BOARDERS FOR COMPANY."

A STORY OF THE "HEATED TERM," AND CONTAII^mG MORE TRUTH THAN ROMAI^CK

BY MAKIOX HARLAND.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, "bj Louis A. Godey, in the clerk's office of the District Court
of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]

i (Continued from page 124.)

CHAPTER II. (Concluded.)

Hats and wrappings were hastily collected ;
tlie sobbing inflints shouldered by the much-
enduring Milesians, and the party^ defiled up
a steep, narrow staircase into an upper hall,
surrounded on all sides by rows of doors lead-
ing into what might have been closets, so near
were the portals together.

" Mrs. Bell's apartment !" announced Miss
Saccharissa, engagingly, throwing wide one
of these. "Your sister's room adjoins it on
the left. Mrs. Earle's is just opposite. By
leaving the doors of both rooms open, you can
always have a delicious draught of air through ;
need never suffer from the heat. You will
find cool, fresh water, clean towels, and lights
in each chamber. I trust that everything is
arranged to your satisfaction. Supper will be
served up in fifteen minutes."

She said all this with the air of a princess
welcoming titled guests to her palace, and
bowing at the close of her speech, went
smiling down the staircase, doubtless to finjsh
the love- scene, in which she had borne so
spirited a part.

The Bells — father, mother, three children,
and nurse — crowded into the "apartment"
allotted them, and gazed first around them,
and then at one another in blank astonish-
ment. A small, low-browed room, hardly ten
feet long and eight broad, with a sloping
VOL. Lxix. — 17

ceiling descending to within three feet of the
floor on one side, was ventilated (?) by two
tiny windows one pane deep and four in
width. There were two narrow bedsteads in
opposite corners, covered with patch-work
quilts, neither new nor bright ; between these
was a pine washstand, painted red, supporting
a small basin and a handleless ewer of differ-
ent patterns. Two dingy towels were hung
on the back of the stand, and a-bove it was
suspended a cheaj) cracked mirror. The floor
was covered with a woollen carpet, faded and
patched ; a table of the same material as the
washstand, and even more diminutive pro-
portions, with a couple of wooden chairs,
completed the list of furniture. Upon the
table flared and smoked a tallow dip candle,
set in a tin candlestick.

Harry was the first to find his tongue.

"Why, mamma, this must be Mary's and
Norah's chamber! We can't* all sleep in
here ! There doesn't begin to be room for
us!"

Poor Mrs. Bell, who had been growing hys-
terical for the last hour, could now have sunk
upon the uninviting bed and cried heartily
with chagrin and mortification. A passionate
petition, born of intense homesickness, was
already upon her lips — an entreaty to her in-
dulgent and sympathizing husband to take
her b^ck to the city on the morrow ; but, at

205

206

godey's lady's book and magazine.

that instant, there came across the hall a
roar — a shout of familiar laughter. She knew
as well as if she had seen him with her bodily
eyes how Tom 'Earle was stamping about the
contemptible little chamber assigned to him
and his family, holding his sides, rocking and
reeling in noisy merriment at his wife's dis-
appointment and surprised observations upon
their quarters.

A glow arose to Mrs. Bell's cheek that dried
the springing tears.

" I have lodged in smaller rooms than this,
my son, at watering-places that were crowded
every year, and which maintained a high
reputation for fashion. Instead of complain-
ing, let us make the best of matters."

' ' Bravo ! ' ' said her even-tempered husband,
deceived by what he considered her cheerful
philosophy, whereas, it was a flashing up of
womanly spirit or spite — whichever it might
be called. "That is sensible! We, won't
trust to first impressions, especially as we are
unexpected guests. Things may look very
different to-morrow."

"They shall!" responded Mrs. Bell, cour-
ageously, and, following out the principle she
had laid down, she removed her hat and
mantle, and, seating herself in one of the hard
chairs, took the baby in her arms and sent
Mary down in quest of milk for the famished
innocent.

Baby Florence leaned her head against her
mother's shoulder and suffered herself to be
- undressed, only an occasional sobbing sigh
testifying that the limit of her slender stock of
endurance was nearly reached. Mary was brave
and shrewd beyond the generality of her
class ; so ready of wit and prompt in action,
that her mistress marvelled at her prolonged
absence. The summons to supper had sounded,
and Mr. Bell, like a good husband and efficient
assistant in the necessary nursery-work to be
accomplished before the meal could be par-
taken of, had found brushes, combs, and soap
in the travelling-bag; washed little Annie's
face and hands and smoothed her tumbled
curls ; then, having performed the like offices
for himself, and superintended Harry's efforts
at imitation, he took Florence, who was by
this time arrayed for bed, upon his arm, and,
stalking back and forth in the short alley
between the bedsteads, sang the enlivening
ballad of —

" Hey, diddle, diddle,

The c;it and the fiddle."

Mrs. Bell had arranged her own hair and
dress, when Mary re-entered with a mug of
milk in her hand.

* ' Did you have any trouble in finding the
kitchen, Mary?" inquired her mistress, no-t
noticing her heightened color and worried ex-
pression. "I began to be uneasy about you."

The girl was uniformly good-natured and
respectful ; but the native 'vehemence broke
bounds now in the exclamation — * ' No throuble
at all in finding it, ma'am; but throuble
enough afther I got there ! ' '

Then ensued a burning account of her griev-
ances, Mrs. Bell being too much astonished
at the unprecedented rush of fiery words to
check her at once. Mary had applied to Miss
Jemima — "the ould young leddy," as she
designated her — for the milk, and this person-
age had sent a small bound girl, the sole hired
waitress of the establishment, down cellar for"
the desired nourishment. Discovering, by
the combined aid of smell and taste, that it
was sour, Mary had very respectfully an-
nounced the fact to the mistress of the kitchen.

" 'And,' sez she, ma'am. 'Ah I' sez she.
'It's the thunder this afternoon that has
turned it, shure ! It ginerally does!' And
wid that, she wint on wid her work, leavin'
me a-sthandin' there wid the cup in me hand."
Mary always became intensely Irish in her
speech when excited. " And, sez I, prisently,
makin' bould to spake for the sake of the
stharvin' darlint that was fair breakin' its
heart for the lack of somethin' to ate. Sez I,
'Will you be so kind, ma'am, as to tell me
where I '11 get a dhrop of swate milk, for it 's
sore hungry the poor baby is ! ' Faith, ma'am,
and she sthared at me as if I had sivin heads,
and sez she, raal scornful-like, sez she — 'Do
you always git»fresh milk in the city, orshalk
and water?' 'Pure, swate milk!' said I.
' Well, ' sez she, ' I wish you to understhand
for the future, that 's against our rule to dis-
turb the night's milk afther the crame has
begun to rise; but seein' you are just come,
I'll oblige your misthress for this once.'
Witl that, she took the cup herself and wint
off down cellar, and when she brought up the
cup, I'll be blamed, ma'am, if it wasn't half
water ! !But what could I do but howld my
tongue and jest stay to warm it the least bit
over the fire, and put a grain of sugar in ?
'Don't ye put hot wather in?' sez she.
' That 's too rich for a baby's stomach !' 'In
o-eneral, I put one-third hot v^'ather,' sez I ;

"taking boarrees for company."

207

'but I'm afraid it iniglit waken this too
much.' And as I come out, I heard her rail
at me to her sisters and the black- whiskered
man for an impudent Irish hussej !"

*' There, there, Mary, say no more about it
now !" interrupted Mrs. Bell, hurrying Harry
and Annie from the room, an order they
obeyed with reluctance, so interested were
they in Mary's narrative.

Their father accompanied them down stairs,
Mrs. Bell lingering behind for a moment to
give instructions as to Florence's resting-place,
and as Mary cooled down from her white heat,
to administer a few judicious words of mingled
reproof and consolation. She then summoned
lip the most cheerful look at her command,
which, she was nevertheless aware, was a
poor counterfeit, and joined the rest of the
party in the dining-room.

This " apartment" — to borrow the nomencla-
ture of the Misses Ketchum — was according to
the pattern of Barbara Allen's death-couch, as
ordered by that remorseful maiden — "long
and narrow." There was barely room for a
single person to pass between the wall and
the row of chairs packed closely together
arotuid the table. On one end of this was
spread a tablecloth of doubtful purity — leav-
ing exposed a cheerless stretch of pine boards,
stained and spotted by spilled liquids and hot
dishes. A kerosene lamp, whose villanous
odor was peculiarly penetrating on this hot,
still night, illumined the feast. This consisted
first of two plates of bread — rye and wheat.
Both were hard and both were heavy ; but
the rye was sticky and the wheat dry and
sour, so there was variety in that portion of
the fare. These flanked a plate of butter —
very oily, notwithstanding the well-stocked
ice-house, and which, before the meal was dis-
patched, was dotted over with greedy flies and
the lifeless remains of rash candle-bugs ; vari-
ety there also, you perceive ! Then came a dish
of boiled eggs, eight in number — exactly one
apiece for the party — tea, remarkable neither
for strength nor heat, and having the unmis-
takable wishy-washy flavor that betrays the
haste or negligence of the maker in not allow-
ing the water to boil ; a saltcellar and castor,
and nothing more !

The three sisters were in obsequious atten-
dance ; likewise the man whom the guests had
seen in the parlor. He made himself princi-
pally useful by replenishing the teapot from
a kettle which he brought from the adjoining

kitchen, and alternately screwing up and
screwing down the kerosene lamp, thus pro-
ducing an agreeable variation of light from
glare to gloom. The lamps were, it soon
appeared. Miss Saccharissa's care, and she
made his officiousness in this resptct the
foundation of another coquettish complaint.

'^ Be still, Saccharissa ; you forget your
position!" said Miss Jemima, sharply.

''Mr. Burley, let me introduce you to the
new members of our happy household. Mrs.
Earle, Mrs. Bell, Miss Rose, Mr. Earle, Mr.
Bell ! This is Mr. Burley, ladies and gentle-
men ! A most important and valuable ingre-
dient of our social composition ; I really do
not know what we should do without him.
Have you brothers, Mrs. Earle?"

Mrs. Earle replied simply "Yes," not caring
to remind the querist of her relationship to
Mr. Bell. She was lioth weary and disgusted,
and, as a natural sequence, woefully out of
spirits.

' ' Jemima, I am ashamed of you ! ' ' interposed
Hortensia. "Mr. Bell is her brother! How
forgetful you are growing ! ' '

"If you had one-tenth on your mind that I
have, Miss, you would let a trifle slip from
your memory, once in a while !" snapped the
elder; then, mollifying her tone into one of
pensive sentimentality, she pursued — "You
can hardly imagine. Miss Earle, how very
desolate we felt away up here, in the clouds,
as one may say, with no guide and protector,
after being accustomed to the' society and
care of our two brothers. When the elder
left us for Washington, it was a fearful blow ;
but when he accepted the foreign appointment,
I thought that I could not survive it. I kept
my bed for a week. Indeed, my nerves have
never recovered from the shock. But we
ought to be more patriotic, I know ; ought to
find consolation in the thought that he is
serving his country. Patriotism is a great
virtue, don't you think so, Mr. Bell?"

"It is, certainly!" The unfortunate re-
spondent looked as if he thought that another
egg would be a more desirable thing in the
then state of his physical system ; but Miss
Jemima was obtuse to such untimely hints.

"Oh, I fairly dote upon patriotism! So,
when Mr. Burley came to us, it was like a gift
from Heaven. He seems just to fill up the
vacant place in our home and hearts. I
never saw another man with such versatility of
talent. He can do anything. He made us a

208

godey's lady's book and magazins.

splendid pudding yesterday, and some superb
ice-cream to-day. He is a genuine treasure."

'* Have some more bread, Miss Rose ? I had
a liand in that, too!" simpered Mr. Burley,
who was evidently used to this barefaced
praise, and relished it amazingly.

Georgie declined the offered plate as coldly
as was consistent with common civility. She
had conceived an intense dislike for the man,
heightened during every minute spent in his
presence by the bold regards he fixed upon
hfejrself. He doubtless meant this for admira-
tion ; but it was none the less offensive on
this account.

''A vulgar, forward fellow!" she said,
mentally, and forgetting that they had, by
coming hither, enrolled themselves as Miss
Jemima's friends and equals, she added, in-
dignantly, '' What right has she to force her
underbred admirers upoy our acquaintance ?"

''Jemima, Miss Rose will take another cup
of tea!" was his next advance.

Georgie prevented him by a haughty ges-
ture, when he would have removed her cup.

"No, thank you, Miss Ketchum!" she
answered, as if the proposition had emanated
from that lady.

Mr. Burley understood her, for he reddened
and frowned ; then leaning, in an attitude
meant for negligent grace, against the wall
near Miss Rose's seat, he talked with Miss
Saccharissa, in a pretended " aside" that was
distinctly audible to all present. The half-
gallant, half-teasing strain was interrupted
by the rising of the company from table.

" Will you accompany me into the parlor
5ind make the acquaintance of your fellow-
visitors V ' inquired Miss Jemima. " We have
some delightful people here ; some fine con-
versationalists and excellent musicians. Our
evenings are very gay, positively festive !
You are a musician, of course. Miss Rose ?"

"I am sure she is ! She looks thoroughly
accomplished !" said Miss Hortensia.

''And such a musical face," observed Miss
Saccharissa, dulcetly. " We can promise you
an appreciative auditory."

^^ Do come!" cried they all, surrounding
"Georgie, and moving towards the open door of
the parlor.

"Mr. Norris!" hailed Miss Jemima's shrill
tones to a gentleman, who just then entered
the hall from the piazza, "we have secured
such a prize to our musical circle ! Miss
Rose, Mr. Norris !"

"Mrs. Bell, Mrs. Earle!" put in Miss Sac-
charissa.

"Mr. Earle, Mr. Bell!" finished Miss Hor-
Jtensia.

"Do join us in persuading Miss Rose to
indulge us with some divine strains!" cho-
rused the three.

Georgie felt like a haunted, worried fawn
encompassed by a pack of hounds. So rapid
and clamorous was the attack, that she nor
her friends had found space to utter a word,
although both the matrons had striven to
interfere in her behalf. At the appeal to the
passer-by, her anger reached its height. "I
may prepare for fresh insult!" she thought,
and her every feature expressed her deter-
mination to resist it by the most lofty dignity.

She stood, pale and apparently calm in her
disdain, not moving to shake oft" the hand
Miss Saccharissa had laid upon her shoulder,
or vouchsafing a glance at the referee. How
soothingly fell the clear, deep Accents upon
her throbbing pulses ! The voice was that of
a gentleman, and the words suited it.

" Excuse me, Mis*s Ketchum ! Such impor-
tunity from me would be unwarrantable im-
pertinence." Exchanging his cold tone for
one of cordial respect, he said : " If I am not
mistaken, we have met before, Mr. Earle!"

"We have!" exclaimed Tom, delightedly,
returning the grasp of the other's hand.

" My dear" — to his wife—" you have heard
me speak of Mr. Norris, one of my companions
on that trip to the Adirondacks, last year.
This is the gentleman, and I am right glad to
meet him again."

"What a charming coincidence!" began
the sisters.

Georgie waited to hear no more. Profiting
by this tempting diversion of attention from
herself, she glided, unperceived, from the
group and vanished up the stairway, nor did
she reappear below that night.

CHAPTER III.

The sun was redly visible above the brow
of the mountain next morning — a rayless ball
through the dim mist that still enwrapped
the valley, when Georgie and her niece Annie,
who had shared her chamber, descended
to the piazza. There was little temptation,
even to tired travellers, to play the slug-
gard upon the lumpy husk mattress and
Lilliputian pillows that had composed her

'taking boaedkes for cojipany.'

209

couch. Moreover, the air of her bed-closet
was close to stilling, and had these things
been different, the incessant gabbling in the
passages and lower rooms wc>uld have put to
iiight all thoughts of sleep that might have
visited her after five o'clock. The unseason-
able uproar was the clatter, not murmur of
three treble voices — Miss Jemima's loudest
and most piercing, and a base, which Georgie
knew for Mr. Burley's. Her room had a
window near the ceiling — a square aperture,
without sash or shutter, designed as a venti-
lator, and opening directly above the staircase.
Judging from the sounds that ascended through
this, she surmised that the invaluable Burley
was assisting his inamorata in sweeping and
dusting the first floor — stairs and piazza includ-
ed. Finding sleep to be an impracticability,
and discovering that Annie was as wakeful as
herself, Georgie arose, dressed herself and the
child, and, when the voices of the quartette
died away in the direction of the kitchen, she
ventured to leave her cell.

She was not the earliest, even of her party,
on the ground, for, seated comfortably upon
a bench in the piazza, was Mr. Earle, in close
confabulation with a young,gentleman of deci-
dedly prepossessing appearance. This, Georgie
feltsure,was Mr. Norris, although she had not
seen him the preceding evening. She made
amends for her former discourtesy by looking
him straight in the eyes, now, as her brother-in-
law named him ; acknowledging secretly, as
she did so, that his face was as full of char-
acter and refinement as his voice. His coun-
tenance brightened visibly as he was presented
to her; but it was only the expression of
pleasure one might feel at the introduction to
a friend's friend. There was not a sign that
he retained any memory of the disagreeable
incident connected with their former meeting.
The hot flush passed from Georgie's cheeks,
as she noticed this, and she responded readily
and gracefully to his efforts to engage her in
conversation. This was his second visit to
the Ketchum farm-house, she learned, and
while he could not control the amused look
that answered hers of inquiry, he yet spoke
guardedly of the indiff'erent accommodations,
and the very objectionable triumvirate that
ruled the premises. There were pleasant
walks in the woods and up the sides of the
mountain, he stated, and tolerable fishing at
certain points on the river. The hunting was
not so good ; as to the trout, he was ratlior

17^

sceptical; but Mr. Earle and himself had jnst
been arranging the details of an expedition
that should determine the truth or falsity of
that theory very shortly.

Meanwhile, Annie Bell had climbed to her
uncle's knee, and, too well trained to inter-
rupt the talk of older people, silently occupied
herself in rubbing numerous fiery spots sprin-
kled over her plump arms. Mr. Earle, chanc-
ing to glance down at her, perceived these.

'•What does this mean?" he. interrogated,
taking one of the inflamed members in his
hand.

"They are mosquito bites," replied Georgie.
" Our room was full of them. Were you not
troubled in the same way ?"

"They never trouble nie, individually.
They like me not," said Mr. Earle. " Soho,
nlosquitoes ! Why, MissFol-de-rol, the eldest
sister, wrote to us that there never had been
a mosquito seen within ten miles of Roaring
River."

"You were correctly informed, sir!" said
a pompous voice behind him. It came from
Mr. Burley, who now thrust his head and
shoulders out of the parlor window, lounging
easily upon the sill, as he continued his
remarks. "That nuisance is confined to the
low countries and the sea-coast. The crea-
ture is a lusus naturm hereabouts. The eruption
upon your niece's arms and face is a species
of rash that often appears upon the skin when
one exchanges an unhealthy for a pure air.
It is Nature's efi'ort to throw off the evil hu-
mors of the system. I notice premonitory
symptoms of the same breaking out upon
your forehead, Miss Rose."

Georgie looked down in dignified silence.
Mr. Norris took care that she should not be
obliged to speak.

"That is a reasonable theory, perhaps, Mr.
Bprley," he responded, smiling; "but, like
many other theories, it is unfortunately at
variance with facts." He plucked a leaf from
a tree overhanging the porch. "What title
do you bestow upon this insect, in the moun-
tains ? If I had met him in the less favored
Lowlands, I should not have to apply to you
for information."

Mr. Earle's laugh was echoed by Mr. Bell's,
he having just then emerged from the house.

"/ should call that a well-gorged mosqui-
to!" said the former, getting up to inspect
the hapless creature, which Norris held by the
wino-s.

210

godey's lady's book and magazine.

*'I killed twenty-fi\re of his comrades, all
as comfortably filled, before I left my cham-
ber," observed Mr. Bell. " The poor baby is
terribly peppered. I had forgotten what a
rare species they are in these parts, or I would
have caj)tured a dozen or so of the largest
alive, and brought them down for exhibition."

This raillery was received by Mr. Burley
with sulky effrontery. Deigning no reply, he
disappeared from the window, and, about ten
minutes afterwards, came out upon the piazza,
his hands full of flowers — pinks, larkspur,
and lavender, dripping with moisture. Walk-
ing up to Georgie, he offered her a bunch of
these — as stiff and tasteless a group as could
well be imagined. "We are all devotees of
Flora, here. Miss Rose."

Completely taken by surprise, Georgie ac-
cepted the bouquet, hardly knowing what she
did. Recollecting herself the next second,
she dropped it into Annie's lap, transferring
it with a daintily contemptuous gesture of her
pretty fingers that made Norris smile. It was
certain that he liked her none the less for it.

"Is that the major-domo of the establish-
ment?" queried Mr. Bell, looking after the
retreating Burley, as he obeyed a call from
the interior of the mansion.

" I have a fancy that he will become a
partner one of these days," answered Norris.
"His present position is somewhat ambigu-
ous."

Mrs. Earle came down, heavy-eyed and
pale, at the sound of the breakfast-bell, and
close behind her was Mrs. Bell.

" I did not sleep well, and have a wretched
headache this morning," she said, in reply
to Georgie's affectionate inquiries. "But I
am not disheartened. When our trunks come,
we can arrange matters to suit ourselves. I
have baby's crib-net among my things. It is
three times larger than she needs, and I have
calculated that, by cutting it up, we can fur-
nish all our windows with mosquito-bars."

" I always said that you would be a famous
manager in the back woods," rejoined her
husband, patting her shoulder.

Spunky little woman! She had reviewed
the whole " situation" in her restless brain,
during the tedious hours of that damp, breath-
less night, as she lay, in compulsory quiet of
body, upon the unyielding, uneven flock
mattress, holding Baby Florence tightly in
lier arms, lest she should roll from the tall,
narrow couch to tlie floor. Mr. B^ll and

Harry had possession of the other bed. One
of Mrs. Bell's main resolutions was that,
since the ladies of the two families had been
most eager to try the experiment of a summer
at Roaring River, they should not be the first
to complain. Like most other spirited dames
she dreaded ridicule more than physical in-
convenience, and she foresaw that an early
and ignominious abandonment of a scheme
she had been so forward in advocating would
furnish Tom Earle with perpetual material
for teasing. In imagination, she heard the
whole story talked over among the acquain-
tances to whom they had described, in glow-
ing terms, their contemplated retreat, beheld
herself and fellow-sufferers the mark for abun-
dant jests and unbearable i>ity, and she raised
her little hand in a vow that, while flesh and
blood could endure, she would, and that with-
out a murmur. Furthermore, her sisters
should do likewise !

By some telegraphical communication, ha-
bitual to the sex, these two were notified of
her determination, and signified their readi-
ness to co-operate with her, ere they reached
the breakfast-table. If the gentlemen chose
to declare their circumstances unbearable,
upon them should rest the responsibility of
changing these, and the jeers of the j)ublic.
Most women could be martyrs in a cause like
this, and all three of our fair friends had
rather more than the average amount of wit
and spirit. So each called up a smile that
looked agreeable and natural, in return for
the profuse salutations of the Misses Ketchum.
These stood just within the dining-room door,
en deshabille in calico wrappers ; en grande toi-
lette as to their hair. Miss Jemima's being
puffed over her ears, Miss Saccharissa's curled,
and Miss Hortensia's frizzed. Each wore one
of Mr. Barley's bouquets. Miss Jemima's
was at the back of her head, Miss Saccharissa's
above the left temple, while Miss Hortensia's
crowned the frizzled and pomatumed pile on
the very top of her cranium. As the other
boarders — guests, I should say — entered, they
were presented with much pomp of language,
if not of circumstance, to the later comers.
They were, taken as a whole, an attractive
looking company. There were half-a-dozen
ladies besides those of our party, and about
the same number of gentlemen and children,
and all, with the single exception of Mr.
Burley, had the appearance and manners of
well-bred x>eople.

*' TAKING BOARDERS FOR COMPANY.

211

This last-named personage did not sit with
the rest ; but carved at a side-table, dispens-
ing amazingly small strips of a tough, leath-
ery substance, complimented by the name of
*' steak." There were, besides this chief viand,
two large soup plates of a mixture, suspicious
in looks and 0|.lor, called ''hash ;" two others
of stewed potatoes, hard, grayish, and waxy ;
two parts of butter, and four piles of bread,
exactly similar in appearance and character to
that served up to the hungry travellers the
night before. Bessie Earle, a fastidious miss
of six summers, turned up her nose at the
hash, and after a futile effort to masticate the
steak, furtively withdrew the gristly morsel
from her mouth, and depositing it upon the
side of her plate declared to her mother that
she did '-not feel like eating, somehow!"
Distressed at this failure of appetite, Mrs.
Earle turned to Miss Saccharissa, who stood
nearest her chair, and a^ied, politely, if the
child could have an egg.

''Certainly! I hope you will never feel
any hesitation in asking for what you wish !"
replied that young lady, benignly, and with-
drew from the room to see to the fuliilment of
the request.

In a minute or two she was back again, and
leaning over Mrs. Earle' s shoulder, with un-
ruffled urbanity of visage and manner ex-
pressed her regret that there was not an egg
in the house. The last had been boiled for
the late supper of the previous evening.

"How then did they clear the coffee?"
wondered Mrs. Bell, who always drank tea.

A glance at the muddy liquid in her hus-
band's cup laid this thought to rest.

"Eggs are awfully scarce, frightfully dear ! "
said Miss Jemima, who had overheard' the
petition and rej)ly. "And in a family like
ours we use an immense quantity. But I
tliink it is sinful to murmur. My brother
writes me from the city that they are selling
in their market for thirty cents a dozen. Oh,
oh, oh-h! isn't that dreadful! Just think
liow the poor must suffer in those large towns !
And even the middle and wealthy classes
have to submit to privations that we happy
country people never dream of. When I
reflect how many of my fellow-creatures sub-
sist upon swill milk, stale vegetables, and taste-
less baker's bread, I am moved to thankful-
ness that my lines were cast in such pleasant
places. Have you ever visited Washington,
Mr. Norris ?"

"Ihave, madam."

" The fare in the hotels there is abominable,
isn't it?"

"It did not strike me as being unbearable."

"Didn't it ? I passed one winter in Wil-
lard's, while my brother was in Congress.
0, what a gay time I had I I so enjoyed
meeting the distinguished men of the day !
My brother's parlor was the favorite resort of
such statesmen as Clay, Crittenden, Webster,
and Calhoun. I became very intimate with
them."

"Indeed! I had not supposed that your
brother was a Congressman so long ago,"
rejoined Norris, with admirable gravity. " I
thought him comparatively a young man,
your junior, in fact. I never imagined that
he was contemporary with Calhoun."

"Is there nothing which that sweet child
will eat, Mrs. Earle?" Miss Jemima became
suddenly very solicitous for Bessie's comfort.
"We have such a variety that something
must surely tempt her. We always study to
set a varied and ai:)petizing assortment of
eatables before our friends."

" I will trouble you for a glass of new milk
and a slice of toasted bread, if you please.
She is not very well this morning, I think,"
said Mrs. Earle, in her gentle, lady-like way.

"Ilortensia, give the oi'der!" said Miss
Jemima, briskly.

The milk was brought pretty soon, and re-
membering Mary's story, Mrs. Earle raised
the glass to her own lips before giving it to
Bessie. There was no mistaking the quality
of the beverage. It had been both skimmed
and watered. It did not even leave a white
trace on the side of the tumbler as it regained
its level.

" I am very sorry" — this time it was Miss
Ilortensia' s turn to be affably apologetic at
Mrs. Earle' s ear — " but the kitchen fire is so
low that the cook says she cannot possibly
toast a slice of bread over it."

This general lowness of condition was, by
the way, as all the boarders speedily discov-
ered, a chronic complaint of the kitchen-fire.

"It is so hot that we only kindle it up to
prepare the regular meals," Miss Jemima ex-
plained. V We could not work in the room
where a constant fire was kept."

Mrs. Earle had a queer sensation in her
throat as she broke up a piece of dry bread
into Bessie's milk, and saw her try, dutifully,
in obedience to her injunction, to swallow it.

212

GODEY S lady's BOOK A:N"D MAGAZI]S"E.

Slie recollected, as a morsel of consolation,
that she had that morning found still re-
maining in the luncheon-basket a store of
biscuits and sandwiches. How little she had
known of their real value when she provided
so liberallj for their journey! She was glad
to think, moreover, that there were a box of
crackers ; a fine old English cheese ; cakes,
sugar, lemons, wine, and wax candles among
the baggage which would probably reach them
before night-fall. Crusoe, on his desert island,
did not overhaul the chest cast ashore with
more trembling hoj^e and anxiety than did
this thrifty housewife and tender mother
rehearse mentally the contents of the precious
boxes — yet undelivered.

By nine o'clock the sun gave promise of
throwing aside the envious mantle of cloud,
and the ladies caught, with avidity, at a pro-
position broached by Mr. Bell, that they
should don hats and overshoes and walk to a
neighboring eminence, said to command a fine
view. The grass was high and wet in the
orchard through which their way lay, and the
trees loaded with rain drops ; but they were
not to be turned back by these trifles, remem-
bering the ennui that awaited them in the
house they left behind. After ten minutes'
tramp, they stood upon "Prospect Hill."
It overlooked meadow lands on either side of
the river, in one direction ; the Ketchum farm
buildings in another ; the view was bounded
abruptly upon two others by a range of pro-
saic, monotonous mountains, with no partic-
ular beauty of outline ; not high enough to
be grand, nor was the forest that formed their
scanty covering noteworthy for aught except
the frequent black patches that interrupted
the green, and the curling smoke, that beto-
kened these to be the work of charcoal-burners.
The river was, at its broadest part, half a mile
in width ; a muddy, sluggish stream, wallow-
ing between reedy and marshy banks.

Georgie exclaimed with disappointment —
then, remembering the feminine compact,
tried to divert her escort's attention from her
indiscretion.

'' Why ' Roaring River ?' " she asked. "It
is qui^t enough here."

" There is a tale to the effect that it is a
turbulent rivulet near its mountain source,"
replied Mr. Norris. " Tlie Misses Ketchum
are eloquent in their description of the grand
cascade to be found by diligent search about
twenty miles up the stream. If you remain

here until clear weather, Mrs. Bell, we can
make wp a party to visit it. At this point, I
grant you, Miss Rose, that it ' roars you soft
as any sucking dove.' "

Mr. Earle ejaculated a monosyllable in his
wife's ear, as, warned by the darkening hea-
vens that another shower was ; at hand, they
beat a precipitate retreat from their post of
observation.

'"Bosh!" he said, emphatically, and she
knew that the scenery and the indoor accom-
modations were alike written down in his
books as a " sell."

It rained so persistently, for three days
more, that the question was gravely mooted
whether the sun were here, as in the polar
regions, invisible for half the year. The first
day and a half were consumed by the Bell
party in unpacking trunks and contriving
ways and means to convert their cells into
tenable habitations. " Stow close" was here,
as at sea, the imperative maxim. Trunks
were summarily banished to the hall, even at
the risk of torn dresses and bruised shins.
Under Mrs. Bell's strait, slender-limbed bed-
stead were packed, with due regard to order,
first, a dozen bottles of wine, and as many
of porter, laid in rows upon their sides ; then
came a square tin box of crackers — sweet,
Graham, and butter — and a round, wooden
one of cheese ; next, a leather case of boots
and shoes ; and nearest the foot a covered
clothes-basket. No decent mechanic in the
crowded streets of her native city would have
endured to live in such a fashion ; but the
brave-souled matron said to herself and others
that it was absurd to expect the comforts
of home anywhere except at home, and made
a heroic display of merriment over the shifts
to which they were obliged to resort in order
to move and breathe.

She was not singular in her philosophical
principles and attempted practice of the same.
Yet the feeble show of jollity that reigned
nightly in the parlor which Miss Jemima
described as "the home of social mirth and
intellectual converse," deceived none of the
participants therein into a belief of its reality.
The ladies crocheted and sewed about the cen-
tre-table, conversing in subdued tones ; the
gentlemen, having discussed their cigars in tlie
damp piazza, sauntered in, one by one, and
allowed themselves to be set down to whist ;
submitted to be talked to by one or the other,
often by all the Misses Ketchum, or sat gloomily

"taking boarders for company."

213

apart, ]3oring over newspapers three days old ;
for, among the advantages of the place which
Jiliss Jemima had accidentally omitted to
mention, was a semi-weeklj, instead of a
daily mail. The triad of sisters were, we
may safely say, the only ones who really en-
joyed ther pet "evening reunions." The
domestic duties of the day were over ; the
feeble kitchen fire allowed to perish peace-
fully. Assisted by Mr. Burley, Miss Saccha-
lissa had washed and wiped the dishes ; Miss
Jemima arranged the preliminaries for break-
fast and stored the day's scraps ; Miss Hor-
tensia scolded, while she helped the bound-
girl to put water in every room and towels
where they were due ; for these indispensable
articles were, like the mail, distributed but
twice a week, and then only one or two to
each room. And, decked in other and gayer
robes than they had worn through the hours
of daylight, the Misses Ketchum appeared in
the state apartment and addressed themselves
to the work of entertaining their "friends."
Not. that what Mr. Earle rudely, but confiden-
tially anathematized as their " confounded
clock," was more incessant then than at other
times. All three talked continually, Miss
Jemima especially. Sweeping, dusting, cook-
ing, serving, or waiting, her tongue was a
terrible confirmation of St. James' wisdom and
knowledge of the gentler portion of mankind,
when he XJi'onounced it to be an "unruly evil,
which no man can tame."

But, in the social gathering after tea, the
hostesses sank the kitchen and chamberwork.
Belles lettres, the fine arts, fashions and flir-
tations were matters to which they did there
most seriously incline. Then would Miss
Jemima beg leave to delight the company with
"the sweetest thing" from Tupper or Willis,
and enunciate astounding bits of information
concerning this or that author, generally a frag-
ment of personal history, she vouching for the
authenticity of the story upon the strength of
an acquaintanceship with the notability under
discussion, formed "in my brother's parlor in
Washington, while he was a member of Con-
gress." The parlors, so often aforesaid, would
seem to have been an omnium gatherum of
celebrities, since there was scarcely one be-
longing to this century whom she had not met
within its charmed precincts during that
* ' heavenly winter in the capital. ' ' Miss Jemima
was strong upon adjectives.

During these three days and nights, the

most powerful emotion of our city party,
mastering even their extreme sense of discom-
fort, and soreness of acknowledgment that
they were the victims of an egregious and
barefaced imposition — was a feeling of over-
whelming wonderment at volubility so amaz-
ing — to them unprecedented and terrific.
The marvel was that the woman's vocal appa-
ratus did not absolutely wear out.

"Sheet iron and steel springs would have
gone to wreck long ago, with one-half the
friction," said Mr. Earle. "But gabbling is
Jemima's normal state. She does violence to
her whole nature whenever she shuts her

mouth. ' '

(To "be continued.)

WAIT !

BY J, H. G.

Voyager on life's billowy main! Is thy
sky overcast ? Does the storm gather ? Art
thou dashing upon the rocks ? Do the surges
rise,' threatening every moment to engulf
thee ? Dost thou feel thy heart sinking, thy
courage failing, and all ready to sink down in
despair ? Wait ! Yes, voyager, wait. The
storm cannot always rage ; the tempest must
spend its fury ; and the fiercer the elements
rage, the sooner must the storm pass. So
surely as we have the assurance from God
himself that there shall be no more flood, and
we behold his pledge in the heavens after the
descending shower, just so surely will the tem-
pest cease, and a blessed calm and sunshine
follow.

Life has its Marahs of sorrow and suflfering ;
but there never was a night so dark and cheer-
less but there followed a morning, and sorrow
taken in a right spirit cannot fail to beautify,
enlarge, and ennoble the soul, and make one
more spiritual. And He who once on Geth-
semane's sea bade the raging waters "Be
still ! ' ' can speak to thy soul, voyager, peace,
and bid thee wait^ and in his own good time,
if thou walkest worthy of it, the reward shall
follow; perhaps not while a partaker of the
changes of time, but will it be any the less
welcome because an eternal reward ? Add
to thy faith patience, and bide the time.

Wait, voyager, wait.

Praise and Blame. — Praise, when the rea-
sons for it are given, is double praise ; censure,
without the reasons for it, is only half censure.

BEL DANA'S TEMPT ATI OlSr.

Had ever a woman sncli wooing ? Ever
since Mother Eve, for the want of some other
occupation probably, went flirting with the
wily old serpent in the garden of Eden, down
to the present day, it has seemed woman's
especial prerogative to be forever putting her
foot into some unfortunate afi'air.

Now, if Eve must taste from the forbidden
tree, why need all her many daughters go
reaching for the tempting fruit that turns to
ashes on the lips ? It was a great temptation,
greater than Bel Dana could withstand — she
whose young head was overflowing with all
manner of romancing nonsense ; and, besides,
it was her first ofl'er — and who ever heard of a
woman saying "Yes" to that, or owning to
it if she did ? So the forbidden tree in Bel
Dana's Eden looked very temptingly that
summer's day, and the serpent coiled in its
branches, winked its bright eyes, aiid seemed
to whisper "Pluck and eat." So the little
"No" hovered for an instant only on her lips,
and then was spoken.

Now, Bel Dana had always thought of lovers
that should come sighing and trembling to
her feet, asking but to touch the hem of her
garment, and be forever transported to re-
gions of perfect bliss ; and that she could say
" No," and " Never," in terrible disdain, and
still hold them willing captives until such
time as she was tired of conquest, and then
smile radiantly upon the most eligible of them
all, and see the others expire with envy, or
grow wild with despair.

But romance is one thing, and reality is
decidedly another ; and how her romance
sufi'ered that afternoon when Fred Leighton,
instead of crouching at her feet like a whipped
spaniel, or rolling his eyes like a love-lorn
Romeo, paused in the interesting occupation
of mending his fishing-line, and said, without
preface or preamble, "Bel Dana, you are the
dearest girl in all this world; will you marry
me?"

Oh what a fall was there ! Airy castles,
that for years had been looming up in the
glowing future — that beautiful Utopia of girl-
hood — how they tottered and fell in that one
little moment, and all Bel Dana's bright
214

dreams and romancing lay deep down under
the ruins.

It was a rude awakening, and if it had come
from any other lips than Fred Leighton' s she
could have borne it better, for, truth to tell,
all Bel Dana's heroes were vastly like Fred.
No matter how she disguised them under fierce
moustaches, or sent them galloping away on
fiery chargers, with "sword and pistols by
their sides," they were sure to turn back
somewhere in the plot, with a gesture or a
speech so exactly like Fred Leighton' s that
even the little dreamer herself could not fail
to see who was the hero. But never in her
wildest dreaming had she ever imagined a-
lover making love to her in the broad glare of
a June afternoon, lying at full length on the
green bank of a brawling brook, while he
angled for trout or mended his fishing-line.

Bel Dana's face grew very red at first, and
then white, and her short upper lip took an
extra curve, as she bent low over Longfellow's
" Evangeline" that lay idly on her lap ; but
she could not read, no, not if the whole world
had been gained thereby.

The line was mended, and a brilliant fly at
the end danced merrily on the sun-lit water,
when Fred looked back over his shoulder and
said — " Why don't you speak to me, Bel ?"

This was the moment of temptation. Should
she come down meekly from her pedestal of
pride, and say, humbly, " Yes, " like any com-
mon maiden ? or should she teach Frederick
Leighton that the man that won her heart could
not do it so easily as he could draw a shining
trout from the water ? How the old serpent
writhed, and twisted, and coiled in and out
among the green leaves, and hissed, "Be not
lightly won ; a heart that is worth the asking
is worth a world of trouble to obtain." It
would be a splendid triumph to bring this
saucy independent Fred Leighton sighing to
her feet ; and so Bel Dana pursed up her
mouth, tossed her head, and said, emphat-
ically, "No!"

"Oh, Bel, what a beauty! look, quick!"
and a little crimson-speckled trout swung
back and forth in the bright sunshine, high
over her head. "Just come and see if he

BEL DANA'S TEMPTATION.

215

isn't a beauty, Bel, and the largest of the
lot;" and Fred laid all his shining treasures,
one by one, down on the bank to compare
with it.

Bel curled her lip, and looked supremely
indifferent to all kinds of fish or fishermen,
and thought, '' Is that the man that five min-
utes ago asked me to marry him?" So she
leaned quiefty back against the old apple-
tree, and tried to follow meek-eyed Evangeline
in her lonely journeying after her lost lover.
But the charm was broken ; her eyes would
wander away to the fleecy white clouds sail-
ing so lazily along on the faintest of all rose-
scented June breezes, or listen to the rippling
music of the water as it danced away over the
smooth pebbles in the soft sunshine. it
was a glorious afternoon ! filled with the
young summer's freshest beauty, vocal with
bird-songs, and heavy with fragrance. One
hour before Bel Dana would have gazed en-
tranced upon such a scene as lay before her ;
but now, she could see nothing of all this
beauty ; know nothing, but that Fred Leigh-
ton lay there in the shadow of the great
apple-tree, watching the sparkling water,
while the soft wind tossed the hair back from
his white forehead, utterly oblivious to all
things. It seemed an age since that little
word had slipped over her lij)S, that she had
uttered in such pride, but somehow she felt
none of the promised pleasure that she had
expected ; she had tasted from her forbidden
tree, and found it very, very bitter.

A motherly robin sat in her nest up in the
apple-tree branches, and tipped her head at
Bel, and winked and blinked in such a know-
ing way, while the yellow-breasted husband
went dashing in and out, piping his shrill
song, or bringing a delicate supper for his
faithful spouse in the shape of a worm full
four inches long. Little innocent things, how
happy they are ! thought Bel, bringing her
eyes down from the tree at last to see Fred
reeling in his line, while he whistled merrily,
looking anything but a disconsolate, discarded
lover.

"Ma belle! did I -understand you to say
' No' to me this afternoon ?" he said, at length,
throwing himself down on the soft turf, in
the deepest shadow, and looking over to
where Bel was sitting.

*'I said it."

*'And what could have tempted you to re-
fuse such a splendid husband as I shall mal>e,

Bel Dana? I am afraid you will regret it;"
and Fred laughed that peculiar chuckling
laugh of his that always made Bel think of
bubbling water.

''Because I do not love you, Mr. Leighton.
I think that is a sufficient reason why I should
not marry you."

" Not love me ? Why, little Bel, you have
loved me ever since you were so high. Not
love me, indeed ! well, that is rich ;" and Fred
lay back on the grass and laughed until the
old robin on her nest quaked with fright.

" I do not love you, Fred Leighton, and
what is still more to the purpose, I hate you
desperately." This was said in the most em-
phatic manner, while her face went crimson,
and tears started Into her flashing eyes. ' ' Love
you, indeed ! I should scorn myself if I
thought it."

" Little pet, then why did you not go with
all the others to Beresford Abbey to-day,
wiien Colby Vincent went down on his knees
to you almost to make you consent to go,
and proud Cleve Terry even turned back to
see if you had not changed your mind at the
last moment ? I think the other girls must
have felt the compliment. Two lackadaisical
swains, looking as though they were going to
the stake, instead of joining a brilliant picnic
party — and all because Lady Bel Dana refused
to lend the sunshine of her presence on the
occasion. Ha, ha ! Own up to me now, Bel ;
you thought of the cool shadow of this glorious
old apple-tree, when you said ' No' to them,
didn't you ? and you knew I would come here
and fish — and — and you didn't hate me then,
did you, Bel?"

"Then, now, and forever!" And Bel Dana
swept past him with the air of a tragedy
queen, only that she was so very petite the
effect was quite spoiled. She made one think
of an enraged little wren.

Half, an hour after, Fred Leighton came
whistling along through the orchard, bringing
his fishing implements and flinging them down
in the back piazza, while he displayed his
finny treasures to Kitty, who promised to have
them instantly made ready for supper. After
that, Bel heard him come up to his room and
go down again, and then she heard him sing-
ing in the parlor snatches of that beautiful
duet they had practised together that morn-
ing, and then playing over all those delicious
waltzes until her very brain went wild hearing
him.

216

godey's lady's book and magazine.

The sun went down toward the amber-
clouded west, and the first pale star peeped
forth, and still Bel Dana sat thinking — "you
have loved me ever since you were so high."
Ah, that was the unkindest cut of all. How
dare he say it ? And was it not true ? Years
ago, almost as far back as she could remem-
ber, Hal Dana and Fred Leighton had been
like brothers. Every summer vacation was
spent by them at the old farm-house, and
since they had gone into business, the old
time pleasures could not all be given up, so
every few weeks, all through the summer, they,
together with several of their friends, man-
aged to spend a few days among the cool
shadows at the farm.

And so, Bel Dana grew*up to girlhood,
thinking of the pleasant days when Hal and
Fred were home, and growing to think at last
that they were the only pleasant days that
came in all the long, bright year.

The last fold in the red banner that draped
the west had faded, other stars came out in
the blue sky, and the young moon's pale
crescent yet lingered over the old pine woods,
when the tramp of horses' feet along the
smooth road announced the "coming home."
Rose Vincent came first, with Hal ; Bel could
hear her sweet voice laughing as they came,
ringing out on the clear evening air like music.
May Terry came meekly along under the
awful shadow of her brother's wing; while
young Vincent managed to ride very close on
the other side.

Bel Dana had settled it in her own mind,
some months before, that beautiful Rose Vin-
cent was to be her sister, sooner or later, so,
when she crept softly up to her room not long
after, with her riding-skirt over her arm,
and the plumes of her hat drooping over her
dark curls, and bent down over Bel's chair,
and whispered "Sister," she folded her arms
around her neck and cried ; whether for joy
at Rose's happiness, or she found tears a
convenient escape-valve for her own private
wretchedness.

Bel excused herself from going down to
tea, and so all that evening merry voices came
up from the piazza, and she had the supreme
satisfaction of hearing Rose Vincent singing
her part in the new duet, and over and above
all the rest came Fred Leighton' s laughter,
happy and gay. It must have been late when
they separated for the night, for Bel had
been dozii:)g a long time when May Terry's

soft lips touched her cheek and said "Good-
night."

" You will be well enough to go to-morrow,
won't you, Bel? Cleve has looked dismal
enough to-day, and I know it's because you
were not with us. Do you know, Bel, I think
he loves you ?"

"Oh. dear me ! No, don't let him. May !'*
and Bel sat bolt upright, clasping her hands,
and looking the very picture of despair.
' ' What shall I do ? Tell him he must not. May ;
never, never in the- world. Will you. May,
promise me ?" and Bel, with her great fright-
ened eyes, and disordered hair, looked wild
enough.

" Is he so very disagreeable then, Bel?"

"Oh, no, not that, dear May; but I don't
love him, and I can't tell him, it would seem
so — so "

" W^ell, nevermind ; perhaps I 'm mistaken
after all. Bell ; don't think anymore about it,
dear ; good-night ;" and May Terry went out,
and closed the door softly behind her.

The morning sun had but just peeped over
the eastern hills when merry voices broke in
upon Bel Dana's slumbers, and the girls en-
tered her room ready for the day's excursion.

Half an hour after they were all en route
for the gypsy encampment, lying down the
valley some dozen miles. Cleve Terry con-
stituted himself Bel's particular cavalier, and
Fred Leighton took timid little Ma}^ under his
special guardianship, while Mr. Vincent was
forced into escorting one of the dashing Len-
oxes. They were a gay party ; but still poor
Bel Dana, how miserably jealous she felt
seeing May Terry's pale cheeks grow crimson,
her eyes sparkle, and her light laughter ripple
back on the swift wings of the morning wind,
mingling with Fred's !

Oh, had ever a woman a lover like that ?
The shining old serpent, now trailing over all
the flowers, that so short a time ago were
filling her Eden with beauty, hissed again — ■
" Flirt with Cleve Terry ; don't let a lover see
that he has it in his power to make you mis-
erable. Flirt, flirt with Cleve Terry!" But
that idea was too ridiculous, had poor heart-
sick Bel felt ever so much inclined, for one
would as soon have thought of coquetting with
an iceberg as Cleve Terry, who never was known
to descend from his rigid perpendicularity.
"Oh, wo to the angel in woman's guise,"
thought Bell, " that dares trouble the waters
in that placid pool !"

BEL DANA S TEMPTATION.

217

Little, indeed, did Bel Dana think, riding
swiftly along on that beautiful morning, think-
ing only of her own troubles, that the angel
had already disturbed the deep waters in the
heart of Cleve Terry, and they were at that
very moment swelling and surging, making
the strong man a very child. Before the day
was over, however, she knew it all. He had
not intended it ; but it came so naturally, so
easily, riding back in the gathering darkness
of the coming night, and Bel beside him, so
still and quiet, so unlike her usual brilliant
spirits that he felt his heart go out towards
lier in sympathy, and he longed to fold her in
his arms, and keep her quiet, still, peaceful,
all her life.

It had been a miserable day to Bel, and she
was going home now, feeling so lonely, so
wretciied, that the tears would sometimes
force themselves from under the closed eye-
lids, no matter how hard she tried to keep
them back, and trickle down over her burn-
ing cheeks. how beautiful the glittering
fruit on the tree of temptation, little Bel ! but
how bitter, how accursed w^hen plucked and
tasted. It was a very gentle hand laid on
Bel Dana's bridal rein, and a low, kind voice
that said: "Bell, you are unhappy; what
troubles you ?"

It was in vain that she tried to evade the
question, and go faster ; her horse was under
a firmer hand than hers now, so, no matter
how wildly her chafed spirit longed to escape,
she must sit quietly and hear it all.

*'Teil me, Bel, what troubles you?" he
said, again feeling the hand that he was half
crushing in his tremble.

''Why do you think me troubled, Mr. Terry ?
Suiiely a woman can stop talking without
trouble, can't she?" and Bel tried to laugh,
but it sounded strangely forced and unnatural.

''I think not, Bel. Certainly, not you, for
it is as hard for you to stop talking as for a
bright little running brook to stop singing.
Listen to me, Bel. I must tell you, to-night,
though I have vowed a thousand times not to,
I love you, Bel Dana, dearly, dearly ! Can you
love me ?"

how the blear-eyed old serpent of a few
moments ago now sparkled and shone ! The
eyes were glittering like a thousand stars,
and the forked tongue hissed, "This is indeed
revenge. Show him that the heart he treats
but lightly, another stoops to win ; say yes —
yes — yes."

VOL. LXIX. 18

"Bel, darling, can you love me?" How
tenderly the little half-crushed hand was
pressed and carried up to the lips asking for
love ! How the sick heart, throbbing in Bel
Dana's bosom, whispered, "Surely, this is
love ! I will try — I '11 think no more of one
that — that" —

"Speak to me, Bel, just one word; do you
love me ?"

Out on the tip end of the highest branch on
the tree of temptation hung this golden, glit-
tering apple, higher, higher, and higher ; still
Bel Dana reached her hands to grasp it, but
every light breeze blew it just a little breath
beyond — and, welling up from the depths of
her tremulous, fluttering heart, the little
answer struggled, and the old serpent hissed,
"Now, take it," and into her open hands
drifted the golden fruit, and over the white
lips drifted the low-breathed "Yes." •

Had a thunderbolt fallen at Bel's feet, it
could not have startled her more than the
sound of her own voice, speaking what she
knew was, in the sight of high Heaven, the
blackest falsehood. But she had said it, and
her half-palsied tongue refused to take it
back ; so she sat mute and statue-like, while
Cleve Terry told her how she had made hid
loveless life beautiful — how henceforth she was
to be his, his only, brightest and best beloved.

How all that long night Bel Dana tossed
upon her restless pillow ! how dark life looked
to her ! Where now was the glittering-eyed
tempter? where now the promisor of a sweet
revenge ? Hidden down under all the bright-
est dreams in this young life, watching how
well his work had been done. All the next
day she lay in her darkened room, refusing
entrance to all but her mother. Even Mr.
Terry turned away from the door unanswered,
and went silently down the stairs. She heard
Fred Leighton's voice in the hall, once or
twice, speaking gently, and from that she
turned wearily away, letting the tears flow
softly down. 0, revenge is sweet !

It was near evening ; the soft wind swept
the rose-leaves clustering around the window
into little pink drifts on the couch where she
lay, looking out into the stillness beyond^.
How quiet everything was ! only the last
sweet songs of the birds flitting home to their
nests, or the lowing of cattle on the far-ofl'
hillsides — these were all the soTinds to be
heard, and over all went the golden sheen of
the setting sun. O, this world i& beautiful I:

218

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Pity tliat there sliould come sin or sorrow,
heartbreakings and weariness, and at last
dying.

There came a firm step @n the stairs, a low
knock on the door, and immediately after
Hal Dana entered the room.

'•Bel, child, what is the matter with you?
AYhat have you been doing ?"

"Oh, Harry" — and she turned her pale face
down to the pillow — " I am so wretched ! you
don't know."

"No, to be sure I don't know; and it's
just for the express purpose of finding out
that I am here ; and I want you to tell me
instantly all about it. There's Cleve Terry
down stairs deserves a strait-jacket — walking
up and down incessantly, refusing to eat
or to sleep, and is making a fool of himself
generally ; and as for Fred, something's wrong
with him, too — he sits with his hands thrust
into his pockets, and glares at Cleve like a
wild beast, and never speaks ; and if you '11
believe it, actually refused a cigar not fifteen
minutes ago. Now, you may rest assured,
something 's up with him, and it must be
something avjful! It 's a good thing the Len-
oxes have taken the girls off; they 'd have a
precious time here with things in this state.
Mother's snivelling in the back kitchen, and
father's stared at the Christian Observer for
two long hours, and it 's bottom side up all
the while. Heavens and earth, it's enough
to make a man go distracted!"

"Harry, dear, don't be cross to me. I am
so miserable."

"Well, child, what makes you so ? what 's
the fuss ?" And Hal drew his chair up to his
sister's sofa. "Tell me all about it, Bel; that's
a good girl ; I 'm not going to be cross, not at
alL"

After many tears and breakings down, it
was told at last, told between sobs and Har-
ry's ramping up and down the chamber like a
caged lion, and denying all the while that he
wasn't as cool as an icicle — told in a voice
choking with tears, but told wliolly without
the slightest concealment — and Bel felt better.

"Now I'll tell you what must be done."
This was said emphatically, and the tear-
stained face looked anxiously up. "Bel, you
must t<3ll Cleve Terry this story from beginning
to end."

"0 Harry, dear Harry! I cannot ; anything
but that" — and she buried her head in the
pillows.

" Then you are no sister of mine, Bel Dana.
Am I to have two of my dearest friends made
fools of just for your silly caprice? No, Bel,
in justice to yourself do this ; it 's the only
honorable way ; you must know, child, this
is no light matter. Look at Cleve Terry's
face to-day, and tell me then if you think it
child's play. Oh, Bel, would to Heaven you
had never done this !"

A stifled groan was his only answer.

"I don't say that Fred hasn't done wrong,
too, Bell ; but you ought to know him by this
time. Why, little sister, he has loved you as
man loves but once in a lifetime. Years ago,
Bel, when you were sick, and we all thought
you were going to die, he loved you then,
and what do you think it must be, living on
till now ? Oh, Bel, you had nearly cast away
a priceless treasure, a loving heart!"

Another little groan and shiver was his
answer.

"Come, Bel, don't lie there and cry; make
yourself ready, and come down. I will go and
tell Cleve that you wish to speak with him in
the parlor. Come ; I will give you twenty
minutes."

"I cannot; never, never. Oh, Harry, will
nothing else do ?"

"Nothing, my dear sister; your lij>s have
deceived him, and they must undeceive.
Think of Am, Bell, if Ije loves you, and I am
afraid he does — what will this be to him.
Coming even from your lips it will be wretch-
edness, and from any other's it would be an
insult as well. Come, don't be selfish ; poor
child, I am sorry for you ;" and Harry Dana
put his arms around his sister, and kissed her
flushed cheeks, and went out, leaving her
alone.

Half an hour after a little trembling figure
crept stealthily into the parlor, in the gray
twilight, with eyes swollen with tears, and a
face as white as her dress.

"Did you wish to speak to me, Bel?" and
Cleve Terry came forward to meet her. "Are
you better, Bel ?" he asked, tenderly, seating
her on a couch by the window.

It took a long time to answer, and a longer
time still to tell him why she came to him ;
but it was all over at last ; and all the bright
hopes that had buoyed him up in this new
found world of bliss went drifting slowly
away, and he was again afloat in the old
ocean of loneliness, now darker and drearier
than ever.

WANTS AND WISHES.

219

"And are you sure you love him now,
Bel?" he asked, at length, thinking of Fred.

"Yes. I love him. I have loved him ever
since I was a little child." She said it softly
and low. "But I did not know how much
until I promised to love you, and then, look-
ing into my own heart, I saw how utterly and
basely I had wronged you, and so — and so I
came to see how much I loved him."

" And he loves you ? God bless you both,
good-by;" and before Bel Dana could realize
it, a swift kiss had descended upon her
upturned forehead, and her hands had been
clasped in his, and then she was alone.

The room was quite dark now, only the
pale moonlight lay without soft and still.
Presently a footstep sounded at the door, and
soon after, a gentle voice whispered — "For-
give me, darling ; I had not dreamed that I
could lose you." Surely Bell Dana's hate was
not very desperate, sitting there in the cool
stillness of the summer's night, listening to
words spoken so low that not even the light-
winged zephyr, floating in through the vine-
draped window, could catch the faintest
whisper.

This beautiful summer finds a gay party
with Fred Leighton and his wife enjoying the
cool breezes at the old farm.

Cleve Terry lives abroad ; Harry and Rose
saw him often on their wedding-tour, and hint
of a "dark-eyed ladie" that he will probably
bring home with him when he comes.

The flowers in Bel Leighton' s Eden are all
fresh and fragrant to-day. No glittering
temptation woos her from the beautiful path
where she walks uprightly, no reaching forth
to grasp at fancied pleasure that fades while
yet your hands are clasping it, for she learned
long years ago, that "the trail of the serpent
was over it all ! "

WANTS AND WISHES.

"Man wants but little here below," is a
somewhat vague and indefinite expression.
For who can determine the exact limits of
man's needs, or fix a boundary to his require-
ments ?

It is not what are termed the bare necessa-
ries of life, the plain food and simple raiment,
which can in all cases be designated as wants,
and everything beyond as superfluities.

The same things which in one state of
society assume the nature of superfluities will

become real needs in another. It was re-
marked by Sydney Smith that all degrees of
nations begin by living in pig-sties. "The
king or the priest^irst gets out of them, then
the noble, then the pauper ; in proportion as
each class becomes more opulent. Better
tastes arise from better circumstances, and
the luxury of one period is the wretchedness
of another. ' '

We are accustomed to designate as comforts
many of those luxuries and elegancies of life
which long usage has rendered so familiar,
that to be deprived of such would be felt as
hardships.

The mind becomes so familiarized with the
surroundings of daily existence, that the very
objects which at first seem magnificent and
luxurious will gradually, and by constant
association, form a part of our ordinary re-
quirements, and be sought for as such. If a
dozen persons were asked to gi\^ an example
of a luxury, it is more than probable that at
least eleven out of the twelve would bring
forward something, the enjoyment or use of
which they seldom or ever experience. Thus
individual habits and social custotns are
amongst the most authoritative dictators as to
what we must have, and what we can do
without. And it is a common and true remark
that if we do not accustom ourselves to the
use of such and such things, we shall never feel
the want of them, if we are deprived of them.
Life is a season of anticipation ; full of
hopes, expectations, and desires. There are
few whose thoughts are so completely absorbed
in the time being, the occupations and events
of the passing hour, as to be quite free from
all speculations as to the future. None can
be said to live strictly in the present ; all are
more or less prone to indulge in schemes for
future carrying out, to planning for the time to
come, as best suits their ideas of happiness.
Thought, reason, the reflective faculties, while
they lead us in a retrospective direction, alike
encourage a prospective range of fancy. To
rise above mere animal instinct, to aspire to
something beyond mere animal enjoyments,
is both the privilege and nature of the human
mind and understanding, and in proportion to
the degree of culture which the mental organ-
ization is brought to sustain, so will these
aspirations ascend in the intellectual scale.
"It is only a barbarous and ignorant people,"
says Sydney Smith, ' ' that can ever be occu-
pied by the necessaries of life alone."

220

godey's lady's book akd magazine.

Tiius it is that civilization produces wants
yvliich savage life cannot even anticipate ; and
when we read or hear of the aborigines of
any country we intuitively form an opinion
how far they are removed from barbarism
according to the knowledge we have of their
acquaintance with the arts and conveniences
of civilized life. The improvements, inven-
tions, and discoveries ever going on in a highly
civilized state not only increase the number,
but materially alter the character of what is
considered as the requirements of the age.
There is a passage in Lord Macaulay ' s ' ' William
and Mary" very significant, as illustrating the
different estimation in which the same quali-
fication, or rather the absence of a qualification
is held at different periods, or in various
stages of society.

In alluding to the two antagonistic com-
manders of the battle of Landen, the great
historian s§tys : "Never perhaps was the
change which the progress of civilization has
produced in the art of war more strikingly
illustrated than on that day. At Landen two
poor sickly beings, who in a rude state of
society would have been regarded as too puny
to bear any part in combat, were the souls of
two great armies. In some heathen countries
they would have been exposed while infants.
In Christendom, they would six hundred
years earlier have been sent to some quiet
cloister. But their lot had fallen on a time
when men had discovered that the strength
of the muscles is far inferior in value to the
strength of the mind."

Yet none will regard this triumph of the
mental over the physical as owing solely to
the intrinsic value of the former, but to its
adaptation to existing circumstances. When
bodily vigor was in the ascendant, it was
peculiarly fitted for the exigencies of the mode
of warfare then existing ; then the force of
the human arm was indispensable in wielding
the huge weapons of warfare, which had not
yet given place to the firearms of modern
times, and for which something besides simple
muscular strength is necessary to their suc-
cessful using.

As in the art of war, so also in every other
department of human affairs, progress every-
where brings about an alteration in the re-
quirements of the age.

Progress, which is the gradual advancement
step by step towards the summit of perfection,
tramples under feet as useless many qualifi-

cations formerly deemed of high value, while
it picks up others, and by the aid of inven-
tions and discoveries transforms their nature,
or rather alters their appeariince, so as to
assume a different style of character and
feature ; for progressive advancement is an
improvement on a former or existing system ;
inventions and discoveries being agents in
carrying on the work.

Thus the character and extent of the wants
of any period are regulated and determined
by those surrounding circumstances over
which mankind in an individual capacity can
have no control. And it is remarkable how
readily individual tastes and inclinations will
assimilate with prevailing customs, and become
naturalized to habits most alien.

But it would be a great mistake to considei
the gratification of every individual inclinatioi|
as necessary indulgence, or, in other words,
to fix the standard of our wants by our wishes.
Between the two there is a great distinction,
for there are many people who in reality want
for nothing, and have enough and to spare ;
who if their wishes were to be taken as re-
quirements would be in want of many things ;
while others less favored by fortune and cir-
cumstances evince the utmost satisfaction
with their condition, and remain content with
such things as they have, seeing it is out of
their power to procure more or better. Does
it require a moment's consideration to deter-
mine which of the two states of feeling is the
most hai^py and desirable ?

"If you would have your desires always
effectual, place them on things which are in
your power to obtain," was the advice of one
of the ancient philosophers. And this is the
way to regulate our wishes according to our
wants.

MY THEME.

BY HENRY ASTEN.

My theme was Love, still new, though old as Time,

And with the royal word I crowned the page,
But then the dainty and coquettish rhyme

Would not he caught, and so I in a rage
Threw down my pen. When like a mother's kiss

Upon my brow her gentle hand did rest.
And these her words : " Your theme is not amiss ;

I 'd only hint how it should be expressed,
To bring you golden fame. The only way

The seeds of immortality to give it,
Is not to sing (let those do that who may),

But live your poem, darling ; try to live it!"

CINDERELLA; OR, THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER.*

BY S . A N X I E FROST.

Characters.

Lord Easygoing, an old man, childish and hen-
pecked.
Lady Disdain, his wife.

Charlotte, ) ^ -p. ,7 7 .

. ' > Lady Disdain s daughters.

AXNABELLE, ) ^

Cinderella, Lord Easygoing' s daagliter.

Prince Amour.

Fantasia, Cinderella's /a/ry god-mother.

Bully Tin, the Prince's hera/d.

King, Queen, and Courtiers.

Costiunes.

Lord Easygoing. Scene 1st. White wig and
"beard, dressing-gown, slippers, and velvet cap,
cane and snuffbox. Scenes 2d, 3d, and 4th.
Black velvet suit.

Lady Disdain, dress of gay silk with a long
train, satin petticoat, powdered hair and
feathers.

Charlotte. Scene 1st. A dross of rich blue
silk, white satin petticoat, and lace kerchief
over the head. Scene 2d and 3d. Ball-dress
of white tarletan over pink silk, trimmed with
roses, train of white spangled jewels and flowers
in the hair. Scene ith same as Scene 1st.

Annabelle. Scene 1st. Dress of yellow
silk over a white silk petticoat, lace kerchief
over the head. Scene 2d and 3d. Crimson
velvet dress and train over white sa.tin skirt.
Hair dressed with jewels and flowers. Scene
4th same as 1st.

Cinderella. A long, loose dress of gray
cotton, made to fall straight and full over the
whole figure, high in the neck with long
sleeves ; patches and darns of every shape,
size, and color all over the dress. Hair cov-
ered with a faded cotton kerchief (this dress
must be made to completely cover the figure,
as for rapid change the ball-dress must be
worn under it ; by fastening it with one button
on a band at the throat, it will fall off instantly
when unbuttoned). Scene 2d. Same as 1.9^
until transformation, then, ball-dress of white

* The love for private theatricals, charades, and pro-
verbs being this winter the ruling power in almost every
social gathering, it seems to us but fair that the little
folks should have the opportunity to try their talents and
amuse their ft-iends. The usual performances are voted
stupid by more than one-half the juveniles, who want to
cut OTit all the long speeches and reduce the four-syllabled
words to more moderate dimensions. We are sure, then,
that the parties for whom the present series of little dramas
were written, will greet their old friends, Cinderella & Co.,
with a warm welcome. The school-room, parlor, or
nursery may be turned into a theatre, and older folks
must submit to have their finery reduced by busy little
fingers till royal robes and ball dresses fit little forms.
The speeches are not too long for quick little brains to
master, and wc are certain that such old and dear friends
as the book of fairy tales ofi'ers will never have any
trouble in finding a p'ersonator in the juvenile department.
Hoping that the present season's demand will give her
efforts a welcome, the author hazards the first of her
"Fairy Tale Dramas."

18^

lace over white silk, richly spangled aiivl
trimmed ; train of spangled white lace ; hair
dressed with white flowers and pearls ; slip-
pers of white satin, thickly covered with
transparent glass beads. Scene 3d. Ball-
dress. Long veil of white lace thrown over
face and head, and falling over the figure.
Under the veil a small coronet of pearls. Sceiie
4th same as 1st and 2d.

Prince Amour. Dress of blue velvet, slashed
with white satin and trimmed with silver.
White lace collar and cravat. White silk
stockings, blue velvet slippers with lace and
silver bows. Cap of blue velvet with white
feather and silver clasp.

Fantasia. Dress of dark blue stuff ; scarlet
cloak with hood ; high-heeled shoes with large
buckles ; clocked stockings ; white cap and
crutch.

Bully Tin. Dress of scarlet and v>^hite ;
high boots with gold tassels, scarlet cap with
white feather, horn with scarlet hangings and
ribbons.

King, Queen, and Courtiers in rich, old-
fashioned dresses, trains, feathers, powder,
and large fans.

Scene I. Dressing-room of Lady" Disdain. A
table in centre of room supports a mirror, pin-
cushion, and a lot of finery, flowers, gloves,
ribbons, fans, and jeivels. Upon the sofa and
chairs are thrown shawls and dresses of gay
colors. Curtain rises discovering Cinderella
arranging the room.

Cin. {yawning). My sisters are just up;
but I feel as if it was time to go to bed. Oh,
how tired I am ! I have been hard at work
since the first peep of dawn ; yet not half my
day's labor is finished. I 've swept, dusted,
and scoured, washed, ironed, and baked, made
fires and sifted cinders enough to earn the
name my sisters give me. Two little years
to-day since my own dear mother died ! Two
years only since I was the pet and darling of
this house, wore fine dresses, had my own
maid to wait upon me, slept on a down bed
under silk quilts, feasted upon pastry and
bonbons, and now, rags and a crust are all
that poor Cinderella may have. Heighho !
Everybody is out {sits down) ; my step-mother
and sisters have gone to buy blue satin for a
new petticoat for Charlotte {lays her head doion
on table), and I— I— {yawning), am so tired—
and — sleepy. I {closes her eyes) think — I '11
take a nap. {Sleeps.)

221

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godey's lady's book and magazine.

Enter Fantasia, in a rage,

Fam,, Here 's a pretty mess, upon my word.
After working for five hundred years without
any rest to try and get my realms in perfect
order, I can't turn in for a little nap of a
couple of years without the whole of my
special charge being upset. Now in this one
family, where my pretty darling god-child
lives, what a revolution they have made here.
My Lord Easygoing must get him a new wife,
with two fine daughters, and these three
vixens make a slave of my pet ! If this is the
way things go on when I take a nap, I '11
never sleep another wink ! I '11 not return to
fairy land till there is some change for the
better ! Ha ! whom have we here ? the kitchen
maid! {Peeps into Cinderella'' s face.) No! my
god-child, as I live, and fast asleep. What a
disgusting dress ! So my pretty messenger
from fairy land told me no lies ! Oh, my fine
Lady Disdain, you 've heated a pretty kettle
of hot water here, and I '11 see that you get
your full share upon your own head. Where
is Lord Easygoing ? I '11 find him and see
what he has got to say for himself.

[^Exit Fantasia.

Enter Lady Disdain, Charlotte, and Anxa-

BELLE.

Lady D. Was it not lucky we heard the
news of Prince Amour's ball here, at the very
gate ? We might have been out when the
herald came ; but now —

Char, We can discuss our dress and jewels.

Anna, And try what color suits us best by
night.

Lady D. (seei/?^^ Cinderella). Heyday! A
lazy idler ! (Shakes her.) Wake up ! A pretty
time of day for napping !

Cin, (rubbing her eyes). Are you back al-
ready ?

Char, So this is the way you mind your
work when we are out ? Pray, since you have
so much time to sleep, are all your tasks ac-
complished ? My laces washed ?

Anna. My slippers trimmed ?

Lady D. The dinner cooked ?

Char, The pastry baked ?

Anna. My ribbons scoured /

Lady D. The beds all made ?

Char, The rooms in order ?

An/ia. The floors all swept ?

Cin. (running from ojie to the other). pray
forgive me ! all shall yet be done.

Char, (pushing her). Go, then, and do it !

Anna, (striking her). Don't be idling here !

Lady D. (shaking her). And no more sleep-
ing in the daytime. Miss ! ( They all push her
about, and strike her. Loud knocking.)

Char. Go to the gate, and see who knocks
so loudly. [Exit Cinderella.

Lady D, No doubt it is Prince Amour's
herald I

Anna. Come to invite us to the ball.

Char. how delightful !

Enter Cinderella.

Cin. A herald from the court of Prince
Amour, who asks to see the ladies.

CJiar. Show him up. \^Exit Cinderella.

Anna. I 'm all impatience till the happy
night.

Enter Cinderella and the Llerald, Bully Tin.

Bully Tin (bowing). Fair ladies, Prince
Amour designs to give a ball to-morrow night,
and begs that you will grace it by your pre-
sence.

Lady D. Say to the Prince that we, with
pleasure, will obey his summons.

[Exit Bully Tin.

Char. To-morrow night! We have but lit-
tle time to give to any thought but dress,
before the hour. I shall wear white over
pink ; it suits my hair and eyes.

Anna. And I my crimson velvet over white
satin. My diamonds, too, shall do honor to
this great occasion, for^ — in solemn secrecy —
they say the Prince will make this the excuse
for bringing all the beauties of his realm be-
fore him, that from the fair assembly he may
choose a bride. (Sweeps up the room.) No one
yet can say what lovely girl will be 14s choice !

Char, (aside). Conceited piece ! As if my
chance were not as good as hers ; brunettes
are always more attractive than these insipid
blondes.

Lady D, The carriage is still waiting ; shall
we go now to select the dresses for to-morrow ?

Char. At once !

Anna, Without delay !

Lady D. And for you. Miss, see that when
we return we do not catch you napping.

[Exeunt Lady Disdain, Charlotte, and
Annabelle.

Cin. And I am not invited. Yet I am Lord
Easygoing 's only child, and they are but —
Tut ! tut ! what am I saying ? Am I becomiDg
envious and spiteful, grudging my sisters

CINDERELLA; OR, THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER.

223

l)leasure because I do not share it ? I trust

not !

Enter Lord Easygoing.

Lord E. Wliere 's my bird ?

Gin. {cheerfullij). Here I am, papa.

Lord E. (aside). Fantasia says I'm an old
fool ; but I guess if she had my Lady Disdain
to deal with she 'd find submission was the
only course for peace.

Cin. Why what a long face, papa !

Lord E. Why, yes ; bring me a chair, dear.
( Sits down.) Your godmamma has been here,
dear.

Cin, What, the darling little old woman
who used to come to see mamma ?

Lord E. Yes, my dear ; she says you are ill
treated, my love. (Crying.)

Cin. (coaxing! ij). And has she been teasing
you?

Lord E. (sobbing). I'm sure, my dear, your
stepmother won't let me interfere.

Cin. There, dear, don't cry ! Some of these
days you and I will run off to a place where
the beds make themselves, and joints come
from market ready cooked.

Lord E. (brightly). So we will !

Cin. There, you sit still, and I will go find
you a cake or piece of pie.

\_Exit Cinderella.

Ljord E. I am sure Fantasia must be mis-
taken about her being unhappy. Pretty
birdie ! Anyhow there 's no use in trying to
do anything my Lady Disdain forbids, and she
rules this house completely. I can't out-
scold, out-fi jilt, out-argue, or outdo her ; so
I just go along as easy as I can.

[ Curtain Jails.

Scene II, same as Scene I. — Curtain rises, dis-
covering Charlotte and Annabelle dressing

for the ball. Charlotte stands in front of
mirror arranging her headdress ; Annabelle
walks up and down admiring her dress ; Lady
Disdain seated upon a sofa in background;
Cinderella, kneeling, arranges Charlotte's
train : Lord Easygoing in an armchair by the

fire.

Lady D. A little more to the right, Cinde-
rella ! So ! that fold is perfect !

Cin. (rising). Now your train falls grace-
fully, sister.

Char. Indeed ! With my figure it must be
graceful.

Anna. I suppose the conceited little thing
thinks it is all her taste.

Lord E. I am sure, Annabelle, it hung
vilely before Ella touched it.

Lady D. (scornfully). Men are great judges,
indeed.

Lord E. Well, my dear, I am sure I only
said —

Lady D. I heard you. Cinderella, make
Annabelle' s feather droop a little more to the^
right.

Cin. (arranging feather). So?

Lord E. And then run and put on your
own ball-dress. Yo« are giving all your time
to your sisters, and will never be ready your-
self.

Cin. Oh. I am not to go !

Char, (scornfully). You go ! A cinder-sifter
in a ball-room.

Anna. The idea ! (Laughs.) Fancy that
figure in a palace.

Lo7rl E. But I want her to go.

Lady D. She is not going. Say no more
about it.

Lord E. But, my dear —

Lady D. Pray, sir, do you rule this house,
or I ? If I am not to have my own way about
everything, I had better leave. Cinderella, see
if the carriage waits. \_Exit Cinderella.

L^ord E. Poor little birdie !

Lady D. I wish yoti would not put sucli
ideas into the child's head. It does not suit
me to have three daughters to take about,
and Cinderella is content to stay at home, if
you don't make her wish to go.

Enter Cinderella.

Cin. The carriage is at the door.

Lady D. Come, my dears. My lord, you
must ride upon the box ; you would crumple
my darling's dresses inside.

\_Exeunt Lady Disdain, Charlotte, and
Annabelle.

Lord E. Good-night, my pet. I wish you
were going.

Cin. (cheerfully). never mind me, papa.
I shall do very well, indeed. Good-night !

Lord E. (kissing her). Good-night, my pretty
pet.

Lady D. (behind the scenes). Are you going
to keep us waiting all night ?

Lord E. I am coming, my dear. I am
coming. \^Exit hastily.

Cin. What a fine time they will all have !
Music, dancing — I wonder if I have forgotten
how to dance (tries a few steps and loses an old
ahoc). There, my shoe is off (kicks off the other

224

godey's lady's book and magazine.

one) ; I can dance now ! {Sings a few notes,
dancing to the tune.) Ah, tliej will dance to
grand music. Everybody will be gay there;
and here (weeping) it is very dull. The Prince,
too, they say, is so handsome and good. How
I should like to see him! {Sobbing.) It is
very hard — I never go anywhere !

Enter Fantasia.

Fan. (aside). Alone, and In tears. Where is
the cheerfulness her father talks about ?
(Aloud.) What is the matter, my pretty dear ?

Cin. (starting up). My godmother !

Fan. Yes, my dear. No, you needn't kiss
me, because I have just lunched on toad-
stools, and they might disagree with you.
What were you crying about ?

Cin. (sobbing). I was — wishing — that —

Fan. That you might go to Prince Amour's
ball ? Was not that it ?

Cin. Yes.

Fan. Well, why don't you go ? Your father
promised me to take you.

Cin. But Lady Disdain would not let me go.

Fan. Well; I intend you shall go. First,
we must provide a coach. Go to the yard,
and touch a pumpkin with my crutch, then
touch the mouse-trap and the rat-trap ; behind
the watering-pot you '11 find six lizards ; these,
too, you must rap smartly, then return here
to me.

Cin. (taking the crutch). I fly to obey you.

[Exit Cl>'DERELLA.

Fan. W^hat 's this ? The child's old shoes,
as I 'm a fairy (puts them in her pocket). So,
my Lady Disdain won't let her go! We'll
see whether she or I am the strongest.

Enter Cixderella.

Fan. Well, my dear, did you obey me ?

Cin. my dear godmother ! never was seen
such a change. The pumpkin to a fine gilt
coach is turned, the mLice to horses, the rat
to a driver, while the six lizards are most
splendid footmen.

Fan. Well, my dear, why do you wait ? Is
not this such an equipage as you wish to take
you to the ball?

Cin. Yes, dear godmother — but — but — must
I go in this dress ?

Fan. (touching her dress). Look in the mirror,

Cin. (shaJcing off the gray dress ^ which is pu-lled
off the stage bg a string). what a lovely dress !
( Takes the kerchief off her head. ) And my hair
all arranged — thank you a thousand times.

Fan. Go now, then.

Cin. (hesitating). I — I — have lost my shoes.

Fan. (taking the glass slippers from her pocket) .
Why these too have touched the crutch. Put
them on, my dear, and then away.

Cin. (putting on slippers). IIow charmingly
they fit me !

Fan. And as they are fairy shoes, they will
fit no one else. Now, my dear, listen to me.
You must leave the ball before midnight !
Remember ! If you are there but one minute
after the clock strikes twelve, your gay dress
will become rags, your coach a pumpkin,
your horses mice, your driver a rat, and your
footmen lizards. Will you be careful?

Cin. I will return in time.

Fan. Go, then ! Good-night ! Remember,
twelve o'clock. [Exit Cinderella.

Fan. Now for the palace. . [Curtain falls.

Scene III. — Ball-room, in Prince Amour' spo/ace.
Upo7i a raised, throne, in centre of background,
are seated the King and Queen. Courtiers
are standing round them. ; others ivalking about
the room. Prince Amour standing near right
of foreground.

Prince A. Choose a wife from these fair
ladies of my father's kingdom ? - "Buch are the
royal commands to me this morning, but as
yet I have seen none to please my taste.
They say the daughters of my Lady Disdain
are beautiful (musingli/). Perhaps — I — well,
well, choose I must to-night, and the kind
fairies guide me to a good selection !

Enter Bully Tin.

Prince A. Another arrival ! The palace bids
fair to be crowded.

Bully Tin. Lord Easygoing, Lady Disdain,
and the Ladies Charlotte and Annabelle.

Prince A. Ah, the rival belles !

Enter Lord Easygoing, Lady Disdain, Char-
lotte, and Annabelle.

Prince A. (aside). What overdressed, con-
ceited-looking girls !

(Lord Easygoing and party advance to the
throne and make a deep reverence, which the King
and Queen return.)

Prince A. (advancing to them). We thank
you, sir, that you allow our court to be de-
lighted by the presence of so much grace and
beauty (offers his hand to Charlotte) ; permit
me to find you a partner for the dance (intro-

CINDERELLxV; OR, THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER.

225

(luces her to one of the courtiers, who walks with
her),

Anna, (aside). How handsome and graceful !
He has found Charlotte another partner ;
surely he intends himself to dance with me.

Enter Bltlly Tin.

BuIIi/ Tin (halving to Prince Amour). Most
gracious Prince !

Prince A. I listen, my good herald. What
weighty news sits now upon your brow ?

Bully Tin. An unknown princess has driven
into the court. Her coach of finest gold glit-
ters with jewels ; six footmen stand erect be-
hind ; while six gray horses of the rarest
breed prance on before. She sends word that,
passing through the country, she has heard
ot your festivities, and asks the privilege of
joining you.

Prince A. I will, myself, bid her alight.

[Exit, preceded hy Bully Tin, who walks
backward, bowing.

Anna. Rude fellow ! Pai-)a, do you know
no one here ?

Lord E. Why, yes, my love. (Introduces
Annabelle to one of the courtieis, then returns
and seats himself and Lady Disdain.)

Lady D. (discontentedly). Prince Amour is
not too polite to my dear daughters.

Enter Prince Amour, leading in Cinderella,
veiled.

Prince A. Before you greet my royal parents,
permit me to remove this envious veil, which
hides the charms I burn to see revealed.
(Removes the veil, handing it to one of the cour-
tiers. )

Cin. You honor my poor self too highly.

Prince A. (bowing low). Such charms cannot
be too mach honored. Allow me, fair prin-
cess, to lead you to the throne. ( They advance
to the throne, Cinderella kneels, the King rises.)

Prince A. A foreign princess, sire, who
craves permission to greet your majesty.

King (extending his hand). We would extend
our most cordial welcome to such loveliness.

Cin. (kissing the KiNG^B hand). I thank your
majesty for so much graciousness.

King (raising her). Our Queen would bid
you welcome.

Queen (giving her hand to Cinderella, who
kisses it). It is our thanks which are due,
that you have deigned to honor us. Our son
will show our pleasure. Amour, we charge
you that our fair guest suffers from no neglect.

Prince A. Madam, it shall be my delightful
task to do the honors of the palace. What
ho ! Music there ! We would dance. (Leads
Cinderella to the floor. Annabelle and part-
ner, Charlotte and partner, and another couph
from the courtiers form a quadrille set, and dance
any cotillon. The following dialogue should he
carried on during the dance, or by those dancing,
in the pauses. )

Lord E. My dear, my dear, this princess —

Lady D. Did you ever see such pearls ?

Lord E. But, my dear, she — don't you see
it ? — she is the very picture of our Ella.

Lady D. (contemptuously). The picture of
your Ella ! Ha ! ha ! what an absurd idea !
Compare a cinder wench to this radiant crea-
ture !

Lord E. But, my love, the eyes, the smile —
look at her now.

Lady D. I see her plainly. You must be
purblind. Like Cinderella indeed !

Anna, (to partner). I never saw such lace.
Who can she be ?

Char, (to partner). How gracefully the prin-
cess moves !

Prince A. How has it happened that such
loveliness could exist, and I so wretched as to
remain so long in ignorance of it. !

Cin. My realms are far removed from yours,
my prince. Where I live your foot has never
trodden, my subjects are out of your know-
ledge, and my daily scenes beyond your imagi-
nation.

Prince A. And may I not hope that at sdtQi^
future time you will extend the hospitality
of your domain to your unworthy slave ?

Cin. Nay, my prince, you would scarcely
deign to visit so poor a realm as mine. ( The
dance ceases.)

Prince A. Let me lead you to a seat and
find you refreshment. (Leads her to a seat,
and exit.)

Cin. (to Annabelle and Charlotte). Will
you not share my seat ?

Anna. You honor us too highly. (Sits down.)

Char, (aside). I am dying with envy. (Sits
down.)

Enter Prince Amour with a plate of sweetmeats,
which he holds, kneeling, before Cinderella.
l^he courtiers waltz in the room during the follow-
ing dialogue.

Cin. You will allow me, Prince, to share
your favors. ( Offers sweetmeats to Annabelle
and Charlotte.)

226

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Prince A, If you will touch your ruby lips
to one, you honor me.

Cin. You have a fair assemblage here.
Pray tell me, as a stranger, what occasion 'tis
they honor.

Prince A. My birthday, fairest princess, on
which, having seen your face, I first begin to
live.

Courtier (to Annabelle). Will you honor
me, fair lady ? {They waltz. ^

Cin. Your birthday ? And I, unfortunate,
have brought no offering.

Prince A. One flower from the knot npon
your bosom.

Courtier (to Charlotte). Fair lady, may I
dare to hope that you will waltz with me ?
(The}) waltz. ^

Cin. (giving flower'). If so poor an offering
may dare to hope for your acceptance —

Prince A. (kissing thejloiver). It shall never
leave my heart! (Fastens it to his breast.)
If you are not fatigued, will you allow me to
lead you to the dance ?

(They waltz. After a few turns a cloch strikes
twelve. At the frst stroke Cinderella stops
dancing to listen ; at the last she rushes hastily
from the room. All the courtiers rise ; the music
ceases.)

Prince. A. Gone, my love, my princess !
What ho ! without there ! Let no one pass.
Send me a herald.

Enter Dully Tin.

Bully Tin. I am here, my prince.

Prince A. Fly like the wind and bid the
guards arrest the princess's coach — or no, that
were discourteous ! Follow it, my herald.
Take the fleetest horse now in the royal stable,
and follow the carriage. [Exit Bully Tix.

King (coming forward). You have other
guests, my son.

Prince xi. I care not now ! My star, my
love.

(The guests one after another how and retire.)

Lord E. Come, my love. Annabelle, Char-
lotte, come. (Lady D. and party retire.)

Enter Bully Tin.

Prince A. What news? Speak quickly!
She has returned !

Bully Tin. The guards, my prince, declare
that no one has passed the gates but a dirty
little kitchen girl. We searched the court-
yard, but found only an immense pumpkin and

this ! (Kneels and hands Prince Amour one of
Cinderella's slippers.)

Prince A. Gone ! No word of parting !
Oh, my fair love, this breaks my heart !
( Turns away sadly. )

Queen. Doubtless, my son, this lovely stran-
ger will return.

Prince A. Alas, I fear ! I fear she is lost
forever! (Kissing the slipper.) This little
token is my sole comfort.

King. What a wee token ! A fairy slipper !
Surely there is not another such tiny foot in
the world.

Prince A. Ha ! What say you ? This slen-
der hope inspires me ! My herald.

Bidly Tin (advancing). Here, my prince.

Prince A. My faithful Bully Tin, hear the
royal will. Throughout the length and breadth
of this our realm, send forth your messengers
this proclamation to announce. Whomsoever
this slipper fits. Prince Amour weds ! This
night I was to select my bride, and thus I do
it. (Places the slipper upon a table.) Hasten,
good Bully Tin, that ere the morrow dawn our
subjects know our resolution !

{Exit Bully Tin.

King. My son, suppose some peasant girl
should chance to have a pretty foot ?

Queen. That is a charming prospect !

Prince A. I must keep my word. The kind
fairies speed my errand !

[Exit King and Queen.

Prince A. (gazing sadly at slipper). She will
see the proclamation, read my love ! She
will return ! If not, it matters little who is
made my bride, for, broken-hearted, Prince
Amour will die ! [Curtain falls.

Scene IV. Same as Scene ?>d. Curtain rises
discovering the stage as opening of Scene Zd.
A large chair stands centre of stage, facing
audience. Prince Amour leans sadly on the back
of it, while one after another the ladies try on
the slipper. Bully Tin, kneeling, puts it upon
each ; but all rise, disappointed.

Enter Fantasia.

Fan. (aside, coming forward). I begin to
think my little plot is coming to a close, and
xaj god-child will meet the reward of her
patient suffering. I bade her come here to-
day, and if I mistake not her lady stepmother
and haughty sisters are already on the way.
How sad my prince looks ! (Advancing to
chair). Let me try !

CINDERELLA; OR, THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER.

22 7

Built) Tin. You old hag! 'Tis but tlie
young and fair who tiy their fate here.

Fan. The proclamation is not worded so.
{Strikes his armivith her crutch.)

Bully Tin, Oh, the old hag ! she has broken
my arm.

Prince A. And if she had, it would have
been most just. (Sternli/.) How dare you,
sir, insult old age within my realm ? Let the
lady try. Madam, allow vie to hand you to
the chair. (^Bows, and hands Fantasia to the
seat. )

Fan. {aside to Prince Amour). Courage,
my prince ! I am not what I seem, and by a
fairy power predict that all your dearest wishes
shall be crowned. Nay ! I will follow Bully
Tin's advice, and leave the slipper to younger
feec. {Mixes icith the crowd who have tried the
slipper.)

Enter Lady Disdain, Annabelle, and Char-
lotte.

Ladij D. {courtesying low to Prince Amour).
My daughters, sir, would try their fate. (An-
nabelle (joes to the chair, tries on slipper, and
rises.)

Char, {aside). I '11 pull it on, if I pull it all
to pieces. ( Goes to chair and makes desperate
efforts to put on the slipper hut fails, and rises.)

Fan. {aside fo Prince Amour). Ask her why
her other daughter does not come.

Prince A. She has no other.

Fan. Ay, but her husband has. Trust to
me, Prince !

Prince A. I will! {To Lady Disdain.)
M^dam, your other daughter will surely deign
to honor us by a trial.

Lady D. A mere child, prince — not worthy
to — {aside) what shall I say ?

Prince xi. You will allow me to insist.
Bully Tin, dispatch a herald to Lord Easy-
going's, and say Prince Amour requests his
daughter to appear before him.

l^Exit Bully Tin.

Lady D. {aside). Confusion. They will
discover how she is treated ! I shall be the
laughing stock of the land.

Char, {to Annabelle). What can. he want
of our cinder sifter ?

Anna, Oh how did he ever hear of her ?

Filter Bully Tin.

Bully Tin. Lord Easygoing and his daughter
wait without.

Prince xi. Show them in. [Exit Bully Tin ;

re-entering, conducting Lord Easygoing ujid Cin-
derella, who wears a large cloak over her dusty
dress, the hood drawn up over her head. She
wears no shoes.)

Prince A. {to Fantasia). Y^ou mock me!
This little kitchen girl can never wear that
fairy slipper.

Fan. Let her try.

(Cinderella sits down, puts on the slipper, and
drawing the other one from under her cloak, slips
that on too.)

All. It fits. Hail to Prince Amour's bride t
{Laugh mockingly.)

Prince A. {fiercely). This is ?/owr work !

L^an. Patience awhile, my prince. Little
one, come here.

Cinderella advances timidly.

Lady D. I am choking with rage !

Char. I shall die of spite !

Anna. Oh, I shall never survive this morti-
fication !

Fan. {taking Cinderella's hand). My Prince !
I give your bride to you richly dowered. A
meek, patient spirit, humility, modesty, and
grace she bears to you. My realms afford a
dowry that an emperor could not bring, and
{touching the cloak and dress, which fall and are
dragged away as in Scene 2d) to your love I
trust for her happiness.

All. The foreign princess I

Prince A. {kneeling). Dare I believe such
ecstasy is mine ?

Fan. The odious nickname she has borne
shall be her pride now, for every cinder that
her hand has touched shall be returned hero
a glowing diamond, and Princess Cinderella
shall become a name known in all ages.

(Prince Amour leads Cinderella to the King
and Queen, who greet her kindly.)

Lord E. I said she looked like our Ella !

Lady D. Hold your tongue, you fool !

Fan. Having rewarded, it is now my task
to punish. Lady Disdain and you, Charlotte
and Annabella.

Cin. {coming hastily forward). No! for mj
sake, dear godmother, forgive them !

Fan. {grumbling). For your sake it is I pun-
ish them.

Cin. Plead with me, my Prince. {They
kneel to Fantasia.)

Fan. Well, for your sakes, then, they are
forgiven.

Char, and Anna, {to Cinderella as she rises).
Can you, sister, forgive us ?

228

godey's lady's book and magazine.

Cin. (hissing them). With all my heart.

Prince A. Roll the chair back, Bully Tin,
and bid the band strike up a waltz. We '11
show our gladness by festivities !

( The music begins, and all select partners and
waltz; Lord Easygoing and Fantasia dancing
together in a corner.) \_Curtain falls.

ASPHODEL FLOW^ERS.

BY MINNIE WILLIS BANES.

Once I had a little brother,

Crowned with ringlets, brown and soft,
And his eyes were like the nightshade

Poets tell us of so oft —
Pale and blue, with golden flashes

Shining from their depths serene—
Kow, he sleepeth 'neath the cypi'ess,

Eoseraary his clasp within.
Oh, I loved my little brother,

Fondly cherished him and well.
But upon his grave I planted

Only flowers of Asphodel.

Once I had a hope that blossomed

From the wreck of joys decayed,
And the brightness of its beauty

Then I thought would never fade.
Lived I in its gladsome visions —

Soft and dreamy grew my eyes,
But upon the rocks 'twas stranded.

Sank there never more to rise.
On a tablet white is graven :

*' In Memoriam !" Farewell,
Oh my hope, that sank, in shadows.

To the land of Asphodel.

Once I had a friend whose presence

Charmed away the darkest care,
For her voice was soft and gentle,

Silver-mingled was her hair ;
And her heart was calm and peaceful

As a sleeping, moonlit lake ;
And she talked to me of Jesus —

He who suffered for my sake ;
While her voice grew low and tender.

And her fingers, o'er my hair.
Wandered with caressing motion

Like the tropic summer air.

Now she walketh by the margin

Of a life — immortal stream,
Whose soft waves are glinted over

With a glorious, heavenly gleam.
But to me, who knew and loved her

In her mortal, earthly hours,
Sadder are Eolus' whispers,

And less beautiful the flowers,
Since she went away and left me

In her Saviour's courts to dwell.
And they laid her, one sad morning,

In the field of Asphodel.

Once I had an aspiration,

Which had caught the sunbeam's hue,
Waited down by winged angels,

Fallen with the silver dew ;

And I nursed the fire within it.

Fanned the tiny, living spark
Till it brightened all my bosom

And dispelled the clouds so dark.
With a hopeful heart I sent it

Up again to seek the heaven,
But the rude winds blew it earthward,

And for naught my care was given.

Once, I cherished, like "Maud Muller,"

A vague longing in my breast,
And the nameless aspiration

Filled me vt'ith a sweet unrest
Like a tangled thread of silver.

Or the stream of pai-adise
(When tlie trembling, golden shadows

On its bosom fall and rise)
Was the river — flow of longing

For a nobler, higher goal.
Winding, in its wayward progress.

Through the channels of my soul.

And the tropic-hearted summer.

With its music and its flowers,
With its passion and its moonlight,

With its rosy-tinted hours,
With its soft and misty mantle

'Kound its burning bosom thrown.
Died amid the morning twilight

Of another season's dawn.
With the summer died my brother.

For my hope I then did weep,
And the friend who talked of Jesus

With its beauty feU asleep.

It was when the flowers were fading.

And the zephyrs colder grew,
That my brilliant aspirations

Aud my longings faded too.
All are buried with the summer

That the red leaves covered up,
And I tasted, then, the fennel

That embittered life's sweet cup.
But I know that, with the summer,

I shall find them all again.
For the autumn winds blow never

On eternity's bright plain.

Love. — This passion is, in honest minds,
the strongest incentive that can move the
soul of man to laudable accomplishment. Is
a man just? let him fall in love, and grow
generous. Is a man good-natured ? let him
love, and grow public spirited. It immedi-
ately makes the good which is in him shine
forth in new excellencies, and the ill vanish
away without the pain of contrition, but with
a sudden amendment of heart.

Sacrifices. — It is easy enough to make
sacrifices for those we love, but for our enemy
we have to struggle and overcome self. Such
a victory is noble.

— The more we help others to bear their
burdens, the lighter our -own will be.

JOHN" STEELE'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

BY CARROLL WEST.

Everybody knew that John Sterne had had
a disappointment. It accounted for anything,
or everything, in his character and manner
different from every-day men. Young ladies
openly admired him ; fearless, because he
was so indifferent and apparently so blind to
their admiration. Because he invariably re-
fused invitations, his society was the more
eagerly sought ; because he seemed not to
notice whether any were offended, none were
offended. Whether social or silent, civil or
cynical, for he was all by turns, he seemed
equally charming ; and his coldest, most
reserved mood only brought out new allusions
to that secret grief which cast such a halo of
romance around his most ordinary deed.
Nothing makes a young man more interesting,
in the opinion of gentle-minded women, than
that he is a sufferer provided always that
that suffering be not caused by hunger, po-
verty, sickness, or any other commonplace
adversity, but by love. Consequently, it
was not strange that John Sterne was a hero
in H .

Any one would have told you, had you
asked, that many years ago he was engaged
to Minna Walton, a girl of unusual beauty,
sprightly, witty, and bewitching, fitted both
by intelligence and grace of manner to fill a
higher position than that of an orphan dej^en-
dent upon the reluctant bounty of a miserably
tempered aunt. She had not a few admirers ;
but John Sterne, not then twenty years old,
only starting in business, and so altogether
different in temperament and manner from
herself, proved the favorite. They were cer-
tainly engaged, and as certain it was that
while he was gone to the far West to gain the
wherewith to live upon, she suddenly returned
from a visit in the city with diamonds on her
taper fingers ; and before the good people had
recovered from that surprise, she added another
by marrying, with great display of trousseau
and bridal gifts, a Mr. Harding ; wealthy — as
all Southerners had the reputation of being at
that day — which made it, of course, of not
the slightest consequence that he was old,
and his children nearly her own age.

She had not been gone to her plantation

VOL. LXIX. — 19

two years, when John Sterne returned. He
was eyed closely and curiously, pronounced
changed, and variously commented upon. But
whether he pleased the commenters altogether
or not, he was in all eyes a man of note, since
he was no longer working his own way in the
world ; but a man of leisure, retired from
business with a fair share of wealth. He
bought a small but tasteful country seat,
where he resided alone for a few years. Then
came a change. His stepmother — a widow
at the time of her death — left to his care her
two children, Philip, a lad of seventeen years,
and Amy, not quite fifteen. So, occasionally,
the fine house wore a look of life. The doors
stood Iq the long summer vacations invitingly
open ; but, though merry laughter rang out,
it seldom checked, in his monotonous walk
to and fro on the long veranda, the sedate
man whose thoughts seemed only on his
cigar. Nor in the winter, though fires blazed
and lights gleamed throughout the house,
when the young people came home from
college and seminary, did the steady light
vanish from the Small library where the bach-
elor-master sat until midnight. Kind he was
invariably, and unwearied in his efforts to
make these orphans happy and at home ; and
though they were aware that they were en-
tirely dependent upon him for everything,
th.^ were trulj'' so.

Yet it must be confessed that these vaca-
tions, which were such delight to them, were
rather dreaded by John Sterne. They seemed
to revive painful memories ; and generally
the midnight vigils in the quiet library were
more hours of deep thought than his ordinarj'-
ones of study. Such they were on the eve of
Thanksgiving. For the children — as he still
called them, notwithstanding Philip was twen-
ty now, and next summer would graduate,
while Amy at Christmas would leave her
boarding-school forever — were at home, having
arrived that very evening, and being at this late
hour sound asleep, their young heads filled
with bright visions Of the happy morrow.

He sat alone. An arm-ehair, pulled before
a fire on the hearth, held him in a lounging,
yet not indolent position. One elbow leaned

229

230

godey's lady's book and magazine.

on a small table covered with papers and
books ; between his fingers the inevitable
cigar, gone out ; his head thrown back against
the chair, his eyes intent on the fire's flicker-
ing blaze, and a sad expression displacing the
usual sternness of faultless lips. A disap-
pointed man ! And it was of this he was
thinking.

Amy's half-earnest words as she bade him
* ' Good-night, ' ' adding ' ' To-morrow is Thanks-
giving, and to-morrow Mara will come ; but if
she shouldn't, it would be the disappointment
of my life," still rang in his ears. A girl
friend, one of those proverbially fleeting
friendships formed at school, be able to prove
the disappointment of a life !

School-girl sentiment and school-girl exag-
geration ! Bah ! and the haughty lips took a
contemptuous curve. But here his thoughts
ran in a graver and, therein, more charitable
channel. Perhaps a school-girl disappoint-
ment was as real and deep in its way as his
once had been. What more was he then than
almost a school-boy, for all his nineteen
years ?

" Once had been !" Did he then acknow-
ledge it no longer one ? Yes, in the calmness
of his forty years, he could see that great as
his love had been, cruel as had been the blow
which wounded and stifled it forever, deep
as had 'been his anger, his pride, his loss of
hope, these things were past. It had left its
scars — what fierce battle does not ? He could
see them in the reserve, the undemonstrative-
ness, the lack of sympathy which people
called coldness in him, because they could
not understand it was grief, and pride hiding
grief. But this was over. He was past such
things — the folly of his life ! And yet — yet
the sweetest dream of his life !

And then memory carried him back to those
early days. Again he walked with Minna to
school, pleased at carrying her books, and
better pleased that they were heavy for even
him. Again they met in long twilight walks,
and he told her of his deep true love, and
trembled that he had dared kiss those tiny
hands fluttering like little birds within his
own. How he listened once more to her sweet
responses, and blessed the blushes which
made her even more lovely! Once more he
stood upon the little bridge, watching her
white dres^ and floating ringlets as she crossed
the meadow, his heart filled with pure hope
and firm resolve to prove himself worthy of

her, to be a man ! earning respect as well as
love for her dear sake. What days these
were, in spite of depressing poverty daunting
his young ambition ; in spite of opposition
from a mercenary aunt ! He loved her, trusted
her with the completeness of idolatry! And
therein met his punishment ! Memory grew
stern as these pictures of the past were re-
newed.

They were engaged, solemnly, sacredly ;
'twas so he considered an engagement of mar-
riage. They might have to wait many years,
but in the end they should belong to each
other. " Never to any one else," he passion-
ately exclaimed ; and she re-echoed the vow
of "Never." This made him bold and brave
to start out, a mere youth, alone in a strange
country, to make that wealth which was to be
laid at her feet. This made him cheerful in
bearing the heavy cross of separation from
her. This made him calm and hopeful in
their parting, and forgetful of his own suffer-
ing in soothing hers. She, wild with grief
and tears, implored him to remain. "Think
of my unhappiness with my aunt," she urged ;
"and then never to have any change from
the dulness there. Other young girls go into
the world, and I cannot." She had darling
visions of shining in that world, as yet un-
known. Her ambition centered in herself;
his in her. Still, had she asked even more
than a gay social world to play the belle in,
John would have longed to possess the power
of giving it her. He would have thought of
little else, toiled for little else, till it was won.

"Dear Minna," he said, " if by my exer-
tions you may reach the fulfilment of those
hopes, you shall ! Meanwhile we must wait,
wait with patience until I win such means of
supporting you as my wife, as will satisfy
your aunt and make her consent to our mar-
riage. Work will not be work with such an
end in view. You know you may trust me ;
you know, come what may, I shall remain
true ! And you, Minna ?"

She repeated her vows of constancy. Life,
nor death, nor anything should shake her love
and truth.

And so they parted. And he, upheld by
thoughts of her love, miles away toiled early
and late ; no ambition but to be great for her
sake, who loved greatness. Her letters were
his solace ; his dreams of her his recreation ;
all else was wearying labor. That he was
successful in business was of little worth,

JOHN sternk's disappointment.

231

except that it brought the longed-for day of
his marriage nearer. And while he gave him-
self no rest by day, his nights were spent in
persevering study, that he might be fitted for
the position his hoped-for wealth would give
him.

While patience and time were changing the
mulberry leaf into satin, making of the plain
bashful youth a man of talent and cultivation,
as great a change was being wrought in Minna.
Time but increased her beauty, and with it
increased that restless consciousness of it,
which re-excited her ambition made her
uneasy under her fate — poor herself, and en-
gaged to a poor young man with neither for-
tune nor a name. It seemed to her, at times,
quite useless that she was given beauty, if it
were never to be seen, never to bring her the
adulation she secretly envied the heroines of
novels for receiving. Not that she did not
love John Sterne. She did, wildly at*times ;
and then again visions of what might have
been had she only riches shook her affections,
and her feeling towards him was one of con-
descension and self-sacrifice, instead of a love
that looked upward to its object. Whether
she confessed it to herself, she felt she was
quite conferring a favor on John to love him,
which the truest love never feels.

It- was, perhaps, not singular, therefore,
that in time her aunt's continued fretting at
her for remaining a burden on her hands,
'' for the sake of a silly boy, who would soon
forget her for some richer girl," should have
its effect. Temptation came in her way in .the
form of a wealthy widower ; and the few days
of remorse that followed — after she had be-
come his fiancee, and written John Sterne an
impetuous farewell of mingled regret and ex-
cuses, to which she received not one word of
reply — were soon ended by the new scenes of
worldly delight, the jewels, and personal
adornments she had coveted.

And he had never met her again, never
even heard whether she lived. To him she
was dead ; a death so dark with lost hope and
faith that for it there was no resurrection.
Recalling all this, he rose, approached a desk,
unlocked it, and was about opening a little
velvet case therein, when his resolution fal-
tered, his fingers nervously thrust back the
picture and turned the key.

*'I am weak," he said; "weak after all
these years, if I dare not look at that face yet.
I said I would when I had conquered all that

old feeling. I know it is conquered ; and yet
I hesitate to recall that Thanksgiving-eve so
long ago, when she laid this miniature in my
hand, by opening it now. No, I wdll not re-
call it ; 'twas she cast a blight upon all future
Thanksgivings for me, and I will not forget —
I will not forgive the wrong she did me. Until
I can do both, I will not open the miniature ;
let that end the matter ! ' ' And his cigar went
impetuously in its unfinished state into the
deadened ashes, and the library was deserted.

Thanksgiving morning came, bright, clear,
cold, as it ought to be — as it is always intended
in Connecticut it shall be. Ample were the
preparations in Dinah's kitchen for this great-
est of New England days ; and when Amy, in
her frequent running in and out, suggested
one thing or another as *' so delicious a des-
sert," she met with a very decided opinion
from the head of those regions that that was
all very well for > such places as New York
and boarding-school, but wouldn't do there.
"Guessed she knew a thing or two, and
wa'n't goin* to spile Thanksgivin' by making
up things for dinner Mr. John mightn't like."

"But John isn't company, and he ought to
have what his company like !"

"I must do my duty, Miss Amy," said
Spartan Dinah. "I hever see Thanksgivin'
yet, since yourbrother John was a young boy,
and used to come where I lived with an old
widow to see her niece — you see they were
sort a' took with one another, though they
was nothing more 'n almost children then ;
well, I never see a Thanksgiving dinner with-
out the four regular kinds of pies — mince-pie,
one ; apple-pie, two ; pumpkin-pie, three ;
custard-pie" —

"But," interrupted Amy, dabbling her fin-
gers in a dish of flour, " w^ho was the niece ?
And is that why he will not go out, and is an
old bachelor ?"

"I can't say," with a wise shake of the
head that contradicted her statement. " Only
help ain't blind more 'n their betters ; and
she married an awful rich old fellow, and some
says as John Sterne was disapp'inted. 'Tain't
for me to say, though ! ' '

"Amy," said a quiet, unmoved voice, just
within the kitchen door, "the bell is tolling
for church. Put on your bonnet, for it is
late ; I have been waiting some time for you
as it is ! "

As she hastened away, vainly trying to
brush off the flour scattered over her merino,

232

godey's lady's book and magazine.

lie turned to the confused Dinah: "I do not
wish Amy to become acquainted with my
early days, Dinah. I was not aware that you
had ever lived with Miss Walton's aunt. I
shall he obliged to you if you will forget, in
thi^ house, that you have ever done so."

Which high and mighty manner had ex-
actly the contrary effect intended, for at the
very first imj)ortunity for "the rest of the
story about John, ' ' she told Amy and her girl-
friend — with the exception that she withheld •
the names of all parties — everything she had
ever known, through seeing or hearing, about
John Sterne's disappointment.

Before noon the longed-for Mara actually
arrived ; Philip playing the attentive, as an
escort should, by carrying her satchel, her
shawl, and the novel which had beguiled the
tiresome hours of railway travel.

Ecstatic expressions of delight at her arrival
being exhausted, and a change of costume
accomplished, the young girls left their snug
apartment for the drawing-room, where every-
thing looked cheerful and mindful of the day,
from the crackling of the fire to Philip's ani-
mated face ; everything except the counte-
nance of the owner of all, as he sat on a sofa
distant from the door apparently deep in the
last Atlantic. That was dark and moody.

But a sudden change came over it, as his
eyes fell upon the young stranger just enter-
ing with his sister. He was sorely perplexed.
He had never met her, and yet she seemed so
familiar to him ; her very voice was well
known. Where had he seen her? Yet she
was not at all remarkable, so that having seen
her once he should remember her again.

She was one of those child-like persons who
ever look younger than they are. A face not
really pretty, except in expression, though
large blue eyes redeemed it from positive
plainness, and clustering curls of a brown
hue shaded and softened a complexion already
fair. A figure round with plumpness, yet
light and graceful. A little creature, as if
born for petting ; with a manner such a mix-
ture of simplicity and sense, vivacity and
earnestness as to be ever new, never wearying
with sameness.

She attracted the blas^ man of the world
with her pure freshness of thought and feel-
ing ; and, unconsciously to himself, he was
listening for her frankly uttered opinions, and
soon had formed one of their party before the
fire.

Dinner seemed almost an interruption,
Thanksgiving, though it was; yet it too
became a time of unusual merriment. John
Sterne thought he was making an effort to be
cheerful on account of the children, when, in
fact, it was no efi'ort, Mara having led him
by gradual steps out of himself and into their
interests.

He--this man indifl'erent to everything —
actually let Thanksgiving midnight find him
wondering what had made the day so short,
and what amusements he could procure in
addition to their own arrangements.

So passed many days — they happy in the
pleasures he provided for them, and he hap-
pier than he had been in years in seeing their
enjoyment. His quiet library was invaded at
any and all times ; where Amy, and even
Philip, had entered with hesitation, M.ara led
the way fearlessly. Sometimes her errand,
" I wsAit paper or pens ;" but oftener, of late,
" I want you I" Philip and Amy forgot their
former awe of their stern brother. They spoke^
of him as "old and queer;" but he was
nearer than he ever had been. And he was
forgetting the miniature that lay unopened in
his desk.

It was the middle of December. Amy had
gone to see a sick child at some distance, and
Philip, who had grown fitful and restless of
late, had gone off on a wild gallop on his horse.
Mara, tired of the piano and books, tired of
the steady snow which fell drearily, making
the day gloomy, strangely out of si^irits and
humor with herself, was in the large hall try-
ing the virtues of battledoor and sliuttlecock.
"Sixty, seventy, ninety, one, two, nearly a
hundred," when the pretty jdaything struck
against the library door, and in a moment it
was opened by the smiling occupant.

"I was so tired," she said, "and had
nothing to do ! Did I disturb you ? I am
sorry ! I did not remember that Amy has
said you were displeased at being disturbed ! "

"Amy is mistaken, sometimes. Anyway,
this is not a disturbance. They are not very
polite to leave you to your own devices.
Master Phil has grown fond of riding in bad
weather of late. I think the boy must be
pining for his college-mates. But come in ; lut
me play host."

She amused herself — child as she was —
taking a survey of the room ; stuck her tiny
feet into his embroidered slippers, tried on his
smoking-cap, admired and polished his silver-

JOHN steene's disappointment.

2Z'i

topped meerschaum, lost the markers out of
his books, scribbled over his paper, and
spoiled his best pen ; and finally stopped at
his locked desk.

"Fastened I" she said; *'soI can't upset
the contents ! There must be gold or precious
stones, or letters, perhaps love-letters there-
in ! It is sure to have a story, locked so mys-
teriously. My fingers ache to break the
lock."

" They need not. There is but little of any
worth in it. I will show you all there is some
day ; some day when I can tell you the story ! ' '

"Tell me now. I like stories, and I've
nothing else to do !" and she drew a footstool
near the hearth and sat on it, looking up at
him expectant.

"No, not now! Not now, indeed!"

"When then? this evening? to-morrow?
and may Amy know it, too ?" and quickly
her thoughts reverted to the tale Dinah had
told their romance-loving ears, of why John
Sterne was an old bachelor.

" No ; Amy may not know ! I will tell you
alone. But not now. I have something else
to tell 3^ou too, some day, and then you shall
know all!"

"But I shall be going soon, you know, too
soon, time flies so. When shall it be ? Not on
Christmas. I shall have enough besides to
please me that day !"

"On Christmas Eve then!" he said; and
strode to the window, looking, with eyes that
saw nothing, down the avenue.

"And that is a week to-day ! I shall die of
curiosity meanwhile."

No reply from him. But he turned and
gazed at her. Her brown curls rested on her
hand — a small hand made whiter by the soft
blue dress she wore ; her eyes were fastened
with an intentness and unwonted sobriety
upon the dancing flames before her. Her
slippers peeping from beneath her dress dis-
played two buckles of cut steel which shone
in the fire-light, betraying every restless move-
ment of the feet within. They seemed mark-
ing time to some tune sounding only in her
brain, and presently that "Annie Laurie"
was her thought became revealed by her voice
breaking out in snatches of the song — low and
sad, as if unconscious that she sang —

"Gave me her promise true ;
And ne'er forget will I.
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I 'd lay me down and die."

19^

Strangely and sadly familiar her voice and
that song — the old signal to Mima that it was
he passing under her window ! It pained him,
and yet there was not the old soreness in the
pain. "Why?" he asked himself; but her
voice dispelled his reverie.

"Do they ever die of such a cause ? because
the one they have proves inconstant, I mean."

"Never ! Never a woman, I 'm very sure !
They have a happy faculty of forgetting. And
seldom a man. If they don't forget, they
pretend to. But in most cases either side
finds consolation in marrying some one else !"

" Or marry some ohe else, and become con-
scious of their sin through sufi'ering, mamma
once told me. I don't know, but I 've some-
times thought that mamma did not care for
my father as much as she had some time in
her life for some other person. She used to
speak so sadly of young people loving, and of
proving false, and the wickedness of marriage
without love. And my papa was so much
older than my mother. He died when I was
so young I never knew him. He left her all
his Southern property — useless now since the
war ; so, if she had lived, we should have
used together the great fortune my great-
aunt left me. Poor mamma ! in nearly her
last breath she was imploring forgiveness of
some early friend she fancied near her."

"Your mother then is dead ?"

"Yes, three years ago. And when the war
broke out I think the Northern blood in my
veins grew restless for a Northern home. My
step-sisters advised the step, and I have lived
since at the seminary where Amy and I
became friends. I have no other home now."

He sat himself down in the arm-chair near
which she sat on her low footstool. Her hand
rested on the arm of it, and he took it gently
up within his own, yet his own trembled as it
lay there. Hers was very still ; she seemed
hardly conscious it was there ; but still gazed
on absently into the fire.

"Mara," he said, "Mara, that means 'bit-
terness.' You are wrongly named!"

" Dear mamma named me so. My name is
really hers — Marian ; but I think she must
have had a bitter cup to drink when she could
call me, her only child, 'Mara.' Yet, since
she named it so, I would not change it for a
sweeter one."

"What matters the name, dear child?" a
strange warmth making bright his eyes. " It
is already sweet to me ; too sweet, too sweet P'

234

godey's lady's book and magazine.

he murmured, pressing liis lips upon the
hand within his own.

Philip, with some thought weighing too
heavily on his mind, and with the restlessness
of one unused to grief, had striven to forget
mental pain in bodilj fatigue. For miles had
he ridden in the storm, impetuouslj on, as if
he could escape self; impetuously back, self
and his new perplexities still, like Sinbad's
old man of the sea, clinging to him. He had
resolved to go quietly, unheard by' Amy or
Mara, to his brother's library, tell him all the
thoughts within his heart, and abide by his
advice. What if he advised — what seemed
but common sense perhaps to a man of his
years, outgrown youthful feeling — an aban-
donment of this dear hope ! He was penniless
and dependent, and if he acted contrary to
his wishes, could he expect his assistance in
life ? And how else could he hope to win her ?
Yet he loved her, and he could not give her
up ! But he would not even ask if her love
was his in return till he had frankly confessed
all to his brother.

Poor Philip ! He had quietly opened the
library door. He stood within it and heard
his brother's murmuring tone, saw the fer-
vency with which he pressed his lips to her
lingers. ^'What he, he supplant me! He,
cold and haughty, to win her, and break her
heart with his coldness ! He, his age, to
take her from me ! He shall not, he cannot !
And yet he will, he can; he has wealth to
support her ; I am a beggar, and worse than
beggared sinqe I have lost that hope. ' ' Again
he rushed out into the storm, again mounted
his horse and sped away, though twilight was
fast coming on.

They had not seen Philip. Each seemed
lost in thought, and twilight stole on them
unawares, while only the bright firelight
lighted up the room by fitful gleams. She
had looked at him wonderingly when he
kissed her hand. She looked so again, when,
after the long silence, he added: —

" Shall you care to hear, little Mara, the
story I promised to tell you on Christmas
Eve ? "What interest will your pure fresh
heart take in the story of a sad-worn man,
long past youth ? And yet if you do not, if
you do not, Mara" — he leaned back, his face
turned from her still wondering eyes. There
was the coldness of repressed feeling in his
tone, as he resumed: "My story you shall
hear as promised, if you will listen. Yes, and

more ; only first the story of my life, for in
nothing would I deceive you, Mara. Let it
be fairly won, if it is at all !"

" Let what be fairly ?" she said.

He made no reply, but presently, twining
her brown curls in her fingers, he said: *'To-*
night let me hear of your own life."

•'There is but little to .tell," she said. "I
was born in Georgia eighteen years ago. I
was my mother's only child ; but when my
father married her his first wife's children
were nearly her age. My name is Marian
Ellis ; not that Ellis is really my surname,
but an old rich aunt of mamma's, upon whom
she was dependent in her girlhood, left me all
her possessions upon condition I took her
name. I never saw her, nor do I even remem-
ber where she lived ; indeed, I think, for
some reason connected with her early life,
mamma did not wish me to know. I do not
believe she was very kind to mamma. How-
ever, she left me her money, for which I thank
her of course ; it is nice to be rich !" and she
laughed merrily.

"Go on," he said, hoarsely.

Troubled at his manner, she still obeyed.

" My own name by birth is Harding. My
mother's maiden name was Walton — Minna
Walton. She was a Northerner ; and so
lovely, so beautiful, she must have been ! for
she was still beautiful when she died, but oh,
so sad ! Papa had been dead many years. I
think, from what I overheard my stepsisters
say one day, after papa's death, when they
were angry — for they were not kind to her —
that she had loved another before she met
papa, and better than she ever had him. Oh,
I cannot forget how, in the delirium of her
last moments, she seized my hands and im-
plored my forgiveness. She mistook me lor
him she had loved. 'I will wait,' she would
cry ; ' I will be patient, and faithful, and true
till you return, and take me into the world ;
I want to see the world!' I think she could
not have kept her promise, for lier self-re-
proach was as fearful as her cries for his par-
don. Poor mamma, dear mamma!" and the
little head bowed sadly into her hands, and
she wept bitterly.

He groaned aloud : "0 Marian, lost Marian !
I can forgive, I can forget ! In your child I
hold you ; mine — my Marian again !"

If she heard him she did not heed. He
lifted her from her low seat — "Mara, Mara,
darling, do not weep. God has sent you to

JOHN STEBNE S DISAPPOINTMENT.

235

nie, sweetest ! Marian, can you see this ?
Will you be happier up in heaven, Minna, to
see your child with him who loved you ? Do
you know this, Mara ? do you know how pas-
sionately I idolized your mother, and that I
am he whom she loved ?"

She understood all now. Dinah's story of
his disappointment, and her mother's words,
together, made all plain. She upraised her
face, smiling through her tears, and putting
her hands within his : ''It makes you nearer
tome!" she said. "I feel not nearly so alone
now. And because she was not true you wull
not like me less ? Forgive her ! she was so
sad, and she loved you !"

Burning words of love on his lips struggled
for utterance. Better than he had ever loved
the mother loved he now her daughter ! Still
not a word had escaped him ; he only held her
close within his arms, when the fierce gal-
loping of a horse was heard, and frightful
screams hurried both apart and to the outer
door.

Philip on the ground insensible, and Amy,
pallid with terror, leaning over him.

John's strong arms bore him to his own
room adjoining the library. It seemed ages*
before the village doctor arrived, and the
wounded man opened his eyes to reveal in
their dull heaviness the sad truth that he was
unconscious of all around him.

At length Amy was enabled to say that as
she entered the avenue, Philip's horse, just
in advance of her, seemed suddenly startled,
ran, and as they neared the house, threw
Philip, his head falling on the sharp stone
steps. What had kept him out so late was
still a mystery.

Tenderly did calm and quiet John dismiss
the two trembling girls, assuring them he
should not leave poor Phil ; and they must
rest, that they might take his place as nurse
on the morrow. Upon this plea he succeeded ;
and the hours passed heavily, drearil^^, de-
spairingly, but that, in spite of grief, he could
not shut out his new joy in loving Mara.

Days passed, y^ith anxiety pressing more
heavily upon them. Philip, and the frail
chance for his life, was the only apparent
thought of all.

Christmas eve, the time so joyfully antici-
pated a week before, came saddest of all.
Merrily pealed the church-bells, and brightly
shone lights from the church windows, making
visible to the outsider the festoons and gar-

lands of evergreen within. But they who
had thought to enter together that little
church, and together rejoice that a Saviour
was born, were gathered around the bed of
suffering. The crisis had come, and the phy-
sician gave them no hope. Death was very
near them, and they watched each breath,
noted each movement, feeling it was the last.
John's strong arms upheld Philip ; his whole
voice and manner gentle as a woman 's,^ all
sternness and coldness gone from his face,
only a great tenderness, a great love shining
there. Amy knelt beside the bed, her arm
thrown over her dying brother, her whole

frame racked with sobs

But Mai*a stood

tearless, and so changed from the untroubled
girl to the despairing woman that death
seemed sweeter far than life.

How he raved in his delirium ! how he
called on Amy, on John, on his dead mother
to come to him and unbind that burning band
about his head ; but most of all on Mara.

" Come to me, little innocent Mara. Why
will you stay away when I call you, cruel Mara ?
Oh, you are with John! I know, I see; the
library holds you two alone. He kiss your
hand, Mara, and I may not, I dare not ! He
shall not, shall not win you ! and yet I cannot !
I am ]30or ; do you mind being poor ? We
might be happy, Mara ; I would try to make
you so. Hark, the bells are tolling I do they
know the age to toll ? I am young to give up
life yet. I hoped to live for you — for you !
lost to me forever, Mara ! Amy, do not tell
her, dearest, that I love her so ! You will not
miss me when you have her here with John
forever ; and I cannot, will not even try to stand
between John and his happiness ! He has
been so kind to us. Amy, poor motherless
ones, and he has had no joy in life, Amy!"
Ilis voice sank into a whisper. No sound
throughout the dimly-lighted room but his
moans and murmurs of the beloved name,
mingling with the bereaved one's bitter cries.

A strange pallor and coldness seized John ;
his limbs trembled, and the room grew closa
and suffocating. Quietly he placed his brother
back upon his pillows, and stepped just with-
out the window upon the veranda. The cold
winter air restored him. He gazed up at the
stars, and in a passion of grief beat his hand
upon his breast. *' God have pity !" was his
agonized cry. "A second time in life this
cruel stroke !"

Philip's voice rang upon his ear: '' Joim,

236

godey's lady's book and magazine.

John, I had rather you killed me than taken
her from me ! Oh, Mara, why could you not
have loved me, Mara?"

She seized his hand ; she raised his head
on her arm, and pressed her lips again and
again to his chilly brow. *' What can I say !
O Philip! precio,as Philip!" she cried, aj)-
pealingly.

*' Tell him the truth!" said John's deep
voice beside lier, and his head rested heavily
on her shoulder. "The truth! but gently,
gently, Mara ; he is reviving, he knows you,
thank Heaven I

The form, but tossing now in pain, was
stiller, and his eyes opened slowly, steadily,
but with a light that showed intelligence had
returned. The/ sought John, growing sadder
as they gazed ; then wonderingly rested on
her who held his head, and pain and darkness
settled again in his face.

Midnight tolled out from the church tower,
and then the room was hushed again. John's
voice broke the silence. '

**Mara has something to say to you. Will
you hear her ? You have asked her why she
did not love you. Philip, she does love
you !"

*'Mara!" and Philip's eyes fastened upon
her.

"I do, Philip! God knows I do, with my
very soul ! Live for my sake ; I cannot have
you die !"

'' And John ?" asked Pliili|), faintly.

John Sterne's lips quivered, aiid then a
calm sorrow settled down upon them, that
they who met him a year after on the battle-
field, and saw him die a brave patriot's death,
never saw removed.

" And John," he said, "says God bless you,
ray dear children, a,nd mak« you ever happy
in each other ! This shall be your home ;
but you will let me stay with you a little
while. You two must take care of all my
possessions while I go to the war, and give a
home to Amy. They will all be yours and
Amy's after I am gone, you know!"

It was Amy who clung to him, kissing him,
and weeping now for joy as she had wept for
grief. Mara, whom he loved better than life,
saw him not. Philip, for whom he had given
more than life, saw her only.

Then he grew himself again, the unweary-
ing, care»Lil nurse ; and leading the two girls
out into the hall — "Go," he said, " and rest,
my children. Philip will live ! Tliank God

for this, and pray Him have pity upon the
souls of the desolate 1"

And alone, beside the sweetly sleeping man,
restored through love to life, sat John Sterne,
his hand tightly clasping the miniature of his
first-loved Marian, as his heart held the image
of the second. Little ever knew the world
which had professed all knowledge concerning
his life-history, that though through the first
came the bitterest grief of youth, yet not till
manhood's prime, and through the second,
fell sorely, crushingly, and without cure the
heavy weight of John Sterne's disappoint-
ment.

LITTLE SARAH.

BY FLORENCE H A It T L A X D .

Wreathe the pale flowers round her geutly ;

Lay them on the coffin-lid ;
Soon that form so fair and saintly

'IS^eath the grave-clods will he hid.

Smooth the hair down reverently

From that marble hrow ;
Kiss the dead lips, cold and ley ;

Speak in whispers low.

Weeping ? No, oh no ! too grandly

Her young spirit left the earth,
For a single stain of sorrow

To imprint its heavenly birth !

Weeping, that another angel

Swells the pealing choir of heavpn ?

Weeping, that another spirit

Has a radiant crown been given?

Would you call a shining seraph
From its blissful heavenly home?

Would you claim your vanished treasure,
Once again on earth to roam'?

Kay, remember that your jewel

Is not lost, but only flown
From its frail and shattered casket

Bright to gleam in Jesus' crown !

And methinks I see her standing

In that far-off happy laud.
Waiting till, when Death shall claim yuu,

She shall clasp again your hand.

Then the wild, wild, bitter yearning

To behold her shall be o'er ;
In your arms you shall enfold her,

To be parted — nevermore !

Another's Merit. — We had rather do any-
thing than acknowledge the merit of another,
if we can help it. We cannot bear a superior
or an equal. Hence, ridicule is sure to pre-
vail over truth, for the malice of mankind
thrown into a scale gives the casting weight.

THE FAMILY DRAWING-MASTER.

237

THE FAMILY DRAWING MASTER.

IX A SERIES OF FAMILIAR CONVERSATIONS.

TRIANGLES. ( Continued. )

P. Before I give joii a drawing to copy to-
fiay, you shall see a new triangle. Here is
au angle.

Ion, That is a right angle, papa.
P. Now I will make it a triangle.

W. I should -call that a right-angled tri-
angle. That would be better than giving it a
Greek name.

P. That is its name.

Ion. And a very good thing too that it has a
different name. I have hard work to keep
the names of the others in my mind. I will
Repeat them again.

Triangles, with all their sides equal, are
called Equilateral Triangles.

With two sides equal, they are called Isos-
celes Triangles.

With no sides equal, they are called Scalene
Triangles, and,

A triangle, with a right angle in it, is called
a Right-angled Triangle.

P. I will to-day give you some right-angled
triangles to draw ; and when you can do them
])roperly, you shall make some drawings from
them.

The first drawing is a triangle. In the

second drawing I have added two perpendicu-
lar lines ; then a ground line, and a parallel
line for a roof.

Ion. And so, papa, it has grown into a shed!
P. Here is another right-angled triangle.

Now I will join some perpendicular and paral-
lel lines to it.

P. When you can draw this, here is an
isosceles triangle to copy.

Ion. Why have you drawn its base with
dots, papa ?

P. Because in the drawing which I am
going to make, this part of the triangle will
not be required.

238

GODEY'S lady's BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

Now I will make the drawing. There is the
shed, the gate.

W. Only you have put three palings be-
tween them.

P. I have drawn the isosceles triangle in
the distance ; and now you have a picture
something like one of the little drawings I
made for you in your first month's lessons.

P. Before you begin to draw, point out to
me again the two right-angled triangles, and
the isosceles triangle. Do not forget, in
drawing it, to make a light line through the
middle of the isosceles triangle, to see if it is
correct. And the other lines, if they are not
quite perpendicular, and quite horizontal, will
be wrong in their direction.

L. And the lines of the isosceles triangle
must be very light lines, or else they will be
wrong in shade.

W. And the house will not seem to be in
the distance.

L. We are going to draw it this afternoon,
papa. Which part shall we begin first ?

P. I should advise you to draw, at first,
with very light lines, the right-angled triangle
in the shed. Secondly, I would make the
ground line at the proper distance from it.
Thirdly, I would join it to the ground line by
the two perpendicular lines which form the
sides of the shed. I would then, fourthly,
draw the gate at the proper distance from it,
and would compare its height with the height
of the shed. How high is it ?

L. Rather more than half as high, papa.

P. When I had thus drawn
the gate and palings in light
lines, I would then, fifthly,
draw the isosceles triangle,
and would make the parallel
lines outside it, for the roof
of the house.

Ion. But why, papa, are
we to draw all this with
light lines ?

W, I can tell : because,
if you should make a mis-
take, you could then rub it
out easily.

P. That is the reason.
You cannot rub out dark
lines easily. When you
have drawn the principal
parts with light lines, and
feel sure that they are cor-
rect, you may make the

dark lines on them without being afraid of

makim? a mistake.

SHADOWS AND SUNSHINE.

BY ALMA A. CRAWFORD.

The rose whose head is bowed
Beneath the passing shower

Haug.s from her trembling stem
A hardened, drooping flower.

She tries in vain to rise,

To lift her rosy crown —
And, weeping, bends her head

By crystal drops weighed down.

But when some kindly breeze
Sweeps o'er each burdened leaf,

Or gentle, passing hand
Shakes off her weight of grief,

Freed from her load of tears.
She lifts her queenly form.

More beautiful than e'en
Before the passing storm.

Thus many a child of earth,

Whose head and heart are bowed,

Longs for some kindly voice
To chase away tho cloud :

Or gentle hand to take

From off their burdened heart
The weary, troublous load

That has become their part.

And when from sorrow's cloud
Their fettered hearts are free,

Far purer fof the storm
Their chastened souls will be.

Bless'd be the gentle hand,
The kindly, cheering voice,

That lifts the weary load,
And bids the heart rejoice.

WANTED, A COMPAls'ION".

BY MARY FORMAL.

*^ Wanted ; a companion for an elderly in-
valid ladj. Apply at No. 27 Street."

It was a brief notice, yet there were woven
into the few words hours of anxious thought,
long, restless nights, and painful misgivings.
I was, in a manner, throwing down a glove
for all my numerous relatives, any one of
whom would have gladly spared me a child or
have come herself to tend my illness, comfort
my pain, drive back my loneliness, for I was
rich, widowed, and childless. I well knew
that Marian my niece, whose son was my
chosen heir, would have faithfully devoted
her life to me, and if I could have overlooked
auch trifling peculiarities as an utter selfish-
ness, gra?:ping avarice, and entire heartless-
ness, we might, perhaps, have gone peacefully
together through the short journey that
seemed to lie between me and^ the grave.
But I wanted a companion whose services,
being liberally rewarded, might be mine at
will. I had no intention of overtasking my
reader and amanuensis ; but I wanted to feel
at perfect liberty to call upon her at any hour.
Then, too, philanthropic schemes of giving a
pleasant home to some poor struggling woman,
whose health, education, or delicacy made her
unfit to cope with the rude world, floated
through my brain.

I soon found my office as selector was no
sinecure. All day the stream of applicants
poured in, till my heart ached for the many
who were thrown upon the world poor and
friendless, grasping at every opportunity for
honorable employment. Yet, of all the vast
throng, not one suited me. Some were merely
servants, fully competent to make my bed or
sweep my room, but I did not want a servant ;
some had vast ideas of salary and privileges,
totally impossible to meet ; some were learned,
and proposed to put my seventy years aside
and commence my education ; some painted,
and would fill my room with copies of the
great masters, for a trifling addition to their
salary ; some wanted one perquisite, some
another, till, exhausted' and bewildered, I
dismissed all, promising to grant another
interview the next day.

I thought all had gone, and lay back in my

chair weary and disappointed, closing m^
eyes to shut out the brilliant parterre of gay
shawls and overpowering bonnets. I am
sure I looked pale, for a soft little hand fell
gently upon my forehead, and a voice clear
and sweet said : —

"I am sorry you are so tired. Can I do
anything for you before I go?"

Something in the low musical voice, tinged
as it was with sadness, roused again my failing
interest. I opened my eyes to see a small
child-like figure clothed in deep mourning, a
fair, sweet face whose large hazel eyes were
full of that tender longing depth we see
sometimes in the babies early called home.
A face to waken love and tenderness, a figure
drooping and delicate, to call forth all the
protecting care of any kind heart. She stood
quietly beside me as I scrutinized her closely,
her eyes looking frankly into mine, her soft,
cool hand still on my brow.

"You came to apply for a situation?" I
said, at length.

**Yes; I have been here all the afternoon
in that corner ; but I shall not suit. I thought
at first I might, but so many far superior have
failed, that I have given up the hope."

" What can you do ?"

*'I am afraid very little. I could read.
Papa used to like to hear me read, and I
could write your notes ; but you are very
particular about reference, and I have none."

"None!"

"No. There is no one in the city who
knows me, and I brought nothing from my
old home."

"Can I not write?"

The hand on my forehead grew very cold,
and the sweet face very pale, as she said,
steadily : —

" There is no one in the wide world to give
me one word of recommendation." *

I was puzzled. Here was the very com-
panion for whom I longed. Some one to
cherish and protect, in return for their ser-
vices to me ; but there was something start-
ling in this assertion of utter friendlessness,
coming from the lips of such a child. My

239

240

godey's lady's book: and magazine.

thoughts formed most unconsciously, at, the
abrupt question —

"Have you done anything wrong to forfeit
your friends' affection/"

I repented the question while I asked it.

The rich crimson blood dyed both cheeks,
but the true, fearless eye never wavered as
she answered : —

"No. I am unfortunate, poor, friendless,
and unhappy ; but I have no sin to carry, no
guilt' to crush me down. I know it seems
strange that a girl of nineteen (I had thought
sixteen the utmost limit for her age) should
be thus lonely ; but it is sorrow, not sin, that
has thrown me out of home and companion-
ship. You are better now, are you not ?"

"Yes ; not so tired."

"Then I will bid you good-night." And
she bent with a graceful salutation, and turned
to leave me.

"Stay," I said. " What is your name ?"

"Alice."

"Alice what?"

"I have no other name.'^

Another enigma. I could not let her go.

"If you stay with me, Alice," I said,
taking her hand in mine, *'I hope some day
to win your confidence and know vvhat sad
story has blighted your youth. I believe you
when you tell me there is no sin connected
with it, and if you are willing to come to-
morrow for a short visit, we can see if we suit
aach other for a longer companionship."

"I will come," she said, with a trembling
voice, and bending down, she left a kiss and
a hot tear upon my withered hand, and was
gone.

I am afraid my readers would set me down
for a romantic old fool if I told them all the
stories I framed that night for my heroine.
The palef pure face with its delicate features,
golden hair, and large, child-like eyes, fairly
haunted me. The tiny hands had evidently
never known labor ; the sweet, clear voice was
modulated by the education of a lady ; the
graceful little figure, with its modest bearing,
had no cringing in its attitude. At least there
was a new interest for my lonely life ; and if
my' new study proved an impostor, there was
no one but myself to be injured, no children
to be trained in error, no young mind to
receive poisonous doctrine; and in view of
all these negatives I felt satisfied with my
acquisition.

Looking back now, with the love of my

protegee making the music of my life, I find
it difficult to recall the impressions of the first
fevv days ; but a few words about myself may
show my reader what my companion was to
me.

As I have said, I was past seventy years ;
but had been, until within a few montte,
in the full possession of every faculty, and
unusually active and energetic for my years.
Possessed of vast wealth, I had tried, with
sincerity, to remember that I was the Lord's
steward ; and if my name but seldom figured
upon the pompous lists of public charities, I
trust that the courts and alleys where my old
face was so cordially welcomed, the children
snatched from low haunts of misery, the
industrious supplied with work, the energetic
little boys "set up" in the shoe-black or
newspaper business, the dying from whose
bed the sting of want was swept away, the
aged whose helpless hands were filled, and
the erring who found an avenue opened for
honorable labor, will bear me witness that I
have earnestly endeavored to be a just al-
moner. Six months previous to the day
when my daring advertisement appeared, my
physician had passed my doom of future help-
lessness. A severe cold, contracted by some
unconscious exposure, had settled in my limbs,
and produced such results as left me for the
remainder of my life hopelessly crippled,
having no power to move my body below the
waist.

My nurse, a strong good-hearted woman,
fully capable of lifting, dressing, and tending
me, at once accepted the post of permanent
attendant, with some of the housekeeping
cares. I had servants for every lower branch
in the domestic department, but I pined for a
friend. There were plenty to call upon me,
to send me dainty dishes, perfumed notes,
choice flowers ; but none upon whom I could
call for constant attendance. My relatives all
resided in a distant city, and there was not
one amongst them for whose constant society
I felt any desire.

In this lonely, helpless life my companion
came to cheer and comfort me. I cannot
tx;ll the thousand loving graces by which she
won my love,- and commanded my esteem.
The yearning, childlike pity for my age and
helplessness expressed itself in every tone of
her sweet voice, in her quick, gentle movements
round my chair, her ready comprehension of
every want, her tender touch and almost

WANTED, A COMPAKION.

241

reverential respect. There was no thought of
my wealth or possible generosity in her heart,
only such protecting, yet deferential affection as
helpless age calls for from fresh, pure-hearted
youth. She read beautifully, with an evident
cultivation of her clear voice, and when in
some stirring passage, I have marked her
large eyes kindle, her cheek glow, and voice
rise into clear clarion-like tones of enthusiasm.
I have forgotten all suffering to go hand in
hand with her to the pleasant lands of ideality
and romance. Love for literature, elocution,
and poetry had been one of the ruling pas-
sions of my life, and it soon became one of
the delights of my imprisonment to open for
Alice the portals of history, imagination,
science, and classics, and watch the eager en-
thusiasm with which she entered the enchanted
realms. I smile now to think of the hours
we passed over our favorite authors ; she
seated on a low chair at my side, my .hand
often resting on the glossy braids of her golden
hair, while my pain and her sorrows floated
off into a misty background to give place to
the spirit of our volume. Her sweet voice,
rising in passionate cadences of fancied woe,
sinking to lovs's tenderest intonations, march-
ing forward to a martial strain in steady,
measured tones, or wailing with despairing
grief, carried ihy old 'heart far back to the
days when this was to me also an inner life,
a resting-place from hard realities or every-
day monotonies.

She grew happier, too, in our daily inter-
course. The heavy grief in her dark eyes
grew softened into a quiet resignation, and
the slow, weary footfall grew more elastic and
buoyant as she became assured of my love for
her, my pleasure in her society. She had
been with me nearly two months, when one
day, leaning her cheek against the arm of my
chair, and looking up into my face, she said :

*' Do you care for music ?"

I told her truly how I loved it.

**When the sorrows of my life fell upon
me," she said, mournfully, **I said there
could be no more music for me ; my heart felt
darkened and desolate ; but you have flooded
it with love and light, and I can sing again."

And without further preface, still seated at
my feet, her eyes still raised to mine, she
began to sing.

I had often marked, while she read, the
musical intonations of her voice when it rose
above a monotone ; but I had never dreamed

VOL. LXJX. — 20

of its wealth and power until I heard it in
song. The perfection of cultivation which
had evidently been lavished upon it had had
no power to crush out its natural purity and
sweetness ; the elaborate trills and wonderful
scales fell with such easy grace that they
seemed more the spontaneous embroidery of
a bird than the result of science ; and when
she sang ballads, the severe simplicity of
style seemed more like the heartfelt warbling
of a cottage girl than the marvellous finish
of the artist. For nearly two hours she sang,
uninterrupted, her 'dark eyes looking forward,
filled with rapt ecstasy, her form entirely
motionless, the light striking upon her lovely
face and mourning robes, framing a model for
a St. Cecilia, and I wondering that I had
never before read the music in her brow,
eyes, and lips.

At last the flood of melody sank slowly,
gradually in fainting sweetness into silence.
She sat still, utterly motionless for a few
moments, the high inspiration dying out from
her face, the old depth of grief creeping
slowly into her eyes, till, suddenly, with a
bitter cry of — ^^''How can I bear it!" she
broke into passionate sobbing. I had never
seen her violently agitated before. She was
always so calm, so self-possessed, that this
sudden burst of despairing sorrow alarmed me.
For some moments my voice was unheeded ;
but I leaned forward and placed my hand on
the bent head, saying: ''Alice, my child!
Let me share your grief or comfort it."

She heard me then, and it was pitiful to see
how she struggled for composure. The little
white fingers, laced together as her arms were
raised over her head, now moved restlessly,
nervously seeking their place ; the slight
figure convulsed by bitter sobbing trembled as
she strove to check the sounds of woe ; and
when at last the sweet face was raised to mine,
its pale lips, swollen eyelids, and yearning,
questioning gaze touched me to the very
heart.

"Surely you can trust me," I said, in
answer to that look. ' ' Tell me your trouble.
Perhaps I can lighten the burden. I am rich,
you know."

"Money will not help me. If it would, I
should never tell you;" and the head was
raised with a proud erectness it had never
borne in my presence before. Soon, however,
it drooped back to the old place on the arm of "
my chair, and she said : —

242

godey's lady's book and magazine.

''You cannot help me ; but you have been
so kind that it seems wrong to keep a secret
from you. From my earliest childhood I have
lived in such a house as this, surrounded by
every luxury, the petted darling of the owner.
Dr. Greyson, my dear father, made my happi-
ness the object of his life; he cultivated
every talent he thought he found in me,
making study delicious by his own advice and
companionship. I had masters for English,
French, German, and above all music, and
every day's study was rewarded by his praise
and encouragement in the long delightful
evenings we spent together. He was very
wealthy, and I had not a caprice ungratified,
while his steady judgment kept my wayward
fancies in control; my whims were analyzed
till they melted into air, or became solid foun-
dations for virtue or improvement. Two
years ago, my father took a pupil into his
office, a gentleman some four or live years
older than myself, the son of a widow lady
who resided in P . It will scarcely in-
terest you to tell you my love-story, for I soon
learned to love this new member of our home
circle. Evening after evening, when his study
for the day was over, he would linger in our
sitting-room, talking, reading, or joining his
voice to mine in a thousand vagaries of sound
that spring spontaneously to the lips of music
lovers."

She was looking intently forward, as th*e
narrative fell from her lips, her voice sunk to
monotone, her words set and studied as if she
were reading the tale from some book, instead
of probing her own heart, while the rigid
erectness of her frame, the steady clasp of
her hands, one within the other, told of the
strain for composure, the forced calmness.

"We became very dear to each other,
Horace and I, lovers from similarity of taste,
his noble, true nature absorbing mine, till I
would have been content to be his servant to
live near him and feel the sunlight of his
presence. At last he asked me to be his wife,
and earth held no greater happiness for my
future life. He had won my father's consent
before he asked mine, and we were betrothed,
with every prospect of a speedy, happy mar-
riage. Yet, though he had given a free,
willing consent to our engagement, my father
seemed reluctant to hasten the wedding. We
had been so long dependent each upon the
other for society, that even though his house
was still to be our home, he seemed to dread

the change my marriage might make. We
had been engaged, Horace and I, for nearly a
year, when some business called my lover
from home for a month, and my father prom-
ised that upon his return the wedding prepa-
rations should begin.

' ' The day after he left, I was sitting in my
own room when my dear father came up
stairs, and, after a long, loving conversation,
placed in my hand a note for a thousand
dollars, to buy, he said, the wedding finery,
and then, with something like a tear in his
eyes, he kissed his darling for the last time !
The last time ! He was thrown from his
carriage an hour later, and brought home,
dead!"

She was silent for a moment, and then, in
the same steady monotone that covered so
much agony, she recommenced her narrative.

"He had been dead three days when his
lawyer called upon me to tell me that Dr.
Greyson was not my father. I was a foundling,
a child whom he had found neglected and
abused in some low haunt where his charity
had taken him for professional service, and in
his boundless goodness he had takSn me to
his home. He had always intended to make
me his heiress, but had died without making
a will. I was still sitting trying to realize this
stunning truth, when another visitor entered,
unannounced, Horace' s mother. ' '

Involuntarily I drew the child nearer tome.
Well could I understand the bitterness of that
interview !

" She came to beg me to release her son.
She told me that in his Quixotic generosity
he would doubtless hasten to me, and make
me his wife ; but that by so doing he would
utterly destroy his own prospects. No one
would employ a physician who so violated
prejudice as to marry a woman of no birth or
name, and his aunt, whose death was to make
him wealthy, was proud and aristocratic, and
would surely spurn the husband of a woman
who was picked up, nobody knew where.
My father (I can never think of him by any
colder name) was but a few hours buried, the
news of my birth just told me. and so, crushed
by the double sorrow, the future looked dark
enough for me to think lightly of one more
pang. She won my consent to a disappear-
ance, and before night I had left P

without one word to Horace or any old friend
of my intentions. My father's present on the
morning of his death I took with me, leaving

WANTED, A COMPANIO]^.

243

everything else for the heir-at-law. I had
been here but a few days, lodging with a
Tv^oman to whom Mrs. Martyn sent a letter by
me, when your advertisement attracted me,
and I ventured here. Need I tell you of my
gratitude for all your kindness, my deep ap-
preciation of your goodness ? I can never tell
you. You must feel it, for no words of mine
can give it utterance."

*' Suppose!" I said, watching her keenly,
''you go to this proud aunt and tell your
story ; she may not be so cruel as she is re-
presented."

**No. I promised to give him up, and I
cannot in honor try to win a consent opposed
to that of his mother."
''Who is this aunt?"

"I do not know. Horace often spoke of a
dear aunt Elizabeth ; but he never mentioned
himself as her heir, or indeed mentioned her
money at all. He seemed to love her very
desi^ly ; but she may not be the one his
mother referred to. I do not know her last
name."

*' Alice!" I said, gently, "do you know
who sends affliction, and why He sends it ?"

The pure face lighted with a holy fervor as
she said, softly —

"Those whom the Lord loveth He chas-
teneth. His will be done."

I was satisfied. I had never been attracted
by the religion worn upon the sleeve, the
cant springing upon trivial occasions to the
lips, the Scripture phrases hackneyed till
they revolted against one's reverence ; but
there was a quiet, holy form of life, a patient
resignation, a deep silent Christianity that
more truly betokei^^d the pure, holy fervor of
tried religion, and these Alice held surely,
clasping the Comforter closely to her heart,
letting not her right hand see her left move,
praying secretly and living her piety, instead
of crying it from the housetops.

I think she felt happier after her confession
to me. There were words of sympathy which
I could give now, that seemed to comfort her,
and it was evidently a relief to speak freely of
her adopted father. Each day's intercourse
brought our hearts nearer together, till, like
that father, I shuddered over the thought of
losing her, even for her own happiness.

She was sitting in her old place at my feet,
one morning, her hand clasped in mine, read-
ing one of Miss Landon's passionate love
poems. As she let the last word fall from her

lip, she looked into my face with a sad,
earnest gaze, that touched me deeply.

" You have so loved," I said, gently.

"I have so loved, so lost my love. Can we
ever forget ! With duty, resignation, and
submission all pointing to oblivion, can we
ever forget !"

She often expressed her thoughts in this
metrical form ; but it Was, I think, the result
of close study, intercourse with manly intel-
lect and reading, more than any affectation.

" Why should you forget ?" I said ; " it is
unnatural to cramp and starve your young
heart to fill the caprice of avarice. Horace
is true. Horace knew of your obscure birth
before he asked you to be his wife ; knew it
from Dr. Grey son's lips."

She was listening with suspended breath
and dilated eyes.

" His aunt is ready to give her consent. Do
you not guess ? Alice, my child, Horace
Martyn is my nephew and heir, and — "

Did she guess, or was his movement for-
ward too eager ? I only know she sprang to
her feet, turned, and was clasped fast in her
lover's arms, her true, noble-hearted lover,
who has sought her with a breaking heart,
and come post haste in answer to my letter of
summons.

My large house is none too big for the little
restless feet that patter up and down the
broad entries, the little voices that waken its
echoes, while my hearX is freshened, my youth
renewed, my whole life encircled by the love
of my nephew, Alice, and their three wee
children.

DOMESTIC HELP.

BY MKS. CHATWITT.

The want of good domestic help in the
United States is a great evil, and one which
daily increases ; and, were it not for the influx
of foreigners, I do not know but necessity
would drive all housekeepers to some great
boarding-house system, thus banishing the
holiest of all places — our homes and our pri^
vate firesides.

No one can travel through our country
towns, especially of the Free States of the
West, without being struck with the careworn,
faded expression of women scarcely thirty
years of age ; and the merest glimpse at their
cares and duties, and the hard work that

244

godey's lady's book and magazine.

inevitably falls to their share, shows plainly
why they are broken down 'fere they are in their
prime ; shows why there are so many mother-
less children; why there are so many men
mourning over the beloved of their youth, and
the breaking up of their household ties ; why
there are so many with second and third wives.

Look at a young girl entering upon the
duties of matrimony, loving and beloved, and.
anxious to fulfil her domestic and social duties.
Watch her year by year until a little family
have clustered around her; see with what
energy and amiability she has striven against
sickness, poor help, and all the thousand
trials and perplexities that no one but Ameri-
can housekeepers can understand. With an
infant in her arms and an inexperienced girl to
help her, she superintends her housekeeping,
receives company, nurses her children, acts the
seamstress, and strives for her husband's com-
fort ; and often her miserable help deserts her
when she can least do without. What wonder
health and beauty give way! And she could
not retain her spirits, and hope against hope
that she will be relieved in time to recruit her
failing health and energies, but for that calm
trust, which I glory in saying most of my
countrywomen possess, in an all-wise Creator,
an overruling Providence, and a kind Hea-
venly Father. Yet, though God. overrules
all things. He does not wish us to fold our
hands over this evil ; even with faith in Him,
we must endeavor to remove it, and look to
Him to bless our efforts, not our passiveness.
What can be done ? Will not some one take
up a pen, and tell us what is practicable ? — not
theories; something practical?

One thing, as a partial alleviation, I would
suggest, returning to one of the good old
customs of our New England grandmothers,
which, amid all the fashions, and, as they
would have said, *• new-fangled notions" of
the day, seems to have grown nearly obsolete.
They used, when first married, to go quietly
to housekeeping (and they had been taught
domestic duties better, I am sorry to say,
than girls are now taught); they used to take
a little girl to bring up, often an orphan, or
some poor child whose parents were glad to
part with her if she found a good home, so
that it was a double kindness. And, as ladies
did not then disdain attending to some part of
their domestic duties from choice, the child
was personally taught and superintended, and
affectionately treated. Thus situated, she

loved and respected her protectors, so when
the time of trial came they had one hand at
least upon whom they could rely — one who felt
an interest that domestic matters should go
right, and the wheels of the household roll on
smoothly — one who every year would be of
more use and more of a friend, morally trained,
and trained as a good housekeeper ; and when
her time came to take charge of a family, she
would be a credit to the lady who had brought
her up, and a blessing to her own family.
ILany might object to this as being so much
trouble. And so it is ; but it is trouble that
pays, to use a popular, though not very elegant,
expression.

It is a great deal of care and trouble to
train a child, to have patience with its way-
wardness, and forbearance with its failings,
and forgiveness for its faults; but there is
nothing worth having in this life that is not
some trouble ; and this taking some of the
labor from our hands, taking some of the steps
for the wearied feet, disciplining the heart in
patient virtues, is trouble that will repay.

I am far from meaning to recommend bring-
ing up a child as a drudge, making her feel
herself inferior, and dwarfing her in mind
and body by harsh usage and hard work. No
truly thoughtful Christian woman is capa-
ble of doing this, and she who would use a
dependant thus does not know the kindly
feelings of a follower of the Saviour of love
and mercy, and (harsh as it may sound) is
not fit to bring up her own children.

But what is the trouble compared to the
trouble of continual change from one ignorant
servant girl to another ? Neo'd I go through
the list ? Not this time. But these troubles
and the trouble of bringing up a child, to have
her assistance, love, and respect for eight or
ten years, or perhaps more, hardly contrast,
and there are hundreds in our crowded cities
who would be a blessing to as many house-
keepers, if they would only think they could
take the trouble to bring them up. Who will
try the experiment ?

Any one who reads this article will readily
understand that I refer more particularly to
housekeepers in country towns as being so
situated as to try this experiment to the best
advantage.

— If you would not have affliction to visit
you twice, listen at once to what it teaches.

A PEW FRIENDS.

BY KORMAH LYNN.

FIFTH EVENINa.

At tlie fiftli meeting of the * ' Few Friends,"
held at Mrs. Adams's tasteful residence, Teresa
exhibited to her delighted guests an impro-
vised kaleidoscope, which was unanimously
pronounced to be the very palace of that realm
of dazzling changes of which every child has
had a faint glimpse through the common
kaleidoscope of the toy-shops. Indeed, so
gorgeous and varied were the effects, and on
so large a scale, that even the staidest of the
members gave vent to an undignified ^^0!"
while gazing. Form, color, light, and shade
were blended in the most exquisitely symmet-
rical disorder. Sometimes they saw a plain
field of crimson, over which golden flashes
passed and repassed with the rapidity of light-
ning ; next, flowers in wild profusion seemed
to bud and bloom before their eyes until
nothing but a mass of glowing pulsing loveli-
ness could be seen. Then a gleam of emerald
darted through its midst, and, like the touch
of a fairy wand, transfigured everything it
touched into new forms of beauty. Soon,
across a plain of dazzling white, ran quick,
rippling circles of blue and crimson ; then the
fairy wand again, and watches, rings, brace-
lets, and ribbons crowded into view, only to
melt away in a wheel of limpid water, never
breaking, though it revolved as if speeding on
some mad errand. This vanishing, a hideous
face with its dozens of eyes, now scowling,
now staring, now villanously winking, startled
the spectators, '^ho, applaud as they might,
could never win an encore, for the spirit of
change ruled supreme.

As each guest in turn looked in wonder and
admiration at the ever varied forms, now
laughing, as something *' so funny" appeared,
or hastily stepping aside to allow the others
to see some exquisite effect before it vanished,
one would have thought that their days of
childish frolic had returned. And, indeed,
children of a larger growth they were, though
rather indignant children, when Teresa, with
a merry laugh, moved the screen that had
hidden her from the spectators and showed to
them the materials with which she had wrought
such wondrous effects.

20*

Alas, the fairy-wand was but a glass pen-
handle ! The garlands of flowers that had
seemed so fresh and beautiful were but a
handful of tumbled enormities from cast-off
bonnets. The crystal lights came from an
old bead-basket ; and, for the rest, lamp-
mats, handkerchiefs, gloves, ribbons, jewelry,
and gilt-edged books had served their delusive
purpose. The hideous face was Teresa's own,
as fresh and sweet a countenance, my good-
looking reader, as shall ever bend over these
pages, and that wondrous water-wheel had
been made by simply pouring a small stream
of water into a pewter-mug.

And now, as others may wish some time to
conjure up similar fairy-like effects from
equally slender means, I will, confidentially,
give them Teresa's modus operandi.

In the first place, her piano-forte, standing
at one end of the long parlor, had been
screened from the audience by a flowing white
(3urtain {i. e. two sheets suspended gracefully
over a big clothes-horse). Then, after re-
moving the cloth from the highly polished
instrument, she had opened it in the usual
way as if for playing upon it. This of course
caused a portion of the front to lie back upon
the main body of the instrument. Raising
this reversed part up about nine inches (so
that, at the ends, the open section presented
an angle of nearly 45 degrees) she supported
it by means of a pile of books at each end ;
taking care, however, not to let them project
under the elevated portion more than was
absolutely necessary for support. This left a
triangular opening at either end, and by
throwing a heavy shawl or cover across the
entire length to shut out the light from the
side, the kaleidoscope was complete — taking
much less time to perform the work than it
has required to describe it. The only thing
then needed, to produce the full kaleidoscopic
effect, was to throw a strong light across the
end away from the audience, and to shake
bright-colored objects a few inches from it,
while the spectator looked in at the other
extremity. When everything was ready, the
curtain, which had hung close to the piano-
forte, and at right angles to it, was parted in

245

246

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

the middle just enough to leave the eye-end
of the kaleidoscope open to the audience, al-
lowing nothing to be seen of the movements
behind the curtain.

Thus, while the ''Few Friends" had been
enjoying what seemed to them the most
magical effects, Mary Gliddon and Teresa had
been quietly presenting, shaking, changing,
and swinging their stock of commonplace
articles at the other end-^-taking care that a
strong light should fall upon the colors, or,
when transparent articles were used, allowing
the light to fall through them. Any person
having a piano, the top of which opens lid-
like, can, after a little experimenting, produce
truly remarkable effects in this way.

Before the clothes-horse was removed from
the apartment, Benjamin Stykes, who of
course was present, begged leave to intro-
duce, "for fun's sake," a, new pastime which
he insisted had lately been introduced into
the country by an Egyptian. The only pre-
paration required was to cut a few oval holes
about an inch and a half long, and sixteen
inches apart, in a couple of large newspapers.
These were fastened across the clothes-horse,
while the space between papers and floor was
filled by one of the aforesaid sheets.

^ ' Now, ' ' quoth Ben, with an inquiring look
■around the room, ' ' we certainly are all familiar
Tvith each other's countenances by this time ?"

"I should think so," replied a chorus of
voices, promptly.

"And we would of course recognize every
-eye in the room if allowed time for careful
inspection ?■"

Nearly all assented to this proposition.

"Well, we will test the fact," said Ben.
"Half a dozen of us will step behind the
screen and look with our right eyes through
the holes, which you see are sufficiently large
to afford you a full exhibition. I will guarantee
that not one of the rest can name correctly
the respective owners of the six eyes."

Thus challenged, all were of course eager
that the experiment should be tried. Ben,
Lieutenant Hunter (Ben's quondam rival),
Teresa Adams, Mr. Pipes, Mr. Simmons, and
Miss Bcinwig were selected to go behind the
screen.

Alas for the uncertainty of human predic-
tion ! not one of the discriminating friends
could name correctly the owners o:^the queer-
looking optical mirrors now glaring upon
them. Not even when the eyes twinkled

with laughter at the queer mistakes made,
was the task of recognition rendered easier.
A certain full gray orb in the corner (belong-
ing to one Benjamin) looked expressively at
Mary Gliddon, only to be passed by as hope-
less, while it almost shed a natural tear when
its owner heard the grizzly green eye of Miss
Scinwig, in the opposite corner, designated by
Mary in good faith as pertaining to Mr. Stykes,

Numberless were the mistakes made by the
guessers as other eyes were placed under in-
spection. They could generally recognize the
weary eye of poor Mr. Simmons, or the softly-
cushioned little bit of jet through which his
comfortable spouse had so far seen the world ;
but the visual organs of the others, though
strongly individualized enough when seen "in
the flesh," became utterly unrecognizable
in a newspaper setting. The less important
features, yclept eyes and nose, met with little
better fate when the holes in the paper had
been enlarged to give them a trial.

When Ben attempted gently to reproach
Mary for her sad mistake, the saucy creature
declared she was glad he had informed her of
it, for she certainly owed Miss Scinwig an
apology, and must attend to it forthwith —
which she accordingly did, leaving Master Ben
a prey to conflicting emotions. Like Viola,
the poor fellow had "never told his love,"
and sadly did he suffer for his' lack of courage.
"If," thought he, "I could but get just one
encouraging glance — such as Teresa Adams
has cast upon me often — I might venture. It
is true her eye kindled when we spoke toge-
ther the other night as I have never seen it
kindle before ; but we were discussing the
war. And this very evening she blushed
when I quoted those expressive lines from
Tennyson ; but she complained the very next
moment that the room was excessively warm ;
so how can a fellow tell. If that step-brother
of hers were not so confoundedly filial and
attentive, one might escort her home some-
times, and gain an opportunity of exchanging
sentiments. Heigh-ho ! how beautiful she is !
And how good, too! I would stake my very
life upon it."

Just then the grand aria from Don Giovana
with which Mr. Pipes (accompanied on the
piano by Miss Pundaway) had for a few
moments past been regaling the company
swelled to such magnitude that Ben was star-
tled from his meditations. To tell the truth,
our hero was not over musical in his tastes,

A FEW FRIENDS.

247

and entertained sentiments anything but gal-
lant toward that now old maid of whose
younger days,

"While yet in early Greece she sung,"

Collins has discoursed so eloquently. At last,

"Silence, like a poultice, came
To heal the blows of sound."

Mr. Pipes'' voice exploded on the last bar
(or so it seemed to Ben); with a smiling, yet
modest consciousness of having done his best,
iie received the congratulations of his admirers,
descending from Italian to the vernacular with
wonderful ease and condescension.

While the finale was still ringing in the ears
of chairman Stykes, he was startled by an
unexpected whisper from the lieutenant.

'^Come out in the hall."

Half expecting a challenge from the young
soldier for daring even in thought to aspire to
the love of his step-sister, Ben obeyed. To
his great relief, as soon as he had closed the
parlor door behind him, he was touched mys-
teriously on the shoulder by the lieutenant,
and, looking up, saw a smile struggling through
the hirsute thicket on the latter' s face.

"Let's give them a touch of Dumb Ora-
tor," said the lieutenant.

"What's that?" inquired Ben. "I have
never heard of it."

"Why, it is nearly as old as we are," was
the reply ; "yet a great many people, I find,
have never heard of it. One person makes a
speech of some kind, or recites something,
with his hands behind him, while another,
upon whose lap he is seated, lends him arms,
making all the gestures for him."

" Oapital ! But who '11 make the speech ?"

"You must, because / have the longest
arms. With the aid of a cloak, I can manage
to hide myself, you know. What will you
speak?"

"Will Hamlet's Soliloquy do ?"

"Admirably."

The young men then shut themselves in the
"third parlor," and, with a little aid from
Teresa, soon completed their arrangements.

To the surprise of the guests, when the
doors were rolled b'kck, my lord Hamlet was
seen seated in comfortable style, with hat
and falling plume (borrowed from Teresa's
riding outfit), and his cloak flung gracefully
back from his shoulders.

"To be or not to be," etc.- Never were
those well-known words rolled more mao^nifi-

cently from human lips ; yet, it must be con-
fessed, the style of action was not exactly
what could be called Booth-ian, unless Booth
has recently used a highly-colored silk pocket-
handkerchief in the part ; taken snuff from
a silver box during certain passages ; sneezed
accordingly ; stood his hair out on end with
nimble fingers while exclaiming
"To sleep! perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub!"
put on a pair of green spectacles while allud-
ing to the "pale cast of thought ;" and twirled*
his thumbs at the finale

"And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action."

Still the soliloquy was received with great
laughter and applause ; and being, as we
know, apartnership concern, Ben appropriated
the applause and the lieutenant the laughter,
and both were satisfied.

Just as Ben was on the point of ofi'ering to
escort Mary Gliddon home, Mrs. Simmons
slowly approached him.

"As we are neighbors, Mr. Stykes, may I
ask the protection of your arm on my way
home ? Our Stevy is not quite well, and I
had to send Mr. Simmons home in advance
this evening."

"With pleasure, madam," was the cour-
teous reply. And the saintly smile with
which Ben relinquished the damsel's company,
and gave his protecting arm to the precious
three-hundred-weight beside him, w-as beau-
tiful to behold.

The Force of Habit. — We find people appa-
rently easy in the midst of great dangers ;
, nay, we know that mankind show the same
indifi'erence in cities where the Emperor or
the Bashaw amuses himself from time to time
in cutting off the heads of those he happens
to meet with in his walks ; and I make no
doubt that if it were usual for the earth to
open and swallow a portion of its inhabitants
every day, mankind would behold this with
as much coolness as at present they read the ,
bills of mortality. Such is the efi'ect of habit '
on the human mind, and so wonderfully does
it accommodate itself to those evils for which
there is no remedy.

Genius. — The man of genius is not master of
the power that is in him ; it is by the ardent,
irresistible need of expressing what he feels
that he is a man of genius.

248

godey's lady's book and magazini

THE CASKET OF TEMPERANCE.

BY WILLIE E. PABOR.

{Pearl the Ninth.)

THE TEMPERANCE BATTLE.

{As recited at St. Joseph^ s Hospital, Central Parle, New
York City.)

The battles of the world are not al(%e

Where men raeet men to throw and be o'erthrown ;

Where cannons belch their thunder through the air,
And scatter desolation everywhere.
And not where rifle click and sabre clash
Bespeak a conflict and a battle crash.
Alone, are fields where foe with foemen meet
To battle for a victory or defeat.

For we are conscious of a war within,

Whose tocsin sounds above the smoke and din

Of nations battling for their altar fires,

Or for the birthright of their patriot sires ;

Opposing elements are these, that start

In the fair valley of the human heart ;

And where the river of repose should run,

A life is lost or life's disgrace is won :

Lost to all happiness, all peace, all hope

That linger still on earth's rose-laden slope ;

Won to a fate forever sad and drear,

That knows no respite, solace, choice, or cheer ;

Lost to the memories that bloom beside

The banks where flows contentment's sunny tide ;

Won to that sorrow and to that despair

That carry death and darkness everywhere.

And over all there hover for their loss

Visions of crowns they win who bear the cross ;

And over all a sense of sweetness sweeps

Where love's elysium to its boundary leaps.

But pleasures such as this they may not reach ;

Only the lessons that their failures teach ;

Onlythe bitterness, the pain, the wo

Are theirs, or they can ever, ever know.

O soldiers of the Flag ! to you I teach

A truth as true as mind of man can reach.

soldiers of the Flag ! that flag whose bars,
Whose field of azure, and whose wealth of stars
Your right arms have defended, unto you

1 teach this lesson ! to yourself be true.

As ye have for your country stood, so stand

As brave and fearless in the temperance band.

soldiers of the Flag ! your hearts can know

No deeper traitor and no deadlier foe

Than lingers in the wine's empurpled sleep ;

No poisoned bullet ever goes so deep ;

No sabre stroke can cleave so near the heart.

Or sever linksthat love would never part.

soldiers of the Flag ! do you not know

You have lost battles through this very foe ?

When they who led you had their senses steeped

With wine, what wonder that to death you leaped

In charges fatal, as, in England's song,

Such charge as Balaklava doth belong !

soldiers of the Flag ! for you can come

No foe so fatal as this foe of rum !

For not alone by you is felt its sting —

It sends its venom where your memories cling ;

It gathers wife and children in its gloom.

And sends heart-broken mothers to the tomb.

Who fall in battle, fall as heroes fall !

For them the victor's wreath, and bier, and pall,

A nation's grateful incense, and a name

Recorded on her muster-roll of fame.

Who fall by reason of the wine-cup fall

To a disgrace from which there 's no recall.

The roster of such company must be,

Though sad to write, more sad to hear or see ;

And lips that might make music on the march

Yield only venom for the hearts that parch

For some small token from afar, to yield

A grateful memory from life's battle-field.

O soldiers of the Flag ! once more, once more,

By hopes you cherish, ills that you deplore,

By memories of battle-fields well fought,

By memories that home and love have taught,

Be warned in time, or in the battle hour,

A sense of weakness shall exhaust your power,

And, falling in the ranks before the foe.

You reach a Libby Prison house of wo ;

Envir(?fied by an enemy far worse

Than gray-clad minions who their country curse.

The Two Sexes. — There is nearly always
something of nature's own gentility in all
young women (except, indeed, when they get
together and fall a giggling). It shames us
men to see how much sooner they are polished
into conventional shape than our rough mas-
culine angles. A vulgar boy requires Heaven
knows what assiduity to move three steps, we
do not say like a gentleman, but like a boy
v/ith a soul in him ; but give the least advan-
tage of society or tuition to a peasant girl, and
a hundred to one but she will glide into re-
finement before the boy can make a bow with-
out upsetting the table. There is sentiment
in all women ; and that gives delicacy to
thought and taste to manner ; with men it is
generally acquired ; an offspring of the intel-
lectual quality ; not, as with the other sex, of
the moral.

— With a double vigilance should we watch
our actions, when we reflect that good and
bad ones are never childless ; and that, in
both cases, the offspring goes beyond the
parent — every good begetting a better, every
bad a worse.

— Love is like honesty — much talked about,
and but little understood.

NOVELTIES FOE SEPTEMBER

COIFFURES, SLEEVES, DRESSES, ETC. ETC.

Fig. 1. — Ball coifrure. The hair is arranged
in curls and plaits, and falls very low on the
neck at the back.

Fig. 6.— A salmon-colored merino dress,
trimmed with black velvet, and quilled salmon-
colored ribbon.

Fig. 1.

Fig. 2.

Fig. 2. — A Marie Antoinette tuft, composed
of light white feathers, frosted leaves, and a
gilt butterfly, which is attached by a fine wire.

Fig. 3. — Fancy coiffure, composed of sea-
green velvet, black lace, and pink roses.

Fig. 4. — Muslin sleeve, trimmed with fluted
muslin ruflies and Valenciennes lace.

Fig. 5. — Lace sleeve, trimmed round the
wrist, and up to the elbow with point lace
and insertion.

Fig. 7. — Pink merino dress, braided with
black. This style of dress is suitable for a
boy or girl of two years.

Fig. 8.— Breakfast-cap of dotted muslin,
trimmed with very narrow black velvet.

Fig. 9. — White muslin apron, for a little
girl six years old. The bretelles are trimmed
with an embroidered ruflie, and the front of
the corsage is formed of three rows of insert-
ing, trimmed with rufliing. The same pattern

249

250

.godey's lady's book and magazine.

Fig. 4.

Fig. 5.

Fig. 7.

Fig. 8.

NOVELTIES FOR SEPTEMBER.

251

Fig. 9.

makes up prettily in silk, substituting quilled
ribbon, or bead trimming for the inserting,
and forming the bretelles of fluted silk.

Fig. 10. — Fancy comb of gilt, elegantly or-
namented with black enamel.

Fig. 10.

BRAIDING PATTERN FOR A PINCUSHION.

252

godey's lady's book and magazine.

RUSTIC FRAMES.

B Y R . C . B.

Procure a frame of the shape your fancy
may dictate ; oval is, however, the prettiest
for this kind of work.

Have the frame made of wood, entirely free
from paint, oil, or varnish ; it should be as
thick as frames usually are, sloping on the
outside from the outer to the inner edge ; a
bevel should be made on the wrong side in
which to put the picture and glass, also rings
by which it is to be suspended. Make your
collection of materials, which should consist
of acorns, some entire, but especially the sau-
cers ; of these you will need a good many,
say a pint of the small deep ones. A few of
every variety of nuts which are not larger
than a common walnut. I know of no nut
which is not pretty -in this work. All the
little nuts and burrs found in the woods which
' are hard and durable are useful, yellow corn,
colored beans, cloves, coffee, green and brown-
ed. The kernels out of fruit are beautiful,
especially peach-stones. Clean butternuts are
very pretty. You will also need about a
tablespoonful of lampblackj about the same
of gum shellac, a quarter of a pound of common
glue (not Spaulding's, for it is too thin for
most of the work), some Demar varnish, a
tablespoonful of yellow mustard seed, two
ounces of alcohol, and a coui^le of common
hog-hair brushes.

. Wet the lampblack with alcohol until it is .
about the consistency of cream, thick enough
at least to cover the wood and make it black ;
with the brush give the face and edge a tho-
rough coat. Let it dry ; wash the brush. Have
your glue melted and pretty thick ; it will be
necessary also to keep it warm.

And now, for the easier direction of the
ladies, I will describe a frame which hangs
before me, naming the articles as they are
arranged upon it ; but, of course, this may he
varied, as the taste may dictate. First, with
the coffee commence upon the inner edge, put
on a little glue about two inches along, wide
as a grain of coffee, and then place the grains
all around the edge,' the end to the edge, a
green and browned one alternately. Find the
middle of the frame, and in the same way
glue the acorn saucers all about the outer
edge, letting them rest somewhat on the side
so as to droop gracefully down each way.

Form groups of nuts at the top, bottom, and
sides, the side groups smaller than the others.
The frame before me has in the centre a flat
pine burr, on the right of it, the half of an
English walnut, a filbert, and a pea-nut, also
some little burrs, beans, and nobs dropped in
to fill up the crevices, on the right a cream
nut, acorn, and pea-nut, burrs, beans, etc. At
the bottom, in the centre, a graceful group of
three almonds ; extending upon each side are
a cream-nut and filbert, with the little things
to fill up the crevices. On the right side is a
group of two almonds, a peach stone ; on the
left, half of a butternut, a filbert, and a
couple of date stones : these groups, filled in as
the others, will complete the nut work, with-
out the fancy should dictate very small inter-
mediate bunches. Then have your glue very
thin (Spaulding's would do for this), put on a
coat of it upon the bare part of the frame, and
sprinkle some mustard seed upon it, not so
thick as to entirely hide the black 'ground
work. Fill up all the vacancies in this way,
and when it is thoroughly dry and firm, give
it a good coat of the shellac, and when that is
dry, a couple of coats of Demar varnish.

EMBROIDERY.

DARNING PATTERN FOR NETTING WORK, SUITABLE FOR TIDIES, BEDSPREADS, OR TABLE COVERS.

■■BBBBaDHBHanBflHHDGHBHDHDBaaDiBHBBnHHGnaDDBBBBBDDBBH
■■BBBDnDBBflaBflBOnDDanBDBBDDDaflBBBDBBBaDaBBDBBBBDanflBB

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■BnDnHBnnnDBBnnBnaDBnBBnaBnBBDDDCBnnBBnnGBBBnDDBBnanD
■■BnDBnnnDBBnnaaHaaaBaDBaBBgnnnDBangBgnnauBBHaDiaDDnB
■naBDaHnnBBnnnaBaBDanBBnnDnannHBBDnnBDDHanBDDBDnBCDBH
iBBBaannnBBnnnBaaDBDnBBnngnnnBnBBBBnnnDDBnDBBBnaDaDBi
■BBBDDBinnBBBBnanBaaDnnBnDBnanBBnDBBaDnBnDnnBBBDDBDDBB

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IBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBMB[BBBBmBBBBfliBBBBBBBBBBBHBB

WORK DEPARTMENT.

253

SCISSORS CASE.

Made of fine morocco, aiid braided with
scarlet braid. The ed^re is bound with nar-

row braid. Two small scarlet tassels ornament
each side ; scarlet button to fasten the pointed
flap down.

FLOWERS IN WOOL.

THE DAISY.
3fateriaU.— White wool, yellow silk, &c.
We begin by explaining the heart of this
fower. It may be worked in two different
ways. First process : Cut a round in card-
board about one-third of an inch in circum-
ference ; cross it twice in the middle, at regular
distances, with a piece of ^ii-e, the two ends

VOL. LXIX. — 21

of which must come out on the same side ;
twist them together to form the stem ; spread
some diluted gum on the surface of the card-
board, and throw over it a little oatmeal, dyed
with saffron, or yellow wool cut
in very tiny bits. Second process :
Take a piece of wire, fold one of
its ends so as to form a small
round, fold back the other end of
wire to form the stem, and place
the small circle exactly over the
stem, then cover over the circle
with yellow silk or fine wool, al-
ways passing from one side to the
other, as in darning. Roll green
wool over the stem, and place
round the heart a double fringe of
white wool, not cut; this fringe is
made on a mesh about one inch in
circumference ; it can be tied either with wire
or white thread. We will complete the expla-

nations given above by describing dilTerent
ways of mounting the green paper leaves on
the stem. First process : Wrap a piece of
wire longer than the leaf with some green tis-
sue paper ; cover this paper with a thick dis-
solution of gum ; press this stem on the wrong
side of the leaf in its whole length, and leave
it to dry. Second process : Place the wire along
the leaf on the wrong side ; fix it by gumming
over it a narrow stripe of tissue paper. Press
down the paper very tightly, and leave it to dry ;

254

godey's lady's book and magazine.

then roll green paper over the wire and the stem
of the flower to form the principal stem. If you
out out your leaves yourself, you should leave
to each a small stem cut out in the paper.
Third process : Take a piece of wire, fold it in
two, and cover a i^art of it with green silk ;
insert a needle in the middle vein of the leaf,
about half an inch distant from its lower edge ;
draw one of the ends of the wire through, so
that there m^y be one piece under and one
piece over the leaf ; gum over it a small strip
of green paper. This last process can only be
used for somewhat long leaves, because it
would not keep them sufficiently firm, and
would prevent their being bent in the required
direction.

THE VIOLET.

Materials. — Purple and green single Berlin wool ; gold
or steel beads.

Each of the five petals of the violet is made
separately, like the petals of the rose, but
without using a piece of cardboard. Take a
piece of purple wool, arrange it in a round, or
rather an oval, shape by turning it several
times ; then cross it in both directions with a
piece of very fine purple silk. Our illustration

of the violet shows the dimensions of the pe-
tals ; the middle one of the lower petals is
rather longer than the others. To form the
heart of this flower take a small gold bead,
thread it on a piece of wire, twist the ends of
the wire under the bead, and place under the
bead a small tuft of green wool, which fasten

round the wire ; sew the petals of the flower
on to this tuft, then roll green wool round
the ends of the Vire for the stem.

SIMPLE PATTERN IN POINT RUSSE.

This stitch, which is extremely easy to work,
is especially suitable for muslin or cashmere
chemisettes, and is worked in very fine wool
or black silk. An endless variety of patterns
can be formed with it, and all the work con-
sists, as may be seen in our illustration, of a
double row of loops. The first may be easily

done from our illustration ; the second is
worked about one-third of an inch from the
first, in the opposite direction, always taking
care to insert the needle exactly in the same
place as the first row, which produces a se-
quence of interlaced rings on the right side, and
on the wrong side two straight stitches close
to one another between each double loop. For
infants' and children's clothing this kind of
embroidery is very suitable, and for washing
frocks and pelisses might be done in very
coarse cotton.

EMBROIDERY.

eg:. c§> cp> ^ c§3

eg) C^J # # eg, ^

WORK DEPARTMENT.

255

TAPE- WORK EDGINO.

This edging, which is very quickly made,
will be found extremely durable for petticoats
and other articles of underclothing. The van-
dykes are formed by the peculiar manner in
which the tape is folded, tacking it together

quickly to learn it, it is advisable to mark the
tape with a pencil, as shown in the dotted
lines of Fig. 1.

Commence at the left corner by turning the
tape over in front, pass it to the back, keep-
ing it in the same position as the half of the
third Vandyke ; then fold the tape over in

Fig. 1.

with a needle and thread as the work pro-
ceeds ; after which a row of stitching is made
down the centre, which is easily done with
any sewing-machine. The width of the edging
can be varied according to the size of the tape.

The materials are Tape, No. 4 ; and for the
stitching, sewing-machine thread, No. 30.

The illustrated diagrams describe the man-
ner in which the tape is folded, and in order

front, at the angle described by the second
line, then fold it over again at the first line,
which forms the other half of the Vandyke ;
then turn the tape down in front, in the same
position as the right side of Fig. 2, and repeat
from the commencement. When the required
length is made, the rew of stitching is to be
worked along the centre of the Vandykes, as
Fig. 2. I

EMBROIDERY.

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cooooo

■0 (•

256

godey's lady's book and magazine.

PEN- WIPER.

This pen-wiper, of a new construction, will
be found to possess the advantage of wiping
the pen without any risk of soiling the fingers.
It requires four thicknesses of fine ladies'

the small pieces of cloth that can be cut oil
between the heels of a pair of braided slippers
are often large enough for this article. The
four thicknesses are stitched together up both
ends, about a quarter of an inch from the
edge, and thus the sides are left open for the

cloth, or two of cloth and two of some soft
woollen material that will absorb ink readily.
The braid pattern should be of two contrasting
colors. Green and Magenta on claret cloth
look well, or a piece of blue velvet applique
inside the centre braid, which should in that
case be gold, and the outer one light blue ;

insertion of the pen. A little plaited braid
attached to one corner is sometimes conve-
nient with which to tie it to the desk, as they
are often most troublesome things in the way
of never being producible at the moment they
are required.

INITIAL LETTER.

NAME FOR MARKING.

WOKK DEPARTMENT.

257

LAMP CAP.

These little articles are of great utility in
preserving lamps from the injurious effect of
dust, and they are likewise ornamental when

the lamp is not in use. Our illustration shows
the effect of this cap when completed, which

is very pretty, and most easy to make. A
strip of green cloth or velvet, about two inches
and a half in depth, and seven inches long,
must be joined up ; a true circle must then
be cut out the right si^e to fit into the top, in
card'board ; this must then be
covered with the cloth or velvet,
whichever material is used, and
sewn in to fit neatly ; a row of
gold or steel beads is then sewn
on all round. A quilling of narrow
ribbon to match in color is then
carried round the band, and the
top is completed with a little bunch
of artificial flowers. A small deep
rose, with a bud and a few leaves,
has a very pretty effect, or any
smaller flowers are equally orna-
mental.

A few of these caps, made of
different bright colors, are very
suitable for presenting to any cha-
ritable bazaar when a trifling offer-
ing is wished to be made, as on
these occasions small things which
have any purpose are often sold,

when elaborate and expensive productions

are sometimes left on hand.

FANCY LETTERS FOR MARKING.

121*

258

GOBEY'S LADY S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

DESIGN FOR NAVAL TABLE LINEN.

Worked in satin-stltoh, with Nos. 20 and

sign may also be embroidered in colored silk,
to form the centre of a cushion, or it may be
executed on a small square of silk or satin,

30 cotton. It makes a pretty variety to work
the name in scarlet ingrain cotton, as it is
shown with more distinctness. The same de-

and laid on to the centre of a square of can-
vas, the wool work being done in the usual
manner.

EMBROIDERY PATTERNS.

mOq^J^Oo

'^^^^^^^^^^r^'vZv^C^^S^^^

Cb d) d^ (fe ^ ^

^ ^ ^5 <^ d) (^

di & d!) (i> (ii cii
^ (^ cb ^ di (^

RECEIPTS.

259

glfteipts, ^L

MISCELLANEOUS COOKING.

Roast Veal, Stuffed. — A piece of the shoulder, breast,
or chump-end of the loin of veal, is the cheapest part for
you, and whichever of these pieces you may happen to
buy should be seasoned with the following stuffing: To
eight ounces of bruised crum of bread add four ounces of
chopped suet, shallot, thyme, marjoram, and winter sa-
vory, all chopped fine ; two eggs, pepper and salt to sea-
son; mix all these ingredients into a firm, compact kind
of paste, and use this stuffing to fill a hole or pocket
which you will have cut with a knife in some part of the
piece of veal, taking care to fasten it in with a skewer.
A piece of veal weighing four pounds would require rather
more than an hour to cook it thoroughly before a small
lire.

How TO Boil Beef.— Put the beef into your three or
four gallon pot, three parts filled with cold water, and set
it on the fire to boil ; remove all the scum that rises to the
surface, and then let it boil gently. When the meat has
boiled an hour, and is about half done, add the parsnips in
a net, and at the end of another half hour put in the cab-
bages, also in a net. A piece of beef weighing five or six
pounds will require about two hours' gentle boiling to
cook it thoroughly. The dumplings may, of course, be
boiled with the beef, etc.

Potato Soup. — Peel and chop four onions, and put
them into a gallon saucepan, with two ounces of dripping
fat, or butter, or a bit of fat bacon ; add rather better than
three quarts of water, and set the whole to boil on the fire
for ten minutes ; then throw in four pounds of peeled and
sliced up potatoes, pepper and salt, and, with a wooden
spoon, stir the soup on the fire for about twenty-five
minutes, by which time the potatoes will be done to a
pulp, and the soup ready for dinner or breakfast.

OiJiON Soup. — Chop fine six onions, and fry them in a
gallon saucepan, with two ounces of butter or dripping
fat, stirring them continuously until they become of a very
light color; then add six ounces of flour or oatmeal, and
moisten with three quarts of water; season with pepper
and salt, and stir the soup while boiling for twenty
minutes, and when done, pour it out into a pan or bowl
containing slices of bread,

KoAST Fowl. — First, draw the fowl, reserving the giz-
zard and liver to be tucked under the wings ; truss the
fowl with skewers, and tie it to the end of a skein of
worsted, which is to be fastened to a nail stuck in the
chimney-piece so that the fowl may dangle rather close
to the fire, in order to roast it. Baste the fowl, while it is
being roasted, with butter or some kind of grease, and
when nearly done, sprinkle it with a little flour and salt,
and allow the fowl to attain a bright yellow-brown color
before you take it up. Then place it on its dish, and pour
some brown gravy over it.

Brown Gravy for the Fowl. — Chop up au onion, and
fry it with a sprig of thyme and a bit of butter ; and when
it is brown, add a good teaspoonful of moist sugar and a
drop of water, and boil all together on the fire until the
water is reduced, and the sugar begins to bake of a dark
brown color. It must then be stirred on the fire for three
minutes longer ; after which moisten it with half a pint
of water ; add a little pepper and salt, boil all together
for five minutes, and strain the gravy over the fowl, etc.

Buttered Swedish Turkips.— Swedish turnips yield
more substance than the ordinary turnips. Let them be
peeled, boiled in plenty of water, and when done, mashed
with a little milk, butter, pepper, and salt.

Fried Cabbage and Bacon. — First, boil the cabbage, and
when done and drained free from water, chop it up. Nv^xt
fry some rashers of bacon, and when done, lay them on a
plate before the fire ; put the chopped cabbage in the fry-
ing-pan, and fry it with the fat from the bacon ; then put
this on a dish with the rashers upon it.

Oyster Omelet. — Allow for every six large oysters or
twelve small ones one egg. Remove the hard part, and
mince the remainder of the oyster very fine ; take, say,
the yelks of eight and the white of four eggs, beat them
until very light, then mix in the oysters with a little pep-
per, and beat all up thoroughly ; put in the frying-pan a
gill of butter, and move it about until it melts ; when the
butter boils in the pan, skim it and turn in, the omelet,
stir it until it begins to stifl"en, fry it a light brown, lift the
edge carefully, and slip a round-pointed knife under ; do
not let it be overdone, but as soon as the under side 's a
light brown turn it on to a very hot plate ; never fold this
omelet over ; it will make it heavy. If you want to
brown it highly, you can hold a red-hot shovel over it.

CAKES, PUDDINGS, ETC.

Boston Cream Cakes. — Take a quart of new milk, and
set it on the fire to boil. Moisten four tablespoonfuls of
sifted flour with three tablespoonfuls of cold milk. Sepa-
rate four eggs and beat them up well ; add to the yelks
five heaping tablespoonfuls of sifted loaf-sugar ; when the
milk is hot — on the point of boiling— stir in the moistened
flour ; let it thicken, but not boil. Now stir up the whites
and yelks of the eggs together ; beat them up and stir to
them a little of the hot milk, and then stir them into the
whole quart of milk. Let it boil for three minutes, add
the grated rind and the juice of one lemon to it, and set
it away to cool. You must now proceed to make the paste.
Take a pint of sifted flour and a quarter of a pound of
butter (fresh, of course) ; place it over hot water till the
butter melts, add a quart of milk, and stir in three-fourths
of a pound of flour. Let it scald through and become
cold before you beat all the lumps out into a paste ; sepa-
rate twelve eggs, beat them, and stir in (first the yelks,
and then the whites) to the paste. Butter twenty-four
round tin pans, line and cover with this paste, bake tho-
roughly ; when cold, lift the lid, and fill up with your
cream ; put the edges together, and wet them with a little
egg. They should be eaten the day they are made.

Soft Cookies.— Take one coffee-cup of butter, three of
sugar, one of thick cream, and four eggs ; mix the butter
and sugar, then add the eggs and the cream. Take a pint
of sifted flour and a teaspoonful of soda ; mix well and
stir in to the other ingredients sufficient of it to make the
paste or dough stiff enough to roll out ; cut it in squares,
imprest with a fancy mould, and bake in a slow oven.
Caraway seed and ground coriander seed are often used to
flavor these biscuits called "cookies."

Cakes.— One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound
of butter; mix into a paste; add two tablespoonfuls of
currants and one of sugar ; roll them into cakes, and bake
in a quick oven.

Almond Cakes.— One pound of flour, half a pound of
loaf-sugar, quarter of a pound of butter, two ounces of
bitter almonds, pounded in a small quantity of brandy,
and two eggs. The cakes are not to be rolled, but made
as rough as possible with a fork.

260

godey's lady's book and magazine.

Pudding. — The yelks of three eggs, three ounces of su-
gar, and the grated rind of half a lemon. Beat them to a
solid froth, the whites of the eggs to be beaten separately
to a froth like snow ; add the juice of half a lemon, and
put these all together immediately into a deep tin pudding
dish, and bake it ten or fifteen minutes. It rises very high,
and must be served directly it is cooked. Pour round it
the following sauce: Beat up well two eggs, one ounce
of sugar, the juice and grated peel of half a lemon, a
wineglass of white wine ; stir it over the fire till it begins
to rise, and pour it round the pudding quite hot. Care
must be taken not to let the pudding get too deep a color.
The above is only half the quantity for a large pudding.

Chocolate Cream Custard, — Scrape one-quarter of a
pound of the best chocolate, pour on it a teacupful of boil-
ing water, and let it stand by the fire until it is all dis-
solved. Beat eight eggs light, omitting the whites of two ;
stir them by degrees into a quart of rich milk alternately
with the chocolate and three tablespoonfuls of white sugar.
Put the mixture into cups, and bake ten minutes.

A KiCH Pudding. — Stir a large tablespoonful of fine
flour into a teacupful of new milk ; then add one-quarter
of a pound of fresh butter, the well-beaten yelks of five
eggs, and sufficient pounded loaf-sugar to sweeten the
mixture, flavoring it with either vanilla, lemon, or al-
mond, as desired. Mix these ingredients thoroughly toge-
ther, and put them into a saucepan at the side of the fire ;
stir continually, and on no account allow the contents to
boil, but only to thicken. Line a dish with puff-paste,
and over it place a layer of preserves — apricots, straw-
berries, or raspberries, according to choice ; then pour in
the mixture. Whisk the whites of the eggs, so that they
may be ready ; put the pudding into the oven, and let it
set well, then pour on the whites at the top, and sift some
loaf-sugar over them. Put the pudding into the oven
again, and let it bake for twenty minutes. It should be
slightly brown at the top when cooked. It is eaten hot.

Cheesecake to Keep a Year. — Take one pound of loaf-
sugar, six eggs well beaten, the juice of three fine lemons,
the grated rind of two, and one-quarter of a pound of fresh
butter. Put these ingredients into a saucepan, and stir
the mixture over a slow fire until it is as thick as honey.
Put it into ajar, and you will have it always at hand for
making cheesecakes, as it will last good a year.

PicKELETS. — Take three pounds of flour, make a hole in
the middle with your hand. Mix two spoonfuls of yeast
with a little salt and as much milk as will make the flour
into a light paste. Pour the milk with the yeast into the
middle of the flour, and stir a little of the flour down into
it ; then let it stand all night, and the next morning work
in all the flour, beat it well for a quarter of an hour, let
it stand for an hour, take it out with a large spoon, lay it
in round cakes on a board well dusted with flour, dredge
flour over them, pat them with your hand, and bake thorn.

KoEHAMPTON Cakes. — Rub three ounces of fresh butter
into one pound of flour ; add one egg, well beaten, a table-
spoonful of good yeast, as much new milk as will make
it into a nice dough. Set it before the fire for an hour.
When made into cakes, let them stand a few minutes to
rise ; add a little salt and loaf-sugar.

Short-Bread. — For making good Scotch short-bread
provide two pounds of flour, one pound of butter, four
eggs, and twelve ounces of loaf-sugar, powdered very
finely. Rub the butter and sugar into the flour with your
hand, and, by means of the eggs, convert it into a stiff"
paste. This must be rolled out to quite half an inch in
thickness, and cut into square cakes, or round, if preferred.

The Scotch ones are generally square, and six inches in
size. The edges should be pinched up to the height of
about an inch, and on the top of the cake should be laid
some slices of candied peel and some large caraway com-
fits. These are slightly pressed down so as to imbed about
half of each in the cake. They must be baked in a warm
oven upon iron plates.

SICK ROOM AND NURSERY.

A Strengthening Brink.— Put a teacupful of pearl
barley into a saucepan with three pints of cold water, the
rind of a lemon, and a small piece of cinnamon ; boil the
whole gently until the barley becomes tender ; then strain
it through a fine sieve, and sweeten with treacle, honey,
or sugar.

Baked Milk for Consumptive Persons. — Put half a gal-
lon of milk into a jar, tie it down with writing-paper,
and, after the bread is drawn, let it stand all night in the
oven ; the next morning it will be the thickness of cream,
and may be drunk as occasion requires.

Coffee Milk for the Sick-Room. — Boil a dessertspoon-
ful of ground coff"ee in nearly a pint of milk a quarter of
an hour ; then put into it a shaving or two of isinglass,
and clear it ; let it boil a few minutes and set it by the side
of the fire to clarify.

Drink in a Fever. — No drink is more refreshing in
sickness than weak green tea, into which lemon-juice is
infused, instead of milk. It may be drunk either cold or
hot, but the latter is the best.

Barley-water with Honey. — Add the juice and rind of
one lemon to one tablespoonful of honey, and two tea-
cupfuls of barley ; put it into a jug, and pour a quart of
boiling water upon it.

Barley-water with Isinglass. — A tablespoonful of
pearl barley, six lumps of loaf-sugar, half a lemon, and
enough isinglass to clear it. Pour two quarts of boiling
spring water on these ingredients, and let it stand until
cold.

GLASS,

The most efiectual way of rendering glass serai- opaque
is with a little fluoric acid, applied with a brush ; this
decomposes the surface, and should be washed off" when
the action has been carried far enough. This is a way
used by glass painters to produce a white pattern on a
colored ground, in coated glass, as it is called, the coat of
red or blue in this being oniy a thin surface on the white
glass, and therefore quickly eaten away by the strong
fluoric acid ; but I presume your correspondent asks for
some more simple means. Fine sharp emory powder and
water scrubbed about, is an easy means, as long as a very
finished effect is not necessary, and the scrubbing is done
with the flat side of a piece of cork ; an old bung will
answer. A pattern, I have been told, can be easily made
on this by painting the parts wished for with Canada bal-
sam ; it being remembered that this turpentiny substance
is xery slow in becoming hard. The balsam renders the
glass transparent again where it is applied, whilst the
rest remains semi-opaque. A lump of glaziers' putty,
daubed all over a sheet of window glass, will answer the
purpose of making it opaque, and a light pattern may be
produced on this with a palette knife or bit of wedge-
shaped wood to remove the adhesive putty after it h&s
been stippled all over with a hard, bristly paint-brush to
draw the material into a variegated state.

If not required to be very permanent, a saturated solu-
tion of Epsom salts (sulphate of magnesia) or Glauber's

EECEIPTS.

261

salts (sulphate of soda), brushed on, will form very pretty-
crystallizations and ramilications as it becomes dry on the
glass, and in a damp place a little white mastic varnish
will protect it from the effects of the atmosphere for some
time. A little Prussian blue, ground up in tuz-pentine and
added to the varnish, would give a blue cast to the glass,
or a little red pigment might be used for the same purpose.
A still pleasanter way is to use a sheet of tissue paper,
from which some simple pattern hasS been cut out with
scissors ; stars, at equal distances, for example ; and paste
this down on the sheet of glass, and varnish afterwards or
not, according to taste and the degree of lasting that is
required. Where smell is an objection, the emery powder
would do better than the putty ; but, as it requires to be
rubbed hard, there would be some chance of breaking the
article. If for a window where a second sheet of glass
was no objection, it might be done in diaphanae, and ap-
plied over the first permanent sheet.

MISCELLANEOUS.

To Clean Cut Glass. — Having washed cut glass articles,
'et them thoroughly dry, and aftei'wards rub them with
prepared chalk and a soft brush, carefully going into all
the flutings and cavities.

To Prevent the Formation of Crust upon the Inside
OF Teakettles. — Put into the teakettle a flat oyster-
shell, and keep it constantly there ; it will attract the
stony particles that are in the water to itself, and prevent
their forming upon the teakettle.

To Restore Faded PlOSes.— Throw some sulphur on a
chafing-dish of hot coals, hold a faded rose over the flames
of the hot sulphur, and it will become quite white ; in this
state dip it into water ; put it into a box or drawer for
three or four hours ; when taken out, it will be quite red
again.

Means of Preventing Glass from Cracking by Heat,
— If the chimney glass of a lamp be cut with a diamond
on the convex side, it will never crack, as the incision
aff"ords room for the expansion produced by the heat, and
the glass, after it is cool, returns to its original shape,
with only a scratch visible where the cut is made.

Cure for Corns. — Apply a piece of linen, saturated in
olive oil, to the corns night and morning, and let it remain
on them during the day ; it will be found to prove a slow
but certain cure ; they will wear out of the toe, and some
of the corns maybe picked out after the oil has been used
for a time ; but care should be taken not to irritate the toe.

Another. — First soak the feet in warm water ; then, with
a rough file, for cutting is very injurious, remove the hard
skin; after this, apply iodine with a paint brush. This
should be repeated till the patient sees an improvement.

Gum Arabic Starch.— Get two ounces of fine white gum
arable, and pound it to powder. Next put it into a pitcher,
and pour on it a pint or more of boiling water, according
to the degree of strength you desire, and then, having
covered it, let it set all night. In the morning, pour it
carefully from the dregs into a clean bottle, cork it and
keep it for use. A tablespoonful of gum water stirred into
a pint of starch that has been made in the usual manner,
will give to lawns, either white or printed, a look of new-
ness to which nathing else can restore them after washing.
It is also good (much diluted) for thin white muslin and
bobbinet.

A Safe Cosmetic. — There are so many preparations now
sold under the name of cosmetics which are certain to
produce injurious effects that we would strongly recom-
mend our readers to be extremely cautious in using them.

The following simple infusion will be found not only per-
fectly safe, but really advantageous for the purpose:
Scrape a root of horseradish into a pint of milk, and let
it stand two or three hours in a cool oven. Use this milk
after washing the face, when it will be found one of the
best, as well as the safest of cosmetics.

Glue for Ready Use. — To any quantity of glue use
common whisky, instead of water ; put both together in
a bottle, cork it tight, and set it away for three or four
days, when it will be fit for use without the application
of heat. Glue thus prepared will keep for years, and it is
at all times fit for use, except in very cold weather, when
it should be set in warm water befoi-e using. To obviate
the difficulty of the stopper getting tight by the glue dry-
ing in the mouth of the vessel, use a tin vessel with the
cover fitted tight on the outside, to prevent the escape of
the spirit by evaporation. A strong solution of isinglass,
made in the same manner, is an excellent cement for
leather.

For Ginger Wine. — ^To every gallon of water put nearly
three pounds of loaf-sugar, two lemons, and two ounces of
the best ginger, bruised. Boil the sugar and water for half
an hour, skimming it; then pour it on the rinds of the
lemons and the ginger. When the liquor is milk-warm,
squeeze in the juice of the lemons, and put in it a little
yeast at the same time. Let it work for two or three
days; then put it into a cask, closely stopped, for six
weeks. Bottle it with one gallon of brandy to twelve
gallons of wine. The pulp of the ginger and lemons must
be put into the cask with a little isinglass, to fine the wine ;
but the pips and white part of the lemons should be re-
moved, as they make it bitter.

CONTRIBUTED RECEIPTS.

Nonpareil Sticking-Plaster. — As I have generally
found that sticking-plaster is an expensive article to pur-
chase, if good, and one which is in frequent demand in
our family households, I have been induced to prepare
some myself from the following receipt, and, as it has
proved an excellent one, I send it with pleasure to you :
Two spoonfuls of balsam of Peru to six of isinglass, melted
with very little water, and strained. Mix these well
together in a small stone jar over the fire. Pin out some
black Persian or sarsenet on a board, and, dipping a
brush into the mixture, pass it over the silk five or six
times ; then hold it to the fire, but not very near, and it
will soon become black and shining. M.

Swiss Cake. — Having lately met with a very nice cake, .
called Swiss cake, I have the pleasure of sending the re-
ceipt for making it, as I think some of the readers of the
Book may find it useful : Take butter, flour, and sugar, of
each the weight of four eggs. Beat the yelks with the
sugar and some grated leraon-peel, or ten drops of essence
of lemon, and one large teaspoonful of rose-water or
orange flower water, if preferred. Add the butter just
melted, and slowly shake in the flour, beating it until
well mixed. Beat the whites of the eggs to a froth, mix
the whole together, and beat on for a few minutes after
the whites are added. Butter a tin and bake the cake half
an hour. A Housekeeper.

Hair-wash. — I inclose a receipt for a hair-wash which
may be useful to "A Constant Reader." We have used it
for some years in our own family. One ounce powdered
borax, half an ounce of powdered camphor, one quait of
boiling water. When cool, pour into a bottle for use, and
clean the head with it, applying with a flannel or spou je
once a week. A Constant Reader.

Hturg' SJa&h.

THE GREAT CENTRAL FAIR: PHILADELPHIA.
This superb exhibition — unsurpassed in America, and
perhaps equal to anything of the sort ever displayed in
Europe — must not be passed over in a Philadelphia j ournal
without notice. As all our citizens of every age and de-
gree seem to have visited the Fair, any details or particu-
lar descriptions appear supererogatory ; but it will per-
haps be interesting at a future day to recall what gave us
so much gratification during the June of '64, and the
remembrance of what has been so nobly done for our
sick and wounded soldiers will be an enduring source of
satisfaction. Our distant readers will be not unwilling
to learn something of our arrangements in this matter.
Logan Square, that beautiful park —

" Where the deer and the fawn,
Lightly bounding together.
Passed the long summer-day — "

was in a marvellously short time covered with aptly con-
structed edifices stored with avast collection of beautiful,
rare, and homely objects — specimens of the fine and use-
ful arts ; everything was there to attract the eye, the
palate, the intellect. The main entrance led into Union
Avenue ; there the coup deceit was indescribably elegant.
The nave, five hundred feet long, was surmounted by a
Gothic roof, the whole length brilliant with our glorious
stripes and stars ; groups of arms and scutcheons of every
State in the Union were interwoven with these flags, and
the sun streaming through skylights, brightened every
object. At the western end of the avenue the Germania
orchestra was placed. From this elevated spot the view
©f the ever changing crowds, the machines working
through the centre, the efiect of light and shade, was
something to make a lasting impression on the beholder.
The departments of Delaware and New Jersey were on the
eastern side of the square — Delaware to the north. New
Jersey to the south. T'le beautiful arrangements of the
Horticultural department cannot be too much praised.
What a fairy land it seemed ! The island, the lake with
its sparkling jets, the rustic bridge, the lovely flowers,
the choice plants! Nobody of any taste or sensibility
could fail to be enchanted there.

In a corresponding pavilion, on the other side of the
avenue, was the exeellent Restaurant. The admirable
manner in which this very arduous business was con-
ducted is more than creditable to the managers and
functionaries. It was really a marvel of industry and
good result. The beautiful decorations of the Restaurant
must not be passed over. The canopy of flags, most
gracefully hung, reflected a brightness all around that
gave zest to the good cheer over which they predominated.
We have neither time nor space to go into detail. The
Art Gallery alone would aff'ord scope for pages. The
departments of Trophies, of Relics, the Penn parlor, the
Vase, the Sword, the Indians, the witty group at the Post-
©flice, our friends of the "Daily Fare" — a volume might
be written were we to do justice to all these. And in
that book we would find a corner for the thousand dollar
dolls, and baby-houses, such as were never seen in our
republic before. But as we are only writing a sketch, in-
stead of a book, we must close our report by saying that
262

this splendid burst of benevolence was worthy the City
OP BROTHERiiY LovE, We would " long keep its memory
green in our souls."

We must give Chicago the honor of having been the
first to step forward in this race of humanity that has
pervaded the Union. The great Fair at Chicago opened
September, 1863 ; it produced $78,000.

Boston followed in May ; she netted $147,000.

Brooklyn in October ; sent in, clear receipts, $400,000.

Poughkeepsie, a small city, raised $18,000, which ave-
raged a dollar to every inhabitant.

The great Metropolitan Fair of the City of New York,
December, 1863, made a million net profit !

Cincinnati, December, 1863, produced $230,000.

Pittsbui'g, almost coincident with our own, $300,000.

St. Louis, nearly the same date, $575,000.

There have also been very successful and spirited Fairs
in Baltimore, Albany, Buffalo, Dubuque, Iowa, but their
pecuniary results have not reached us.

Our own Fair coming after several of the others, not
only was supplied with emulation by their example, but
was able to take lessons from their plans, their advan-
tages and disadvantages, in short, to profit by their expe-
rience.

We have had no accurate estimate of what we have
made, but those who know most about the matter, think
we shall fall short of New York by very little, even if we
do not, of which there is much probability, reach her
million.

THE BURIAL OF POMPEII.

The burial of Pompeii beneath the ashes and lava of
Mount Vesuvius, and its disentombment during the pre-
sent century, concerning which so much has been written,
must ever move that sense of the marvellous whose ex-
citement inspires in man a vague but exquisite pleasure.
It is an event unique in the history of the race ; such as,
probably, will never again occur in all the ages of time.
We need not dilate upon this aspect of the catastrophe ;
what we here desire to note is that, by this wonderful oc-
currence, we are enabled to compare the civilization of
heathenism with the civilization of Christianity, setting
the one side by side with the other. We have not space
to enlarge upon this ; but we desire to call the attention
of our readers to an article in the April number of the
London Quarterly, containing a description of the catas-
trophe unsurpassed in graphic power even by the novel
of Bulwer. We give the opening paragraphs.

"On the 24th of August, A. D. 79—1785 years ago—
when Titus ruled over the Roman Empire, a town m'«s
basking in the bright sun upon the shores of the lovely
bay of Naples, Its inhabitants were following their dif-
ferent callings — biiying and selling, feasting and mourn-
ing, fitting out their galleys for distant seas, bringing
their various wares to the crowded markets, and eagerly
preparing for new shows and gladiatorial fights after the
long interdict against such theatrical amusements under
which Nero had placed their town. Wealthy Roman
patricians, weary of the great city, and seeking a cooler
and more wholesome air, were enjoying a grateful repose
in the gay villas which covered a mountain slope amidst
vineyards and gardens, and which were so thickly scat-

editors' table.

263

tered that they seemed to form but one continuous
city."

** The inhabitants, moreover, were engaged in the strug-
gle of an election of their municipal officers. New oedeles
and duumviri were to be chosen for the town. Influential
citizens and voters were canvassing for their favorite can-
didates, and party spirit ran high. The owners of the
neighboring viUas and the population of the villages had
gathered to the town to take part in the contest, and the
moment being one of public excitement, the forum, the
temples, and the theatres were thronged with an eager
multitude.

"Suddenly, and without any previous warning, a vast
column of black smoke burst from the overhanging moun-
tain. Rising to a prodigious height in the cloudless sum-
mer sky, it then gradually spread itself out like the head
of some mighty Italian pine, hiding the sun and over-
shadowing the earth for many a league. The darkness
grew into profound night, only broken by the blue and
sulphurous flashes that darted from the pitchy cloud.
Soon a thick rain of thin, white ashes, almost impercej)-
tible to the touch, fell upon the land. Then quickly suc-
ceeded shovvers of small, hot stones mingled with heavier
masses, and emitting stifling mephitic fumes. After a
time the sound as of approaching torrents was heard, and
soon steaming rivers of dense black mud poured slowly
but irresistibly down the mountain sides, and curdled
through the streets, insidiously creeping into such recesses
as even the subtle ashes had failed to penetrate. There
was now no place of shelter left. No man could defend
himself against this double enemy. It was too late for
flight for such as had remained behind. Those who had
taken refiigein the innermost parts of the houses, or iu the
subterraneous passages were closed up forever. Those who
had sought to flee through the streets were clogged by the
small, loose pumice-stones, which lay many feet deep, or
were entangled and overwhelmed in the mud-streams, or
were struck down by the rocks that fell from the heavens.
If they escaped these dangers, blinded by the drifting
ashes and groping in the dark, not knowing which way
to go, they were overcome by the sulphurous vapors, and
sinking on the highways were soon buried beneath the
volcanic matter. Even many who had gained the open
country at the beginning of the eruption were overtaken
by the darkness and falling cinders, and perished misera-
bly in the fields, or on the sea-shore, where they had
vainly sought the means of flight.

"In three days the doomed town had disappeared. It
lay beneath a vast mass of ashes, ^pumice-stones, and
hardened mud, to which subsequent eruptions, occurring
at intervals during eighteen centuries, added fresh mate-
rials. Gradually above them there accumulated, from
year to year, the rich vegetable mould, formed from the
volcanic soil, in which were again tended the vine and
the olive tree.

" Such is the tale of the fall of this celebrated town, as
written in its ruins brought to light in our days."

SUFFERINGS OF ENGLISH SEWING-GIRLS.
Since Hood's " Song of the Shirt" we have seen nothing
more touching in its graphic power, than the following
pen-and-ink picturings of the milliners and dressmakers
iu London. The comic view is even more sad than the
pitying tone of Hood.— Eds. Lady's Book.

" Our Suffocated Seamstresses. — There are no slaves
in England — oh, dear, no, certainly not. It is true we
make our milliners work fifteen hours a day, and twenty-
four upon emergencies ; but then of course you know
their labor is quite voluntary. That is to say, the girls —
we beg pardon, the 'young ladies' who slave — we mean
to say, who serve in these establishments, are obliged,
that is, * expected,' to do what is required of them ; and
this means, as we have said, to work for fifteen hours a
day, and to work all day and night whenever press of
business calls for it. This js the trade rule, which has
but very few exceptions, and the slaves, that is, appren-
tices, are * expected' to conform to it. But then, of course,
you know there's no compulsion in the matter. This is
a free country, and the ' ladies' who ' assist' at our great
millinery establishments of course are quite at liberty to
leave off working when they like, only if they do so they

must also leave their places. And as they most of them
are orphans, and have no one to look after them, and see
no likelihood elsewhere of getting easier employment,
they seldom find the courage to resort to this alternative,
and so — quite willingly, of course — they submit to being
worked to death instead of being starved to it.

"For, bless you, yes, our slaves — we should say our
young ladies— have the best of food provided them, and,
as far as mere good living goes, there 's no fear /)f their
dying. Perhaps they don't get turtle soup and venison as
a rule, but of Avholesome beef and mutton they 've as
much as they can eat — in fact, a good deal more, for they
have not much time for eating. The only food they are
short of is the food that feeds the lungs, and for want of
this it happens, now and then, that they are suffocated.
After working all day long in close and crowded rooms,
they sleep two in a bed, with the beds jammed close toge-
ther ; and so they should get used to stifling, for they
have certainly enough of it. But, soraehow, now and
then they are found dead in their beds, in spite of all the
care that has been taken for their comfort. It is very
ungrateful of them, to say the very least ; because when
such mishaps occur, there is sure to be a fuss made at that
stupid coroner's inquest. And then their dear, good,
kind employers, of whom they always speak so well (as
do schoolboys of their masters in the usual holiday letter)
— these tender-hearted Christians, or Hebrews, it may be,
are called all sorts of horrid names, and almost accused
of manslaughter ! But, poor, dear, injured men, how can
they help such accidents? Why, m'm, they take the
greatest care of their young people, and always have a
doctor handy for emergencies. Yes, m'm, fresh air is the
thing, but how are you to get it ? Rents, you know, m'm,
is hawful 'igh, and every hinch of 'ouseroom is uncom-
mon precious. We do heverything we can, m'm, we do
assure you that we does, and as far as morals go, com-
bined with every bother luxury, our young ladies is most
comfortable ; you may take our honest word for it. But
you see, m'm, there's a deal of competition now in trade,
and when one 'ires expensive 'ouses, one 'as to make the
most of 'em. And so you see, m'm, our young ladies
must sleep pretty thick ; but for cleanliness and comfort
their rooms is quite a pictur !"

MY DOVE.

BY MRS. HALE.

Be still, my heart ! Why break with sorrow ? —
White rose-buds kiss his pure, pale face ;

A little nest is made — to-morrow
My dove will find safe resting-place.

How sweet he '11 sleep, from sins unspotted, —
Christ's blood hath washed out Adam's sin^ —

He '11 sleep till the Great Day allotted,
Then cherub wings will stir within,

Th' Archangel's Trump, the thunder groanings.
Heaven's light, that blackens moon and sun ;

Stars falling. Nature's fearful moanings,
Proclaim that Time his work has done !

The world's wide field of graves, Death's prison,
Now yawns and yields all secrets dread ;

Till space seems strangled with the risen.
As Earth and Sea give up their dead !

Then, my sweet dove, thy mother 'II meet thee.

And see Love's whitest vesture given.
And hear the King of Glory greet thee —

" My own, my jewel, meet for heaven,"

264

godey's lady's book and magazine.

EXCERPTA.

" A STORY was set afloat of a nurse in the hospital at
Balaklava (whose mental weakness was that of high
birth and ancient lineage) that she was once haranguiDg
one of her patients upon the subject of ancient descent,
when the conversation waxed fast and furious. The
patient, very weak from talking, thought he would end
the business by saying that his family came out of the
ark with iS^oah. 'Oh! did they?' continued the lady,
' but to convince you of the superiority of my ancestors to
yours, I beg to inform you, sir, that they had a boat of
their oxen at tlie Deluge / ' "

*' For me I thank the stars I am not great ;
For if there ever come a grief to me,
I cry my cry in silence, and have done.
None knows it, and my tears have brought me good ;
But even were the griefs of little ones
As great as those of great ones, yet this grief
Is added to the griefs the great must bear,
That howsoever much they may desire
Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud."

Tennyson.

*' Legrand, who was both an actor and an author, but
a man of short and disagreeable figure, after playing some
tragic part in which he had been ill received, came for-
ward and addressed the house thus : ' In short, gentlemen
and ladies, you must see that it is easier for you to accus-
tom yourselves to my figure, than for me to change it.' "

"Owls," said the Doctor, "can do nothing but look

We are indebted to The Kiiickerbocker for the following
handsome compliment to woman. In the name of all the
readers of the Lady's Book we thank the writer for this
expression of noble sentiments. — Eds. of Lady's Book.

the theory of small men.

"It is a curious fact that a large majority of distin-
guished men, whether in the field, the cabinet, the ros-
trum, the forum, or in the illimitable arena of arts and
sciences, have been under sized ; few have been of lofty
stature. Who can account for this but on the hypothesis
that they were perfect copies, even to the physique of the
mother nature. A Teuton was asked how he came to have
so feminine a face ? " Because my moder was a woman,"
responded honest Hans.

"If we examine the early histories of eminent men, we
find that they nearly all received their early training from
women ; we shall find that the siibtle essence that thrilled
into life their dormant powers, emanated from the soul of
woman — mother or instructor. St. Chrysostom, St. Au-
gustine, Louis IX of France, and the Wesleys, are bril-
liant specimens of the mother's training. In the eyes of
woman depredators, it must appear an odd freak to con-
stitute women the brain-moulders of monarchs and states-
men ; such, nevertheless, was frequently the case.

Photograph Albums. — The lady who "wishes to know
where she can find the most elegant photograph albums"
may send to the establishment of Wm. S. & Alfred Mar-
tien, Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

HOW TO MAKE THINGS.
"Dear Brother Glenn: I have got the prettiest little
mound of moss you ever saw, I guess. You see, Mary
and I went out in the country this morning with Aunt
Anna, and brought home a basket of such nice moss, and
it was a pity to let it all get wasted for the want of a nice
place to put it. So I set myself to think what I should do
with it, and I thought of the bricks that lay scattered
around the back yard ; so I fetched ten of them in front of

the north porch, and set them up on the side in a round
ring, and filled them with dirt, and set some myrtle in
the centre, and then put the moss all over the dirt. And
then I went down cellar and found some lime, and I
whitewashed the bricks, and then streAved white pebbles
over the top of the moss ; and I am so proud of it, because
I made it all myself."

Thus writes my little sister Ritta, eleven years old, to
me, and as I thought it must be very pretty, perhaps
some of the readers of the Lady's Book would like to
make one, so I send you her description of it.

Yours truly, Glenn W.

P. S. I will send you extracts from her letters now and
then, if you like. [Send.]

HEALTH DEPARTMENT.

BRONCHITIS AND KINDRED DISEASES.

By W. W. Hall, A. M., M. D., Neio York.

"There is no necessary reason why men should not
generally live to the full age of threescore years and ten
in health and comfort ; that they do not do so is because

Tliey consume too much food and too little pure air.

They take too much medicine and too little exercise.
And when, by inattention to these things, they become
diseased, they die chiefly, not because such disease is
necessarily fatal, but because the symptoms which nature
designs to admonish of its presence are disregarded until
too late for remedy. And in no class of ailments are de-
lays so uniformly attended with fatal results as in aflec-
tions of the throat and lungs. However terrible may
have been the ravages of the Asiatic cholera in this
country, I know of no locality where, in the course of a
single year, it destroyed ten per cent, of the population.
Yet, taking England and the United States together,
twenty per cent, of the mortality is every year from dis-
eases of the lungs alone. Amid such a fearful fatality no
one dares to say that he shall cei'tainly escape, while every
one, without exception, will most assuredly sufler, either
in his own person or in that of some one near and dear to
him, by this same universal scourge. No man, then, can
take up these pages who is not interested to the extent of
life and death in the important inquiry: What can he
done to 'mitigate this great evil ? It is not the object of
this publication to answer that question, but to act it out,
and the first great essential step thereto is to impress upon
the common mind, in language adapted to common read-
ers, a proper understanding of the first symptoms of these
ruthless diseases."

We have selected the above from HalVs Journal of
Health for July, in order to induce our readers to examine
the number. They will find the whole subject discussed,
and directions for treatment. The treatise should be in
every mother's hands. Price 12 cts. Address Dr. Hall,
40, Irving Place, New York.

To OUR Correspondents. — These are accepted: "Lines
addressed to one who believed not in love" — "The Baby
Sleepeth" — "Morning Calls Me" — "Dewdrops" — "A
Kissable Face" — "My First Attempt" — and "Flowers in
a Sick-room."

We have no room for the following: "When a Child"
— "To Ella" (we should like to oblige the writer, but
cannot spare the space) — "Composition on the subject of
poetry" — "Spring" — "Retribution" — "To Mattie S." —
"Farewell Words" — "Railway Proposal" — "A Frag-
ment" — "The Dying Soldier's Retrospect" — "Written
upon seeing the portrait of a boy reclining wearily on his
drum" (we have not room for such a long poem) — "A
Reconnoisance in Force" (the Lady's Book is not the place
for battles , but we thank " Potomac" for his compliment)
— "Sam's Revenge" — "Noi-a Lansing" — "Nervousness"
— "Mr. Wellington's Daughter" — "Joy in Sorrow" —
"Models" — "Coarse and Vulgar" — and "The Joy ta
Come."

LITERARY NOTICES.

265

fitu'Ei'i) Sfltitts.

From Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia : —
SELF-SACRIFICE. By the author of "Margaret Mait-
land." One of the best of Mrs. Oliphant's excellent hooks.
The story is of a young man who, to shield his friend
from the consequences of a murder committed accidentally,
takes all the blame upon himself, and lives an exile, sup-
posed to be dead, for many years, until the death of his
friend and the publication of the truth allow him to return.
Mrs. Catharine and little Alice are favorite characters
with the author, and we have seen their counterparts in
other works of hers.

From D. Appleton & Co., New York, through Ashmead
& Evans, Philadelphia: —

HISTOKY OF THE ROMANS UNDER THE EMPIRE.
By Charles Merivale, B. D., late Fellow of St. John's Col-
lege, Cambridge. Vol. IV. The excellence and interest
of this work do not diminish as it progresses. It gives
the clearest insight into the political and social history of
the Romans of any work of the kind we have ever exam-
ined. The historical portion of the volume before us con-
cludes with the death of Augustus.

From Harper & Brothers, New York, through Peter-
son & Brothers, and Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia: —

SAVAGE AFRICA : Being the Narrative of a Tour in
Eqitatorial, SoufJivjestern, and Northwestern Africa. By
W, Winwood Reade, Fellow of the Geographical and
Anthropological Societies of London, etc. With illustra-
tions and a map. All books relating to Africa are eagerly
welcomed by the public, who are earnest to glean facts
and even theories relating to this yet comparatively un-
known country. The author of the work before us deals
plentifully in both facts and theories. His book treats of
the habits of the gorilla ; on the existence of unicorns
and tailed men ; on the slave trade ; on the origin, cha-
racter, and capabilities of the negro, and on the future
civilization of western Africa. It is the result of an ex-
tended tour through the portions of Africa above men-
tioned, and is chiefly compiled from letters written home
at intervals. The style is easy, familiar, and lively.

HISTORY OF FRIEDRICH THE SECOND, called
Frederick the Great. By Thomas Carlyle. In four vols.
Vol. IV. Every one reads Carlyle, if for no other reason
than on account of his original style and quaint expres-
sions. His history of Frederick the Great, brought to a
close in the present volume, is a valuable work. It is
full and accurate in all the particulars of the career of
that monarch, and its reliability is vouched for in the
copious quotations from every known authority. This
volume contains a steel engraving of Frederike Sophie
Wilhelmine, Margravine of Baireuth.

GUIDE-BOOK OF THE CENTRAL RAILROAD OF
NEW JERSEY, and its Connections through the Coal
Fields of Pennsylvania. If we are not mistaken, this
guide-book will be in great demand among travellers
through the portion of country which it describes. It is
carefully prepared, and contains many excellent illustra-
tions of points of interest. The publication of such a book
is a happy thought, and we shall be surprised if other
roads do not follow the example of the New Jersey Cen-
tral, and issue similar volumes.

DENIS DUVAL. A Novel. By W. M. Thackeray, au-
thor of "Vanity Fair," "Philip," etc. With illustra-
VOL. LXIX. — 22

tions. This is the work upon which Thackeray was last
engaged, and which his sudden and untimely death left
incomplete. It promised to be the most vigorous of his
works, and unfinished as it is, its wit, its wisdom, its
quaint conceits, its kindly sentiments, and its occasional
satire all have their worth, so that it will not fail to find
a place upon the library shelf beside the other works of
the great English humorist.

From Carleton, New York, through Peterson & Bro-
thers, Philadelphia : —

A WOMAN'S PHILOSOPHY OF WOMAN ; or, Woman
Affranchised. An answer to Michelet, Proudhon, Girar-
din, Legouv6, Compte, and other modern innovators. By
Madame D'H6ricourt. Translated from the last Paris edi-
tion. One does not need to subscribe to all that this book
advocates to enjoy its perusal. Madame D'H^ricourt is a
keen, shrewd woman, and she handles her opponents
severely, holding up the mawkish sentimentality of
Michelet to just ridicule, and so utterly demolishing the
premises of Proudhon that he is left no place to stand.
Much that she says relates only to French laws and French
customs, and can find no application with us ; but the
general principles she lays down, though too broad, per-
haps, to meet with unqualified approval, are yet worthy
of consideration.

OUT IN THE WORLD. By T. S. Arthur, author of
"Light on Shadowed Paths," etc. For tenderness, deli-
cacy, and truthfulness, Mr. Arthur has no superior as an
author. He is the most widely known of American wri-
ters ; and we doubt if there are many homes in the land,
whether cottage or mansion, among whose literary stores
will not be found some touching story from his pen,
whose well-worn exterior bears evidence of its frequent
use. " Out in the World" is one of the most superior of
his works, and is fraught with lessons of mutual kindness
and forbearance to husbands and wives.

HOTSPUR. A Tale of the Old Dutch Manor. By
Mansfield T. Walworth, author of "Lulu." We must
thank the author, as well as the publishers, for a copy of
this work. It is an entertaining story of American life,
written in a highly poetical style, but with an exuberance
of imagination and a redundancy of adjectives and ad-
verbs which the author, when time and practice sihall
have corrected his faults, will learn it is better to suppress
somewhat.

From Frank H. Dodd, New York, through J. B. Lip-
pincott & Co., Philadelphia; —

TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. By Charles and Mary
Lamb. A beautiful little editig^n, in green and gold, of a
collection of tales, based upon various plays of Shak-
speares', which has so long received the approbation of the
reading world as to render unnecessary further comment
or criticism by us. Though prepared ostensibly for the
young, they will not be found out of place in the hands
of older people.

From Derby & Miller, New York :— -

HISTORY OF THE ADMINISTRATION OF PRESI-
DENT LINCOLN : Including his Speeches, Letters, Ad-
dresses, Proclamations, and Messages. With a prelimi-
nary sketch of his life. By Henry J. Raymond. This
somewhat premature appearance of a history of an ad-
ministration not yet ended, maybe accounted for, perhaps,
by the effect it is intended to have in the coming Presi-
dential election. ^. j s a carefully prepared, and we believe
perfectly reliable account of one of the most eventful ands:

266

godey's lady's book and magazine.

momentous administrations since the establishment of
our government. The future biographer of President
Lincoln and his times will be largely indebted to it. It
is embellished by an excellent steel engraving of our
President, a most accurate likeness, copied from a photo-
graph by Brady.

From Lee & Shepard, Boston, through Peterson &
Brothers, Philadelphia : —

THE GOLD HUNTERS' ADVENTUKES ; or, Life in
Australia. By a returned Australian. Illustrated by
Champney. We have read this book with great relish.
Our traveller and his friend meet with a great many peri-
lous adventures, and perform wonderful exploits, while
fighting with bushrangers, and seeking for hidden trea-
sure. It is a book which will charm every one who has
the least taste for traveller's stories.

SISTER SUSY. By Sophie May. This is the second
book of the "Little Prudy" series of children's stories,
and is eminently suited to meet the literary wants of the
little ones.

From Gould & Lincoln, Boston, through Ashmead &
Evans, Philadelphia: —

A MEMOIR OF THE CHRISTIAN LABORS OF THO-
MAS CHALMERS, D. D., LL.D. By Francis Wayland.
This unpretending volume of 258 pages does not profess
to be a biography, but simply to present, in a concise and
lucid narrative, the progress and results of his pastoral
and philanthropic labors. It displays an aspect of his
character which is in danger of being overlooked and for-
gotten in his famo as a pulpit orator and theologian.
From its size and price, this book will be accessible to
many whom Dr. Hanna's voluminous biography would
never reach. It will prove an invaluable book for family
reading.

THE MEMORIAL HOUR; or, The Lord's Supper, in
its Relations to Doctrine and Practice. By Jeremiah
Chaplin, D. D. "The design of this work is strictly doc-
trinal — to deepen in the hearts of the readers, with the
Divine blessing, a sense of the value of the Memorial
Ordinance. " The name of the author is the best guarantee
for its success.

LIGHT m DARKNESS; or, Christ Discovered in His
True Character hy a Unitarian. A record of the expe-
rience through which a Unitarian minister was led to
abandon the vague doctrines of his sect for the stable
foundations of orthodox belief.

The paper and binding of all are excellent.

§ohg's §,rm-Cj)air.

SEPTEMBER, 1864.

GoDET for September opens with a beautiful line en-
graving — "Tired Nature's Sweet Restorer, Balmy Sleep."
A perfect home picture.

Our Fashion-plate contains the usual six figures of the
fashions as they are. Our Fashion editor discourses upon
the matter most eloquently in her department.

Children's dresses — always a pleasing subject for moth-
ers — will be found in the commencement of the number.
Also a beautiful evening- dress. The Home Jacket, front
and side view ; Fashionable Bonnets ; Silk Paletot for a
young lady, are also some of the attractions of the number.

Brodie furnishes us a very pretty engraving of one of
his peculiar specialities.

A Handsome Present. — We are much indebted to our
fair friend of Oxford, 0., for fair she must be, for her
present of two beautiful pocket handkerchiefs, with our
name tastefully marked on them in cross-stitch. Our lady
folks think that her eyes must be as sharp as her needle^
to do cross-stitch on so fine a material. Why did she not
send her card with the present .that we might know to
whom we were so gratefully indebted ?

Cape May Railroad. — The trains over this road make
excellent time, and are well conducted. The road is by
no means an unpleasant one, as you are for nearly one
fourth of the way near the shore, and parallel with it.
The sea breezes from the Cape can be felt at some distance.

Young Ladies' Seminary for Boardinq and Day
Pupils. — Mrs. Gertrude J. Cary, Principal, South-east
corner Sixteenth and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, Pa.
The twentieth session of this school will commence in
September, 1864.

The course of study pursued embraces the fundamen-
tal and higher branches of a thorough English education.
Particular attention is given to the acquisition of the
French language, and a resident French Teacher fur-
nishes every facility for making it the medium of daily
intercourse. Mrs. Cary gives personal attention to the
instruction of her pupils, aided by experienced lady
teachers, and the best professional talent in the city. It
is her constant endeavor to secure an equal development
of body, mind, and heart, and the formation of habits of
neatness and industry.

Mrs. S, J. Hale, Rev. H. A. Boardman, D. D., Rev. J.
Jenkins, D. D., Rev. M. A. De Wolfe Howe, D. D., Louis
A. Godey, Esq., Philadelphia ; Rev. J. N. Candee, D. D.,
Galesburg, 111. ; Louis H. Jenkins, Jacksonville, 111. ;
Rev. George Duffleld, Jr., Adrian, Mich.

Circulars sent on application.

" The Casket OF Temperance : A Pearl Collection. By
William E. Pabor. This is the title of a little volume of
poems to be published during the fall season. It will
contain the 'Pearls' published in Godey's Lady's Book
for the current year, and be issued in the 'blue and gold'
style at present so popular with the public."

We extract the above from an exchange, and we can
promise the public a rich treat. Mr. Pabor is one of our
rising poets, and he is bound to make his mark.

S. P. Borden's Excelsior Braiding and Embroidery
Stamps. — We have so often called the attention of our
readers to these stamps that we will simply say, there
should be a set in every town in the country. Ladies will
find stamping a very pleasant and profita! business,
and they will do well to send for a few dozens of S. P.
Borden's stamps. Pattern book. Inking cushion, and full
printed instructions accompany each order, free of charge.
Price $6 per dozen.

Address Borden &Biggers, Massillon, Ohio, or St. Louis,
Mo.; or the following agents: J. W. Pickering, 'No. 96
West Fourth Street, Cincinnati, Ohio ; J. M. Newit, Chico-
pee, Mass. ; A. J. Bi-opks, No. 838 North Tenth Street,
Philadelphia, Pa. ; Mrs. D. M. Worden, Huntington, Ind. ;
Mrs. S. Livensperger, Port Wayne, Ind. ; Mrs. E. Kelly,
No, 347 Fulton Avenue, Brooklyn, N. Y, ; Mrs. M. A. Haw-
kins, Indianapolis, Ind.

Needles. — Owing to the great increase in price, we can
no longer take orders for needles. The wholesale price
is now greater than we retail them for. If they should
ever get lower, we will announce our renewal of sales.

godby's arm-chair.

267

OUR MUSICAL COLUMN.

The very pretty little Home Schottische which we pub-
lish in this number of the Book is an abridgment of the
original copy, as we had not the room to publish it entire.
As will be seen below, it is now published in sheet form,
complete, and our friends can have copies sent to them by
mail, on receipt of price, 30 cents each.

New Sh£d Music. — 0, Ditson & Co., Boston, publish La
Danza d'Amore (The Dance of Love), a charming compo-
sition in the waltz movement, with Italian and English
words, 35 cents. The President's Hymn, by Dr. Muhlen-
berg, and The Banner of the Sea, by Covert, two fine
patriotic songs, each 30. Slumber Song, by Taubert,
English and German words, 25. Also Chanson h. Boire
(Drinking Song), without words, by Leybach, for good
players, 50. Cousin et Cousine (The Cousins), Schottische
Elegante, by Jules Egghard, 40 ; this, especially, is a
beautiful piece, showy and not difficult, and calculated to
please all players. Alexandra, one of the latest and best
of Brinley Eichards' fine nocturnes, 35. Warblings at
Xoon, by the same favorite composer, 40 ; this fine piece
should be owned by all who admire the Warblings at Eve.

Wm. Hall & Son, New York, publish the following fine
list of new songs and ballads, each 30 cents : My Beauti-
ful, My Own, song and chorus, by Tiller. Hy Home on
the Mountain Side, spirited and graceful song. Come
Within these Silent Bowers, beautiful song, by C. Hatch
Smith. A Sweet Brier Eose is my Mollie, written for 'and
sung by Mrs. Jennie Kempton, by Holder. Love Brings
Beauty with it, same composer. Let me Die Face to the
Foe, patriotic song, by same. The Eoad to Eichmond,
celebrated Plantation Walk 'Round. Also, at 35 cents:
There's a Knocking at the Door of my Heart, beautiful
song, by Watson. Come to Me, very pretty arietta, by
Jno. Daniel. The Cottage Eose, by M. Keller, one of the
best ba-llad composers of the day. Also, by the same fine
composer, Thy Boy 's an Angel Now, a ballad of greater
length than the others, 40 cents.

S. T. Gordon, New York, publishes several fine arrange-
ments from Gounod's celebrated Faust, One is the grand
Soldier's Chorus, arranged by Brinley Eichards, 40, An-
other is the Faust Galop, arranged by Helmsmuller, 40.
And a third is a fine arrangement of all the leading airs
in the opera, for two performers, 60, Also, La Danse des
Tables, mazourka magnetique, by Eevius, 50,

D. Lawton, this city, publishes the Home Schottische,
referred to above, 30, Also, Parrot Polka, 30.

Holloway's Musical Monthly, for September. This
number of the popular Monthly is one of the best yet
issued, containing even more than an average quantity of
music, notwithstanding the continued advance in price of
all printing material. Will our readers bear in mind
what we said last month upon this matter? A single
ti-ifling song now costs from 30 to 35 cents, while here are
bulky numbers of the best sheet music, beautifully printed
and neatly bound in colored covers, all for 25 cents to
subscribers by paying $3 00 per year. We do not know
how long this low rate of subscription can last ; certainly
not long, unless paper, plates, etc. at once stop advancing
in price. Let our friends, therefore, send in their sub-
•scriptions immediately. We will still send four months'
numbers, or more, at 25 cents each, 3 cents per number to
be added for postage. When six months' numbers are
ordered, and 18 cents sent for postage, the January double
numbep, containing $2 worth of music, may be included.

Address all orders for the Monthly, or the music named
in the "Column," to J. Starr Holloway, Publisher, Box
Post Office, Philadelphia. J, Starr Holloway.

Dear Godey: Though I cannot claim to be one of your
correspondents, presuming my mite of fun will not be
unacceptable, I send you the following little incident : A
friend of mine has recently employed a freshly imported
girl. The morning after that event, I walked round to

Mrs. C 's, and was ushered in by the glowing Biddy in

the following hearty style: *<Walk in, ma'am; the mis-
thress has bin ixpectin' yez this hour gone," Somewhat
surprised to learn that my visit had been anticipated, I
followed the girl into the kitchen, where she affirmed the
"misthress" was. My friend was not there, however,
whereupon she exclaimed, " Oh, no matter"— then, point-
ing towards the laundry— "for there be the tubs with the
wather steaming in thim that the misthress bid me fill for
yGz." Astonishment kept me silent, and just then Mrs.

C entered with a burst of merriment. "Biddy," she

cried, "this is my friend Miss Q ." "Oh," returned the

girl, with an apologetic smile, ' ' sure and I took ye for the
washerwoman," With a hearty laugh, we adjourned to

the parlor, after Mrs. C had explained to her Biddy

that the laundress might be expected through the back
kitchen door. If my services are acceptable, they shall
be yours. Quivis.

I send this by way of postscript, without which, you
know, dear Godey, my letter (?) would be incomplete:
" While walking on the veranda one evening with my
little five-year-old sister Maggie, she suddenly looked up
at the stars, and asked me what they were, I told her,
"They are what the moon is made of, ain't they?" was
her surprising rejoinder. I thought it was a very pretty
idea.

T. B. Peterson & Brothers, publishers of this city,
have issued a catalogue of the works they have published.
We advise all who want cheap, and at the same time good
reading to send for a catalogue.

That great moralist "Punch," oi London, says, in his
" Advice to Servants" : —

" Never go into anyplace where a cat is not kept. This
useful domestic animal is the true servants' friend, ac-
counting for the disappearance of tid-bits, lumps of butter,
and other odd matters, as well as being the author of all
mysterious breakages. What the safety-valve is to the
steam-engine the cat is to the kitchen, preventing all ex-
plosions or blowings-up that might occur in the best
regulated families."

Two elegant little volumes for ladies are just published
by Messrs. J. E. Tiltox & Co., Boston. Price $2 00 each.
Illustrated in the style of their "Art Eecreations."

Wax Flowers : How to Make Them. With new meth-
ods of Sheeting Wax, Modelling Fruit, etc.

Skeleton Leaves and Phantom Flowers, A complete
and Practical Treatise on the Production of these beautiful
Transformations, Also, Directions for Preserving Natural
Flowers in their fresh beauty.

Customer. "A slight mourning hat-band, if you
please,"

Hatter. "What relation, sir ?"

Customer. "Wife's uncle,"

Hatter. "Favorite uncle, sir?"

Customer, "Um — well, yes,"

Hatter. "May I ask, sir, are you mentioned in the
win?"

Customer, " No such luck, "

Hatter (to his assistant, briskly)—" Couple o' inches,
John!"

268

godey's lady's book and magazine.

A LITERAEY LIFE.

" If my daughter could only become a literary charac-
ter, how proud and delighted I should be!" said the
mother, looking down on the flaxen-haired little girl at
her side, now in her ninth year, and we looked down too
on the bright head of the little girl and thought that if
such a career were bound up in the future of her child,
the mother might have, after all, small cause for con-
gratulation.

We have learned by the letters which we are constantly
receiving from young aspirants for literary fame, that one
great and serious mistake exists in regard to this matter
of literary labor; and this is, that it demands no long
apprenticeship, no discipline of the mind nor cultivation
of one's talents, to achieve success in this department of
mental labor.

And we always lay down these letters with a sigh,
when we think of the surprise and disappointment which,
in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, must await the
applicant. People understand perfectly well that they
must serve a long apprenticeship in music, painting,
sculpture, any of the arts, but with writing the prevalent
opinion amongst a large class of intelligent people seems
to be that the path of literary fame and compensation is
a golden one ; when it is often a long, slow, tedious plod-
ding, full of weariness, and failure, and renewed eflfort,
even to those whose talents in the end insure to them
success. For we believe that the ability to write well is
a gift, as music, and painting, and sculpture are; and
though it is certainly no disgrace not to be able to write
poetry, it is no honor to write doggerel, and certainly
wisest not to attempt it.

Moreover, let no young girl suppose that her first efi"orts
will be likely to meet with acceptance from any considera-
ble editor or publisher, no matter how great a genius her
friends regard her. The divine afflatus does not fall in
any such miraculous way. The imagination does not
bear its blossoms and fruits in a single hour. The soil
requires the early and later rains, and the branches want
the dews, and the sunshine, and long and patient cultiva-
tion, and much pruning, before any gather their sweet
and mellow fruits.

And how many young writers, intoxicated with their
first dreams of fame, send ofi" their crxide productions, full
of ardor and high hopes, to be mortified and disappointed,
let the scores of " Articles Declined" in the desk of every
editor make answer.

To a woman, at least, literature is not an easy profes-
sion, one where, with small toil, she reaps green laurels
and golden fruits. The gains are not so large, and the
work is not so light as the uninitiated imagine ; and any
one who makes literature her sole work in life, will most
invariably find that she must pay dearly for it in broken
health and shattered nerves. For every hour of sitting
and stimulated imagination, she should have several of
reactionary outward life — of occupation, of muscular ex-
ercise and work, for otherwise the constant demand on
her nervous forces will sooner or later exhaust them, and
her days will be full of alternate excitement and depres-
sion. And any woman who enters the path of literature,
with no higher aim than that of worldly applause and
notoriety, will find herself sorely deceived and disap-
pointed in the end. An inordinate thirst for notoriety is
a slow gangrene that eats into and destroys the finest
characters, and especially does it rob womanhood of its
truth and graces ; for the heart that is fired with a desire
for fame is fed constantly with unrest, and ambition, and
envy; and these are continual well-springs of bitterness

in the soul. So, if a woman enter the field of authorship,
let her do it always in that spirit which seeks for other
rewards than the world can give ; let her feel that the
mission of her pen is to elevate and bless humanity — that
she speak always for the right, the true, the good ; and by
the blessed law of compensation, in blessing others she
shall herself be blessed.

And inasmuch as the truth lived is better than the truth
spoken, let all those women whose thoughts have never
blossomed in inspired poem or thrilling tale remember it
is theirs to live in life's secluded places, amid quiet
homes, and it may be in the midst of daily cai'es and self-
sacrifices, all the grand, heroic truths of patience, and
forbearance, and love which their sisters have sung or
written.

We would not underrate the great work which the pen
of woman is accomplishing in this age— God forbid !

The words of true and noble women, living what they
sung, have been like lamps hung along the years, shed-
ding their blessed light about the altar, the cradle, the
grave ; exalting and halloAving the names of wife, and
mother, and child ; enriching and anointing ten thousand
homes with songs which were sweet balsams for aching
hearts and oils of gladness for those who rejoice.

We could mention many whose names are radiant
jewels in households throughout the world, whose genius
has been consecrated to all sweet, and pure, and noblo
teacljings, and who by their living as well as their writing
have exalted and ennobled "a literary life."

COPIES OF MEDALS STRUCK BY COMMAND C^F THE EMPEROR
VESPASIAN, IN COMMEMORATION OF THE DESTRUCTION
OF JERUSALEM.

The strong-minded sisterhood ought to be content with
the "enlargement of the sphere of woman" that has
taken place since the introduction of hoops. The original
Eve was Adam's bone, but our Eves are whalebone.

godey's aem-chair.

269

PARIS ITEMS.

— ^Thet have a cheap system of nursing here, which is
amusing. An old woman is to be met with after 11
o'clock busily trotting along towards the Luxembourg Gar-
dens, surrounded by fifteen or twenty little children, aged
from two or three years to seven or eight. Their parents
pay the old lady about ten centimes an hour to take their
children out, and give them a walk or a game of play in
the gardens. It is pretty to see her convey her little
regiment over a crossing ; it reminds me of the old puzzle
of the fox, the goose, and the bag of corn. The elder
children are left in charge on one side, while the very
little ones are carried over ; then one of the oldest is beck-
oned across and lectured on her care of them while the
old woman trots back for the rest, and I notice she is much
more despotic during her short reign of power than the
old woman herself. At length they are past all dangers,
and safe in the gardens, where they make dirt-pies to their
heart's content, while their chaperon takes out her knit-
ting, and seats herself on a bench 'in their midst. Say she
has fifteen children, and keeps them out for two hours, it
makes her a little income of half a crown a day ; and
many a busy mother is glad that her child should have
happy play and exercise while she goes a shopping, or
does some other piece of housekeeping work, which would
prevent her from attending properly to her child.

— At a fancy dress ball recently, a lady was seen in a
very low-necked dress, while floating and waving an
abundance of green gauze. She was politely asked by a
gentleman what she personated. "The sea, monsieui*."
'•At low tide, then, madame," observed he.

— A new style of coiffure is just about to be introduced,
of which we shall, no doubtj soon hear further details.
The hair is turned partially back from the forehead, and
forms a heavy roll above the ears, while at the back it is
dressed in about ten or twelve regular stitf curls, main-
tained in their respective places by black pins, and offer-
ing the appearance of a cluster of small bows, fastened
by a comb, generally richly studded with diamonds or
other gems. Jewelled combs and bands of gold ribbon or
jewelry are to be worn with this style of headdress, in
preference to flowers or even feathers. This totally new
style of hair-dressing is the result of a meeting of the
society I spoke of to you last year, consisting of all the
coiffeurs of Paris and the provinces, who meet in the
months of November and December, and there decide the
changes to be brought about in the ensuing year's fashions.
The society has held several meetings this past month,
and is just about, as usual, to close them by a large ball
given to the wives and daughters of the members of the
illustrious body, who usually make their appearance in
the last appointed coiffure ordered by this supreme tri-
bunal.

—Monsieur Seguy has opened an establishment in the
Rue de la Paix for the purpose of teaching ladies how to
enamel themselves. In a scented circular, M. Seguy an-
nounces that he "comes to open, on the first floor, in the
which he teaches officially to timid persons the art of to
embellish themselves. ' ' There is an excellent brochure on
this subject in the last number of La Vie Parisienne. A
lady, who holds the idea of enamel in indignant horror,
mounts to this dangerous first floor. \' If madame will
seat herself in this arm-chair,'' says one of the enamel-
lesses — for the operators as well as the operatees are all of
what Mr. Weller calls the "soft sex" — "I will explain to
her how the various pomades — " "I came here solely
from curiosity, mademoiselle," explains the lady, "and
have no intention of — " "I do not misunderstand the
intentions of madame : and it is only for the purpose of
satisfying madame's curiosity that I propose to explain to
her the use of the blanc nymphea, which renders the skin
silky, preserves it from the effect of the atmosphere, and
is wholesome to a degree. If madame will have the com-
plaisance to take off her bonnet." "I presume that you
have soap and water here that I may remove the marks
of your experiment," says the lady. "Will madame for
one instant close her eyes?'' The paintress is at work
with a perfumed palette, and in a quarter of an hour
madame smiles in a mirror at a visage that returns her
smile ; but it is not her face that is reflected, but that of a
very young lady, with her features, certainly, but with a
complexion like a baby's— half flesh, half fruit.

Cartes de Yirite. — Our subscribers had better send for
a catalogue. We have already supplied our friends with
many thousands of the cartes, and in all cases they have
given great satisfaction. Our list embraces nearly 600
subj ects.

22*

DixiNQ IN THE Middle Ages. — The servants of the hall,
headed by the steward, or maitre d'hCtel, with his rod of
office, brought the dishes to the table in formal procession.
Their approach and arrival were usually announced by
the sounding of trumpets and music. Those who served
at the table itself, whose business was chiefly to carve,
and present the wine, were of still higher rank-— never
less than esquires, and often, in the halls of princes and
great chiefs, noble barons. The meal itself was con.
ducted with the same degree of ceremony, of which a
vivid picture may be drawn from the work called the
*' Managier de Paris," composed about the year 1393.

When it was announced that the dinner was I'eady, the
guests advanced to the hall, led ceremoniously by two
maitres d'hCtel, who showed them their places, and
served them with water to wash their hands before they
began. They found the tables spread with fine table-
cloths, and covered with a profusion of richly orna-
mented plate, consisting of salt-cellars, goblets, pots or
cups for drinking, spoons, &c. At the high table the
meats were eaten from slices of bread, called trenchers
{tranchoirs), which, after the meats -were eaten, were
thrown into vessels called couleures. In a conspicuous
part of the hall stood the dresser or cupboard, which was
covered with vessels of plate, which two esquires carried
thence to the table to replace those which were emptied.
Two other esquires were occupied in bringing wine to the
dresser, from whence it was served to the guests at tho
table.

The dishes, forming a number of courses, varying ac-
cording to the occasion, were brought in by valets, led by
two esquires. An asseczir, or placer, took the dishes
from the hands of the valets and arranged them in their
places on the|table. After these courses fresh table-cloths
were laid, and the entremets were brought, consisting of
sweets, jellies, &c., many of them moulded into elegant
or fantastic forms : and, in the middle of the table, raised
above the rest, were placed a swan, peacocks, or phea-
sants, dressed up in their feathers, with their beaks and
feet gilt. In less sumptuous entertainments the expensive
course of entremets was usually omitted. Last of all
came the dessert, consisting of cheese, confectioneries,
fruit, &c., concluded by what was called the issue (de-
parture from table), consisting of a draught of hypocras,
and the hoTite-hors (turn-out), wine and spices served
round, which terminated the repast. The guests then
washed their hands, and repaired into another room,
where they were served with wine and sweetmeats, and
after a short time they separated. The dinner, served
slowly and ceremoniously, must have occupied a consid-
erable length of time. After the guests had left the hall
the servants and attendants took their places at the
tables.

A Comical Fountain Statcte has been designed by a
Hanover sculptor, Mr. Rosenthal, representing a monkey
holding a champagne bottle, of which he has imprudently
drawn the cork, and the contents of which he vainly en-
deavors to stop. The champagne is represented by the
different rays of the fountain bursting out in all direc-
tion*.

Conundrums : —

When is one man, compared with another, like the
manager of a certain boat ?
When he 's a lighter-man.

When may a man be said to have put his foot in it?
When he has drawn his stocking on.

270

godey's lady's book axd magazine.

Iced Liquors. — The ancients were accustomed to have
their beverages cooled and iced in various ways. Both
Galen and Pliny have described the method, which is still
employed in tropical climates, to reduce the temperature
of water by exposing it to evaporation in porous vessels,
during the night-time ; and a simile in the Book of Pro-
verbs seems to warrant the conclusion that the custom of
preserving snow for summer use must have prevailed
among Oriental nations from the earliest ages. That it
was long familiar to the Greeks and Eomans is abun-
dantly certain. When Alexander the Great besieged the
town of Petra, in India, he is reported to have ordered a
number of pits to be dug and filled with snow, which,
being covered with oak branches, remains for a long time
undissolved. A similar expedient is noticed by Plutarch,
with this diflference, that straw and coarse cloths are re-
commended in place of oaken boughs. The Eomans
adopted the same mode of preserving the snow which
they collected from the mountains, and which, in the time
of Seneca, had become an important article of merchan-
dise at Rome, being sold in shops appropriated to the pur-
pose, and even hawked about the streets.

At first the only mode of employing snow was by fus-
ing a portion of it in the wine or water which was to be
cooled ; and this was most conveniently effected by intio-
ducing it into a strainer, which was usually made of sil-
ver, and pouring the liquor over it. But as the snow had
generally contracted some degree of impurity during the
carriage, or from the reservoirs in which it was kept, the
solution was apt to be dark and muddy, and to have an
unpleasant flavor from the straw ; hence those of fasti-
dious taste preferred ice, which they were at pains to pro-
cure from a great depth, that they might have it as fresh
as possible.

A more elegant method of cooling liquors came into
vogue during the reign of Nero, to whom the invention
was ascribed, namely, by placing water which had been
boiled in a thin glass vessel surrounded with snow, so
that it might be frozen without having its purity impaired.
It had, however, been a long prevailing opinion among
the ancients, as we may collect from Aristotle, Galen, and
Plutarch, that boiled water was most speedily converted
into ice ; and the experiments of modern chemists would
seem to prove that this doctrine was not altogether with-
out foundation. At all events, the ice so obtained would
be of a more compact substance than that produced from
water which had not undergone the process ; and this was
sufficient to justify the preference.

Servant-gal-ism. — A friend of ours lately hired a couple
of strapping wenches. The girls were well enough, ex-
cept that one was always accompanied by her spiritual
adviser. Now these spiritual advisers are well enough
in their place, but when they are constantly invading
your kitchen they become a nuisance. The cook was
asked to make some hot cakes for breakfast, but they were
not forthcoming ; but the lady of the house happening to
go into the kitchen found the party there, of course with
the spiritual adviser, enjoying hot cakes. Upon being
remonstrated with, the reply was, " The party in the par-
lor are too many to make hot cakes for."

We have received from the American Educational
Monthly a. copy of Simmons's Zoological Chart.

The newspapers are full of advertisements for plain
cooks. We suppose pretty cooks have no occasion to ad-
vertise at all.

We give an extract from a correspondent's letter from
Paris, giving a description of the costumes and disguises
worn at several fancy balls : —

''At the Duchess de Bassano's a feomplete i^jenagerie
appeared to be present. Animals are very fashionable
this season.

"At the Tuileries there was a majestic llama, a zebra,
and a white cat ; there was a butterfly, a cock — and a very
brilliant one he proved — he was no less a personage than
the Marquis de Galli. — The Countess de St. Pi — completed
this elegant menagerie as a beautiful blue bird. Her
skirt was covered with azure humming-birds, and a small
half Chinese headdress, Avith a blue bird flapping its
wings and bending its sapphire throat over the forehead
of the youthful countess, completed her toilette.

" The Duchess de Bassano herself wore with much grace
a very rich Florentine costume of the sixteenth century ;
it was almost completely covered with precious stones.
High fancy dresses werp to be seen in great numbers, but
their effect was not good. High dresses at a Vail always
look heavy ; and although the Louis XV. riding-habits
and Incroyables of the Directoire are tasteful costumes in
their way, they do not appear to advantage among more
brilliant, low-bodiced fancy dresses.

" At Mme. Drouyn de I'Huys' ball the Emperor and
Empress were, it was reported, present, but concealed
under black dominos, the only sign by which they might
recognize each other being a bow of cerise ribbon. The
marvellous white cat and the butterfly were also present
at the Tuileries, but repre:?ented by different people, the
first by a Neapolitan Princess, the second by a young
English lady, Miss J — .

"A Pompadour quadrille attracted universal admira-
tion. Mme. Druyn de I'Huys wore a Louis loth gala
dress, with her hair powdered, and arranged with dia-
monds in great profusion. Mile. Valentine Haus — was
attired as a Greek, girl, and allowed her magnificent fair
tresses to fall unrestrained upon her shoulders. The Mar-
quis de Galli — changed his costume of a cock for Polichi-
nello, but his lordship was as gay and as full of vivacity
in one character as he was in the other. M. de Lut — was
gallantly transformed into a vendor of violets ; his white
satin dress was covered with bouquets of violets, and his
blue satin basket, filled with bouquets, was quickly emp-
tied at the commencement of the evening, TJie Duke do
M — appeared as a Puritan of the 16th century ; his dress
was very sombre, being composed entirely of black
velvet."

Singular Coincidence. —

"As an in-pensioner of Greenwich Hospital was walk-
ing along the Trafalgar road, Greenwich, his foot became
entangled in the crinoline of a lady who was passing.
He was thrown down, and the back of his head came iu
contact with the kerbstone and severely injured his skull.
He died in less than half an hour from the time of the
accident."

One evening last week we read the above in an English
paper. The same evening we took up one of our city
papers and read the following : —

"The Cleveland Herald of Friday says: 'A singular
accident occurred on Prospect Street this afternoon. An
old gentleman was passing a couple of ladies on the side-
walk, when his foot caught in the crinoline of one of
them, and he fell backward striking violently against the
bottom of a lamp-post, laying open his scalp and stunning
him. He was taken into a neighboring dwelling-house,
and his wound dressed. It was feared that his skull was
fractured by the blow ; but the injuries proved not to be
dangerous, though, in view of his age, serious results
might have been feared. The gentleman is from Pitts-
burg, and on a visit to this city.' "

"No pains will be spared," as the quack said, when
sawing off a poor fellow's leg to cure him of the rheuma-
tism.

Good dinners have a harjponizing influence. Few dis-
putes are so large that they cannot be covered by a table
cloth.

'Taking Boarders for Company." This story con-
tinues to increase in interest and amusement.

GODEYS AEM-CHAIE.

271

Epitaphs: —

Ou the family vault of the Darts, 1632:—

Death shoots sometimes, as archers doe,

One dart to find another ;
But now, by shooting, hath found four,

And all lay'd here together.

Severe satires upon the fair sex : —

On this marble drop a tear,

Here lies fair Rosalind ;
All mankind was pleased with her,

And she with all mankind.
****** if

Her body was built of such superfine clay.
That at length it grew brittle for Avant of allay ;
Her soul then too busie ou some foreign afiair,
Of its own pretty dwelling took so little care
That the tenement fell for want of repair.

The following will remind the readers of the famous
soliloquy of Hamlet, "Ca3sar dead and turned to clay" : —

Beneath this stone lies old Katherine Gray,
Changed from a busy life to lifeless clay j
By earth and clay she got her delf,
Yet now she 's turned to earth herself.
Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
Abate your grief and dry your eyes ;
For what avails a flood of tears ?
Who knows but in a run of years,
In some tall pitcher or broad paa
She in her shop may be again ?

On a miser, 1605 :—

Here lies John Chapman, who, in doubt,
Cried, " Bury my pelf, but leave my body out ;"
No pi-ovision made for chest of pelf,
We spent the cash and box'd his self.

"On my Wife," 1714:—

At marriage she wept and I smiled,
In death she smiled and I wept. — J. D.

M. Chevreul, the Government Superintendent of the
dyeing department of the great Parisian manufactory of
the celebrated Gobelin tapestries, has recently delivered a
series of lectures at Paris on complexion and colors, full
of valuable hints to our ladies. We quote : —

"The pink of the complexion is brought out by a green
setting in dress or bonnet ; and any lady who has a fair
complexion, that admits of having its rose-tint a little
heightened, may make eflective use of the green color ;
but it should be a delicate green, since it is of importance
to preserve harmony of tone. When there is in the face a
tint of orange mixed with brown, a brick-red hue will
result from the use of green ; if any green at all be used
in such a case, it should be dark But for the orange
complexion of a brunette, there is no color superior to
yellow. This imparts violet to a fair skin, and injures
its effect. A skin more yellow than orange has its yellow
neutralized by the suggestion of the complement, and a
dull white effect imparted. The orange skin, however,
has its yellow neutralized, and the red left ; so that the
freshness of complexion is increased in dark-haired beau-
ties. Blue imparts orange, which enriches white complex-
ions and light fresh tints ; it also, of course, improves the
yellow hair of blondes. Blue, therefore, is the standard
color for a blonde, or yellow for a brunette. But the bru-
nette who has already too much orange in her face, must
avoid setting it in blue. Orange suits nobody. It whitens
a brunette, but that is scarcely a desirable effect, and it is
ugly. Bed, unless when it is of a dark hue, to increase
the effect of whiteness by contrast of tone, is rarely suit-
able in any close neighborhood to a lady's skin. Rose
rod destroys the freshness of a good complexion ; it sug-
gests gi'een."

In looking over the London pictorial papers, we have
made up our mind that we would not like to be Prince of
Wales. Why, the poor fellow cannot have a moment to
call his own. Presiding at a dinner here, laying a corner-
stone there, reviewing troops at another place, when is
he at home comfortable like a common man? This is
purchasing greatness at too great a sacrifice of comfort.

Gradations in Mourning. — The Round Table has an
admirable article on the subject of mourning habiliments,
especially those by which lady mourners express the dif-
ferent degrees of their sorrow, and of which means of
proclaiming ours our sex are deprived. The writer says
in a fine vein of bitter irony : —

"We men have no such opportunity to express a sense
of our bereavement in an elaborate way. Our tailors
uniform us in funereal black, our chapeliers encircle our
hats with crape, and there an end. A widower cannot
advertise the freshness or staleness of his sad condition
by his clothes ; it is impossible to judge of the state of his
feelings from his hue. f

" In fact, the taste of mankind in this country runs so
generally to black that it is only now and then that afllic-
tion finds one of us in motley. In nine cases out of ten,
all we require to put us in full mourning is a weed round
the beaver. Cannot this be remedied ? Why should there
not be sorrow stores for the stupider sex ? Is there any
just reason why lonely men should not be put through a
course of French grays, and puces, and lavenders as well
as women ? Do not our griefs become fine by degrees and
beautifully less in the same way as those of the queens of
creation ? Certainly they do. Then let the progress of
the sequence be made manifest in our coats, and vests,
and pantaloons.

"Let us have the gradations of faded melancholy de-
noted by our hat cinctures, so that the public, and more
particularly the angelic portion of it, may understand
how we are getting along with our tribulations. How
can the fair creatures know, under present circumstances,
whether an unfortunate widower has just been plunged
into iuconsolability, or is emerging from it in a lively and
approachable frame of mind ?

•'Who can say how many, many male mourners of
nearly fifty years' standing may have missed eligible
offers this blessed leap-year on account of the forbidding
character of their sable suits and love-repulsing hat bands .'
We submit to society the propriety of a sliding scale of
funeral habiliments for men. Nothing can succeed in this
world without advertising, not even grief. Who will
take a store on Broadway, and open a dry goods tribula-
tion shop for bereaved masculinity?"

A GENTLEMAN residing not far away, who is very fond of
singing, likes to display his "talent" whenever he can
find listeners.

His friends are sometimes "brought to tears" by his
looks of agony and his unearthly groans during his mu-
sical (?) performances. One day, having a few invited
guests, he proposed entertaining them by " singing a
little song." The guests expressed their pleasure, of
course, and the host commenced singing. In the middle
of the first strain, a bright little child of the company,

quit his play and gazed on the face of Mr. , the singer,

then turning to his mother anxiously asked: "Mamma,
what ails Mr. ?" But, without waiting for reply, ad-
dressed the singer in a loud tone with " Say, Mr. , are

you dying?"

The gravity of the company was upset entirely ; respect
for their host could not keep back the laughter ; the per-
formance closed at the end of the first stanza.

Why do men who are about to fight a duel generally
choose B, field for the place of action ? For the purpose of
allowing the ball to graze.

Brooklyn, .Tune 30th.
Mr. Godey : In your Lady's Book of the month of June
I notice "an unfortunate," who has a red nose. For the
benefit of her or him, and others who take your magazine,
I will state what I did to cure mine. I left off eating any-
thing too hot, tea and coffee, and particularly pastry of
any kind ; ate the tenderest meats, chewed well; never
ate between meals, and have now as fair a nose as you
care to see. My grandfather was troubled the same way,
and found that that mode of living cured him.

A Constant Reader.

272

godey's lady's book and magazine.

JUVENILE DEPARTMENT.

OBEDIENCE TO PARENTS.

"When I my parents disobey

In spite of ail their love,
How can I kneel at night to pray

To Him who reigns above ?

I dearly love them both, and yet,

When evil tempers rise,
Too often I their love forget,

And God's commands despise.

Am I my Heavenly Father's child

When His commands I break ?
And can I sleep unreconciled,

And happily awake ?

I bless His name, this need not be,

For Jesus Christ has died —
His blood can plead for sinful me ;

His blood my sins can hide.

And He, if I am really His,

Will help me every day.
And make me feel how sweet it is

His precepts to obey.

CoRVALLis, Oregon.

Mr. L. a. Godet — Sir : Knowing that you are deservedly
the acknowledged leader of fashions, and not remembering
of ever seeing anything in your book setting forth the
following, I send it as a specimen of the style on Long
Tom:—

At a quiet country cottage on the banks of a pleasant
stream known as Long Tom, there were several persons
passing the day, among whom there were a lady and her
daughter and lover, from the adjacent city. All the
company except the young lady and lover went out into
the garden to refresh themselves with the delicious fra-
grance wafted around them on the evening breeze ; when
they returned, they found the young lady sitting on an
ottoman at the gentleman's feet, with her hands clasped
on his knee, and her face in an oblique position, looking
lovingly into his. As an exclamation of surprise came
from the hostess, such as "Why, Mary!" the mother re-
marked that " Aunty wasn't acquainted with the latest
style."

We published, some time since, an article upon the
treatment of diphtheria by ice. We now publish the fol-
lowing. Our readers will have observed that we seldom
publish any receipts for the cure of diseases. We make
this an exception ; but at the same time ad-
vise that nothing should be attempted with-
out the advice and concurrence of your physi-
cian: —

Treatment op Diphtheria by Ice. —The
Boston Medical and Surgical Journal contains
the following important statements concerning
the treatment of diphtheria by ice, which we
publish for the benefit of our readers : —

"Feb. 22d. — Dr. Dor! and said he had been
requested by Dr. W. B, Morris, of Charlestown,
to bring to the notice of the society the treat-
ment of diphtheria by ice, whereby he firmly
believed this terribly destructive disease might
be perfectly or nearly controlled.

"The first case to which Dr. Morris was
called was that of a little girl, 11 years old, in
whom the disease was well established. He
gave her brandy, beef soup, a solution of chlo-
rate of potash, and guaiacum, alternately, every
hour. Having heard of the benefit derived
from ice, he ordered lumps of it, inclosed in
muslin bags, to be held all the time in the
mouth. This patient was seen in consultatioa
by Dr. Mason, who suggested the external as well as the
internal application of the remedy, by means of a bladder
filled with pounded ice, wrapped in a napkin, and laid
up against the throat. This was continued for seventy-
two hours. The membranes, which were very thick,
ceased forming after the beginning of the ice treatment,
and were thrown otf at its termination. The child is now
well.

" Dr. Morris was called to another patient, and found
one child of the family already dead from diphtheria, and
laid out in the same room with the patient,- who was
failing rapidly, the throat being filled with the diphtheritic
membrane. The ice treatment was commenced without
delay, and the child recovered.

"Dr. Bickford, who had seen the last patient, was sent
for to go to Battleboro', to see a child of the engineer of
the Hoosac Tunnel. He found the disease well marked,
and advised the ice treatment, which was adopted. The
child improved so much on the second day that the treat-
ment was continued by the friends ; but on the third day
it was much worse. Dr. B. telegraphed to 'go on with
the ice, and stick to it.' This was done, and the result
was that the patient began again to revive, and is now
well."

There are several other cases mentioned where the
treatment was the same, and it proved equally successful.

Clerical Joke.— From Punch. — The Rev. Oriel Bland
(who has come to perform the duty for an absent friend,
at a small country church). " I suppose a hymn is sung
in the usual simple manner."

Clerk. "Oh dear, no, sir; we have a very efiicient
choir of singers, besides three violins, three flutes, a clari-
onet, accordion, horn, and my bass fiddle ; and we sing
four hymns, besides chanting the Psalms and Litany ; we
know Mozart's Twelfth Service, and to-day we perform
Purcell's Te Deum and Jubilate, besides our usual anthem ;
and, sir, you need not trouble yourself to read the Belief,
for we sing that too ; and, sir, would you prefer our tuning
up for the last piece during your Exordium or at the
Blessing, for my bass fiddle will drop half a note during

service, and " [The Rev. 0. B. turns pale and asks for

a glass of water.]

If we were asked what physician stood at the top of his
profession, we should say it was the gentleman who was
in the habit of attending "patients on a monument."

Woman has this great advantage over man— she proves
her will in her lifetime, whilst man is obliged to wait
till he is dead.

godey's arm-chair.

273

DESIGN FOR AN ORNAMENTAL COTTAGE.
Designed expressly for Godey's Lady's Book, by Isaac H. Hobbs, Architect, Philadelphia.

FIRST STORY.

First Story. — A parlor, B porch, C main hall, D dining-
rooiQ, E breakfast-room, F kitchen.

Second Story. — G principal chamber, H I J chambers,
K roof of porch, L bay-window.

What is the difference between a duck with one wing
and a duck with two ? It is merely a difference of a-
pinion.

SECOND STORY.

We have received from George H. Johnson, of San Fran-
cisco, two photographs of "That Sanitary Sack of Flour,"
which brought so wonderful a price. The photographs
are well executed, and the newspaper account that ac-
companied them is very amusing.

The best cough drop for young ladies is to drop the
practice of dressing thin, when they go into the night air.

274

godey's lady's book and magazine.

The Things Required. — Every one knows the alphabeti-
cal list of requirements in a wife given in " Don Quixote. ' '
An old bachelor of our acquaintance has rendered it
according to his own notions, and added a rather amusing
list of the contrary requisites of a young lady. It is as
follows : —

WANTED IN A WIFE.

Judiciousness

Kindness

Love

Management

Neatness

Obedience

Patience

Quietness

Amiability

Benevolence

Carefulness

Diligence

Economy

Faithfulness

Gentleness

Hopefulness

Industry

and Zeal for her husband's interests.

Religion

Steadiness

Temperance

Usefulness

Virtue *

"Wisdom

Xperience

Youthfulness

WANTED BY A YOUNa LADY.

Admiration

Beauty

Crinoline

Diversion

Excitement

Flirtation

Giggling

Happiness

Indolence

and Zeal in a dressmaker.

Jewelry

Kid-gloves.

Love-letters

Music

Novels

Opera-Boxes

Pin-money

Quarrels

Reconciliations
Sight-seeing
Tea-parties
Universal Gaiety
Visits

Waste Time
Xtravagance
Youth for ever

PHILADELPHIA AGENCY.

No order attended to unless the cash accompanies it.

All persons requiring answers by mail must send a
post-office stamp ; and for all articles that are to be sent
by mail, stamps must be sent to pay return postage.

Be particular, when writing, to mention the town,
county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made
out of post-marks.

Mrs. D. C— Sent pattern June 18th.

Miss H. V. B.— Sent pattern 18th.

Mrs. J. S.— Sent pattern 18th.

Mrs. E. B. M.— Sent pattern 18th.

A. J. M.— Sent pattern 18th.

Mrs, S. W.— Sent pattern 18th.

Mrs. E. L.— Sent pattern 20th.

Miss M. E. D.— Sent pattern 23d.

M. A. H.— Sent pattern 23d.

Mrs. H. D.— Sent pattern 24th.

Mrs. L. A. G.— Sent articles by express 24th.

N. M. L.— Sent dress shields 28th.

J. M. S.— Sent box by express 30th.

Wm. F. M.— Sent hair chain 30th.

Miss N. B.— Sent pattern 30th.

Miss S. M.— Sent pattern 30th.

Mrs. R. R.— Sent silk 30th.

L. A. C— Sent dress shields 30th.

Mrs. Dr. M.— Sent pattern 30th.

Miss M, McC— Sent pattern 30th.

Mrs. L. J. B. — Sent pattern 30th.

Mrs. E. M. M.— Sent box July 2d.

Mrs. J. W. B.-Sent gloves 2d.

Mrs. M. H. D.— Sent pattern 2d.

Mrs. W. W. W. — Sent marking cotton Gth.

M. H.— Sent articles 6th.

Mrs. G. C. W.— Sent lead combs 6th.

L. G. A. — Sent articles by express 11th.

G. F. C— Sent articles by express 11th.

A. B. B.— Sent hair frizzetts 11th.

J. M. H.— Sent pattern 11th.

S. M. M.— Sent hair rings 11th.

S. E. C— Sent hair rings llth.

C. F. B.— Sent hair cross llth.

Miss D. B. — Sent hair pin llth.

Mrs. E. P. J.— Sent pattern 12th.

Mrs. G. C. S.— Sent pattern 12th.

H. R. G.— Sent pattern 12th.

M. E. W.— Sent pattern 12th.

H. C. D.— Sent pattern 12th.

C. H.— Sent pattern 13th.

Miss J. H. — Sent pattern 13th.

L. C. F.— Sent box by express 16th.

Dr. R M. — Sent box by express 16th.

Mrs. J. G. W. — Sent box by express ISth.

Miss H. S. — Sent box by express 18th.

A Perplexed Subscriber.— Cyanurate of Potash diluted.
But you must be very careful with it, or you will destroy
the fabric.

E. B. — Skeleton Leaves, or Skeleton Bouquets. Apply
to J. E. Tilton & Co., 160 Washington Street, Boston.
They have recently published an interesting book on this
subject.

Miss L, M. C— We can furnish the two numbers for 50
cents.

A Housekeeper. — About two pounds of coffee equal one
pound of tea in household consumption.

Perplexity. — It would not be proper to show any recog-
nition. If he is a gentleman, he will not find it difficult
to procure a proper introduction. Wo doubt his gentle-
manly qualities, or he would not have acted as he did,
unless you showed him great encouragement.

S. M. C. — We think you had better suggest something.
You have mentioned everything we can think of except
pincushions and suspenders.

Sarah.— We can only refer you to the Book, where we
are constantly publishing receipts on the subject. We do
not know that different kinds of hair require different
kinds of treatment. We have from time to time published
about fifty receipts for the treatment of the hair.

Mary, — Certainly not. At the age of fourteen or six-
teen, what can a boy or girl know of love ? This is a fast
age, we know, but you are rather too young.

Mrs, W. W. E.— Ich Dien— the motto of the Prince of
Wales. This is the explanation : —

" A king of Bohemia, blind from age, was led, on horse-
back, between two knights to the Battle of Cr^ci. When
the day was decided against the French, he commanded
his two conductors to rush, with him, into the thickest of
the fight, where all together perished. So grand a sacri-
fice on the altar of feudal loyalty has consecrated his
motto 'Ich Dien' (I serve). This, accompanied by the
triple plume of ostrich feathers which he wore, was then
adopted by Edward the Black Prince, and, as we know,
has been borne by all succeeding Princes of Wales."

Jfasj)i0ns.

NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS.

Having had frequent applications for the purchase of
jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a distance, the
Editress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute
commissions for any who may desire it, with the charge of
a small percentage for the time and research required.
Spring and autumn bonnets, materials for dresses, jewelry,
envelops, hair-work, worsteds, children's wardrobes, man-
tillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to econo-
my, as well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded
by express to any part of the country. For the last,
distinct directions must be given.

Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed expen-
diture, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq.

No order will be attended to unless the money is first
received. Neither the Editor nor P^iblisher will be account-
able for losses that may occur in remitting.

FASHIONS.

275

The Publisher of the Lady's Book has no interest in
this department, and knows nothing of the transactions ;
and whether the person sending the order is or is not a
subscriber to the Lady's Book, the Fashion editor does
not know.

Instructions to be as minute as is possible, accompanied
by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of
tiie person, on which much depends in choice. Dress
goods from Evans & Co.'s ; mourning goods from Besson
& Son ; dry goods of any kind from Messrs. A. T, Stewart
& Co., New York; cloaks, mantillas, or talmas, from
Brodie's, 51 Canal Sti-eet, New York ; bonnets from the
most celebrated establishments ; jewelry from Wriggens
iSL Warden, or Caldwell's, Philadelphia.

When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here
govei'u the purchase; therefore, no articles will be taken
back. When the goods are sent, the transaction must be
considered final.

DESCEIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLATE FOR
SEPTEMBER.

Fig. 1.— Dress suitable for a dinner party. Sea-green
silk dress, trimmed with bands of black velvet. On these
bands are diamonds cut out of white satin and trimmed
round with lace. Duchess collar of point lace. Coiffure
of point lace. The hair is also dressed with beads and
loops of green velvet.

Fig. 2. — Robe dress of pearl-colored silk, ornamented
with figures and flowers in bright colors. Guimpe and
sleeves of white muslin, finished with a muslin ruching.
Black straw hat, trimmed with a long white feather, an
aigrette of spun glass, and small scarlet feather tips.

Fig. 3. — Dress of black silk. The skirt is plain. The
corsage is in the coat tail style, and trimmed with a nar-
row fluted ribbon and a bead trimming. The vest is of
Ophelia purple silk. Bonnet of white chip, trimmed with
a long white plnme. The inside trimming is of Ophelia
velvet.

Fig. 4. — Dress of pearl-colored poplin, trimmed with
bands of Solferino velvet sewed in waves around the edge
of the skirt, and up to the waist on the right side. Fancy
lace cap, trimmed with Solferino flowers.

Fig. 5. — Dress of tan-colored poplin, trimmed on the
edge of the skirt with a quilling of the same. Above this
are chenille cords, gracefully festooned and fastened on
.-■ach breadth with bows and tassels. The corsage is made
with a short basque behind, and points in front. The
bonnet is of Eugenie blue silk, trimmed with a white lace
veil.

Fig. 6. — Morning-dress of w^hite alpaca, richly trimmed
with Solferino silk. It is made short, to show a cambric
skirt, which is trimmed with four fluted ruflies. Fancy
lace cap, with long tabs, which fasten at the throat with
a pin, and take the place of a collar.

CHILDREN'S DRESSES.
(See engravings, page 193.)

Fig. 1. — Dress of Eugenie blue poplin, trimmed on the
skirt with alternate pieces of black and white ribbon
sewed on slanting. Zouave trimmed with white ribbon,
black velvet, and black drop buttons. The point is bound
with black velvet. Leghorn hat, corded with black velvet,
and trimmed with a blue feather rosette.

Fig. 2. — Dress of black and white poplin, trimmed with
alternate quillings of scarlet and black ribbon, half the
point being of one color and half of the other. Wide sash
of scarlet, black, and white ribbon. Guimpe and sleeves
of white muslin, trimmed with muslin ruchings.

Fig. 3.— Dress of white piquet, made square on the neck,
and with bretelles. It is braided with scarlet mohair
braid.

Fig. 4. — Suit of fine gray cloth, trimmed with a darker
shade. Scarlet neck-tie, Polish boots, with scarlet tassels.

Fig. 5. — Black poplin blouse, trimmed with blue velvet,
and confined at the waist with a blue silk cord and tassel.
Black velvet cap. trimmed with blue velvet and a white
wing. Polish boots, bound with blue velvet, and trimmed
with blue chenille tassels.

FASHIONABLE BONNETS.
(See engravings, page 200.)

Fig. 1. — A dinner-cap, formed of spotted tulle, and
trimmed with a large pink rose and bud. A ruffle of the
tulle with scalloped edge also trims the cap.

Fig. 2. — ^Pearl-colored er'pe bonnet, trimmed with black
lace, A fan of pearl-colored silk and white feathers. The
inside trimming is of pink ribbon and stiff white feathers.

Fig. 3, — White silk bonnet, trimmed with violet rib-
bons and pink roses. A net formed of ribbons is attached
to the bonnet.

Fig. 4. — A Leghorn bonnet, trimmed with a salmon and
black ribbon. The feathers are black. The inside trim-
ming is composed of scarlet velvet, black lace, and sal-
mon-colored flowers.

CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA
FASHIONS FOR SEPTEMBER.

The weather continues too warm to admit of any notable
change in fashions ; we therefore take this opportunity to
present to our readers a variety of fancy costumes.

Gypsies, Turkish ladies, Greek, peasant, and flower girls,
powdered dames, and vivandieres, appear in such hordes
at all the fancy balls that many of our fair ones implore
us for novelty in fancy dresses. To gratify them, we
present the following costumes, worn at some of the
Tuileries balls : —

"The Legion of Honor." The skirt is of red moire,
embroidered with gold flowers ; over this falls a white
satin tunic, which is cut in the form of the cross. The
bodice is made of cloth of gold in the style of the Middle
Ages ; that is to say, descending below the waist, and
rounded off both in front and at the back. The cross of
honor is embroidered upon it in white silk, and a wreath
of laurel leaves around the lower part of the bodice.
Upon the shoulders is fastened an ermine mantle, lined
with cloth of gold (for which gold-colored satin may bo
substituted). The headdress is a small coronet, studded
with precious stones. In the hand is carried an immense
goose-quill, dyed in the national colors,

"Roulette," The hair should fall in curls, through
which are showered small gilt coins. The bodice is made
with a bertha formed entirely of coins, with a white satin
note for 10,000 francs fastened to it. Two small red fea-
thers are placed in front of the head. The skirt is of red
silk embroidered to represent gold coins, and in the right
hand is carried a rake such as the croupiers use to gather
the gold at Baden and Ems.

" Snow." A short white satin skirt, edged with swan's-
down, and long crystal beads, imitating icicles. The low
bodice is in the Louis XV, form ; it is pointed, and made
of white satin crossed with a band of swan's-down. In
the centre, as an emblem of hope and spring, a tuft of half
opened primroses is fastened. The hair is powdered, and
underneath the left ear is fastened another tuft of prim-
roses. A necklace of large crystal beads, with long drops
in the form of icicles, is worn round the throat. The boots
are of white satin, trimmed with swan's-down,

*' The White Cat." On the head should be the head of a
white cat, and round the throat a blue velvet collar, upon

276

godey's lady's book and magazine.

•which is Minette, iu golden letters. A blue satin bodice,
edged with white fur and cats' tails ; a skirt of blue satin,
also edged with white fftr, and embroidered in cats' heads.
"The Bird of Paradise." A blue silk dress, trimmed
with birds of Paradise. In the centre of the forehead is
another bird of Paradise, with its tail spread, and its long,
beautiful feathers falling on each side of the throat.

*' Eve" is represented with a white robe, ornamented with
green leaves. On each side of the skirt is a pocket. On
one is written Good ; this is fastened with a small gilt
padlock. On the other is written Evil, and from this comes
a serpent, which is twined round the waist, and has its
uplifted head, with an apple in its mouth, resting upon
the breast. The headdress is a wreath of green leaves,

"Undine" is robed in a cloudlike white dress, trimmed
with shells, sea-weed, and sprays of coral.

Among the more singular costumes are "Fire," "A
Game of Draughts," "The Bluebird," and "A Basket of
Eoses." We could mention many other effective cos-
tumes, but we have not room for so many lengthy descrip-
tions. It is of everyday fashions and novelties of which
we must now speak.

Curtainless bonnets are rapidly gaining ground in Paris.
Some are but mere caps, almost entirely covered with
flowers ; others are a half handkerchief, with a small
front ; and others again have only a fall of lace for the
crown. In the next number we will give a very pretty
illustration of one of these curtainless bonnets, and the
ladies will then be able to decide whether to accept or
reject them.

The coat-tail bodices are now considered in very good
taste. Scarcely two are to be seen alike. Every dress-
maker has a style of her own. They are rounded, pointed,
squared, and cut in every imaginable way ; but still they
are coat-tails, and decidedly the newest and most fashion-
able style of corsage.

White muslin bodies are very much worn ; indeed, many
persons wear them during the entire year, and a prettier
style of dress for a young person could not be worn. Even
white muslin bodies are made with coat-tails. The pret-
tiest styles, however, for thin muslins are Garibaldies,
trimmed with puiis, tucks, and insertings. Yokes are
also very pretty formed of colored insertings and puffs.
We particularly admire the black and white insefl'tings ;
they are decidedly more stylish than the gay colors. The
more elegant bodies are embroidered with bees, butterflies,
and humming-birds.

Elegant sashes are very much worn, crossed over the
body and fastening at the side. Some are of black lace,
others of black and white lace mixed, others again are
rich silk scarfs, woven for the purpose with bright bor-
dered and fi-inged ends. Some are a quarter of a yard
wide, while narrower ones of the same style are made for
children. These, arranged over a pretty white dress, are
IJerfectly charming.

Corsages, corselets, and points of every description are
worn. We will not, however, dwell upon them, as we
are constantly giving illustrations of the newest and most
attractive styles.

One of ^he latest inventions is tulle flowers ; they are
particularly suited for tulle ball-dresses, opera bonnets,
and wedding wreaths.

The arrangement of the hair varies but little ; the
adopted style is to part the front hair in four equal por-
tions. The upper bandeaux on either side of the parting
are rolled over frizcttes, and the lower locks drawn
plainly back. The back hair is, generally arranged in a
waterfall, and covered with an invisible net.

Charming little caps, or rather headdresses, are now
worn by young ladies as well as married ones. One style
consists of a square piece of tarletane, about eight inches
every way ; this is bordered with a pinked ruche of the
tarletane, a tulle ruching, or a quilling of ribbon, and at
each corner is a bow of bright ribbon. It is arranged in
diamond form on'the head. The other style consists of a
piece of tarletane or white muslin, half a yard long and
about eight inches wide. One end is pointed and finished
with a bow. The pointed end is placed over the forehead ;
the other end, which is square, hangs down behind ; the
whole is trimmed with a fluting or ruching of muslin or
tarletane. These are decidedly coquettish and becoming
little affairs.

Festooning the dress has now become a decided fashion,
and we now rarely see a dress sv7eeping up the streets.
The simplest method of looping the dress is to sew hooks
and eyes on each breadth of the dress, at proper distances.
If the dress material is of double width, hooks and eyes
will be required in the centre of each breadth.

We see a great variety in muslin skirts, as many per-
sons have a strong prejudice in favor of white skirts,
particularly during the warm season. Tucks are de-
cidedly in favor, as they are easily done up ; but the
more elegant skirts are trimmed with fluted ruflies —
sometimes a single ruffle, sometimes three ruffles. The
very latest style, however, is to have the edge of the ruffle
bound with either black or red, and tassels of either black
or red arranged over the fluted ruffle.

A very pretty skirt is made of either white delaine or
cashmere, trimmed with fluted ruffles bound with black
velvet or braid, or else the skirt can be trimmed with puffs
of the material, with bands of velvet between.

Another very pretty and novel style of skirt is formed
of alternate lengthwise stripes of blue and white, black and
white, or scarlet and white cashmere. The lower edge
of each stripe is cut in a sharp point and bound with
velvet. As this style of skirt is rather troublesome to
make, we would suggest that the upper part of the skirt
should be of plain material, and the bordering be but half
a yard deep.

Polish boots are now worn both by young and old.
They are generally of black morocco, laced up in front
quite high on the leg. They are bound with scarlet lea-
ther, and trimmed with scarlet tassels ; some are tipped
with patent leather. Lasting boots are frequently trimmed
with velvet rosettes. Boots matching the dress are con-
sidered in very good taste.

Mask veils are altogether worn. Some are fastened at
the back with a long black lace barbe, which has a very
pretty effect.

Bands of velvet are much worn round the throat. Some
are ornamented with studs of precious stones, and, though
reminding us somewhat of a dog-collar, they are pretty.
Three or four yards of velvet or ribbon, tied round the
throat and the ends falling at the back, continue to be
worn by young ladies.

The newest hair nets are made of small shells or coral.
They are very pretty and dressy.

Hats are altogether worn for travelling, and the favorite
shape is the turban, with a mask veil. They are generally
trimmed with an aigrette of feather perched in front, or
else a wing.

The latest style of bridal veil is a combination of veil
and mantle. It encircles the face, and is fastened in front
with a bouquet of flowers, thus forming a very pretty and
sufficient trimming for the corsage.

Fashion.

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Full text of "Godey's Lady's Book September 1864"

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