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Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011 with funding from
The Institute of Museum and Library Services through an Indiana State Library LSTA Grant
http://www.archive.org/details/godeysladysbookOOphil
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. LX.
A Baby's Shoe (Illustrated), 66
A Bordered Net for Sleeping- in (Illustrated), 71
A Braided Pincushion (Illustrated), 107
A Chenille Net for the Hair (Illustrated), 355
Acting Charade. — Master-Piece, by *$'. Annie Frost, 143 A Dirge, by Mrs. S. S. Jessop, 62
A Flower- pot Screen (Illustrated), 457
A Fortunate Mistake, by Paul Laurie, 337
A Freuch Belle a Hundred Years Ago, 150
A Friend, by J. Howard Smith, 350
A Gothic Villa (Illustrated), 352
A Lesson from the Flowers, by Mrs. H. E. Francis, 447 Allie Belle, by Harriet N. Havens, 540
Alone, by Mrs. A. M. Butteriield, 156
Alphabet of Fancy Letters (Illustrated), 12, 108, 204, 300 A Morning Cuff (Illustrated), 169
Anna Hey ward ; or, Perfected through Suffering, 313
Another Letter from our Agreeable Western Corres- pondent, 524 A Pea-wiper for a "Writing-table (Illustrated), 263 A Record of Spring, by Marian Gwynn, 540 Articles- for Fancy Fairs (Illustrated), 70, 164, 26.5, 357,
456, 546 Articles for the Kitchen (Illustrated), 75, 171, 268
Art thou Watching o'er me, Mother? by Rose Clinton, 351 A Tale of the Old Church Bell, by Mrs. M. W. Hackle- ton, 446 A Travelling Cuff (Illustrated), 169 Aunt Sophie's Visits, by Lucy N. Godfrey, 225 Aunt Tabitha's Fireside, by Edith Woodley, 502 A Valentine, by Mary E. Nealg, 157 Avoid Deception, 2A1 A Winter Cuff.— Netting (Illustrated), 166 Baby's Bib, Embroidered (Illustrated), 395 Baby's Knitted Bib (Illustrated), 8 Baby's Shoe, 167 Basket in Crochet and Beads (Illustrated), 164 Bead Bracelet and Chain (Illustrated), 453 Beauty, 146 Blunders in Behavior Corrected, 30, 121, 215, 314, 413 Bonnets (Illustrated), ' 258, 449 Border for a Handkerchief, new style (Illust'd), 394,' 457 Bosom Friend, or Sontag (Illustrated), 67 Boswell's Introduction to the Literary Club (Illust'd), 193 Brace for Child's Dress (Illustrcded), \ 453 Bracelet in Crochet (Illustrated), 70 Braided Border (Illustrated), 550 Braided Pincushion (Illustrated), 362 Braiding Pattern for an Infant's Cloak (Illustrated), 170 Braiding Pattern for Pinafore or Ladies' Jackets (IWd), 361 Braiding Pattern for Top of Pincushion, 15 Braiding Pattern for Zouave and other Jackets (IWd) 358 Bridal Pincushion (Illustrated), 10 Broad Line Drawing Lessons (Illustrated), 44, 152, 244, „ , 334, 435, 526 Brodene for a Child's Dress (Illustrated), 552 Candlestick Socket of Chenille and White Beads (IWd), 456 Capes (Illustrated), 64, 103, 104, 160,' 541 ;Caps {Illustrated), I59 542 Card Receiver (Illustrated), ' 452 Centre-Table Gossip, containing —
A Charity that Begins at Home, 190
A Cheerful Breakfast-table, 382
A German Household, 477
A Miscellaneous Catalogue, 89
A Modern Heroine, go
Boarding-School Evils, 139
Books for Young Ladies, 3S2
Fresh Hints for Flower Gardening, 3S2, 478 571
Hon. Mrs. Norton, ' ' 33 ^
India Shawls, 289
Isa Craig, 285
Natural Ornaments, 57]
Notes and Queries, 90. 191, 2S6, 3S2, 479, 572
Over-Dress, gg
Sewing a Part of Education, 473
Sowing Sorrow, 00*
The Wardrobe, 571
Chemisettes (Iltustrated), 4 m
Chemistry for the Young, 28 1, 381, 476, 570
Child s Cloth Gaiter (Illustrated), 70
Cloaks, Drksses, Mantillas, Talmas, &c.
Carriage-Dress (Illustrated), 293, 384
Children's Dresses (Illustrated), 97, 191
Evening-Dress (Illustrated), 10o, 191
Fashionable Dress for a Lady (Illustrated), 544, 545 Fashionable Dress for a Young Lady of Fourteen
(Illustrated), 543 Home Dress (Illustrated), 198, 287 Infant's Gored Dress (Illustrated), 257 Lady's Dress (Illustrated), 260 Redingote Magicienne (Illustrated), 199, 287 Spring Dresses (Illustrated), 196, 2S7 Spring Mantles (Illustrated), 488, 489, 573 Spring Walking Costume (Illustrcded), 292, 383 Sultana Cloak (Illustrated), 4, 91 The Adelaide (Illustrated), 4S4, 573 The Albuera from Brodie (Illustrated), 6 The Amalia (Illustrated), 38S, 4S0 The Audalusian, from Brodie (Illustrated), 197 The Arragouese, from Brodie (Illustrated), 101 The Aspasia (Illustrcded), 389, 480 The Beatrice (Illustrcded), 390, 480 The Clotilde, from Brodie (Illustrated), 490 The Constance (Illustrated), 391, 480 The Cordovan, from Brodie (Illustrated), 393 The Diego (Illustrcded), 5, 91 The Gored Robe (Illustrated), 294, 3S4 The Juliet (Illustrated), 392, 4S0 The Lelia (Illustrcded), 485, 573 The Olivares (Illustrated), ], 91 The Saragossa, from Brodie (Illustrated), 296 The Scotia (Illustrated,), 102 The Zouave Jacket (Illustrcded), 295 Collars (Illustrated), 69 203, 363, 396 Corners for Pocket Handkerchiefs (Illustrcded), 13, 542 Cottage (Illustrated), 256 Cottage in the Italian Style (Illustrated), 566 Cousin Anuie Hastings' Letters, by Virginia F. Town- send, 04 Cuff to match Collar (Illustrated), 203 Damask-work Curtain Border (Illustrated), 550 Darning Stockings, by R. L. H., 528 Designs for Quilting (Illustrated), 16 Diagram of an Opera Hood, and of a New Sleeve (IWd), 450 Diagram of Fashionable Dress (Illustrcded), 545 Diagram of Lady's Dress (Illustrated), 261 Doll's Collar in Embroidery (Illustrcded), 69 Domestic Life, 50,5 Draperies, Curtains, and Blinds (Illustrated) 1S5, 2S2,
325, 0O6
Drawing-room Work-bag (Illustrcded), 455
Dress: How to Adorn the Person, by Mrs. M. L., 230,
336, 429, 515 Editors' Table, containing —
Allibone's Dictionary of Authors, 466
American Thanksgiving in Prussia, 274
Baltimore Female College, 557
Children, 272
False Pretences, §q
Fancy — Truth (from an unpublished Poem), 177 From Three to Five ; or, a Drive iu Washington, 466
Health of Americau Women Deteriorating, ~ 467
Hints about Love and Marriage, 176
How to Become Famous, 559
Idyi«, 368
Lines, by Mrs. Virginia Gary, 177
Mount Vernon, 274
New Eugland Woman's Medical College, 46$
Our Friend, Mrs. Haven, \7^
Our Native Language, 369
Palace Homes for the Traveller, 46.}
Polyglottic, 4^g
Sewiug and Swimming, 359
"Strong-minded Women," 177
Swedish Women, 5.-,9
Thanksgiving a Legal Holiday, 368 The Freemason's Hymn, by Sarah Joseph a Hale, 81
The Ladies' Mount Vernon Association, SO
The New National Holiday, ]7.5 The 'Presentation Plate''aud "The Light of Home," 79
The Salons of Paris, 551J
iii
IV
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Washington National Monument, 274
Women's Wages in California, 469
Embroidery composed of Guipure and Transfer
{Illustrated), 297, 356 Embroidery, Inserting, &c. (Illustrated), 7, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, la, 102, 103, 106, 160, 170, 2.59, 261, 267, 292, 293, 291, 297, 360, 362, 395, 396, 449, 451, 459, 491, 540, 547, 551, 552 Emma r Grave, by James Ristine, 254
End of Neck-tie (Illustrated), 299
Euigmas, 62, 158, 255, 351, 447, 640
Eva Lee, by Mrs. M. M. Hines, 61
Evau<*eline, by J. W. Beazell, 447
Eveuiug Shadows, by Mabel Gray, 61
Fancy Cape (Illustrated), 104
Fancy Crochet (Illustrated), 168
Fancy Headdress (Illustrated), 262
Fancy Mourning Cape (Illustrated), 103
Fairies, by Nellie, 157
Fashions, 90, 191, 2S7, 383, 479, 573
Ferneries for the Parlor, by Harland Coultas, 443
Flouuce for Evening-dress (Illustrated), 550
Flouncing for an Evening-dress (Illustrated), 4S6, 550
Frame Cottage (Illustrated), 567
Fretfulness, 155
Garden Hood, for a little Girl (Illustrated), 450
Gentlemau's Gaiter (Illustrated), 73
Gentleman's Shirt (Illustrated), 2">9
Godey's Arm-Chair, 85, 183, 279, 375, 472, 563
Godey's OS'ering for New Year's (Illustrated), 68
Gothie Cottage (Illustrated), 63
Grandmother, Mother, and Daughter ; or, The Three
Ages of Dress (Illustrated), 2S9
Half of a Toilet Cushion (Illustrated), 547
Half of Mornin? Collar (Illustrated), 396
Headdresses (Illustrated), 105, 262, 448
Headdresses, Neck-tie, and Fancy Cuff (Illustrated), 105 Health Department, 82, 178, 275, 370, 468, 560
Hidden Beauty, by Alice B. Haven, 245
Home in the Rain, by Anna L. Rumaine, 349
Ida, by Mrs. E. F. Ellet, 253
Infant's Boot (Illustrated), 395
Infant's Pincushion (Illustrated), 11
Infant's Shoe in Crochet (Illustrated), 70
Initial Letters (Illustrcded), 356
In Time of War, by Annie Fraust (Illustrated), 109
Invalid Cushion (Illustrcded), 74
Jacassa's Journal, by Mary W. Janvrin, 126
Keep the Birthdays, 509
Knitted Berries and Fruit, 72, 162, 266, 358, 548
Knitted Counterpane in Stripes (Illustrated), 287
Knitted Rigolette ; or, Winter Headdress (Illustrated,) 116 Lace Border for a Shawl of Lace (Illustrated), 363
Lady Clare, by Fannie Stevens Bruce, 60
Lady's Hood (Illustrated), 7, 91
Lady's Night-Dress (Illustrated), '107, 191
Lady's Reticule {Illustrated), 200, 262
Lamp Mat in Crochet {Illustrated), 168
Latest Style of Collar (Illustrated), 363
Letter from California, 347
Letter from Wisconsin, by llattie Hiland, 348
Letters for Marking (Illustrated), 162
Letters from a City Girl in the Country, by Carrie
Carlton, 114
Lilliau's Masquerading, by Mrs. Frances Fuller Bar-
ritt, 205
Lines, by Eva Evans, 527
Literary Notices, 83, 179, 276, 372, 469, 561
Long Purse in Knitting (Illustrcded), 70, 456
Love and Matrimony (Illustrcded), 3S5
Loveliness, 135
Love's Miracle; or, The Charm of Music, by J. W.
Bryce, 345
Macaroon Patchwork in Silk and Velvet (IWd), 106, 163 Mammoth Cave, by Mrs. S. S. Jessop, 445
Married Life, 236
Mary Grey, by Emily B. Carroll, 497
May, by Sarah J. C. Whittlesey, 447
Miss Slimmeus's Boarding-house, by the author of " TJie
Tallovo Family," 33, 147, 237, 318, 437, 531
Modelling in Pasteboard and Paper (Illustrated), 164, 265,
357, 456 Morning Cuff (Illustrated), 360
Mrs. Bowen's Investment, by Alice B. Haven, 3S
Mrs. Bowen's Parlor and Spare Bed-room, by Alice B.
Haven, 136
Music —
Gently flow, Neshaminy, by Prof. Edward Ambuhl, 482 In my Swift Boat come Dearest, by C. Everest, 94
Mingo Polka, by Prof. Edward Ambuhl, I9S
O'er my Heart a Sadness Stealing, by /. H. M'Naugh- ton, 290
The Golden Ringlet, by Miss J. R., 386
Winter Winds, by J. Starr Holloway, 2
My Child, by Laura W. La.moreiur, " 446
My Child, by Sophia North, 123
My Serenade, by C. D., 212
My Sisters and I, by Kate Berry Potter, 405
My Wife, and where I found Her, by Virginia F. Town- send, 303 Nature's Song in the Night, 133 Neck-tie (Illustrated), 69, 105, 264, 29S, 299 Neck-tie, in Applique of Net and Muslin (Illustrated), 264 Netted Tidy (Illustrated), 361 New Style of Cuff (Illustrated), 202 Not all a Waif, by W. S. Gaffney, 37 Nothing Finished, 423 Novelties for the Month (Illustrated), 64, 159, 257, 353,
448, 541 Oakford's Fashions for Spring (Illustrated)^ 492
Ornamented Hyacinth-Glass (Illustrated), 163
Our Good Time is in the Present, by W. G. Mills, ^.56
Out in the Snow, by F. H. Staujf'tr, 158
Parting, by Jessie Atherton, 538
Pasteboard Boxes (Illustrcded), 165
Patchwork (Illustrated.), 549
Patchwork Border (Illustrated), 201, 262
Patience, by Beata, 157
Pattern for a Child's Pardessus (Illustrated), 74
Pleading, by Ella C. Hall, 2tift
Poetry of Common Life, by Enul, 539
Raindrops, by Zinnia Zell, 255
Receipts, &c, 75. 171, 268, 364, 460, 553
Retirement, by Thomas Henry Bacon, 53S
Rich and Poor, by Anson G. Chester, 539
Sampler Pattern (Illustrated), 69
Shoes (Illustrcded), 66, 70, 167
Sonnet — Wissahickon, by William Alexander, 62
Spring Song, by C. S. Flint, 349
Stomacher and Edging of Child's Dress (Illustrated), 455 Striped Cushion in Berlin Wool (Illustrated), 548
Success, 252
Suggestive Notes on Grecian Oil Painting, by Mrs. E.
Custard, 252, 344, 444, 530
Sunny Memories, by Myrta May, 539
Tea for the Ladies, and where it comes from (IllusVd),
301, 397 Tears, by Frederick P. Luther, 351
The Aged. Pilgrim, by Delia Dayton, 253
The Art of Ornamental Hair-work (Illustrated), 72, 165,
267, 355, 458, 544 The Art of Swimming, 493
The Child's Gift, by Annie Fraust (Illustrated), 217
The Closing Day, by William F. Wood, 155
The Deserted, by Ahnena C. Saunders, 446
The First Violets of Spring, by Carrie, 445
The Frozen Heart, by Mary W. Janvrin, 430, 517
The Latest Style of Collar (Illustrated), 203
The Launch (Illustrated), 481
The Maltese Cross (Illustrated), 167
The Maniac, by Mrs. A. M. Butterfield, 538
The Mother, ' 529
The Ordeal ; or, The Spring and Midsummer of a Life,
by Alice B. Haven, 329, 416, 510
The Philosophy of Domestic Embellishment, 421
The River by my Cottage, by Harriet N Havens, 254
The Two Soiils, by Mrs. A. M. Bidterfield, 350
The Two White Roses, translated from the Fuench, by
D. L. Dalton, 316
The Unruly Member, by Marion Harland, 17
The Widow, by Lilly Lee, 424
The Wonders of the Ocpan, ■ 53
Thou and I, by E. N. H, 156
Tidy for a Lounging Chair in Crochet (Illustrated), 6S To A. E. M., by Willie Myrtle De Haven, 501
To A. M. F., by Anna, 158
To Christiana, 350
To Hattie, by Circaleo, 349
To Mary, by G. R. Calvert, 61
To rny Brother, by Julia Southall, 60
To Yield, or not to Yield ? that is the Question, by A. B., 152 Undersleeves (Illustrated), 54, 159, 449, 541
Unequally Yoked Together, by E. A. Sand/ord, 232
Velvet Wristlet (Illustrated), 458
Watch-Case in Chenille (Ilhcstrated), 164
Watch-pocket (Illustrated), 456
Wilson's Request, by Miss Catharine Mitchell, 254
Wilt thou love me when I 'm old ? by Finley Johnson, 538 Winter, by Melva, 253
Winter Sock (Illustrated), 9, 71
Winter Song, by Kelway, 158
Wonderful Things (Illustrated), 134, 223, 423, 537
Wristlet (Illustrated), 298, 356
Wreath of Flowers in Bead-work (Illustrated), 451
THE OLIVARES.
(See description, page 92.)
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SULTANA CLOAK.
(See description, p<iye 92.)
THE DIEGO.
(See description, page 92.) 5*
THE ALBUERA.
[From the establishment of G. Brodie, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Voigt, from actual articles
of costume.]
We present for this month's illustration of modes a garment of striped cloth, constructed with a hood of peculiar beauty and simplicity, lined with taffeta, and ornamented with a heavy cable cord and tassels. This and the lower portion of the cloak are trimmed with ruches of black velvet. We might, for the purpose of making a more flashy pic- ture, have selected a more showy article ; but we prefer consulting the good sense of our readers, and therefore offer from the large variety before us one in which beauty and utility are so admirably united. G
EMBROIDERY FOR CHEMISES.
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LADY'S HOOD.
(/See description, page 92.)
BABY'S KNITTED BIB.
Materials. — Two ounces of cotton, No. 16 ; pins, No. 12.
Cast on 30 stitches ; knit 6 plain rows.
1st row. — Bring the cotton forward ; knit two together to the end of the row.
Id. — Plain knitting.
3c?. — Pearled.
4th. — Plain knitting.
Repeat these four rows, increasing at the beginning and ending of every plain row, and you have 80 stitches.
Thread 30 stitches off from each end of the pin, on a coarse cotton, and cast off the 20 centre stitches. Take up the 30 stitches, and knit the same four rows, decreasing the centre side of every plain row ; repeat this until you have but eight stitches left ; then knit 50 plain rows, cast off, and join it to the side of the bib ; this forms the shoulder-strap. Take up the 30 stitches on the oppo- site side, and repeat this. Knit a piece of simple lace, and sew all round the edge. Finish it with one and a half yards of ribbon, to tie it round the waist. 8
INSERTING.
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WINTER SOCK.
(/See description, page 71.)
INFANT'S embroidery;
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BRIDAL PINCUSHION.
The Dove is in white chenille, surrounded by a wreath of orange blossoms and myrtle leaves, in white, yellow, and green chenille. 10
EMBROIDERY FOR PILLOW-CASES.
INFANT'S PINCUSHION.
Materials. — White satin, to be worked with white beads or pins. Perhaps for the common pins *ny darker colored material might be substituted.
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EMBBOIDEEY FOB PILLOW-CASE BOBDEKS.
COBNEE FOB A POCKET HAOT)KEBCHIEF.
VOL. LX. — 2
13
PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY.
For Bolster and Pillow-cases.
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PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1860.
■•«»»-
THE UNRULY MEMBER.
T MARION EARL AND.
11 Cora, Cora, will nothing cure you of your sinfully careless habit of speech ?"
"Auntie, auntie, will nothing cure you of your frightfully sober habit of speech ?"
"Never, while assured, as I am now, that mine are the words of truth and soberness," rejoined the elder lady, with an emphasis that was somewhat severe, yet not unkind.
But Cora Manning only laughed — the sportive laugh of a disposition as sweet as heedless. Throwing herself upon the carpet at her aunt's feet, she folded her hands with a pretty affecta- tion of penitence, and looked up into the eyes which she knew could not meet hers without an answering smile.
"You are all primed for giving me along, delicious scolding, I perceive, auntie, so I will not disappoint you. It will remind me of dear old times. Please define, however, in the out- set, what is the precise nature of the habit you condemn by such an ugly name. Am I ' sinful' and 'careless' in grammar or composition, or do you object to the subject-matter of my ' speeches' ?"
"You are an educated lady, Cora. This fact should be sufficient of itself to preserve you from inaccuracies in the structure of your sentences, and your style is generally graceful and pleasant."
"Good! There is one drop of sweet to re- concile me to swallowing the abundantly bitter dose which is to come."
" I wish that I could indeed make it so bitter as to be remembered," said Aunt Janet, with inoreasing gravity. " I should have more hope, then, that you would set yourself seriously to
2*
work to correct a great, and, I fear, a growing evil."
"I am getting very impatient, auntie," again interrupted the saucy girl. "As they say in public debates, ' Question ! question !' "
" My first question is this, my dear : Do you recollect what was your salutation to Miss Healy as she broke up our confidential chat this morn- ing— the talk you had devoutly hoped would not be spoiled by any third person, no matter how agreeable at most other times ?"
" I cannot say that I do, ma'am ; I hope it did not betray my real feelings too plainly. There is no need that I should inform her that, instead of classing her among the ' agreeables' aforesaid, I have set her down at the top of the first column in my list of 'bores.' Whatever I may have said in my intense vexation, she bears me no malice for my lack of politeness, for she sat with us two mortal hours."
"One and a quarter, Cora, by the clock," corrected Aunt Janet.
"It seemed to me to be nearer four," said Cora; "and then she apologized elaborately for 'hurrying off before' — as she phrased it — ' she had half talked out.' That is a pet say- ing of hers, by the way. The adage that 'half a loaf is better than no bread' does not hold good in this instance, I am sure."
" Yet you were at as much pains to convince her that she had paid a brief call as you were, at her entrance, to tell her that she was ' the very person of all your acquaintances who you were wishing would call upon Aunt Janet imme- diately.'"
"Did I say that? I am delighted, in raptures
17
18
godey's lady's book and magazine.
at my graciousness of hospitality — at a display of urbanity so independent of circumstances !" cried Cora, clapping her hands. " No wonder she stayed such an unmerciful length of time. How comfortable I must have made her feel !"
"And me as thoroughly uncomfortable," con- tinued Aunt Janet. "I have never regarded insincerity and falsehood as synonyms, although it appears that you do. But to proceed. I thought you told me that Mr. Miller left town but two days ago ?"
"So he did — on Tuesday."
"And that he made you a visit on Monday evening?"
Cora blushed slightly. " Of course ! You do not suppose that he would have gone away without bidding me ' Good-by ?' "
" If my memory serves me rightly, you added, likewise, that you expected him back on to- morrow ?" the inquisitor went on to say, in the same quiet, confident tone.
"Yes, ma'am, it was his intention, when he left, to return at that time, and" — dimples breaking over her cheeks — " I do not believe he will encounter any temptation potent enough to detain him longer in the country."
" Yet" — Aunt Janet spoke very slowly here — "when Miss Healy rallied you — coarsely, I allow — upon ' the cheerfulness with which you endured the absence of your handsome beau,' you protested that you ' had not seen him for an age — a week or more,' pretended ignorance of his departure for the country, avowed a like want of knowledge as to the probable period of his return, and finally, in reply to her inexcus- ably rude interrogatory, ' Come, now, Cora, are you engaged to him or not ? Everybody says that you are, and the wedding is to come off in the spring' — you said, promptly, and with seem- ing earnestness, 'Everybody is wrong, then, in this, as in many other things. Mr. Miller is a friend of mine ; he never has been and never can be more, if I continue in my present frame of mind.' "
"Mercy, Aunt Janet, you make my blood run cold ! You remind me of a judge summing up the evidence against one convicted of a capital crime — murder in the first degree — nothing less flagrant. Surely, you did not wish me to make a confidante of the most notorious tattler in the city, in sheer compassion for the poor woman, to gratify her overweening curiosity?"
' ' Far from it ; but I would have preferred seeing you commit this indiscretion to hearing a deliberate falsehood from the lips of my brother's child, one whom I love as my own daughter."
Tears sprang to Cora's eyes. "I, Aunt Janet ? How can you talk so cruelly ?"
"Judge for yourself, my dear. Every word we utter is either true or false. Bring your conversation of the past hour to this test, and how does it appear ?"
' ' In love all things are fair, " said Cora, gayly. "Everybody equivocates, or, if driven too hard, fibs outright, when — when situated as Horace and myself are."
" 'Everybody is wrong, then,' as I heard a sensible young friend of mine remark, not a month since. I understand and honor the delicacy which causes a woman to shrink from unveiling her heart-secrets to such prying med- dlers as is this Miss Healy ; still, I believe that a mild but dignified resolution not to gratify them would be a more effectual quietus to her inquiries than was the denial she evidently discredited, positively though it was uttered. I do not know your betrothed husband, but, if what you and others have told me of his cha- racter be correct, I doubt whether he would sanction the rule of lawful prevarication — 'fib- bing,' you term it — laid down by 'everybody,' and adopted by yourself."
" Horace has chosen me with his eyes open," returned Cora, a little resentfully. "To him, at least, I am no dissembler."
" Never be, my darling !" said the old lady. " You are too young and happy to understand how much of misery a single falsehood or the appearance of deception may bring upon those whose hearts and lives should be open as the day to one another."
With what sad experience of her own wedded life — ended years ago, by her husband's death — Aunt Janet was, in remembrance, dealing, it does not now behoove us to inquire. Cora felt that self-reproach or an unforgotten sense of wrong received lent solemnity to the warning, and that further trifling on her part would be unkind. Gladly did she, for the first time in her life, hail the termination effected by other callers to a tete-a-tete interview with her favor- ite aunt.
To Mrs. Barrett, better known to her circle of associates as "Aunt Janet," had been com- mitted the care of Cora during her mother's invalidism, a tedious spell of several years' con- tinuance. The improved health of the latter, and the removal to another town of the more judicious and not less affectionate aunt, had subjected the girl to a different course of train- ing. Of late years, Mrs. Barrett's visits at her brother's home had been short and infrequent, and it was, therefore, with emotions of no ordi-
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nary pleasure that the family received her ac- ceptance of their invitation to spend with them the winter which was to end Cora's singlehood. To the last-mentioned member of the house- hold the arrangement was fraught with peculiar delight, if for no other reason than because it was to bring the realization of a cherished de- sire, viz., that her lover should see and appre- ciate her best beloved of friends, the foster- mother whom she never wearied of describing and extolling to him.
Cora had been universally admired since her dtbilt in general society, two seasons before — adulation which had failed to impair the many domestic virtues that made her the pet of the home she now brightened, and fitted her, in most respects, to become the sun and centre of the more narrow sphere she ever adorned in Horace Miller's dreams of his future. Whether it were the warm breath of flattery, producing in the fertile soil the legitimate fruits of an undue ambition to shine and to please, that had brought to light less lovely traits and ten- dencies, defects that were grievous blots upon the otherwise fair page of character, or whether these had been more slowly developed under a somewhat loose family government, Mrs. Bar- rett could not decide. Her upright mind only detected and recoiled at the unlooked-for blem- ish, and love united with conscientiousness in urging her to do her utmost to check the noxious growth. Her rebuke was taken as kindly as it was given. Aunt Janet sighed as she caught herself almost wishing that her adopted child's temper were less even and sunny, at least that her nature were less mercurial, so evident was it that, an hour after such grave admonitions had been pressed upon her consideration, not a rankling recollection of what had transpired remained to disturb her enjoyment of the day's employments and recreations.
Certain it was that no sombre thoughts clouded the joyous mood in which she came flying to her aunt's room, the next evening. Breathless with her rapid ascent of the stairs, she could not speak for a moment ; nor was there need for words. Aunt Janet's pleasant remark inter- preted the expression of her radiant counte- nance : " He is here, I see ; and you would like to have me behold and be seen by my future nephew."
Cora nodded impatiently, and went on empty- ing her aunt's lap of the sewing it contained, upsetting the work-box by the operation.
"Never mind it," observed Aunt Janet. "There will be plenty of time by and by to gather up my spools and patchwork. You do
not suspect me of any intention to enact Madame de Trop very long on this the evening of his arrival."
She was beguiled into a more protracted sit- ting below than she had anticipated. Prepared as she was to approve her niece's choice, con- firmed by her father's endorsement of its wis- dom, Aunt Janet was agreeably surprised. There was a mingling of gentleness and dignity in Mr. Miller's manner, a union of heart and intellect in his conversation, which left no room for wonder that Cora should regard him as the embodiment of all that is to be loved and re- spected in man. The plighted pair were a con- trast in behavior and temperament, but one that formed an interesting study. Cora's viva- city and piquant modes of expression never seemed more fascinating than when tempered, not repressed, by a certain deferential appeal in manner or tone to his stronger mind and supe- rior judgment. Seen thus, she was the charm- ing, winning woman ; while in him the decided opinions of one perfectly conversant with his subject, independent in belief and in its decla- ration, were so softened by his style of address- ing her as to draw her on to a freer revelation of her sentiments, rather than awe her into reserve. " He could never be harsh with me, however deeply I might offend him," Cora had said, that day, to her aunt. Mrs. Barrett ac- knowledged, as she watched them together, that this was not a girlish boast of unfounded exultation — that, while Horace Miller was not the man to look lightly upon any deviation from the path of rectitude, nor perhaps to sub- mit tamely to personal affront, there was never- theless in him a large-hearted charity and gene- rosity which would overlook and forgive faults, even crimes, in one whom he loved.
Cora rattled on merrily, to overcome her trifling embarrassment at the novelty of her position in her aunt's sight. ' ' You are aware, ' ' she said to Mr. Miller, "that I lived with Aunt Janet all my life before I was grown. Until within a year or two back, I knew no other home than hers. Then she suddenly awoke to the fact that I was an incorrigibly trouble- some article of household furniture, and bun- dled me back upon my poor, dear father's hands, as other merchants do unprofitable and damaged wares."
Aunt Janet's smile was painfully constrained. 1 ' Cannot she speak without exaggeration ? Into what trouble may not this foolish, worse than foolish practice lead her?" was her mental com- ment, as she compared Cora's "facts" with the true statement of the case. The period of Mrs
20
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Barrett's guardianship of her young relative was comprised between Cora's eighth and thir- teenth years, and the "year or two back" signified the lustrum that had elapsed since Mrs. Manning's partial restoration to health, her daughter being now nineteen.
" Your friend, Miss Healy, did us the honor of spending the entire forenoon of yesterday here," said Cora, archly.
' ' I trust the favor was properly appreciated by the recipients," answered Mr. Miller, in a like strain. "She quite 'talked herself out' for once, I suppose."
"By no means, my good sir. That shows what injustice you are disposed to do to her colloquial talents. Her lament at tearing her- self away from us, as the dinner-bell rang — she having come before the breakfast things were removed, while the flavor of coffee and buck- wheat-cakes ' lingered here still' — had the ac- customed pathetic burden, ( Not half talked out, my dear creature !' "
Her comical mimicry of the gossip was highly amusing to Mr. Miller, but Aunt Janet bethought herself of her resolution to retire early, and did not feel that its execution involved any self- denial on her side.
"Poor child!" she sighed, as she laid her head upon the pillow. "Oh, that mothers would teach their children the worth of that pearl of great price — truth, pure and undefiled ! Cora's are only idle words, it is true, but for every one of these we read that we ' shall be called into judgment.' "
Among Cora's visitors of the following day was Ellen Miller, Horace's sister. The girls' confabulations were always interesting, for the engagement was known to the Miller family, and Ellen was, moreover, the most intimate associate of Cora at school and in society.
"I chanced to meet Miss Healy, as I was making a call yesterday," she said, suspend- ing the discussion of more important matters. " What an unscrupulous gossip she is !"
"What fresh evidence did she grant you of this propensity?" asked Cora.
"Why, you will not believe it, but, in my presence and hearing, she brought forward the subject of your engagement to Horace, and flatly contradicted it as an absurd rumor, quot- ing you as her authority ! You had, she de- clared, denied to her that there ever had been anything of the kind, and intimated that you had rejected Horace's proposals from the begin- ning ; and, to wind up the farce, she represented how you had implored her to rectify popular impressions on this head !" Cora was dumb
with dismayed surprise. " Did you ever hear a more shameless falsehood or a bolder stroke of impertinence?" continued the indignant sister. "And to use your name to foist it off upon the community !"
"What did you say?" faltered Cora, whose changing color was to Ellen only the reflection of her own heat.
" Oh, she did not stop there ! She referred to me for my opinion ! I informed her, curtly, that she must not expect either corroboration or denial from me, since the alternatives were to cast discredit upon your word, or to betray my brother's confidence. If he were a discarded lover, you were the person most likely to be aware of your own act ; if accepted, it was but natural that I, as his sister, should be apprised of the event. I can laugh now, when I think how she withered down as I concluded my speech with a frigid ' good-morning ; : but I was not so sensibly cool in talking the affair over with Horace, last night."
" With Horace ?" Cora's heart stood still.
" Yes. Is there anything so surprising in that ? One would think, you little goose, that he was in danger of believing the ridiculous tale, from your terrified look ! ' A likely story !' he said, when it was finished. ' Cora is the most truthful girl alive, and Miss Healy is the most — well, no matter what ! A toad cannot harm a star, let it spit venom from night to morning.' There 's a compliment for you, my little lady ! Are you not obliged to Miss Healy for having served as the means of obtaining it?"
There was too much of the true woman about Cora for her not to feel a pang of compunction at the necessity of submitting to this unmerited, ill-bestowed praise. The consciousness that in accepting it she was wronging another, however deservedly unpopular that other might be, was a poignant reflection. She became abstracted and pensive, revolving in her mind her folly — she gave it no harsher title — and its present consequences, and determining to be more watchful of her tongue in future. Alas for the repentance which is based upon conviction so imperfect ! for the reformation preceded by so partial a view of the nature and extent of trans- gression committed !
Ellen was speaking of Aunt Janet when her friend again listened. " I regret that Mrs. Bar- rett should have selected this morning for her shopping expedition ; I am impatient to see her. But I hope to have many other opportunities of improving so desirable an acquaintance, as she is to pass the winter here. You have visited
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her frequently since her arrival at B , hare
you not?"
" Oh, often !" Cora really thought that she was speaking sensibly and truthfully of the three visits she had paid her aunt in her present residence.
''She lives in the suburbs, or nearly without the corporation limits of the town, I think I have heard, ' ' pursued Ellen.
"Almost in the country; but the outskirts
of B ■ are more eligible as building lots than
any street in the city proper. The situation of aunt's house is lovely, and the neighborhood charming beyond description."
" Did you ever hear of a Mrs. Chester, there- abouts ? Do you know whether there is a lady of that name, a widow with one child, I think, a resident of B , or its vicinity ?"
" Indeed I do ! Her grounds almost adjoin Aunt Janet's. She is very wealthy, keeps up a princely establishment, is quite the leader of the ton, courted and aped by a host of admirers. Are you acquainted with her?"
" I have never seen her," began Ellen ; but Cora, volatile as usual, interrupted her.
" Then you have missed the sight of a hand- some, a queenly Woman. She might rival her daughter in belleship if she chose, but she is too dignified to listen to a whisper of such a thing. I admire her greatly."
" You have met her, then ?"
" Scores of times. She and Aunt Janet are extremely intimate. One of the most pleasant days of my life I owe to her hospitality. Her lawn, and gardens, and park are a perfect para- dise. In strolling through them, one forgets that there are unsightly objects or painful subjects in the world."
"You alluded to the daughter," said Ellen. " Her fame as a belle has reached my ears be- fore this. Is she as admirable as her mother?"
"Quite as beautiful in person, and more winning in demeanor," rejoined Cora. "She is witty, without being sarcastic ; accomplished, yet not pedantic ; affable, without affectation. At the parties we attended together, she was the most elegant, and at the same time the most simply-attired, lady in the room. Her kind heart gives a certain inimitable grace to her most trivial action. I loved Mary Chester from the earliest moment of our meeting, and parted from her with more regret than I expe- rienced in leaving all the rest of my friends in B ."
" I am afraid I shall grow jealous of your en- thusiastic affection for her, if she makes us the vLit our parents have planned so long," said
Ellen. "However, I will take lessons of her in amiability, and try to rejoice in her pleasure at meeting one she knows and loves, amongst so many strangers."
" Why, you said you had never seen her !" exclaimed Cora.
"Nor have I. That treat is yet in store for me. Our mothers were schoolfellows and boon companions in their girlish days, and their cor- respondence has not ceased through all the years that have brought age and cares upon both. Recently, there has been a deal of con- ference respecting an exchange of visits. Seve- ral times have been actually set, which have passed without the accomplishment of the im- portant event. At present, the scheme is for Mrs. Chester and Mary to come to us about the latter part of January ; but hope deferred has rendered us incredulous of its final fulfilment. ' '
Cora brightened visibly. Almost two months off, and an uncertainty at the best, which would, unquestionably, be the worst for her ! No need for her to brood upon the idea that she had given Ellen an erroneous and unpardonably highly-colored version of the history of her as- sociation with the Chesters. She had seen them repeatedly at church and in other public assemblies ; had scrutinized the daughter across the room at one large party, where her chaste elegance of apparel and engaging behavior made her the observed of all eyes. Nay, Cora had even stood next her at sapper, and received a graceful apology for a slight injury done to her robe by a falling spoon from Miss Chester's saucer, as her attendant was in the act of hand- ing it to her. Mrs. Barrett, once in a great while, exchanged calls with her more fashion- able neighbors, but her retired habits formed too decided an opposite to their gay life to make intimacy likely or possible. The day spent at the Chester mansion was a picnic, held during the absence of the proprietors, and by permission of the steward, in the park of noble old trees that constituted the principal attraction of the place. Cora would have blushed at the sus- picion that she had stooped to subterfuge to exalt her personal importance in the eyes of Horace's connections, yet this motive was the spring that had hurried her into culpable mis- representation. An uncomfortable foreboding would, notwithstanding her attempts to feel easy and unconcerned, find entrance to her thoughts for an hour or so after Ellen's depar- ture, but her native and habitual buoyancy enabled her to shake it off.
" I fear that Horace is taking an imprudent step in this new venture of his," said Mr.
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godey's lady's book and magazine.
Manning, one morning. "He is a sagacious man of business for one so young ; but he is young, and, it may be, has not counted the cost and risk of extending his operations in these troublous times."
"He impresses me as a person of singular judgment for his years," said Aunt Janet, notic- ing Cora's uneasy look. " Have not his actions heretofore been characterized by prudence ?"
" Yes, I suppose they have," commenced her brother, who was a cautious man, and slow of speech.
Cora broke in, eagerly: "Oh, papa! you know that he is discreet. I have heard you say, five hundred times, that he had the oldest head you ever saw upon young shoulders. It is unkind to depreciate him now, when this is the only measure of doubtful propriety he has ever adopted."
" While the wisdom of the measure remains a question, it is but fair that he should have the benefit of the doubt," remarked the ever kind aunt.
Mr. Manning patted his daughter's head. "Agreed, with all my heart! You must not fly out at your father, puss, until you are sure that he means to find fault with a noble friend of yours, whom we all like, although there are degrees of fondness amongst us."
"But you do not really apprehend loss for him, do you, sir?" inquired Cora.
" I cannot say that I do, dear; I merely inti- mated that his course was a bold one ; I feared lest it should prove unwise also, in view of the breakers ahead of business men. I do not understand his drift, but I imagine that he does, so it 's all right, perhaps."
"He will outride the breakers, if any one can," said Cora, confidently. "His is a steady eye and hand."
"And a true heart, you might have said," subjoined Aunt Janet, as her niece stopped, confused at the warmth she had manifested in her lover's defence. "Might not a word of caution from you be of use to him ?" she con- tinued to Mr. Manning.
"I would have spoken it, had he consulted me at the beginning," was the reply. "I fancy that matters are now in such a state of forward- ness that objections would dishearten him, with- out altering his purpose. My fears may be false prophets, after all. We will hope for the best, and let him have his own way."
Horace did not appear very sanguine as to the result of his enterprise, when he unfolded his plan to Cora. "It may be that I have been rather precipitate," he said, "have trusted too
implicitly to the representations of others who ought to be better informed in these affairs than I am. I am getting timid nowadays, I have so far greater happiness at stake than formerly. Something more than my own comfort or profit depends upon my success or failure. My pride and joy in our mutual relations is still so new and precious that I am in continual dread of losing it — the common fate of those who have become rich suddenly. Forgive me, love, for troubling you with pecuniary projects. I am ashamed of my selfishness in unburdening my heart of its cares, the details of which must be annoying to you."
" Nothing is annoying or uninteresting that relates to you," answered Cora, with an in- genuous affection for which her auditor honored and blessed her from his inmost soul. " I am troubled, but it is at seeing you cast down. I should be more distressed, if you showed a dis- position to defraud me of my right to sympa- thize with you. Have you any reason, apart from your presentiments, for doubting the ex- pediency of your recent transactions ?"
' ' None, if I except the ominous nods and sighs of a few croakers, and the lowering aspect of the commercial horizon. I called several times at your father's office, while the business was undecided, in the hope of persuading him to the gift of a few words of advice, but was invariably so unfortunate as to find him out or engaged. Has he passed any opinion upon my proceedings in your presence ?"
Cora hesitated. The truth, unpalatable as it would be, was upon her lips ; then a second glance at his anxious face summoned to her memory her father's concluding remarks : l ' Ob- jection would dishearten, without altering Ms purpose. We will hope for the best, and let him have his own way." " We were speaking of the subject yesterday," she replied, as if trying to recall the conversation. Her courage failed fast at seeing his intent expression.
"Well," he urged, as she paused again, "did he pronounce me a headstrong speculator ?"
"No, indeed! He declared his entire confi- dence in your talents and judgment."
" Excepting as I have displayed them in this one case," suggested Horace, with an attempt at gayety.
"He made no exception, but was hopeful for this, as for the rest of your undertakings."
"Ah! he approved it, did he?" exclaimed Horace, joyfully. "This is too good news to be true ! Are you sure that there was no dis- satisfaction, no prophecy of evil, mingled with the grateful sentence ?"
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"He said that yours was a steady eye and hand, which, united with a true heart, made failure almost impossible," said Cora, proud of the enlivening effect of her communication. "Aunt Janet was not backward in expressing her cordial assent to this."
She was doing him a signal favor in thus turning the bright side of the picture to him — in unloading his mind of fears that would im- pede his progress.
"You are a comforting angel," he said, fondly. " It is almost a luxury to be despond- ent now and then, so sweet is the cure. I am unwilling to confess how utterly the knowledge of your father's sentiments has revolutionized my feelings. He would have bestowed his counsel very sparingly, had I solicited it in person. Conscious of this peculiarity of his, I did not persist in my design of wresting an opinion from him. I have boundless confidence in his sound sense and farsightedness. I came here, to-night, depressed and irresolute. It was my wish to see him for a few minutes in private, and ascertain, if I could, how he stood affected with regard to this somewhat bold enterprise. I was ready — more than ready — anxious to abandon it at the eleventh hour, at a single dissuading word from his mouth. How happy am I that I made you my confidante in- stead, and, by this manoeuvre, became possessed of his most candid decision, unbiassed by any desire to conform to my inclinations !"
" Had you not better consult him, as it is ?" asked Cora, faintly.
" 0 no ! There is no necessity or propriety in doing so. He is careful to a fault, and never would have employed the language you have quoted, had he not been altogether satisfied with the wisdom of my course."
"The language you have quoted!" How mockingly conscience repeated the phrase, as Cora tossed upon her sleepless bed !
"I wished to spare him needless pain," she alleged, in excuse; "I meant it for his good. It cost me a struggle to speak as I did; but could I bear to see him sad, and not strive to console him by any sacrifice of my comfort ? How could I foresee that he who is generally so independent in forming plans, so resolute in their execution, was prepared, on this occasion, to be swayed by a word from another ? I hope no evil will come of it. I will not allow that he can be defeated by any enemy ; he is bound to succeed."
"If he should fail — and failure has come to others as keen of sight and brave of heart — who is to be blamed for it?" sneered the tor-
mentor ; and Cora, dumb at this home-thrust, cried herself to sleep over the bare imagination of this sequel to her "well-meant" consola- tion.
A month went by, and nothing had occurred to arouse the fears which had sunk into a lethargic slumber almost as quickly as the pillow wet by her tears was dry. Life was one continued smile of love and beauty to the be- trothed maiden. Preparations for the marriage were going forward steadily and quietly. Friends gathered lovingly about her whom they were to resign to care yet more tender and constant, when spring should furnish her first flowers to grace the bridal feast.
It was on a balmy day, which she could have fancied had been sent in advance to remind her most vividly of the bliss of the approaching season, that Cora left home on a mission of mercy — to carry some of the sunshine with which her soul was filled to the chamber of sickness and languishing. Constance Remer was a universal favorite with her associates, each one of whom she converted into a friend. Young, loving, and beloved, she tasted, with a glad and thankful heart, of earth's best trea- sures, until the Father, All-merciful as All-wise, interposed to save the tempted soul from idol- atry. Very gentle was the summons — painless and gradual her withdrawal from an existence whose every hour had been marked by its blessing and its corresponding joy; so calm her passage towards the haven of never-ending happiness that she, and, what was more re- markable, those who were nearest and dearest to her, but dimly suspected the truth. It was, therefore, with nothing of fear, with hardly a shade of solicitude in her manner or feelings, that Cora inquired concerning the invalid's state, of the physician, as she happened to meet him about a square from Mr. Remer's dwelling. Dr. Merrill was a blunt man, when it suited his humor and convenience so to be. At that instant, he was pondering upon Con- stance's case — not weighing the chances for and against her recovery, but speculating mourn- fully as to the greatest length of her stay among those who little dreamed of the impending woe. His reply to Cora was abrupt and startling : —
• ' She is as well as she ever will be again, poor thing !"
"Doctor," ejaculated Cora, "do you mean that — ' ' She could proceed no farther.
"I mean that she is dying," returned the Doctor, wheeling about, and joining her in her walk. " She may live three weeks ; she may not see three more suns rise in this world. It
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would not "be a matter of surprise if to-morrow's sun shone upon her lifeless body."
They walked a little way in silence. Then Cora queried, tremulously, "Is she aware of her condition ?"
"No. Why should she be? She is ready for death ; that her life has proved, better than any dying triumphs could do. If she were not, it is too late to begin the work. She has no unsettled worldly business to attend to, and that is, to my notion, the sole reason that justifies one in molesting the sick in the hour of mortal extremity. Doctors and friends often bungle wretchedly on this point. No I no ! I believe in no such miscalled kindness. Let the child pass away peacefully. Human nature is alike, the world over. She would feel alarmed at the near prospect of dissolution, little cause as she has to dread an exchange of worlds ; or, grief at leaving those she loved might be as disastrous, and hasten the event which it is our aim to delay. To reveal the truth would be an act of absolute cruelty — downright in- human !"
They were at Mr. Reiner's gate, and, with an additional injunction to Cora "to do her prettiest to cheer his patient," the Doctor bade her "Good-day."
On the threshold of the house, another warn- ing awaited her. The door was opened by a kind neighbor, Constance's nurse for the day. "Walk in!" she said, in a louder tone than seemed advisable, considering the proximity of the sick-room. "Constance will be very glad to see you." In a whisper, she continued: " She saw you from the window, talking with Dr. Merrill, and will ask you what he thinks of her. She is nervous and down-hearted to-day, so, if he did say anything unfavorable, don't hint it ! Agitation would be fatal, in her pre- sent weak state."
The dying girl was propped up in an easy chair by the window, and beside her sat Ellen Miller. The placid face of the latter in a mea- sure quieted Cora's excitement, or her nerves and courage would have been severely shaken by the wistful gaze riveted upon her, as she stooped to kiss Constance's hot forehead. "How are you to-day, dear?" she inquired.
" I cannot tell, Cora ; I doubt whether I am as well as they would persuade me into believ- ing. I fear, sometimes, that it will be a tedious season before I recover, if I ever do. This in- creasing weakness does not promise the return to health about which the Doctor and others talk to me. Do you suppose that they could deceive me, and I sick almost unto death, Cora?"
"What an absurd fancy!" said Cora, play- fully. "Your sickness has produced a radical change, indeed, if it has taught you suspicion, and of those whom you love. Fie ! I, for one, am disposed to resent the implication."
Constance laid her thin hand within that of her schoolmate. " Do not be displeased," she said, with the plaintive simplicity of a child ; " but this dread haunts me. Nothing but love and kindness moves them to tell me what they do ; still, I cannot help wondering if this fear of causing me pain is not tempting them to blind me, as long as they can, to the fact, the solemn truth that I may die of this illness."
"'Dear Constance," said Ellen," why brood upon this thought ? Be sure that your earthly friends would not knowingly mislead you, and, should they err in their opinion of your situa- tion, what is there so terrible in death ? Re- member in whose hands are the issues of life. If it pleases your Heavenly Father to call you home, are you afraid or unwilling to go ?"
Tears gathered in the eyes large and bright with the insidious disease. "Not afraid, Ellen. I learned, long ago, to trust and love Him, and I know He is able to keep all that is committed unto Him. I do try to say, unmurmuringly, 'Thy will be done !' but it is hard to resign the life He has made so full of sweetness, which He has given me capacity to enjoy ; and I am so young — so young !"
She clasped her fingers passionately upon her brow, as if to still its throbbings.
"This will never do !" said the nurse's eye and finger to Cora, unseen by the sick girl.
Cora knelt down by Constance's chair, and drew her head to her shoulder. "My dearest friend, you cause yourself needless anxiety, and us exquisite pain. You will live to see how uncalled for is all this borrowed trouble. We cannot let you go yet. You are alone in your imagination that you will be compelled to leave us soon. The spring will restore hope and health together."
\ ' Did the Doctor authorize you to say so to me ?" inquired Constance. "You speak very positively. Have you his warrant for your prediction? You were talking of me, were you not ? I watched you both, as I sat here, and told Ellen that I should entreat you to re- peat every syllable he said."
It would have been a hard trial to one of less acute sensibilities and sterner principles than our poor Cora to see that face, so lovely in tlie eagerness of reviving hopes, and reflect upon the sentence that had gone forth against the "sweet" life to which she clung. It was no
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occasion for even slight marvel that she suc- cumbed to the temptation.
"What an egotistical little creature you are !" she said, with a laugh that sounded like genuine heart-music. "Dr. Merrill commented upon the weather and my blooming cheeks — for he is often gallant, after his fashion, cross as he is generally — and merely observed, at parting, that you were low-spirited this afternoon, in- clined to be hypochondriacal, and that I must cheer you up."
"But you must have asked him how I was," persisted Constance, not satisfied.
" I did, and I forget the precise ' syllables' of Iiis reply. The substance of it was that you were ' no worse,' or ' well enough, if she would only think so,' or something else as amiably complimentary, so well as I remember."
' ' He did not intimate that I was dying, then ?"
A cold hand, like that of death itself, struck upon Cora's soul, but superhuman power — from what source ? — was granted her to answer steadily, cheerfully, desperately: "So far from that, he said that you were getting along slowly, but well, and alluded to your recovery as a matter of course."
When the sisters-in-law expectant left the invalid, she was comfortable in body, and mani- fested more liveliness of spirit than she had shown since an early stage of her sickness. Cora's conscience, seduced from its fidelity by her repeated perversions of good and evil, was basely recreant enough to congratulate her upon a worthy deed performed in the face of difficulties that would have daunted a less courageous spirit.
Early on the ensuing morning, a messenger came from Mrs. Remer to beg for Mrs. Man- ning's presence and sympathy in her sore be- reavement. Constance had died at daybreak ! When Cora could endure to listen, she heard how peaceful was her departure ; how quietly and unconsciously the gentle spirit left the beautiful clay tenantless ; learned of her affec- tionate and grateful mention of the beloved friend who had put to flight her presentiment that the dark-browed king of terrors was, even then, standing at her side. "Cora's visit has been an actual blessing to me, mamma. My dreams will be happy ones to-night, I know," she said, before committing herself to sleep. Her awakening was among the angels.
If these tender recollections of the lost one assuaged the bitterness of Cora's grief, her out- ward bearing was a false index to her inner emotions. For days and weeks, she labored under an extremity of depression, as foreign to vol. lx. — 3
her nature as it was obstinate in its resistance to the efforts employed to relieve it.
"Constance's death was a fearful shock," said the Mannings and the majority of their ac- quaintances ; but there were not wanting those who put another interpretation upon the gloom that shadowed a face but lately all beaming with health and pleasure.
"Cora is sadly altered," said the indefati- gable Miss Healy, at an evening party. " She was invited here to-night, but sent a regret, so Miss Williams tells me. Some will have it that she is mourning over poor, dear Constance Re- iner's death, who was no more to her than to many of the rest of us. I guess there are other reasons why she should not feel particularly gay just now, and especially why she should not care to be here this evening. ' '
i Her emphasis and knowing shrug brought the wished-for request for enlightenment on the part of her auditory.
" I do not know whether it is exactly fair to repeat the story in Mr. Miller's presence," sim- pered the mischief-maker, rolling her eyes af- fectedly at Horace, who stood near.
" That scruple can be easily overcome ; I will retire out of hearing," he said, as indifferently as he could.
" No, please don't !" and the lady involunta- rily (?) grasped his arm. " You would go off, thinking me an ill-natured, ill-mannered tale- bearer. I have nothing disreputable to relate."
" I hope not, indeed !" Horace could not help saying.
She paid no notice to the interruption. "No- thing that you may not have heard fifty times over. I should not wonder if you were better posted up on this subject than any other per- son alive. It is altogether proper and likely that you should have had a version of the ro- mance from head-quarters. Did Cora never confide to you the story of her youthful folly — her engagement to Fred Williams, nephew to our host ?"
"I am now first made acquainted with the existence of that highly distinguished person- age," said Horace, coolly contemptuous.
" Hush-sh-sh ! There he is ! He lives now
in B , but is spending a few days with his
uncle. This is why I understood so quickly the source of Cora's low spirits, which disquali- fied her from joining our number. ' iWild lang syne' cannot be so soon forgotten. Do not be uneasy, Mr. Miller ; yours is not an isolated case. You recollect the song : ' On revient tou- jours a ses premiers amours.' I dare say it is nothing more than the thought of her sufferings
26
godey's lady's book and magazine.
in the past, on his account, that indisposes Cora to meet her old flame. It went very hard with her, when her father, at Mrs. Barrett's instiga- tion, hroke off the match. For years, there was a coolness, nearly amounting to a decided rup- ture, "between 'Aunt Janet' and her prof tgie."
" Was there a regular engagement?" asked some one.
" Fast and firm, my dear sir ! She denied it, but not as positively as she does now, that there ever have been any pledges, mutual vows, etc., between herself and another individual whom I could name, but, dear me ! everybody fibs about these things. You ought to have seen ' Aunt Janet's' look of solemn reproof when her niece's pretty mouth took oath by all the saints in the calendar, and by some who are not, for she protested upon her own word of honor, as a lady, that Mr, Nameless-just-now was no more en- gaged to her than she was to the man in the moon. I wanted to burst out laughing in both their faces."
Too much disgusted and annoyed to listen longer, Horace turned his back upon the scan- dal-monger, and began a conversation with his nearest neighbor ; but Miss Healy had sufficient wit to see that her shaft, rough and coarse as it was, had found a joint in the harness. Her sly smile was truly feline, when she remarked his closer inspection of the junior Williams, and the curl of the lip which concluded it. She had her reasons for disliking young Miller, and would have gone to greater pains to torment him than the retailing of this one item of gossip cost her. It was unlike him to narrate the cir- cumstance to his betrothed, confidently as Miss Healy had calculated upon this action. He was ashamed of it the instant the recital escaped him ; angry with his thoughtlessness, when Cora's perturbation evinced that her annoyance or surprise surpassed his. She even trembled and grew pale with the unsuccessful attempt to reply to his story.
"You will call me a jealous fool !" said Ho- race. "Foolish I am to cause you uneasiness about the contemptible business, but it is not jealousy that irritates me, as I recall the tattler's accusation. I wish she were a man. How I should delight to horsewhip the one who dared to couple your name with that of the coxcomb, the brainless puppy, who did nothing but pull his dust-colored moustache and drawl ' Ah-h, indeed !' ' Ya-as !' 'Ne-ow, re-al-ly !' the whole evening ! I forget ! This is a serious matter — sport to me, it was once almost death to you. It is ' altogether proper' that I should enact father confessor, and possess myself of the 'romance,'
from preface to ' Finis . ' How old were you when you surrendered your heart, without firing a shot, at the siege of this invincible Adonis ? What a flint your father must have been to condemn you to inconsolable misery by his re- fusal to sanction so congenial a union ! What filial piety you have exhibited in not hating him and Aunt Janet forever and a day ! ' '
Instead of replying to his raillery, she burst into tears. The bewildered Horace wondered, apologized, and coaxed by turns.
"Only tell me how I have offended!" he begged. "You could not have conceived the idea that I was in earnest in aught that I have said. I never imagined that you would regard Miss Healy's fabrications more than I do — than every one does — as beneath the contempt of de- cent, sensible people."
Cora wept on in silence, only signifying by a gesture that he was not in fault. Completely baffled, Horace had to await the subsiding of the flood. As her face cleared, his darkened. An unwelcome fancy had crossed his brain.
"•Dearest," he said, tenderly, yet so gravely that she shook with alarm, " I do not seek to know the fount of the tears which have aston- ished as much as they have distressed me. Answer me a single question, and we will let the unlucky topic rest. Was there one iota of truth in all that Miss Healy reported ? Was this man ever an intimate acquaintance — a suitor of yours ?"
" Never !" murmured the frightened girl.
"Was there ever an attachment on either side?" pursued Horace.
" None that I knew of," was the response.
" I am content !" and he withdrew her hands from the tear-stained cheeks. " My little dar- ling, you are weak and nervous, and are scared by shadows. Pardon me for teasing you so pertinaciously. Seriously, if you had fancied yourself in love fifty times in your girlhood, I should not care, provided you confessed it to me. The history of ten engagements, and as many broken hearts on your part, even were all the honored swains Fred Williamses, would not arouse the pang I should experience at one partial or distorted confidence. I am pleased, though, that you never cared for the fellow, else I might feel less flattered by your unac- countable acceptance of your humble servant. "
"You were never more welcome!" cried Ellen Miller, as Cora dropped in for an after- noon call. "I have an agreeable surprise in reserve for you. Come into the back parlor. There is something there you will be overjoyed to see."
THE UNRULY MEMBER.
27
Full of expectant pleasure, Cora followed her. A lady arose at their entrance, but there ensued no such scene as Ellen had pictured to herself. The telltale blood dyed Cora's tem- ples with shame and embarrassment, whilst the stranger remained quietly standing, without any token whatever of recognition.
"Is it possible that you have forgotten Mary Chester?" said Ellen. "And you, Mary, do you not recognize an old friend in Cora Man- ning ! What fickle hearts or short memories you two must have !"
"Forgive me, Miss Manning," returned Miss Chester, extending her hand in graceful saluta- tion. "I did not remember your name for a moment, familiar as your features seemed to me. Have we met before, and where ?"
" In B . My aunt, Mrs. Barrett, is a resi- dent of that place," Cora continued to say, she never knew how.
"I have the pleasure of a slight acquaint- ance with Mrs. Barrett," said Miss Chester, charitably intent upon removing the confusion of the other. " If I had known that she had a relative here, I should have done myself the honor of a farewell call, and inquired if she had any message or letters for you. Have you heard from her recently ?"
"She has been with us for several weeks," was Cora's reluctant answer, for Ellen's elo- quent countenance bespoke amazement at this singular proof of the "extreme intimacy" of Mrs. Barrett and the family whose "grounds adjoined" hers.
"You have visited her occasionally, I sup- pose ?" resumed Miss Chester. "How careless in me not to recall the circumstances of our former introduction ! I am not usually so for- getful. I must request your forbearance, pro- mising never again to be guilty of a similar fault towards you."
Her scrutiny, earnest and puzzled, engaged that she would keep her word. The visit passed off stiffly, affable as she endeavored to be. She felt that there was a mistake, not her own, yet that continued inquiry would be unpleasant. Ellen was not less perplexed, and more troubled ; while Cora's chagrin defied description. She took advantage of the earliest opportunity of ending the embarrassing scene, and walked hurriedly homewards, execrating her folly and the unpropitious fate that had enabled the Chesters to keep an engagement so long post- poned. There were more sickening misgivings mingled with her discomfiture.
' ' What will Ellen think ? She will tell Horace ! What will he do ? What can I say?"
The straight road of honest, penitent confes- sion was the last she meditated taking. The web of her own inconsiderate weaving was about her, choking, blinding, crippling her at every turn, and she planned escape by plung- ing deeper into its intricate windings. Culpable as was her confirmed habit of misrepresentation, lax as her morals had become through long in- dulgence in prevarication, she had seldom, if ever, manufactured and uttered a deliberate lie, such as she laid away in her heart, ready for her betrothed's hearing and belief against his next coming.
She met him with trepidation, and one glimpse of his features assured her that some- thing weighed upon his spirits. There was a single flash of light — the fond beam that always greeted her — then the cloud again usurped the place of the "clear shining." It was an un- speakable relief to the guilty heart when the cause of his sadness was announced. The speculation of which we have treated upon a former page, as having excited his friends' fears, and, in some degree, his apprehensions, had been unfortunate. He was likely to lose heavily by it — how heavily he could not as yet determine ; it might eventuate in a total wreck of fortune. Like the strong-hearted man and Christian he was, he indulged in no useless murmurs at fate, or cowardly misgivings at what the future might have in reserve to tax his fortitude and strength. Already he was devis- ing expedients by which he might retrieve his failure, if failure it should prove to be. Against all reverses he was prepared to struggle bravely, except the delay of the union wherein were centred his best and proudest hopes. They might be obliged to live more plainly than he had anticipated, he stated to his ladylove, but, if the worst should befall him, he would still be able to offer her a comfortable home, and together they would wait patiently for the dawn of more prosperous days. All that was noble in Cora's nature was drawn forth by this appeal. She hastened to disabuse Horace's mind of every apprehension of reluctance on her side to fulfil their contract, or repugnanoe to entering the humble dwelling he had described as her probable abode for years to come. Her regrets were all for him and his disappoint- ment. In her cheerful constancy, her self-for- getful love, he found compensation both for disappointment and the suspense which was yet more harrowing.
Mr. Manning interrupted the dialogue. He, too, was full of sympatic, and was not quite superior to the temptation to repeat his prog-
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nostications of this very result. " I wanted to caution you, my boy," lie said, shaking his head sagely, "but young people are apt to con- sider us old fogies as a set of bilious croakers, and regard our advice accordingly. Cora here can testify, as can my wife and sister, that I foresaw this evil from the start. And sharply was I taken to task for my opinion, I assure you" — nodding at his daughter. "I won't re- peat the womanly arguments that hailed about my ears until I was glad to hold my peace."
" Had you addressed your dissuasions to me, sir, my course might have been very different, " replied Horace, with a searching glance at Cora. "I acted upon the impression that I had your cordial approval of my venture, and this mis- take led me to greater lengths than I originally purposed."
" It was a mistake, and a singular one," said Mr. Manning. "Why, Cora, you — where has the child gone ? I was about to say that she could have set you right on that head. There is no use in lamenting over what is done and cannot be remedied. I am an intruder here, to-night, to say to you, my dear fellow, that my confidence in you remains unshaken — that I have not even the charge of imprudence to bring against you. You were a little precipi- tate, but that is of no consequence. Men of twice your years and experience commit greater blunders, are guilty of greater rashness every day." Here the old gentleman began to stam- mer and look embarrassed. ' ' And furthermore, Horace, if you do not get well out of this quag- mire, if all that you have goes by the board, I stand ready and able to help you to regain your place — an honorable one it is, too — in the mer- cantile world. Moreover" — hesitating yet more woefully — "don't make yourself wretched — that is, unhappy ; I mean uncomfortable — with fancying any alteration in certain arrange- ments. You understand ? I commenced life — my married life, ahem ? — when I was pretty near the foot of the ladder. It 's by far the best way. ' '
This was a long speech for worthy Mr. Man- ning, yet Horace had no language, at its close, with which to thank him. Deeply affected, he wrung his hand, and his moistened eye and quivering lip told of gratitude too great to be articulate.
When Cora re-entered the room, he was alone and more composed. Into her ear he poured his acknowledgments to and praises of her father.
"But how strangely you misconceived his sentiments touching this luckless business !" he remarked, presently. "They appear to
have been exactly the reverse of what you understood. How do you account for this ?"
" Either I was dull or so perverse in my ideas of the subj ect that I did not and would not com- prehend, or he is forgetful," answered Cora, readily.
And this was the woman who, not two months previous, had avowed so proudly, " To him, at least, I am no dissembler ! ' ' The broad, shallow steps of harmless evasion, unimportant exagge- ration, and pardonable equivocation had pre- pared her slowly, but how surely, for sudden and deeper plunges into falsehood. The Father of lies appreciated his tool, and was master of his art. Horace had not the meagre satisfaction of knowing how full and remorseful was her participation in the trial of feeling and threaten- ing of pecuniary loss that oppressed him. He saw that she suffered, and from some cause be- yond his power to cure ; and this begot in him additional care at a season when his uneasiness was already sufficient to crush the spirits and energy of an ordinary man.
While matters were in this state, he had a call from Dr. Merrill. This devoted man of medicine rarely stepped aside from the routine of professional life, unless incited to the extra- ordinary measure by business of an urgent nature. Upon this occasion, before seating himself, he broached the subject of his errand. Horace's amazement was profound when the theme was prefaced by his sister's name, and it grew apace when he discovered that a serious complaint was entered and sustained against one whom he had ever regarded as a model of discretion. But, as the recital proceeded, he perceived, from his prior knowledge of the cir- cumstances, that, if she had spoken more freely than was altogether consistent with prudence, she had said nothing unadvisedly. The Doc- tor's charge was to this effect : that Miss Miller had stated and reiterated publicly, as a fact, his ignorance of Constance Remer's danger, when every labored breath was throwing out the death-dew upon her brow ; had reassured her friends, and, through them, the doomed patient, when they expressed solicitude at the result of her sickness ; had allowed her to pass into the eternal world unwarned, and without the last mournful privilege of saying "Fare- well" to those who would always lament her silent departure.
"Now, sir," concluded the irate physician, " I never said that the girl would probably re- cover. I have not practised medicine — with some indifferent skill, as even my enemies grant — for twenty-five years, not to know con-
THE UNRULY MEMBER.
29
sumption when I have it to deal with, hydra- headed though it he. I gave up all hope of the case in point "before I had paid half a dozen visits at Mr. Remer's. You do not re- quire to be told how far short I should have fallen of my duty, if I had openly proclaimed my conviction, and advised the parents not to waste more money, physic, and pains upon their idol. Until the world is as wise as doctors, we must work on, with what semblance of con- fidence we can assume, while the vital spark quivers in the body. But do you not see in what a light people will eye the physician who is as much the dupe of appearances as they are themselves ? It is a mortal sin in him to mis- take the slightest symptom. He ought to fore- see the end from the beginning, in the most complicated malady. Is he not paid to do it ? I never exchanged a syllable with your sister upon the subject of the deceased's illness, nor do I guess who was her authority for the state- ment she has circulated of my judgment in the case. There was one who could have told her a totally different story, and the evidence of this person I am prepared to adduce at any moment. The afternoon preceding Miss Remer's death, I imparted my impressions — my certainty, rather — of her actual condition to Miss Cora Man- ning— "
"To vohomV exclaimed Horace, starting from his seat. " I beg your pardon ! Did you say Miss Manning?"
"I did. Chancing to encounter her on my way home, after the last visit I made Con- stance's sick chamber, I answered her inquiries as to her friend's health in the most candid style I could command; told her, in so many words, that she was near her end ; that it would not surprise me if she did not live through the night. She was shocked, of course, so visibly overcome that I had to warn her against be- traying her alarm to its object, pointing out the evil effects of such a useless revelation at that late hour. She acquiesced in my prudent suggestion, and I left her at Mr. Remer's door. It is impossible that she should have forgotten the substance of our conversation. If you de- mand her evidence, I trust that she is enough my friend to afford it, at my request."
" It is unnecessary — quite superfluous," re- joined Horace, hastily. "I have heard all I want, and more."
Commanding himself by a strenuous effort, he pledged his word for the contradiction, and, if practicable, the suppression of a report so detrimental to the Doctor's professional pride and interests, and they parted amicably.
3*
The wave that tears the breach in the dyke prepares the way for the surge of its mightier and more disastrous successor. Horace still sat over his neglected ledger, his head resting upon his hands, buried in the painful train of thought forced upon him by Dr. Merrill's communica- tion, when a letter was brought to him. As he broke the seal mechanically, another missive fell from within it. He read the first. Gossips are proverbially thick-skinned, or magnani- mously indifferent to the prickles they rub against in their quest after the truth, which, we may remark, in passing, is seldom "the whole truth," and still more rarely "nothing but the truth." Miss Healy's sensitive spirit made her an exception to the general law of imperturbability. She "had her feelings," she was fond of saying. Those who were ac- quainted with her idiosyncrasies hinted that she had her spites also, and that this class of emotions often reached a pitch of virulence and obstinacy exceedingly unbecoming in so public- spirited an individual, the pretended dispas- sionate benefactress of the community blessed in being her abiding-place. Horace had fairly earned a share in her rancorous recollection. Stung to the quick by his open disdain for her, as exhibited at divers times and in sundry places, especially and most offensively at Mrs. Williams' soiree, the aggrieved spinster had sought through her well-supplied arsenal for an instrument of torture that might suitably avenge her for the indignity offered. His love for his betrothed was his most vulnerable point, and this chimed in well with her inclination, for Cora, albeit several degrees less obnoxious than her lover, was by no means a favorite with this fastidious lady. In Fred Williams she found a not unwilling accessory to her plot of humbling both the haughty Horace and her who had, to the gentleman's notion, displayed inexcusably degenerate taste in receiving the devotion of his rival. The ci-devant beau had, fortunately for the success of their machina- tions, preserved one memento of the juvenile engagement which, the reader may not be astonished to learn, had once existed between himself and Cora Manning. This souvenir, whether accidentally overlooked in the return of letters at Mr. Manning's command, or with- held purposely, was evidence unimpeachable of the fact and the character of said connec- tion. It was nothing less than a letter penned in Cora's own hand, addressed to her boy-gal- lant, and glowing with all the inconsiderate ardor of a love-lorn maiden in her sixteenth year.
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godey's lady's book and magazine.
This was the effusion which Horace Miller's burning gaze now scanned ; its every line brand- ing with the grossest deceit and direct menda- city the being he had worshipped as near akin to angelic natures. Galling as its phrases of undisguised tenderness were to his proud, deli- cate spirit, this was as nothing in comparison with the blighting conviction that his idol was the basest clay — one for whom his pity must be mingled with contempt.
" If she had but told me ! if she had owned the truth, were it a thousand times more hu- miliating, I would have loved her all the same," he groaned to his sister, that night; "I said this to her when I made inquiry about this early folly — for it was only a folly, Ellen — the fanciful dream of a sentimental school-girl. The whole sin was in its concealment, in the premeditated deception of him who hid nothing from her. I have not deserved this at her hands."
Ellen was much moved, but less surprised than her brother ; the scales had not fallen so suddenly from her eyes. Feeling that all might as well be told ; that the wisest and most mer- ciful policy towards the sufferer was to complete his disenchantment by abundance of testimony, she related her story. To her, the scene in which Cora and Mary Chester had acted such different parts was but the commencement of similar developments, the key to incidents hitherto inexplicable, each illustrative of this heinous defect in the disposition and conduct of the misguided girl.
And thus Cora Manning lost lover and friend, gaining in their place a memory replete with wretchedness and shame unavailing ; the blind commiseration of those cognizant of the pun- ishment, and not the sin ; the displeasure and distrust of the few whose esteem she most valued ; the lasting reprobation of him con- cerning whom, and in whose behalf, she had sacrificed more of truth than for any other cause or creature besides. For was it not to screen their loves from the profanation of vulgar re- mark, that the lie of policy slipped from her tongue ere she was alive to its formation in thought ? that she might shine brighter, stand higher in the respect of him and his, was not the tinsel lie of vanity paraded ? to spare him a feather's weight of vexation, an atom of added care, had not the lie of affection been earnest and repeated ? to escape his anger, to retain his love, was the lie of fright a whit less plausi- ble and convincing than the rest ? Truly, her labors had been neither few nor small, and here was their reward ! The fly in the ointment had fulfilled its mission, and the once exulting pos- sessor of the precious casket flung it from him with sorrowful loathing.
Would that the tale were all fiction, or that it treated of the only golden phial thus polluted into a rank offence to those who, in this age of gaudy coloring and intense refraction, still cher- ish, as one of the holiest of sentiments, a genu- ine Heaven-commanded love of truth, for itself and as it is.
• •*!•+ 0- » »■■
BLUNDEKS OF BEHAVIOB COKKECTED.
CODE OF DEPORTMENT FOR BOTH SEXES.
Absence of Mind. — Lord Chesterfield, in his "Advice to his Son," justly characterizes an absent man as unfit for business or conversa- tion. Absence of mind is usually affected, and springs in most cases from a desire to be thought abstracted in profound contemplations. The world, however, gives a man no credit for vast ideas who exhibits absence when he should be attentive, even, to trifles. The world is right in this, and I would implore every studious youth to forget that he is studious when he en- ters company. I have seen many a man, who would have made a bright character otherwise, affect a foolish reserve, remove himself as far from others as possible, and, in a mixed assem- bly, where social prattle or sincere conversation
enlivened the hearts of the company, sit by himself abstracted in a book. ' It is foolish, and, what is worse for the absentee, it looks so. A hint on this subject is sufficient, and we do hint that abstractedness of manner should never be exhibited ; the greatest geniuses have ever been attentive to trifles when it so behooved them.
Accomplishments are by some considered too trifling for their attention, but no person de- sirous of the enjoyments of social life can spurn them without paying the penalty. Men of business are frequently denied the leisure ne- cessary to render themselves moderately pro- ficient in continental languages, music, dancing, and the arts of pleasing. Yet such things are
BLUNDERS IN BEHAVIOR CORRECTED.
essential, and add very much to our enjoyments ; they tend to refine the nature, and form links of connection between persons of all ages, sexes, and dispositions. It is our duty to encourage everything of a refining nature, so long as we lose in the pursuit none of the solid excellencies of character ; and, by a proper attention to such things, we insure for ourselves reception in quarters where we should be obnoxious without them. These acquisitions are equally important to both sexes, though those of the masculine gender are most guilty of the blunder of setting them at naught.
Affectation is more prevalent than people care to own. Ladies are terribly given to this folly. One affects not to know the color of money, unless it be pin money, and then her wits are unusually sharp. Another is so fash- ionable in her tastes, that she thinks it elegant to take no interest in her husband's affairs ; so that whether he prosper or fail in life seems all the same to her. I know a lady who has lately adopted the affectation of ignorance — a strange kind of affectation, certainly. If she should hear a remark from a scientific man, in explana- tion of some curious natural phenomenon, she will toss her head aside, and, with a benign but unmeaning smile, say, "Indeed! I don't un- derstand such things." We do not seek for blue-stockings, but really we cannot do without common sense ; and the pride of ignorance, whether it be fashionable or not, must be looked upon as a blunder of tremendous import. The affectation of superior wisdom is equally objec- tionable. If a person tells you something you already know, you are not to inform him in the middle of his story that you know it already. It is a mark of a most vulgar mind to parade your knowledge on any occasion, or seek repute in society as a person of great attainments. Some ardent young students are apt to interlard their conversation with scientific terms and ex- planations, and with quotations innumerable from out-of-the-way books. Such things are well enough in moderation ; but if not tempered as to time and place, stamp the individual as conceited. I knew a man who, in every respect but one, was a model of deportment and sound sense ; but in the one blunder of which he was guilty he managed on every possible occasion to mar the esteem in which he was everywhere held. He was a profound chemist, and on all subjects ready and well informed, but he intro- duced chemistry into his conversation so fre- quently, and soared to such ethereal heights in his theoretic speculations, that his presence was
at last dreaded. The ladies looked at him in awe, the frivolous young men jeered and tit- tered, and he was known at last by the sobri- quet of the "Oxygen Nuisance." But, though few persons carry their conceit so far as this, too many of us are weak enough to think that what we especially delight in must prove equally acceptable to all we meet ; and affecta- tion, in this respect, must be guarded against by all who desire to conduct themselves in so- ciety so as to be respected and esteemed.
Affectation of superiority is worse still, be- cause it galls the feelings of those to whom it is offered. In company with an inferior, never let him feel his inferiority. An employer, who invites his confidential clerk to his house, should treat him in every way the same as his most distinguished guest. No reference to business should be made, and anything in the shape of command avoided. It is very easy, by a look, a word, the mode of reception, or other- wise, to advertise to the other guests, " This is my clerk," or, "The person I now treat as a guest was yesterday laboring in my service ;" but such a thing would lower the host more than it would annoy the guest. Before Burns had arrived at his high popularity, he was once invited by some puffed up lairds to dine, in order that they might have the gratification of hearing the poet sing one of his own songs. Burns was shown into the servants' hall, and left to dine with the menials. After dinner he was invited to the drawing-room, and, a glass of wine being handed to him, requested to sing one of his own songs. He immediately gave his entertainers that thrilling assertion of inde- pendence, "A man's a man for a' that," and left the moment he had finished, his heart em- bittered at patronage offered in a manner so insulting to his poverty.
If you take pains to mortify a man, to make him feel that he occupies an inferior station, that he stands below you in abilities, rank, or fortune, you offer him an insult, which, though he may be too much of a gentleman to resent, nevertheless he is sure to feel, and for which none of your kindnesses are a compensation. An inferior is even entitled to superior attention, that he may not have even the fear of being slighted ; and, above all things, that he have sufficient confidence in himself to mingle freely in conversation. True politeness consists in making everybody happy about you, and to do otherwise is a proof of an uncultivated nature.
Affronts are to be borne more patiently than we are wont to bear them. To resent an affront
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is usually wrong, and for these reasons : We are not always sure that an affront was intended, in which case resentment must be built upon error. We are not to carry in our breasts re- membrance of every wrong, for we know not how many we ourselves unconsciously commit on others. If we cannot bear with trifling annoyances, we must shun human society alto- gether, for it is a mixture of such with grati- fications. Nature gives us corn with the chaff on, and in men she presents us with some paltry characters which we must tolerate. Besides, to take notice of every trifling annoyance shows too great a study of trifles, quite apart from the dignified bearing of gentlemanly conduct. Do not notice every offence, and you will not have many to trouble you.
Ball-Room. — Everybody knows it is a blun- der to enter a ball-room with the head covered ; but everybody does not know that it is equally so to enter immediately after smoking, when every lady you speak to must put up with the Stygian fumes of your tainted breath. As to the elegancies of salutation, address, and so forth, every person who enters a ball-room must be sufficiently prepared beforehand, by having mingled in genteel society ; such things cannot be taught in words. Those who can dance know all the forms of ball-room courtesy ; but these are apt to commit blunders unless they study to please. Those unused to the ball-room should enter it with confidence, seek a partner, and after one or two dances leave. After leading your partner to a seat, leave her, but not abruptly ; if you burden her with your society, she may fail in getting another partner. Young men, who have not had much experience in polite circles, are sometimes so enamored of a lady, after one or two dances, as to con- tinue their companionship throughout the even- ing. This is a great error ; you seek a partner for the dance only, and not for companionship and conversation. Do not lounge about the seats as a looker-on, or you will be counted a bore. Should a lady express a wish not to dance, it is impolite to press her ; and it is equally impolite to look after a certain lady as a partner, to haunt her, as it were, when per- haps she may not have the same desire to dance with you that you have for her. When a lady has engaged to dance with you, you are not to afflict her with your society as a matter of course ; indeed, to sit with your partner for any length of time is a mark of ill-breeding. It is the thorough mingling of persons one with an- other that constitutes the charm of the ball-
room, and cliques and conversations are to be avoided. Relatives and lovers should associate as little as possible in the dance ; and a man should but seldom, except in very homely par- ties, dance with his wife. Greetings in the ball- room should be quietly performed, so as not to attract attention.
Ladies are generally an fait in ball-room eti- quette ; but having once or twice seen a lady rambling in the room by herself, I will here hint, for the benefit of my fair readers, that a lady should not leave her seat to cross the room, or speak to a friend, unless accompanied by a gentleman. A little observation, and a modest confidence, will enable any person to acquire ease and elegance in parties where dancing is going on.
Children. — Almost every parent commits the blunder of making too much of his children in the presence of visitors. It is very pardonable in fond mothers, but papas are the most sub- ject to make themselves ridiculous on this score. Remember the old motto about regard- ing your geese as swans, and do not thrust your children on your visitors as prodigies of beauty, eccentricity, and excellence. The other extreme is just as bad ; and to thrust your children from the room, or to treat them harshly in the presence of others, makes you look as if you were ashamed of them. Still, as a rule, children should not be obtruded on the atten- tion of visitors, or made to exhibit their parts to those who feel compelled to praise even in spite of disapprobation. A friend of mine often burdens me with anecdotes of his boy's roguery, and this in presence of the boy himself. Where- upon the child, fired with parental approval, begins to pinch and pummel me, much to my annoyance ; though I can bear this better than I can to hear my friend talk of his son's mu- sical predilections, which always lead the youngster to a sham pianoforte performance with his fingers on the table, or to the humming of some tune in a tone loud enough to stop all conversation.
Cleanliness of person is a distinguishing trait of every well-bred person ; and this not on state occasions only, but at all times, even at home. It is a folly to sit by the fire in a slovenly state, consoling one's self with the re- mark, "Nobody will call to-day." Should somebody call, we are in no plight to receive them, and otherwise it is an injury to the cha- racter to allow slovenly habits to control us even when we are unseen.
MISS SLIMMENS'S BOAEDING-HOUSE,
BY THE AUTHOB OF "THE TALLOW FAMILY."
CHAPTER I.
"single gentlemen preferred." [As Pennyville grew larger and more fashion- able, the business of the new milliner from Boston rapidly increased, while very many of Miss Slimmens's oldest and most reliable cus- tomers deserted the little shop, climbing up a pair of stairs to give their patronage to the showy establishment whose windows flaunted nearly the whole stock of the possessor, above the first-floor dry-goods store of brick, new, and three stories high, which had now become the centre of attraction to the feminine portion of the village — flaunted its stock right in the ancient face of the weather-worn sign across the way. This was too much for human nature, and especially woman nature, to endure. There is a time when "patience ceases to be a virtue." Miss Slimmens felt that that time had arrived ; and, two years after that tragic event which made such melancholy inroads upon her heart and fortune, the shop was closed, the sign was taken down, and the Boston milliner was left in possession of the field. Let not her sympa- thizers suppose from this that Miss Slimmens was vanquished. To that indomitable spirit there was no such word as fail. A card which appeared in the Pennyville Eagle will explain her purposes sufficiently to those able to appre- ciate the advantages which such a step must insure to a lady of her business habits and matrimonial aspirations : —
"Wanted. — A few genteel young men, as boarders, at No. 90 Washington Street, by a lady without family, who has more room than she requires. All the comforts of a home secured. Single gentlemen preferred."
Our fair friend had run some risk, as she had been obliged to invest quite a large part of the money which the sale of her stock in trade, etc. brought in fitting up the establishment indicated in the advertisement as No. 90. Dora, poor child, had lost her mother, and, being without other friend or protector in the world, had accepted the offer of her mistress to re- main with her, assisting in the superintendence of the household as a compensation for her keeping.]
Yes, gentlemen, I really trust we shall ; I trust
we shall get along admirality together. I de- pend upon you both for guidance and support. Hitherto, my efforts to obtain a compensation have been principally among my own sex ; and, although there are a few honorable exceptions, I must say, as a general thing, women are dread- fully down upon one of their own sex who is struggling for a livelihood, especially when, like the one who is now before you, she is timid and unexperienced. I wonder if I shall ever, in my maturer years, arrive at an age when I shall be less sensitive and more capable of taking care of myself ? Oh, gentlemen, I have suffered; but it "boots not to remember" the past. With the sweetest of Boston's many bards, let me exclaim : — •
"Oh, faint not, in a world like this, And thoti shalt know, ere long, Enow how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong!"
What 's that you remarked, Mr. Little ? You think this butter must have suffered ? Oh, Mr. Little, how sharp you are, now — he ! he ! I was not aware that it had the slightest unplea- sant flavor ; and my digestive faculties have always been considered rather too critical. I paid the highest market price for it. But that 's only one of many instances of how an unpro- tected female is imposed upon. How did you say you took your tea, Mr. Grayson ? Without sugar or milk? I declare, what a curious co- incidence ! Why, that 's the way I take mine ! It 's the only way to take tea, don't you think so ? All true lovers of
"The cup which cheers, but not depreciates,"
as "Gray's Elegy," I think it is, has it, consider its delicate aurora injured by any addition. What 's that, Mr. Little ? Old people are apt to take it without, but, for your part, give you plenty of the fixings along with it ? Oh, cer- tingly, as much as you choose. But I 'm sure Mr. Grayson is not old, if he is a widower. How old are you, Mr. Grayson, if it isn't a secret ? Rising of forty, perhaps ? Fifty-six ! just twice my age. I never should have guessed it in the world. But I 'm glad there 's somebody who has arrived at maturity to give an air of dignity to our circle. We shall be a very plea- sant family, I trust. I shall do my best to study
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the tastes and peculiarities of each, in order to consult them.
A daughter of mine ! Dora a daughter of mine ! Oh, Mr. Grayson, you know not what you ask. Nothing but your being a stranger in this vicinity excuses so strange a question. Surely, you must have noticed that I am ac- costed by the prognostic of Miss Slimmens. I am unmarried, and have ever been, Mr. Gray- son ; my heart is still my own, my affections are virgin as the unkissed bloom upon the grape. Vergin' upon fifty, did you say, Mr. Little ? I 'm sure I don't understand you, and it 's well for you that I don't. Besides, Dora is too old to be a child of mine. We are gene- rally taken to be sisters. She has a good deal of my expression about the mouth and eyes — the same sort of smile. You speak true ; she has a sweet countenance. We are said to re- semble each other considerably, although we are no relation. She 's a poor girl, without father or mother, that I 've taken and made what she is. She 's my adopted sister, now ; and if I do well in the boarding-house, I intend to take her in as pardner before the end of the year, which will be doing a good deal, for she won't have as much to put in the general stock as would buy a dozen of eggs, whilst I 've already infested nigh on to a thousand dollars. Have some of the chipped beef, Mr. Turner — do ! Won't you have some more, Mr. Little ? You 're not fond of chips ? he ! he ! I 've always heard you were a witty person, but I hope you won't be too severe at my expense. Yes, Dora's a nice girl, but she's poor, awfully poor. If anybody thought of marrying her, I don't know where the wedding-dress would come from. It 's a terrible pity she wasn't born an heiress, like myself. What 's that, Mr. Little ? I might lend her my bridal-robes, if she should chance to want 'em ? Really, now, I wasn't aware that I had any ; I cut 'em up for bunnit-silk months ago ; besides, what should you know about 'em, when they 've never seen the light to this blessed day, and I keep the key of the chest myself ? And as for that matter, he 's only jesting, Mr. Grayson, as I never had any bridal-robes, of course, seeing I never was married. Dear me, it 's uncomfort- ably warm here ; don't you find it so ? Brid- get, open that door, and bring some more bread — one slice, and cut it in two, mind, girl. Don't you see the plates are empty ?
Yes, gentlemen, I trust we shall prove to be kindred spirits. There is nothing more absorb- ing to the contemplation than a united family circle, where congenial aspirations bind them
together. I am young to assume the responsi- bility of feeding and clothing — of course, I am speaking metaphistically of the clothing — so many of the opposite sex ; but I intend to en- deavor to fulfil the charge — to be a sister to you all. I hope my example will be such as to keep the younger members of this interesting group in the rectified path of probable and truth. If any of you stand in need of advice, come to me. If any of you wish shirt-buttons replaced, come to me. If any of you ever feel lonely, and in need of the tender constellations of home, come to me. If any of you wish your cravats and pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, come to me. It shall be done freely and without -charge. My object in establishing this boarding-house has not been simply to make money — to feed like a coroner on the hearts of my victims, charging them a high price and giving them cheap pro- visions in return, while I withhold that sym- pathy and intimacy which is more precious than bread and meat. My principal object has been to establish a home — a place where young men, away from their mothers, may find, for a moderate reimbursement, the comforts to which they were accustomed before they left the shel- ter of their childhood's roof. So plausible an object ought to succeed. I feel that it will. Already, at this, our first meal, I' count before me six of the most respectable young gentlemen of Penny ville, and this interesting stranger, who intends to become a permeate residence, and who has brought along with him initials of the highest character. I have forebodings that I shall succeed beyond my fondest anticipations. In the mean time, my rent is high, and provi- sions— as you are aware, Mr. Turner, being in the grocery business — are very dear; which accounts for the price I have fixed upon as the weekly remuneration for what you receive. I would fain allow filthy lucre to remain unmen- tioned in my plans, but, as long as this cannot be, I know that to your noble and generous minds it will be a pleasure to contribute towards the support of an unprotected female obliged to abandon the millinery business to which she had clung for the last — five years ; and that a dollar more or less will never be weighed in the balance by those of you who have sisters, or who expect to have wives.
Yes, gentlemen, I throw myself — really, Mr. Little, you drink considerable tea for a young man. This is your fourth cup, I believe. If you don't look out, you '11 be sallow and with- ered up before you know it ; too much tea is bad for young people. What 's that ? Am I a very great tea-drinker ? No, of course I 'm
MISS SLIMMENS S BOARDING-HOUSE.
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not ; two cups is enough for me, at my age. When I get to be forty, maybe I '11 feel the need of more. They say tea makes people grow old dreffuly fast ; and sugar in it spoils the teeth. 'Twould be a pity for your teeth to go, Mr. Lit- tle ; they 're beautiful now. He ! he ! thank you ! mine are pretty good. I 've been told — hey ! better than they used to be several years ago? Why yes, I've no doubt they're better than they were when I was sheddin' my first set. Children's teeth is apt to be irregular about that time. Won't you have some more of the preserves, Mr. Grayson ? Don't be back- ward about saying so, if you will, for Bridget can bring in some, if anybody wishes 'em. There 's plenty in the cellar.
Well, gentlemen, our first meal together has taken place. This is an important error in my life. Please remember that the parlor is al- ways at your service. I shall generally be there myself, evenings, to give it a familiar aspect. There 's a guitar in there — I play on it myself some — have been learning lately on purpose to add another charm to home. I sing some. So does Dora. I should be happy to take a duet with any of you, at any time. I 've also got a bodoor. It 's right back of the parlor. It was originally invented for a bed-room, but, as I told Dora, a bodoor would be more appropriate. They 're quite the style. And then they have such a reclusive air. They 're a sweet place to retire to when one has something to confide, or feel weary of the prometheas throng. It will be one of my favorite hounts. If any one needs advice, or has got the headache, or anything to confide or mistrust, he is welcome to Alvira's bodoor.
CHAPTER II.
SHE IS CONFIDENTIAL WITH DORA.
We 're getting on swimmingly, Dora. It 's a money-making business, when it 's managed right — better, on the hull, than fixing over old bunnits. I 've cleared nigh on to eighteen dollars this week, over and above all expenses. And then, you see, child, our chances for re- ceiving the attentions of the opposite sex are so much better. You 're too much in your infancy, as it were, to attach much importance to this advantage yet, but the time '11 come when you'll depreciate it as it deserves. Why, the gentlemen scarcely take their eyes off you, when you 're at table ! They don't eat much more than half the usual amount. But I don't mind that ; what I consider is your interests ;
and that 's why I 've decided that you 'd better not eat at the general table. You 're too modest a girl, too much like me, to wish to be the sine- cure of so many young men's eyes. I hate it myself, like poison ; but of course somebody must reside at the head of the table, and so I 'm actually impelled to. It goes against the grain, though I 'm getting a little used to it. You shall have some of the best of vittals saved, and be waited on like the rest of us, but I guess you 'd better eat by yourself.
That puts me in mind ! I 've invited Mr. Barker to bring in his flute, and we '11 get up a concert this evening. I 'm glad so many of the boarders have musical abilities ; it 's such a nice way of getting 'em into the parlor of evenings. Mr. Little 's promised to keep his violin over here after this, and not at the store. He makes it an excuse for staying out evenings that he 's practising ; but once get his violin here, and we '11 know what 's really going on. He 's the handsomest young man in Penny ville — Mr. Little is. Don't you think so ? But he says such impertinent things, and keeps the boarders laughing at things that he says, which I can't overhear. I declare I'd give him his walking-ticket, if he didn't pay such a good price for that front room, and if I hadn't hopes that he 'd some time come round and yield to the fascinations which somebody flings around him. There, Dora, you needn't turn so red ; of course I wasn't thinking of a ppor girl like yourself catching Hal Little yet awhile. Mr. Barker 's got a real talent for music. You can't think how pleased he was to discover that I sung and played the guitar. He said he should frequently join me in a duet. He asked me what were my favorite songs. I told him Moore's melodies ; he said they were also his'n. He said he should be delighted to hear me sing "Love's Young Dream" or the "Last Rose of Summer," dressed in character. Wasn't that a charming idea ? I 'm determined to carry it out; though I think I should prefer "Love's Young Dream" to the other, as more appro- brious. I 'm going to surprise him some time soon, by making an appointment to meet me in my bodoor, and, when he enters, find me sitting upon a pile of cushions, with my guitar in my lap, dressed in Oriental custom, as Moore describes some of his heroines. Which would you choose, if you were me ? I 've always thought you 'd good taste, Dora, and I shall be likely to abide by your decision.
And oh, Dora, I 've got a secret to tell you — • one of the greatest secrets of my life. You can't think how queer it makes me feel to be
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having such a secret to confide. I don't know as anything will come of it, hut it looks very- much like it. And what makes it so delightful is the mystery which encircles it. I don't know when anything so mysterious has ever "before happened to me. Look here ! I found this in the sugar-bowl this morning. I was rather late, and several of the boarders had taken their places "before I arrived ; so I don't know who to lay it to. Wasn't that a sweet deposi- tory for a love-letter ? — such an antique idea ! When I took it out, I glanced around, but no- body looked the least conscientious. Mr. Little was carving the beef-steak as if it never would come in two, and, in fact, it was rather tough. Mr. Barker was looking at me as innocent as if nothing hut coffee was in his thoughts, and the rest were just as usual. Do you know the hand- writing? Neither do I. It's a nice plain hand, isn't it ? I didn't venture to read it until break- fast was over and I had taken refuse in my bodoor. My heart palpitated uncommonly fast as I broke the seal. See here ! it 's poetry. It seems to be a parable of "The Vale of Avoca," a great favorite of mine, which I was singing to Mr. Barker night before last, which makes me guess he is the author, though two other gentle- men were present at the time, either of which may have been the one. How I wish I knew ! But of course I shall find out. I intend to ascertain, this evening, to a certainty whether it was Mr. Barker. It was one of the objects I had in view when I invited him to a solitary duet in my bodoor to-night. It 's nearly time now, and he 's very punctual ; but I guess we '11 have time to peruse it. It is called
THE MEETING OF THE LOYEES.
There is not in this wide world a maiden so sweet As the one in whose bosom all gentle thoughts meet. Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that maiden shall fade from my heart ! Yet it was not that Nature had over her spread The purest of pearl-white and brightest of red ; 'Twas not her soft magic of beauty or youth — 'Twas something quite different from such things, in truth !
'Twas that she, the beloved of my bosom, was near — That she made even common provisions seem dear; And I felt how the best charms of life may increase When we have them served up by a Goddess of Grease. Sweet maiden Alvira, how calm could I rest In thy bo — door of sweets, with the one I love best, "Where the storms which we feel in this cold world
should cease, And where love and economy mingle in pea,ce.
Now, some people might object, Dora, to the practical tone of what I have read you, but for my part I have ever thought that a proper
medicum was the one to be preserved. It is a precept upon which I have ever acted, with one exception, to which you are better knowing than anybody else, save the villain who caused me to make such a fool of myself. When I 've decided to my own satisfaction who placed 'em in the sugar-bowl, I 'm going to return an an- swer in the saucer of his teacup. I 've got one nearly finished now. If Mr. Barker 's the one, I '11 find it out before ten o'clock this night. I thought he looked a little sensitive at the table this noon. I saw Mr. Little winking at him — yes, actually winking — although he didn't mean me to see it. If he wasn't so provoking good- looking and liberal, I declare I believe I 'd let that best room to the first application. I wish you 'd see if my guitar is in tune ; you can get it in tune so much quicker than I can, and the clock 's striking seven now.
There ! I hear his voice in the parlor now. I wonder why he don't come immediately into the bodoor. He and them others are in a great glee about something ; I hope it isn't about the corned beef we had for dinner. Mr. Little said he had become so permanently corned since he 'd been put upon rations, that reports to his disadvantage had already become freely circu- lated in Pennyville ; and Mr. Turner said he was afraid we had all been guilty of cannibal- ism without knowing it ; he was confident we had been living off of Lot's wife for a week. I shall have to have fowls to-morrow, I perceive, though I didn't appear to hear 'em.
There, Dora, he 's pitching his flute now. I think he plays like a second Morpheus. Do hear how sweetly he runs up the gamut. He 's an ostrich in himself. Oh, if it should prove to be him who wrote — Dora, dear, he 's coming this way. Hadn't you better slip down in the kitchen, and see how Bridget's doing the knives ? I 'm dreadfully afraid she puts the handles in hot water. .And after that you may count the towels she 's ironed, and then you may — well, no matter what — go to your room, if you want to. I '11 tell you to-morrow the result of our — hurry, child, and shut that door securely after you ; I 'm getting to be dreadfully sensitive to drafts.
(To be continued.)
Arabian Proverbs. — By six causes a fool may be known : Anger without cause ; speech without profit ; change without motive ; in- quiry without an object ; putting trust in a stranger ; and wanting capacity to distinguish between friend and foe.
NOT ALL A WAIF.
BY W. S. GAFFNE Y.
The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them — ere he framed
The lofty vault to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks
And supplications. Bryant.
And would it were yet even so ! Would that the groves and fields resounded with the praises of the Infinite, as in the days of our patriarchal fathers ! Then would pure and undefiled re- ligion course the veins of the multitude ; and then would clean offerings ascend a holocaust to the throne of the Most High, despite the human barrier erected by the vassals of the Evil One.
We look around us, and we behold rich Gothic temples, with spires reaching to the very azure of the firmament, and we are told that they were erected to the honor and glory of God ; and we behold a vast multitude, robed in black gowns, said to be ministers of the everlasting Gospel (?) We hear, too, of pure and undefiled religion ; but where and what is it ? Religion — the spirit of Christianity — we know, places all mankind upon a level. It touches the heart of the proud man, and he becomes humble as a little child ; it touches the heart of the sensualist, and he becomes pure and heavenly ; it touches the heart of the revengeful, and he breathes the spirit of charity ; it touches the chain of caste, and it melts ; it strikes the idols of Dagon, the fetters of the slave, and they fall to the ground ; it smiles upon this human wilderness, pours its rays into the homes of the poor, and the inhabitants thereof sing with joy, even as did the "morn- ing stars." Such is the happy effect of pure religion, even as it existed in the days of the Saviour and his apostles. 0 sweet effulgence ©f the patriarchal ages ! when Jubal's timbrel sounded, and the harp of David toned the praises of the living God !
But this apology of modern times ! what does it perforin ? or what does it portend ?
" Many and sharp the mournful ills Inwoven with our frame ; More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame!"
So sang the poet, many years ago ; but we fear this false spirit of Christianity is doing vol. lx. — 4
more : it is carrying souls to the very brink of destruction, if not to eternal damnation. Tom Paine and Voltaire-ism is usurping the place of that which maketh man "live," though "deadl"
Fashionable religion — so to use the term — is monopolizing that which is pure and undefiled ; is wilfully controverting the breathings of the God-man — " The poor have the Gospel preached to them;" and it is sacrilegiously profaning temples said to be erected to the worship of the living God ! Tergiversation is useless when facts speak for themselves ; for, do we not be- hold men and women — mere mortals — in fash- ion's livery clad, carrying their offerings of broadcloth, silk, and perfumery to these high, towering and art-bedazzled edifices, and there bowing their haughty heads over velvet-cush- ioned pews, and clasping their hands(!) in mocking supplication to the throne of Mercy ; or seemingly hanging upon the polished elo- quence of the aristocratic preacher, while the poor, homespun-clad artisan, who earns his bread by the " sweat of his brow," must stand afar off, and with his eyes resting upon the gates of the temple, cry out, in the fulness of his heart, "God be merciful to me a sinner !" And yet " the poor have the Gospel preached to them."
The above picture is no exaggeration, though it is not heralded from the high places, and we believe it to be even worse behind the scenes. The Bible is belied, and a retrograde movement is put upon the wheels of Christianity. Are they not the Pharisees of ancient times ? are they not traitors to a divine purpose ? Out upon such hypocrisy ! Out upon formal re- ligion ! Accursed is the wolf in "sheep's clothing !" Pure and undefiled religion draws no line of distinction. "With the heart we believe unto justice, but with the mouth we confess unto salvation." Why, then, proscribe the poor the privilege of hearing the living words of Truth ? Why deny them the blessed fruits of the Gospel? The gates of heaven are open to the poor, and why should God's earthly temples be closed against them ? Let their orisons and their anthems mingle with those of their more favored brethren, and let the I deep tones of the organ grate upon their ears,
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moving their hearts even with the power of an Orpheus 1 " Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God." And, remember, we must become even as little children, if we would in- herit the kingdom of heaven ? We cannot ride to glory on a sunbeam ; neither can we sail thither in the golden chariot of Croesus, upon a sea formed of the life-blood of our fellow- creatures. Nay, verily.
Poor and humble came the Son of God among the children of men, and the poor were his ehosen people. Think of this, 0 Pharisee of the nineteenth century ! and rather clothe your heart with the warmth of charity, than your body with the gaudy trappings of fashion. Cleanse your soul from the leprosy of sin, as well as your body from a perspiring effluvium.
Paint the canvas of your mind with the golden glory of heaven, Miss Flora McFlimsey, rather than your cheeks with a deceptive rouge. Give your surplus of cash to the poor, Mr. Spend- thrift, rather than expend it upon faro and fast horses. Open your hearts to God, and your purses to the needy, and do not despise the least of His living creatures. Feed the hun- gry, clothe the naked, and be a father to the fatherless. This is pure and undefiled religion before God and man ; and if you perform this, then will you merit a place in that kingdom, where
No grief of to-day, and no thought of to-morrow Shall darken the brow, or bow down the head ;
Where no care, toil, or trial, no pain and no sorrow Shall reach the glad heart and appal it with dread.
MKS. BOWEN'S INVESTMENT,
ONLY FOE HOUSEKEEPERS.
BY ALICK B. HAVEN.
Store is no sore. — Old Proverb.
Mrs. Bowen stood in her kitchen and pon- dered, in rather a disconsolate mood. It was Monday morning in November, a large wash in progress, Hannah — the "help" — cross because of the extra tablecloths and sheets, occasioned by two unexpected visitors the week before. There was a quilt, too, that Johnny had mud- died with unlawful climbing on the bed, and so to an apple on the bureau, and Kate had slipped down and ruined Monday's clean petti- coats, so that there were two sets for her in the wash. The tin boiler bubbled and upheaved, so did Hannah's wrath, with every garment that she plunged into her tub, the same slow, determined, spiteful ebullition.
Mrs. Bowen was making up her mind on the dinner question. There was cold meat, of course, from Sunday's roast ; but cold meat needs trimmings to render it acceptable to man- kind in general, and besides Mr. Bowen, there was his mother who was twice as particular, not from a desire to be disagreeable, but be- cause, as an invalid, her appetite was sickly and variable.
Now it is comparatively easy to walk into a good market, with a boy behind you to carry the basket and no compunctions as to prices, and lay out your dinner ; but when your only market is a grocery, where they decline send- ing home parcels, and it is not the habit of the
place in which you live for a housekeeper in respectable circumstances to carry pots of but- ter and a bunch of turnips, say, through the streets, it is a little puzzling to arrange a meal to the satisfaction of yourself and anybody else, especially when one dollar has to do the duty of five.
"I think," said Mrs. Bowen, slowly, "I think, Hannah, we will have some potatoes and, and — let me see, well, turnips."
"The potatoes is all out, ma'am — only two turnips and a half left from Saturday, /don't see why squash, and them cold baked beans, warmed up, won't do."
" Mother Bowen never eats squash, you know, Hannah, and we had squash yesterday. I must make some change."
"I can't stop and go and dress, no how!" And Hannah plunged into her tub after a batch of dinner aprons, and rubbed them to within a thread of their lives.
" Why can't you go as you are V suggested Mrs. Bowen, mildly. "Put on a dry apron, and unpin your frock."
" I 'd like to see myself going into the street looking like this ! Well, I would !"
" Dear me, Hannah," said Mrs. Bowen, driven beyond the limit of caution by this determined resistance, "who do you suppose ever looks at you?"
" 'Nuff sight better people than comes to
MKS. BOWEN'S INVESTMENT.
39
this house !" And the "help" wrung the suds from her hands with a jerk, to poke down the bubbling, upheaved garments in the boiler, most vigorously. "S'pose I'm going by the carpenter's shop in an old wash-dress ? No I ain't — nor the blacksmith's, either, with all them fellers standing 'round. If I 've got to go, I 've got to dress — that 's the hull of it !"
"Well, do hurry, Hannah, for it 's a bad dry- ing day, any how ; I don't believe you will get the colored clothes out before it rains. A peck of potatoes and half a peck of turnips — oh, and, Hannah, some carrots to stew the meat with. Mother Bowen cannot eat cold mutton. Oh, and, Hannah, there 's no whole pepper for the stew either ; and get a paper of cinnamon ; there was none when I made those apple-pies on Saturday."
Hannah's toilet was not readily accomplished. Mrs. Bowen looked at the clock, and poked the clothes, and made a faint essay at the vacant wash-tub. It took ber handmaid just a quarter of an hour to prepare herself to face the carpen- ter's shop ; it was twenty minutes more before she returned — half past ten. In the mean time, Mrs. Bowen thought to save time by getting her pudding ready — a tapioca-pudding, as Mother Bowen considered it "nourishing;" but there were no eggs in the house, and Hannah was out of call. What could be made without eggs ? Baked Indian pudding ? But that required so much milk — more than could be spared. Apple and tapioca? There was not time for it. Apple- dumplings would take up room on the stove, and washing-days there was none to spare. If she only had those eggs ; so many things could be made with eggs, nothing, it seemed to her, without them. The whole twenty minutes was lost in opening boxes that were either empty or nearly so, and ransacking her brain and her cook-book for something that could be made with no eggs and very little sugar, for that last seven pounds of brown sugar seemed to last no time at all.
"Might have kept up the fire, at all events," muttered Hannah, setting down the basket with a thump.
Sure enough, the fire was "way down ;" the boiler had to come off, and it was eleven o'clock before steam was got up again, and Hannah once more arrayed for her post.
"Where's the carrots, Eliza? I don't find any in the stew," inquired Mr. Bowen, when dinner was at last served, and his wife, who had been cook, sat down, flushed and worried, for it was late and the children clamorously hungry.
" Hannah forgot to get any at the store, and I could not spare her to go all the way back again."
" Humph ! I 'd like to see one of my 'pren- tices forgetting orders. Nobody ever heard of a mutton-stew without carrots. Miserable pota- toes, too."
"Yes, there was a great deal of waste in them ; and Mr. Bennet charges outrageously. Hannah didn't bring home a cent of change. I don't think he treats us well ; I wouldn't deal with him any longer."
"Must, as long as he does with me; you ought to send him word. Turnips ! I thought you were going to have cabbage."
"Cabbage is worse than turnips, James," said Mrs. Bowen, senior, feebly, "and the potatoes are so watery. I don't see anything I can eat. No, thank you, I '11 wait for the pudding."
" I'm very sorry," Mrs. Bowen began. "Hush, Kate ! Mr. Bowen, please speak to those chil- dren. I couldn't make the pudding, mother."
The old lady pushed away her plate with an injured look. "It's no consequence; I can do just as well without eating. When people are too old to work, they hadn't ought to eat, I suppose. Don't never trouble yourself to get anything for me."
"I should think, Eliza, that mother might have the little she wants. I can do without myself, but my mother isn't going to, so long as she lives under my roof."
Feeling all the injustice of the implied re- proach from both, and knowing, moreover, how hard she had toiled, Hannah being " as contrary as possible" after her interruption, an angry reply rose to Mrs. Bowen 's lips ; but she caught the quick eyes of both the children raised to hers, Kate defiantly ready to take sides against "grandmother," whose feeble- ness sadly interfered with the noisy play of herself and her school companions. "They must not see us quarrel," thought she, remem- bering the miseries of her own childhood, and how much of filial respect was lost by her from this very cause ; but her manner was cold and repellant, and the first part of the meal passed in silence.
Kate sprang up willingly enough to help re- move the meat and vegetables. She was always ready for dessert, and followed her mother into the kitchen to find out what it was to be. " Boiled rice and molasse's ! Is that all ?"
" I 'm so sick of rice, it seems to me I could never taste another mouthful, " groaned Mother Bowen, from the next room.
40
godey's lady's book and magazine.
" It 's too bad, mother," responded her son, warmly; "I don't see what Eliza was thinking about. If that 's all there is" — and he pushed his chair from the table — "I '11 be off. I should think, Eliza, you might contrive something a little different."
Mrs. Bo wen felt very much like breaking down into a cry, as her husband took his hat and departed for the store, without another word, and his mother settled back into her rocking-chair and drew out her knitting-work. This was the result of a morning's work and contrivance, to say nothing of Hannah's im- pertinent muttering ; and yet, scarce as help was, she could not dispense with so neat and active a girl for one fault of temper, especially when Mother Bowen needed so much waiting on. "Old people's a dreadful trouble, I know, Eliza." And the trembling fingers shook more than ever, as they untangled a knot in the yarn. " I never wanted to outlive my useful- ness— never. I 'm as great a trial to myself as I am to anybody else, though. It 's very hard to feel that you 're in everybody's way, and no use to nobody ; I hope you '11 never live to be old and feel it ; but it 's likely you will, though, it 's likely you will, and then you '11 reflect — " " I think rice and boiled molasses is first-rate, grandma ? Hadn't you better have a plateful ? Give me some more, mother." And Master John "backed up his plate" as he said this, so did Kate, for all her disappointment : and Mrs. Bowen, refilling them, thought what a blessing strength and a healthy appetite was, and then more particularly of the worn-out body that made a querulous mind.
" It was too bad, mother, when you had set your heart on the pudding," she said. " I was as much disappointed as you was ; bat it was washing-day, you know, and I did not find out about the eggs until Hannah was gone, and it takes her so long to go to the grocery. Sha'n't I go and make you a cup of tea and some milk toast ?" — for, doing without the pudding, milk was fortunately at hand.
" I don't care if I do have a cup of tea ; I feel dreadful gone, somehow. But don't trouble yourself to wait on me ; eat your own dinner, eat your own dinner ; when people get old and useless, they can't expect to be waited on."
Mrs. Bowen's dinner had been light enough. It was often so, of late. What with looking to see if Mr. Bowen liked his, and Mother Bowen could eat hers, and that the children were not soiling the tablecloth, so that Hannah would be up in arms, and keeping one ear in the kitchen for breakages and the like, she forgot
that no one offered to help her, or to ask to be helped, if she happened to notice that her plate was empty
As for Mr. Bowen, he was as much absorbed in business as any Wall Street financier, or Broadway jobber. The town was growing since the Erie railroad had been finished, and trade grew with it. Of la+,e, too, he had commenced manufacturing boots and shoes for the Southern market. He was not above work himself, though he had a shop full of apprentices and journeymen ; and then, too, his trips to the city for materials added the little change and stimulus that helped hiin to the brisk, bustling way which told you in five minutes that he was a money-making man. "Yes," he re- marked that very afternoon, to his friend, Mr. Gerry, who often dropped in to bask in the genial heat of the great cylinder stove, on the very comfortable lounge provided for lady cus- tomers— "yes, Gerry, I don't think I'd change with any man I know. I don't believe there 's a man outside of New York that 's got better credit than I have in the Swamp, though I say it myself. There 's Jones & Mudford, one of the oldest firms in the city. 'Come right straight to us, ' says Mr. Jones, ' always, Mr. Bowen, and we '11 do as well by you as anybody can. We don't want your money, we want your custom ; that 's what we want ; I 'd like to find a few more of the same sort.' Now, that's what I call gratifying — ha, Gerry ?"
"Very," responded Mr. Gerry, elevating his feet to the fender of the glowing cylinder, and his eyes to the arabesque of boots and shoes on the wall overhead.
" Then, too, there 's my wife ; many a man 's been ruined by his wife. Mine don't spend one cent on nonsense ; don't catch her with flounces and furbelows. Every dollar goes right into my business ; that 's the secret of it, you see. I get the best of stock, and plenty of it, and then I can afford to work reasonable ; why, there isn't another man in Plumville can begin to manufac- ture alongside of me. There 's Toby, now — "
" Oh, he couldn't lay a straw in your path ; he never has what a man wants. I see him coming out of here, every now and then, with a lot of findings."
"That's it, you see. He don't get ahead enough to buy his stock to good advantage ; and half the time he gets shaved by some of those outside fellows he deals with. Shiftless kind of a man. Runs to New York twice as often as I do, and spends just so much time and money."
This little conversation having taken place
MRS. BOWEN'S INVESTMENT.
in the lull of the day's work, just before tea- time, Mr. Bowen proceeded home to partake of that social meal, in the complacent mood which is the result of recounting one's success- ful achievements, and quite ready to overlook the failure at dinner. He expected, at least, hot biscuit to atone for it ; but, on the contrary, he found baker's bread, and he hated baker's bread.
"Flour out, hey? Seems to me fourteen pounds of flour ought to last longer than all this comes to ! Not much butter to help it down with, either!"
" It is all there was in the house, and Johnny did not get home from school in time to send to the grocery," said Mrs. Bowen, patiently. " You know you never like to have us borrow."
"No, borrow, no! Go without, twice over; but, I must say, I never saw such providing in my life."
"I had enough, I thought, but Mrs. Toby sent in to get enough for tea, and I never like to refuse her, you know ; so I told Hannah to let her have it, without going to see."
" There 's a family that 's always borrowing ; she must be as shiftless as her husband."
" The Tobys never did get ahead," remarked Mother Bowen. " 'Tain't in 'em. Old 'Lias Toby, now, started in business the same time with your father, and wasn't worth a cent when he died. Some folks just live from hand to mouth."
" A pretty miserable way of living." And re- flections on his own forethought and freehand- edness supplied the place of sauce to the scanty tea-table ; though John and Kate, whose ima- ginations, however active, could not delude them on this subject, demanded the molasses pitcher, to make up deficiencies.
" Not a rag of clothes dry enough to iron," Hannah stated, encouragingly, as Mrs. Bowen went to inspect the progress of affairs, next morning. " I hung them tablecloths up in the garret, and them starched things 'round the fire all night ; jist look at 'em, might as well be right out of the tub this minute. That comes of leaving clothes in the middle of the day to run to the store."
"I know it, Hannah, but we must do the best we can. There 's some one knocking ; go to the door, for mother never would hear, and Kate has gone to school."
Mrs. Bowen "felt" the damp garments one by one, without the least brightening of the prospect. Hannah returned presently, usher- ing in a little girl, with a deep cape-bonnet, and a quantity of school-books piled up on her arm.
4*
" Mother sends her compliments, Miss Bowen, and, if it 's convenient, she '11 come and take tea with you. Jane 's gone off again," she added, by way of explanation, entirely on her own ac- count, "and I heard mother say to father, that when we didn't have a girl was a good time to go a visiting, and Sallie and me could come too."
Now, it was not in the least "convenient," with the ironing so far behind. Usually, the clothes were all folded down on Monday night, ready to commence by nine o'clock on Tuesday, when Mrs. Bowen did the fine things and her husband's shirts ; but if she should say so, Mrs. Gerry would take mortal offence, especially in the present posture of affairs.
"Very well, Mary Jane, tell your mother that I shall expect her." And, as the hall door closed on the juvenile messenger, she added: "I must put off my ironing till to- morrow, that 's all, Hannah, and make some cake. You can do yours just the same, only I didn't want to have to take you off to go to the store this morning, since Johnny got the butter and eggs ; but there isn't a bit of lard in the house, and we are out of brown sugar, and Mr. Gerry is so fond of short biscuit. He always expects some kind of meat, so you '11 have to stop at the butcher's and tell him to send a small steak. Oh, and I used the last of the tea this morning, all but a small drawing, but it won't be enough for all those people."
"Bringing their young ones along," said Hannah, spitefully. "They'll eat enough for an army. Just about as much consideration as some folks have. 'Tain't no wonder they never get a girl to stay with 'em ! Well, if I 've got to stop and go, I s'pose I might as well be a-goin'."
Hannah's unusual alacrity was some relief to the pressure of affairs, but it was accounted for when she returned, after an absence of twice the usual length.
"I thought as the clothes wasn't dry, I might jest as well stop to Miss Taylor's and have my new dress tried on ; and she found she hadn't got quite enough trimming, so I just run down to Tripler's and matched it. Didn't take me five minutes, and I knew I shouldn't get out to-night, with all them people coming here to tea."
There was nothing to be said, and no time to send b^ck for saleratus or white sugar, both of which were found "low." Mrs. Bowen was obliged to make her cake of the brown, and had the mortification of finding it heavy. The saleratus did not prove to be sufficient for the
42
godey's lady's book anb magazine.
two pans of biscuit — there must be two pans, as the children were coming — and what with the damp clothes, and wasted morning, and the interruptions of the baking, the ironing had made slow progress when Mrs. Gerry ar- rived, punctually at three o'clock, and Mrs. Bowen felt very little like giving up the after- noon to her entertainment. It was a very fatiguing business, for the visitor was one of those ladies who never suggest a topic for con- versation, and consequently long pauses inter- vene, when the other party feels herself ex- hausted ; and then, too, Mother Bowen, who was fond of company, but whose hearing was impaired as well as her digestion, requested to have each particular remark repeated in a very loud tone. The little Gerrys came from school with Kate, and made so much noise that it was next to impossible to hear one's self think, be- sides distracting attention to the way they had of handling and looking into everything, much to the detriment of the articles so examined.
"Ah, good-evening, Mrs. Bowen. Just in time, I see" — for, with Mr. Gerry's arrival, an appetising odor of steak was diffused through the sitting-room. " I 've saved my appetite for you ; I always do when I 'm coming here. I tell mother 'twould be a sin and a shame to spoil one of Mrs. Bowen's good teas by eating any dinner beforehand. How d'ye do, Bowen, how d'ye do ? Supper just coming in, you see. Where shall I sit ? Anywhere. You don't make a stranger of me, you know."
"Not commonly." And Mr. Bowen, who liked his guests, and had a sK.^p appetite for his share of the good things provided on their account, drew the steel across the carver with an air of keen expectancy.
"That's just what I said to mother this morning, when we proposed coming over here to-night. 'It's ironing-day,' says she, 'and I don't know as it will be convenient for Mrs. Bowen.' 'Oh, la,' says I, 'they never put themselves out of the way for us ; go when you will,' says I, 'such a first-rate cook as Mrs. Bowen wouldn't mind ; always sure to have something on hand.' "
Mrs. Bowen reflected on her neglected iron- ing, her hurried, fretted day, and judiciously busied herself with the tea things. She could not quite make up her mind to assent, with the eheerfulness it seemed to demand, to Mr. Gerry's statement.
"Do make yourself at home, and pass the biscuit," said Mr. Bowen, to cover tins little backwardness. "Have a biscuit, mother ? Help yourself to butter, Mrs. Gerry."
"I'll have some cold bread, Eliza." And Mrs. Bowen's worst fears were realized by the expression of her mother-in-law's face when she said it. "It 's as much as my night's rest is worth to tech one of them biscuit ; they 're just as heavy as lead."
"Dear me, how could it have happened!" Guilty Mrs. Bowen, who knew very well how it had come to pass. " Sugar and milk, Mr. Gerry ? I 'm very sorry, and there isn't a bit of cold bread in the house. The flour was out last night, and though we mixed right away the minute it came, it 's just gone into the oven."
"I s'pose I can have a cracker, then," said her mother-in-law, in the usual injured tone.
"Now, don't say one word." And Mrs. Gerry made a great show of buttering one of the unfortunate rolls. "I guess you must have got hold of one that wasn't done. I can't seem to make such biscuit as yours, no how, Mrs. Bowen ; father often says to me I oughter come and take lessons ; and such beautiful light cake, too, as you always have. I don't see how you manage. Do take a biscuit, father. Sha'n't I help you to some butter, Mr. Bowen ?"
Mr. Bowen, having by this time distributed the steak, held forth his plate at the invitation, drew it in, tasted it, examined it, and looked very much disturbed. " Bad butter again ! Well, I must say, Mr. Gerry, that it wasn't much use saving your appetite to-day. Heavy bread and strong butter!"
Here a portentous glance was aimed at the tea-tray, but missed fire. Mrs. Bowen knew it was not her fault, and was determined not to take it.
"Seems to me you've lost your knack lately, 'Liza, ' ' remarked Mother Bowen, pertinaciously. "There ain't much variety in soda-biscuit." And she took one up to crumble into her tea, with the air of a martyr. " You don't seem to eat much, Mrs. Gerry. Won't you help your- self to some of the preserves ? Quinces before you, ain't they, 'Liza ? Plums on the other side. Do have some greengages, to help the biscuit down."
Mr. Gerry's well-preserved appetite seemed ready to cope with all difficulties, judging from the quantity he ate ; and whether it was the assistance of the plums or not, Mrs. Gerry did not fall far behind, helping herself twice to cake, and passing her cup so often that she had finished the third before Mrs. Bowen had tasted her first. The children, who were seated afterwards at the places of their respective parents, did the repast ample justice. But,
MRS. BOWEN'S INVESTMENT.
43
for all that, Mr. Bowen'' s enjoyment of the visit was entirely lost, and his wife's would have been, if there had ever been any to lose. She knew that the minute the front door had closed upon their visitors, she would be ar- raigned for the failure, and prepared to meet it with what amiability she could.
"Now, you know that isn't so at all, James," she said, in reply to an irritated charge of "leaving everything to Hannah," and neglect- ing her household generally. "You know very well that I hardly stir out of the house, even to an evening meeting. When have I been out to spend the afternoon ? Not since we were at Mrs. Gerry's, and they 've been here three times since."
"If it had been any one but Gerry, I should not have cared so much ; but when I like a man, I like to see him at home in my house and treated as if he was somebody. Mother, too — I don't believe she has had a thing she could eat for the last three days. She hasn't got very long to live, and it 's a pity that we can't make her comfortable while she is here."
"I do my best." And Mrs. Bowen said it slowly, with a sigh, to think how little all her worry and care was appreciated, after all.
"Well, I know you do, sometimes." Mr. Bowen was not insensible to his wife's patience and uniform kindness towards his mother ; be- sides, he had relieved his mind, and the reaction was beginning to change his views of things a little. "Only sometimes it does seem fated that she shouldn't have anything she can touch. I don't see into it."
"I do; it's not having the things I need right on hand."
" Don't you have what you want, I 'd like to know ? Did you ever come to me for a dollar, and not get it*? though I must say it seems to me it 's pretty much every day, about as regu- lar as I come in to dinner."
" I don't believe you 'd feel it half as much, James, if you 'd get things by the quantity ; and it would be twice as convenient. It takes just about half Hannah's time to run to the grocery ; and when you get things by the small quantity, they don't seem to go half as far. My father always used to get a firkin of fall butter, and a firkin of winter butter, for instance, and a barrel of flour, at a time."
"Flour 's seven dollars a barrel ! My good- ness, Eliza !"
"I guess it's more than seven dollars, get- ting it as we do ; and what difference does it make whether you pay it all at once or a few shillings at a time ? How do you do at the
shop ? I 've heard you tell many a time about the advantage there* was in having a large stock and getting the best."
"Oh, that's quite another thing; business and housekeeping are two different things. I can't take money out of my business, and buy up a grocery store."
"But it all goes in the course of the year. What difference does it make ? If you only knew how I hated to ask you for money ! Time and time again I go without things because I hate to ask you ; and then, when I come to get dinner, they are the very things I want."
"Where you going to keep them? I've heard you say more than once that you hadn't closet-room enough."
' • I could take the small bed-room in the attic, and have a lock put on the door. I could put a barrel of flour in the kitchen, you know, and there 's plenty of cellar room for vegetables and such things. I know you could get them better and cheaper from the farmers."
"Dreadful convenient to mount boxes and barrels up two pair of stairs."
"But it would only be once a year, James, and then you could send one of the men over from the shop. If you only knew how much time and how many steps it would save, to say nothing of money !"
" I don't see any saving about it." And yet Mr. Bowen stood convicted by his own express declaration of the same principle to Mr. Gerry the day before, and the conversation returned rather uncomfortably to mind. " What do you want now, s'posing you could get it ?"
" Well, if we had five or six gallons of oil at once, for instance, there would not be such a bother about the lamps ; and a barrel of brown sugar and half a barrel of white. Oh, I don't know. A small box of tea, you know, just what we use every day of our lives. Don't you believe you 'd get a better quality, for one thing ? Don't you know some wholesale place in New York where you could be sure of a good article?"
" Why, yes, there 's Ladd & Coffin. Ladd is Mudford's son-in-law ; they 'd introduce me, I guess ; but I can't spare the money, and it ain't worth while to talk any more about it."
' ' You spare the money when y ou w ant stock. ' ' "Of course I do. Where would any of the bread and butter come from ? I 'd look pretty well running down to New York every six weeks ; besides, it works up to better advan- tage." By which remark Mr. Bowen lost ground on his side of the argument, and the opposition was not slow to follow it up.
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godey's lady's book and magazine
"Well, well, I'll think about it," was his conclusion, after another half hour of discus- sion ; "that will do for to-night. What you going to have for breakfast to-morrow morning — fried potatoes ?"
" I don't believe we have enough in the house. Hannah couldn't bring but half a peck yesterday, on account of the turnips ; and they don't last us any time, the children eat so many."
"Well, ham and eggs, then; it's all the same to me."
" It 's too late for Hannah to go for the ham."
"Anything, anything. It's a good while since you 've had any corn bread, though."
" I know it is ; but there 's always so many things we must have, that I neglect to send for meal."
" Get something, then ; suit yourself." And, with a glimmering comprehension of his wife's difficulties, Mr. Bowen betook himself to repose, and left her to puzzle it out at her leisure.
It was almost the first of January before he became a final convert to her doctrine, how- ever ; and it cost him severe self-denial to re- frain from taking four shares in a foundry about to be established in Plumville, and apply the money to fill the formidable order presented by Mrs. Bowen on his trip to town.
" A saving in the end, "said she, consolingly, as she placed four pocket-handkerchiefs and two pairs of clean socks in the carpet-bag she was making ready for him.
" Not much saving, I guess ; I give you all you can make off of this year's expenses, next Christmas ; it 's cost over three hundred, first and last." Which promise Mrs. Bowen did not lose sight of ; and, when the time came, claimed twenty-one dollars, accordingly, and demon- strated her right to it with pencil and paper, much to her husband's amazement.
"It will just buy me a new winter bonnet and black silk dress, Mr. Bowen ; and it 's some time since you 've had any fault to find, or mo- ther either."
" True enough, Eliza, things do seem to go considerably smoother, and I wouldn't have thought it would have made so much differ- ence. Mother was saying, only yesterday, that you seemed to have found your old knacks again. White sugar not out yet, and all that tea left ? Well, you have managed first rate ; pretty near earned it, haven't you? Not to speak of how that money would have gone smash in the foundry ; completely fell through, Gerry says ; I hate to lose a thing, dreadfully. I'd rather spend it twice over, any time."
Mr. Bowen ceased to dwell on his own good management, for a time, and made his wife's talent for administration the theme of discourse with his particular friends, the appearance of the black silk dress in company being the sig- nal for relating her little achievement, and, to his eyes, she had not had on such a becoming one since her wedding-day.
< • o m »
BROAD LINE DRAWING LESSONS.
In the following subjects, Figs. 76, 77, 78, and 79, the manner in which the effect of sha- dow on curved surfaces is expressed, as in pre-
Fi£- 76.
vious exercises, by paying attention to the comparative distances of the lines used for shading. In Figs. 78 and 79, great care must
be used in executing the numerous details with accuracy. A little inattention in drawing Fig. 78 will produce a ludicrous distortion, and
Fig. 77.
in Fig. 79 want of accuracy will produce a confused mass in which the laws of gravitation will appear to have been disregarded.
BKOAD LINE DRAWING LESSONS.
45
Fig. 78.
Fig. 79.
JAGASSA'S JOURNAL:
BY MARY W. JAXVRIN, AUTHOR OF "PEACE," "THE COUNTRY COUSIN," "MISS SABRINA's DREAM," ETC. ETC.
May 30th.
My name is Jacassa Selina Bowen ; I am twenty-four, and unmarried; I am "literary" — that is, I have earned something of a reputa- tion by writing for the magazines and popular light literature of the day. I was worn, physi- cally, by my long winter's toil in the busy city, and I have come down to board and spend a quiet summer in this pleasant sea-side, yet country farming-town of Ryefield. I shall not write much here, I opine ; rather will I resign myself to the influences of nature which woo me to a luxurious, dolce far niente sort of lazi- ness, which I need as a reaction to the busy, brain-tensioned past. I feel, already, years younger than I did when I came here, and I have been in Ryefield but three weeks yesterday.
There is a positive refreshment in the very air around the farm-house, to say nothing of the quiet comfort of its scrupulously neat inte- rior. The house is old and rambling, but well- kept, and, unlike country houses in general, has a long porch in front, covered with a luxu- riant trained honeysuckle ; and in the front yard, good Mrs. Hull tells me, by and by will bloom "daffies," and ladies' delight, and "pi- nies," and poppies, and hollyhocks. The entry is spacious, and the staircase is wide and turns with abrupt angles at every broad stair. On one side, below, is the closed parlor, with shuttered windows, a carpet with "set" figures, a long, wide old-fashioned sofa, a table placed exactly under the gilt-framed looking-glass be- tween the two front windows, chairs ranged around rather primly, and a mourning-piece and profile hanging over the mantel. Brit I do not sit often in this room, though motherly Mrs. Hull begs m'e to go where I like and "feel at home," for the closed windows give it a sort of close, musty smell. Instead, I often bring down my sewing, of an afternoon, into the large, sunny, pleasant sitting-room, with its cheerful chintz lounge and comfortable rock- ing-chairs, its bright homespun carpet, green asparagus-plumes and hemlock-boughs in the li replace, the tall eight-day clock in the corner, and the polished hundred-legged table, whereon I have placed a few of my books in addition to the family Bible, "Baxter's Call," and the " New Hampshire Gazetteer," which lay there, 46
and the high mantel-shelf, ornamented with a pair of bright brass candlesticks, and a trio of gajTy painted plaster images ranged after a fashion whereof I read once in an old story — "a parrot, a puppet, a shepherdess" — "apairot, a puppet, a shepherdess."
The long kitchen, extending the whole length of the rear of the house, save the buttery at one end, is a marvel of neatness, from the care- fully scoured and sanded threshold of the back door to the red tiled hearth whereon Mrs. Hull stands on baking-days, before the open-mouthed, glowing brick oven, to superintend the incom- ings and outgoings of the great loaves of cake, the batches of pies, and countless drop-cakes which find their way to her bountifully spread table, for my hostess serves me no meagre fare — stale bread, superannuated cake, the "fossil remains" of last week's steak converted into minced pies, nor the beverage yclept coffee faintly colored with feeble chalk -and -water cream, such as one must be content with at city boarding-houses.
Then, my own room is the spare chamber over the closed parlor, and the embodiment of my idea of comfort. To be sure, the smother- ing bed of live geese-feathers, which I tumbled to the floor, and good Mrs. Hull bore away, after my first night here at the farm, savored of rather too warm a welcome ; but the snow- white valance and fresh pillow-slips, the long dimity curtains swaying to and fro in the breeze that comes in through the raised window from the blooming apple-orchard below, the little round table upon which I have laid out my portfolio, writing-desk, and books, and where I am writing now ; the great china pitcher crowded with pink and white apple-blossoms, whose fragrance is more delicate than Lubin's vaunted extraits — do not all these bring a vision of rest and comfort to the eyes that have long been used to the crowded city street and high brick-and-mortar walls ?
And then, too, away beyond the acres of white bloom in the apple-orchards, beyond the green meadows and the farthest dark belt of forest, I catch a glimpse of the blue sea — the fresh, the beautiful sea, that always brings me an inspiration ! The sea and the forest ! Byron never wrote two truer lines than these : —
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" There is a pleasure in the pathless wood, There is a rapture on the lonely shore !"
I have spent afternoons, in the long, bright May- time, among the woodland paths over yonde r, gathering the fragrant pink and white trailing arbutus, the frail wind-flower, the pale ane- mone, and dark, glossy wintergreen ; and often, when Farmer Hull harnesses his black horse for a ride to the vicinity of the beach, I beg for a ride ; and while he talks and bargains with the fishermen, I walk along the edge of the curling breakers, breathing the strong, damp sea air, watching the sea-birds dip their wings in the creamy foam, then stretch away over the waves, or gather white cockle-shells or brown "sailors' rattles" from the bare sand.
"I wish I could live on the beach," I said, the other night, to good Mrs. Hull, as I came home from one of these rides with her hus- band, standing and holding my hat by the strings, at the dairy door, where she was " set- ting" the evening's milk. " Yes, I do; I wish I owned a house right there on Boar's Head, where, all night long, stormy nights, I could hear the solemn music of the waves beating against the foot of the cliff."
"I rather guess you'd begin to feel kinder solemn yourself, a-layin' awake two or three sich nights, and be a-beatin' round for some place where you could git a good, comfortable night's sleep, Miss Jacassy, " good-humoredly said Mr. Hull, who had overheard my remark, coming into the kitchen for supper.
" Oh, I 'm sure, Mr. Hull, that the ocean would never weary me," I replied, deprecatingly ; "I could listen to its voice forever. You don't know — " But I checked myself there, for I couldn't tell him why I dwelt so constantly on thoughts of the sea. "I shall be sorry when the time comes for me to go back to the crowded oity again, never to look upon the sea, save the harbor crowded with ships, never to feel the lonely calm and rest of the quiet sandy beaches."
"Come, come, Miss Jacassy, you forget moth- er's nice supper 's waitin', and your ride ought to a' gin you a right sharp appetite. As for your goin' back to that stived-up city ag'in, I 've my notions ag'in that, too, and ruther guess mother and I '11 have to adopt you. Hey, mother, what i.o you think on 't ?" as Mrs. Hull made her appearance from the dairy. " Keep you as well as not, out here on the farm — no gals nor nothin' of our own, and 'Lisha, he 's off a-lawyerin' in Bostin. 1 declare you have picked up right smart and rosy in jest these three weeks you 've been here, and I don't know 'bout lettin' you
go back to git pale and pindlin' ag'in." And the farmer kindly stroked my head as I sat down to table.
I could not eat much of the savory edibles the good man and his wife pressed upon me, for the emotions that swelled in my throat. 1 had met so little kindness these latter years of my lite — there were so few who loved me — that the honest affection of these simple people made my heart very tender.
When I left the kitchen, at the close of the meal, I overheard Mrs. Hull remark to her hus- band : "Somehow, her talk about the beach puts me in mind of 'Lisha ; he allers spends half his time down to the shore, when he comes home, you know, Amos. Now, I dare say she '11 go and write a piece of po'try or something about it, and it '11 read beautiful when it 's printed."
Later, that evening, when I had come down to sit with Mrs. Hull, she brought from the par- lor a daguerreotype-case and placed it in my hand. I opened it. I do not know that there was anything peculiar in the face that met me save that it was frank and manly in expression ; but the eyes had a depth and a certain clair- voyance, if I may so speak, that seemed to read my own thoughts in mine.
"It is ' Lisha' 's picture," said Mrs. Hull, with a pleased, motherly expression in her counte- nance. " He brought it for a present, last sum- mer, when he came home. And it looks jest like him — jest so pleasant and good ! He ain't handsome ; 'Lisha never was ; but he 's a good boy, Miss Jacassy ! 1 shall allers call him boy, I b'lieve," she added, smiling, "though he's — lemme see, 'Lisha must be twenty-seven, this spring. They say he 's gettin' to be a great lawyer, off there in the city. Maybe you 've heard of him ; his pardner is Cyrus Harlow : they 're ' Harlow & Meredith.' "
"I have heard of the firm," I answered. "You must be very happy in your son, Mrs. Hull," I said, handing back the miniature.
" Son! La, bless you, Miss Jacassy, haven't I told you ? Why, he 's Amos's nepheiv, his youngest sister's child. But then we took him when he was only seven — all alone in the world, an orphan — and he seems jest like our own. Amos wanted to make a farmer of him ; but, somehow, the boy took to his books. And so I told Amos 'twant no use to go ag'in natur', and, if we had plenty of this world's goods, and the farm brought in more'n we ever should know what to do with, we 'd better give 'Lisha a college eddication, and we did."
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"But had you never any children of your own, my dear Mrs. Hull ?" I asked.
She did not answer ; but the hand that held the miniature trembled and snapped the spring suddenly. She left the room, and presently re- turned from the parlor with one of the profiles, cut in paper, which I had noticed in its little gilt frame over the mantel ; and, when I turned to look upon it by the nickering lamp-light, I saw a tear upon the glass. The outline was that of a youthful face, plump and rounded.
" This is all I have left of poor Mary, except some of her hair in my bureau -drawer up stairs," she said, in a husky voice. " It was taken years ago, before miniatures were in- vented. She died when she was only seven- teen ; it was over twenty years ago. Oh, Miss Jacassy, you don't know how that blow took hold of our hearts, Amos's and mine ! He can't speak about her to this day without cryin', though nobody 'd call Amos Hull a soft-hearted man. It was our trouble that first opened our hearts to 'Lisha, I suppose. Deary me ! I hope, if you ever marry and have children of your own, you '11 never have them taken from you ! Nobody knows, except them that 's lost 'em, the loneliness of a sorrow-stricken mother's heart. I like to have young people in the house," she added, returning from the parlor, whither she went to replace the profile on the wall — that simple outline of features which, though min- gled these twenty years with the grave-mould, still conjured to the mother's gaze a vision of her dead and gone seventeen-year-old Mary. •' I like to have you here, for it seems like hav- ing Mary with us again. Somehow, you put me in mind of her every day ; your laugh sounds jest like hers ; though my poor Mary wasn't accomplished, and didn't have such great talents as you have, and couldn't have made a verse of po'try to save her life. But she was a good girl, and would a' been a sight of comfort to Amos and I in our old age, if she'd a lived." For the good woman didn't seem to think that her Mary might have left tier for another home ; to her, she was still the seventeen-year-old girl whose pleasant laugh md smile cheered the farm-house. "A sight of comfort ! but God took her, and he knows what 's for the best ! 'Lisha, now, he 'd like your po 'try and writings, I dare say, ' ' she con- tinued, in a more cheerful vein, "for he 's al- ters readin' some book or other when he 's at home. I do hope he '11 be at home this sum- mer, if he don't stay only long enough to go down to the beach ; he seems kind of bewitched with the sea, and, if he comes while you 're
here, he '11 carry you there as often as you want to go."
"Yes, indeed! and then jqu can pitch a tent there, and live till you're tired," said farmer Hull, good-humoredly, coming in then from his out-door duties. "But look here, mother, I got some nice fresh fish down to the shore, this afternoon, and we '11 have 'em fried for breakfast. Miss Jacassy 'd better begin to larn to like fish, if she 's goin' down to live by the sea."
I have written all this here because it pleases me, the honest, well-meaning kindness of these good people ; and it pleases me, the life of quiet content I am leading here in this season of rest. I shall try to put off all thoughts of the future and live in the present ; to enjoy all and everything that comes to me, the fresh air, the birds and flowers, the woods, and the sea. I will lay aside my pen, now ; but I may write more some other day.
June 15th.
I like to talk about myself in my journal, as I talk about other people on paper ; so I will sit down, this soft, rainy, June day, while there is a cool, pattering sound among the leaves of the great elm at my window, and write out — as I do for my heroines — a history of my life.
I have hitherto written nothing here of my antecedents, save that I am twenty-four, and unmarried, I am "literary," and my name is Jacassa Selina Bowen.
"' Jacassy P Where upon earth did I get that name ?" honestly queried farmer Hull, the other day ; and I will answer here, and more at length, too, than I did him then.
Jacassa was for my mother, who was a Southron by birth ; though I have no memory of her save of a beautiful, pale face lit by dark eyes of unnatural brilliancy, as she leaned against the back of her sick-chair, while colored nurses watched her, and my father leaned over her tenderly. This was in the early morning twilight of my childhood. She died soon after. I remember I wept passionately when they told me ; and my father brought me back to his na- tive New England home, to the care of his maiden aunt, Miss Selina Bowen, who, with nobody to love or cheer her loneliness in her old-fashioned mansion, received me into her heart and home, adding her maiden name to my patronymic, with the proviso, I suppose, that I was to inherit all her worldly goods and possessions at her decease. 1 do not remember much of my father save that he possessed an erect, martial bearing, and used to gratify my
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girlish, fancy by sometimes arraying himself in a fine uniform, for he was an officer in the Ame- rican navy. When I was only six, he was sum- moned from his long furlough into active service ; and, kissing me good-by, he resigned me to Aunt Selina. From that voyage my father never returned. A coup de soleil smote him down on the deck of his vessel in the Mediter- ranean, and he died shortly after. When the government ship arrived on our shores, a bul- letin of his death reached us in lieu of himself, whom we fondly expected. It was weeks be- fore I — a ten-year-old child — could mention him without a burst of tears ; but afterwards, in the cheerful life of girlhood, my violent grief was subdued. I think, though, it was in those days that I began to cherish my intense love and yearning for the sea. Before, I had thought of it only as the great water whereon my father's ship sailed ; but, from the time they brought the news of his death, I thought of it as his grave. We did not live near the coast — Aunt Selina's little estate was inland — but I used to go into the garret, and, seating myself at the window looking eastward, gaze away to the dark blue belt of the far horizon and fancy it the ocean, with every white speck of cloud drifting there a floating ship. So sharp the picture outlined on my mental retina, I saw the snowy sails and tapering spars — the deck where my noble father walked in his officer's uniform, with the star on his breast — T saw the great, red, fiery sun wheel high above his head, the angry darts that struck him, his fall to the deck with his hand to his head — the sailors bearing him down into his state-room — the slow lingering — the death — the burial at sea — all this passed before me, distinct as the fea- tures of a panorama. Then, when Aunt Seli- na's voice summoned me to some light task or duty, I would bear away with me the same pictures to be thought of till nightfall and dreamed of in my sleep.
And at school, too, while the other children drew pictures on their slates, or played at "tit- tat-too" when the teacher's back was turned, or the boys aimed paper bullets at some fly-tar- get on the ceiling, I would turn the leaves of my Olney's Atlas till I came to the map of Eu- rope, and, guiding with my finger an imaginary vessel's track along the Mediterranean, then threading her way through the narrow Gibraltar pass, up round sunny Portugal, and into the wild Biscayan Bay, "here," I would whisper under my breath to some confidential school- mate, "just here, in the Bay of Biscay, my vol. lx. — 5
father died, and the sailors tied a round shot to his feet and buried him in the sea !"
The sea ! Henceforth it was a sacred shrine to which my heart was ever turning. No won- der I looked upon it with intensest yearnings — it held my father. Some would have said I should have thought of it but with terror and dread ; but not so ; I loved it. I used to be- lieve that when the sailors lowered him down, in his bright uniform, and the great green waves parted to receive him, the mermaids took him in their long, beautiful arms, and sung to him as they carried him down to their coral bowers ; and I loved to fancy that one of them might have worn the face of my own dear mo- ther. It was a childish belief ; but it gave me infinite satisfaction.
But I will now write of other things. At fourteen, Aunt Selina sent me away to board- ing-school. The dear old lady had but little book-knowledge herself, but she was pleased that the grand-niece of her care should have every advantage. I was tall at that age — as tall as I am now ; and I had my mother's eyes.
At regular intervals for three years I went home on vacation visits ; but I think I really enjoyed myself better at school with my books and companions than at the quiet mansion where Aunt Selina lived in her staid, though comfortable, way. I was a favorite with all the girls at the seminary. There was one, Elise Wentworth, my room-mate, with whom I was then very intimate. I think all young people — girls and boys in their teens — have what may properly be termed "a Platonic age," when all the poetry and sentiment of their natures come tumbling uppermost, effervescing like new root beer ; and I suppose I was in mine then, for I fancied Elise Wentworth and myself "conge- nial." We read poetry together, exchanged rings and locks of hair, and vowed eternal friendship. (En passant, it is over five years now since I have seen her!) I mention her particularly here, because, as you shall see presently (I am so used to writing for the good public that I fancy the ' ■ reader' ' must be somewhere behind the curtain), through her I first opened the chapter in my life I am now going to relate.
I have already said I am " literary, " but not, like Byron, did I "awake and find myself famous," it came gradually; but there was a dim prescience of my future occupation in my school-girl days. A poem, one of the many written in a pink-rose, sentimental mood, saw light in The Young Ladies'' Repository and Cas-
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Jcet over the unique signature of "Jacassa," eliciting the admiration of all the seminary girls ; but when, one day, Elise Amantha Went- worth — I write her name in full — brought me a number of the Yale Literary and Scientific Magazine, published monthly by a class of young juniors at Yale, confidentially imparting that her brother, Montague Livingstone Went- worth, was editor — when she brought me this, and showed me " Jacassa's" poem copied, with complimentary remarks by the editor on "the fair and accomplished young authoress, who, if we mistake not, will make her mark" (query : her X mark?) "on the future song-literature of her land ; giving evidence thus early of having quaffed from the Parnassian spring:" — when I read this, then, indeed, I began to imagine that the "divine afflatus" was surely mine by right.
" Oh, Jacassa, you must see my brother Mon- tague !" said Elise. " He 's splendid! Such an air — so distingue' ! just like a novel hero. I do wish he 'd come here — how the girls would envy us him ! He wears his hair long, and Byron collars, and he dotes on ' Childe Harold !' I know you and he would be congenial ! You see I 've written him all about you ; and what do you think, darling ?" and, with a mysterious air, she took from her pocket a little pink note, redolent of jockey-club, and superscribed in a delicate, running chirography : —
"To
The Fair Jacassa.
Helicon's Fount. By Pegasus' s Express."
And this was the commencement of my ac- quaintance with Montague Livingstone Went- worth, this pretty, flattering note, worded so faultlessly and interspersed with poetic quota- tions— a snare set by a heartless, sentimental college fopling, to entrap a silly -headed, equally sentimental school-girl.
What need to enlarge here ? Reader — ah, there comes in "the smell of the shop" again — if you be a woman, who has survived the age when every school-girl fancy looms up a mirage — le grande passion — you must have re- corded on your brain-tablet similar experiences of your own ; and, if you have not, please take my word — Jacassa Selina Bowen, spinster's — for it, that you must be "the exception to the rule," the "one out of the hundred" who have escaped them. I smile now when I think how, as time passed, I loved the author of that little pink, scented note, for I did love him with all the strength of a first sentiment. I suppose it
was because of the intensity of my nature. I never do anything by halves ; I either love or dislike strongly, unless by chance I sometimes get into that negative state, indifference. But I will record what a devotion I cherished for Montague Livingstone Wentworth, and how, after our correspondence progressed till three score or more of notes had passed between us, and the congenial Elise Amantha had accom- panied me home, when I went to spend my last vacation, and the poet-brother came down to pass a leisure week with his divinity at Aunt Selina's, one day, in the little arbor of Aunt Selina's "back garden," he got down on his knees, and, with his hand on the right side of his white Marseilles vest, vowed eternal fealty to "his peerless, genius-dowried Jacassa."
Well, Elise went back to school, to send me little sisterly notes weekly; I remained with dear old Aunt Selina, who was getting feeble, and "the twin of my soul," who had, mean- time, weaned himself from his Alma Mater, though professing his intention some time to write a book of poems "that should startle the world," returned to his native town, content meanwhile to step into his father's shoes and country practice as a more sure foothold in this matter-of-fact world than an uncertain ride on Pegasus 's slippery back, varying the employ- ment of mixing pills by inditing sonnets "To Jacassa's Eyebrow !" and letters teeming with protestations of never-dying affection and anti- cipations of that time "in the bliss-fraught future" which "should bring him happiness and Jacassa."
And this was why — because of the jockey- club scented notes, and the flattery, and the protestations, and the sort of shy, silent bliss of reveries and dreams — because of the lock of oiled hair I kept in my writing-desk, and the ring, deviced by two hearts transfixed by one arrow, I wore on the "engagement-finger" of my left hand — because of that very natural feeling, common to all hearts, which makes us all want somebody to love and to love us, till sometimes the glamor so blinds our eyes that we mistake the dross for the fine gold — because of all this, for one twelvemonth of my life I walked in a blissful dream along a path of roses.
But the awakening came. The roses turned to commonest flowers — primroses or " old maid's pinks," at that ! The day came when — but the tears arrest my jesting mood as I write now, and I am saddened, for with that sorrow began the first real experiences of my life — the day came when dear old Aunt Selina died. I loved her ; I had brightened some years of her quiet,
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lonely life ; and of late I had strengthened the feeble, groping steps which, day by day — though I did not know it then — were drawing nearer heaven. I felt a strange, sad loneliness when they pressed the sod over her coffin in the little village graveyard. Were my feelings prophetic ? Eighteen, and kinless ! But when a letter came from Montague, expressive of love and sym- pathy, I could but strive to banish my sadness, and, though tenderly cherishing my kind old aunt's memory, imagine that the world held some brightness, after all.
After that, there were strange revelations. Everybody at Eastlake thought Aunt Selina in <( comfortable" circumstances; and though I had known that the keen-eyed, ferret-nosed lawyer, Esquire Lynx, had "let" my aunt some moneys, which she had expended in re- pairs on the place, giving notes for the same, yet from my soul I could not believe but those were fraudulent ones he brought in against the estate at the executors' settlement, covering, as they did, nearly the whole property. Yet there was Aunt Selina's signature, in her cramped, old-fashioned hand. Surmises, if in- dulged by others, were withheld from me ; so, when affairs were settled, it was found that Esquire Lynx's claims covered the whole home- place, and the bequest of "Selina Bowen, spin- ster," of her whole property to "her beloved niece, Jacassa Selina Bowen," resolved into my receiving but the paltry sum of a few hundred dollars, as residue of the sale of said "pro- perty," "when outstanding debts were paid."
To say that I was surprised at this state of affairs and my sense of utter dependence would hardly express my feelings ; I was confused, blinded, not knowing whither to turn. From having never known a want, from being the petted child of Aunt Selina's adoption, who, certainly, if in the straitened circumstances the settlement of her estate showed, was never parsimonious towards me in the matter of money — from this to being thrown, as it were, on my- self for a time completely unnerved me. It was weeks before I could fully comprehend my position. Meantime, as the executors' sale had taken place, and the homestead had been bid off at public auction, I had gone to board in the family of the village minister, a worthy man, whose wife had been a firm friend of Aunt Selina's. The venerable man only sighed and shook his head, when the place was sold to the highest bidder ; but good Mrs. Dean said, in her cheery, comforting way: "Never mind, my dear, don't cry. It won't be long before you '11 have a house and home of your
own, and, what is better, somebody to love you, if all we hear of that fine young gentleman who used to come to see you is true. So keep up a good heart, Jacassa ! Trials are sent us by One who 'doeth all things well.'" I did not betray my feelings in the kind-hearted woman's presence, but when alone I could not restrain the heart-sick tears, for I had received no letter from Montague for a long time. Had he gone, too, with the rest — Aunt Selina, home, and fortune ? But, afterwards, these salt tears left me calmer. There came a mood of search- ing thought ; something of the old spirit that made me, in childhood, seek out on the map for the spot where my father's dead body went down into the deep, sent my mental vision searching the great unknown ocean of the future to lay my finger on the spot where the corpse of a dead love should be buried. Was my gaze prophetic then ? I think so ; for, when days and weeks went by, bringing me no word of affection, no visit from one who, in the past, had asked permission to guide and share my future — when the "congenial" Elise (who, in the days of my reputed heiress-ship, had scarce allowed a week to pass without some dainty note, commencing "pet" or "darling," found its way to Eastlake) also placed the antipodes of silence between us — then I felt a fine scorn rise up in my heart against these summer friends of fortune, who "stood afar off" when the rough hand of adversity swept over my head. So, one day, with a strength that surprised myself, I enveloped the pink, scented love -notes, the ambrosial lock of hair, the de viced ring, and returned them all to Montague Livingstone Wentworth. I hope it gave him no more pain in the receiving than it did me in the sending. After that, I settled down for a season into a quiet sort of life. I suppose my heart wasn't dead, only benumbed, for I felt its presence yet in the gratitude I had towards kind Mr. and Mrs. Dean, who, when I told them what I had done, said : " Never think of him again, dear; he is not worthy of you. You are our child now." But I think such an experience as I underwent in that time — the suddenly waking from a love-life to find one's self walking hence- forth alone, bearing the memory of "not a broken heart, but a broken dream" — tends to make one distrustful, reserved, old before their time. I know it was so with me. I felt little interest in anything or any one outside the home of my kind friends ; I shunned society, and, when Frank Dean began to solicit my company to the village lectures, and to mani- fest a growing sentiment warmer than friend-
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ship, I knew that the refusal I felt compelled to give him came from a heart which would not soon again listen to man's love. And then my pride and natural independence of character took alarm ; I must not stay in that home to pain these good people by refusing their son's affection ; I must go away at once — but whither ? I began to cast about for some means of sup- port, for I wished to leave intact the few hun- dreds, my all, which good Mr. Dean had placed in trust for me. Could I teach ? I thought strongly of this plan at first ; then another idea occurred. I should have written that, in the year that intervened between my leaving school and Aunt Selina's death, I had followed my penchant for literary pursuits by the writing and sending some tales and poems to popular periodicals, for which the honor of " seeing my name in print" had been considered ample com- pensation ; and now, bethinking of the many who follow the pen for a livelihood, I inclosed to a publisher my first article for which I asked an equivalent in money. It was returned to me. " It possessed considerable merit, but, owing to the press of matter, obliged to de- cline. Very sorry not to be able to use," etc. etc. So ran the accompanying note from the publisher. I was disappointed, but not crushed. I do not think I am egotistical by nature, but I knew the article was not devoid of merit, and I re-enveloped it to another publisher of whom I had heard favorably as an encourager of young authors. I waited days, poised between hope
and fear. If Mr. G decided against me, I
should grow despairing. But he did not ; he remitted me a liberal price for my manuscript ; he also sent a kind, encouraging letter — "he would be pleased to hear from me often in the future." I read that letter with tears in my eyes. I felt that my path was marked out for me ; literature should be my profession and the means of my livelihood. Another piece of good fortune came. The editor of a ladies' magazine published in a metropolitan city, for which I had often contributed during that year of lei- sure, addressed me, stating that he had need of an assistant lady editor. "Pleased with my sprightly, piquant style, could I be engaged to edit a certain department and contribute a cer- tain amount at a stipulated price?" This, in no wise conflicting with my desire to contribute to Mr. G 's publication, as it left my eve- nings at my disposal, I hailed as a perfect God- send. I dispatched an affirmative answer ; I would be in the city by a given date. Now, indeed, I was comparatively independent. I bade my kind friends good-by ; I returned the
honest shake of Frank Dean's hand, and pro- mised to remember him with sisterly affection ; I went to the scene of my labors.
That was six years ago. I have found friends — some few valued ones, foremost among whom are the kind editor and his gentle lady wife ; but I do not go much into society. I write constantly ; not so much from the love of the calling, or its reward — though there is rare joy in meeting face to face your own brain-children coming out from their birth-realm, Fancy-land ; rare fascination in weaving now a sunny, now a sombre tissue, warp and woof at Imagina- tion's loom ! — not so much for these, as to banish, in the busy present, memories of the clouded past. And there is a satisfaction in being constantly employed. No idle hours of lady-like ennui, no wearisome moments hanging on my hands ! I thank God that He gave me this intense brain, this working nature !
Sometimes there come visions of another life — a blessed home-life — where some strong arm holds me, and stems back the heavy tide of circumstances that press hard against me ; where some strong, true heart shelters me and will not let the storm beat on my naked head. I hear a deep-toned voice say, tenderly, "My own, my wife !" I feel the clasping arms and dewy lips of little children climbing on my knees ; I see a home made beautiful by all the garnitures which refinement can gather around me ; but that mood is resolutely crushed back, and I am again alone, writing, writing, in my little boarding-house room, with the saddened heart and weary brain — alone, alone !
And yet, why sigh as I write these words ? I should be content ; my lot is far happier than many — the wretched^ the sin-stricken. I do not envy the finest pallid lady to whom satins, and velvets, and liveried equipages cannot bring freshness and happiness for the world-weary heart throbbing listlessly under her silken bod- ice. I am young and healthy, and I am happy. The long autumns and winters in the close city are more than compensated by these country sojournings, upon which I enter in the spring- time. I was at Eastlake, last year ; the Deans were glad to have me there. Frank met me with kindly heart and hand, and introduced me, with a conscious pride, to his wife and the toddling Frank at her knee. But I do not think it good to stop always in one place, so this sea- son brought me to quiet, country, yet sea-side, Ryefield. I am quite at home here, with good Mrs. Hull and the kind-hearted farmer. I am glad there is little so-called "society" here. There are two or three hotels down at the shore,
THE WONDERS OF THE OCEAN.
53
but I have no friends there ; and I am glad, for they might think it necessary to draw out the literary lady from her self-imposed chrysalis state, and I would not like to be lionized, even in a small way.
By the way, I have omitted to write that I read, a year or two since, the marriage of Mon- tague Livingstone Wentworth. I liked to have forgotten it. His bride's cognomen was Nancy *Maria Hopkins. I remember her — she was at the Seminary — the daughter of a wealthy re- tired tallow-chandler. The saucy younger scholars used to speak of her as " gawky."
She had red hair and a nez retroussf, and had a habit of putting her finger in her mouth when she missed her recitation. I wonder if Montague Livingstone dowried her with the lock of Ma- cassar-oiled hair and the deviced ring? — I am doubtful concerning the poetical love-notes, for I remember that, at "par's request," " Nancy Mariar" was excused from "composition" at the Seminary — I suppose he did — as he did also with himself — for Nancy Maria's father is dead, and she inherits fifty thousand dollars won in the tallow business.
(Conclusion next month.)
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THE WONDEKS OF THE OCEAN.
The pebbles on the beach are stones with sermons in them. Their rounded forms are the effects of the pounding against each other, by which the ocean extracts from them the che- mical ingredients which, in solution, form sea- water. The metaphor is not too bold on which we venture, when we say, that the dashing of the waves is a species of mastication, in which the ocean grinds down the materials which it dissolves and assimilates, and, we had almost said, digests. There is salt in stones. The muriate of magnesia, muriate of lime, sulphate of soda, and chloride of sodium, the ingredients of sea-water, are found in the rocks ; and the movements of the waves are the mechanical actions which precede their chemical solution. The destruction of the sea-coasts by frosts and thaws, the corroding of rocks by the weather, and the weakening and splitting of them by perforating shell-fish, are all parts of vast pro- cesses by which the vegetable and animal in- habitants of the sea are supplied with the pro- visions which sustain them. Ariosto poetically called the waves the herds of Neptune, the god of the sea : —
" Neptune's white herds, lowing o'er the deep ;" but it would be