Fern Leaves from Fanny’s Portfolio, series one and two
by “Fanny Fern” [Sara Payson Willis] (1853)

“Fanny Fern” was Sara Payson Willis (1811-1872), whose father, Nathaniel Willis, founded and edited Youth’s Companion. Escaping a bad second marriage, and with two children to support, Sara turned to writing: her first essay appeared in the Olive Branch and was quickly reprinted. She soon became one of the most highly paid authors in 19th-century America; three years after her first essay was published, Sara was hired to write one essay a week for the New York Ledger for the unheard-of sum of $100 per column. Alternately humorous, satiric, and sentimental, her pieces cover the range of 19th-century American life, from the death of children to the delicate subterfuges of a widow eager to remarry.

Fern Leaves from Fanny’s Portfolio gathers many of the newspaper pieces in two collections; since each volume has the same title, they’re referred to as “series one” and “series two.”

Readers expecting a mild-mannered 19th-century matron will not find her here. Sentimental and sometimes melodramatic, “Fanny Fern” could be a blistering critic of hypocrisy. “She never hesitates to say what seems right in her eyes, let the bolts fall and the lightnings scathe where they will,” one critic pointed out. Another called the book “prightly and spirited, sensible, sparkling, saucy, satirical, stinging, and, occasionally—we must say it—slangy.” Later readers may find it difficult to appreciate the mishmash of overblown sentiment and overdrawn satire, but her lively style is very readable.

Family relationships are the focus of many of the essays in Leaves, and Sara’s own family even comes in for some stinging: “Apollo Hyacinth” is a devastating portrait of Nathaniel Parker Willis, Sara’s brother, a prominent American writer and editor whom she would dissect again in her vaguely autobiographical novel, Ruth Hall.

Presented here are transcriptions of the first editions of each collection, with page numbers. My copies are so badly foxed and water-stained that the illustrations have been digitally cleaned.

[Notes: “The Widow’s Trials” is vaguely autobiographical; it explores in miniature the themes Willis would develop more fully in Ruth Hall. The kernel of “The Partial Mother” (p. 139) may be a standard anecdote; The Youth’s Companion printed a similar anecdote in 1849. The Ladies Repository printed a version at least twice in the 1860s, without attribution.

—Pat Pflieger

[Thanks for Dr. Deidre Johnson of www.readseries.com for loan of her complete copy of series one.]

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[half title page]

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[title page]

FERN LEAVES
FROM
FANNY’S PORTFOLIO.

WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY FRED M. COFFIN

—

AUBURN:
DERBY AND MILLER.
BUFFALO:
DERBY, ORTON AND MULLIGAN.
CINCINNATI:
HENRY W. DERBY.
——
1853.

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[copyright page]

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and
fifty-three, by
DERBY AND MILLER,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Northern District of New-York.

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[dedication]

TO
ONE WHO HAS “GONE BEFORE,”
This Book
IS TEARFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY
Dedicated.

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[blank page]

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[p. v]

PREFACE.
—

I never had the slightest intention of writing a book. Had such a thought entered my mind, I should not long have entertained it. It would have seemed presumptuous. What! I, Fanny Fern, write a book? I never could have believed it possible.

How, then, came the book to be written? some one may ask. Well, that’s just what puzzles me. I can only answer in the dialect of the immortal “Topsy,” “I ’spect it growed!” And, such as it is, it must go forth; for “what is written, is written,” and—stereotyped.

So, dear readers (for I certainly number some warm, friendly hearts among you), here is my book, which I sincerely wish were worthier of your regard. But I can only offer you a few “Fern leaves,” gathered at random, in shady spots, where sunbeams seldom play, and which I little thought ever to press for your keeping.

Many of the articles submitted were written for

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p. vi

and published in the Boston Olive Branch, Boston True Flag, and the New York Musical World and Times, while many are now here published for the first time.

Some of the articles are sad, some are gay; each is independent of all the others, and the work is consequently disconnected and fragmentary; but, if the reader will imagine me peeping over his shoulder, quite happy should he pay me the impromptu compliment of a smile or a tear, it is possible we may come to a good understanding by the time the book shall have been perused.

FANNY FERN.

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[p. 7]

CONTENTS.

“The Still Small Voice” … 11

Look on This Picture, and Then on That … 16

The Widow’s Trials … 17

My Little Sunbeam … 25

Self-Conquest … 26

“Our Hatty” … 33

Two in Heaven … 40

“Summer Days"; or, The Young Wife’s Affliction … 41

Comfort for the Widow … 47

Thorns for the Rose … 49

Thanksgiving Story … 59

Summer Friends; or, “Will is Might” … 61

“Nil Desperandum” … 67

Cecile Grey … 69

Childhood’s Trust … 74

Elise De Vaux … 75

The Wail of a Broken Heart … 81

Mary Lee … 83

A Talk About Babies … 89

Elsie’s First Trial … 91

A Night-Watch with a Dead Infant … 98

A Practical Blue-Stocking … 100

The Little Pauper … 105

Edith May; or, The Mistake of a Life-Time … 108

Mabel’s Soliloquy … 114

How Husbands May Rule … 116

Little Charley … 120

The Lost and the Living … 122

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On a Little Child, Who Had Crept Before a Looking-Glass that was Left Upon the Sidewalk … 126

Kitty’s Resolve … 128

Woman … 133

The Passionate Father … 135

The Partial Mother … 139

The Ball-Room and the Nursery … 141

All’s Well … 146

How Woman Loves … 149

A Mother’s Soliloquy … 157

The Invalid Wife … 159

The Stray Lamb … 163

Lena May; or, Darkness and Light … 166

Thoughts Born of a Caress … 173

A Chapter on Literary Women … 175

He Who Has Most of Heart … 180

Dark Days … 182

Night … 186

Children’s Rights … 188

Sorrow’s Teachings … 192

“An Infidel Mother” … 194

Little Charlie, the Child-Angel … 197

The Cross and the Crown … 202

Lilla, the Orphan … 204

Observing the Sabbath … 210

The Prophet’s Chamber … 214

Lilies of the Valley … 219

Grandfather Glen … 221

The Widow’s Prayer … 227

The Step-Mother … 230

A Word to Mothers … 234

The Test of Love … 236

Child-Life … 240

“The Old House” … 243

“Seeing the Folly of It” … 246

The Transplanted Lily … 250

No Fiction … 257

Incident at Mount Auburn … 260

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p. 9

A Sunday Morning Soliloquy … 263

Little Allie … 265

The Flirt; or, The Unfaithful Lover … 271

Fern Glen … 277

Minnie … 282

Sweet-Briar Farm … 284

“The Angel-Child” … 290

Not a “Model Minister” … 293

“Merry Christmas!—Happy Christmas!” … 295

Leta … 298

The Model Step-Mother … 301

A Page from a Woman’s Heart; or, Female Heroism … 303

Little May … 311

PART II.

Nicodemus Ney. A Dash at a Character Whom Everybody has Seen … 315

Advice to Ladies … 317

The Model Widow … 320

The Model Widower … 322

The Tear of a Wife … 324

Editors … 326

Bachelor Housekeeping … 329

Borrowed Light … 331

Mistaken Philanthropy … 333

The Model Minister … 335

The Weaker Vessel … 337

A Tempest in a Thimble … 339

The Quiet Mr. Smith … 341

Prudence Prim … 343

Men’s Dickeys Never Fit Exactly … 345

A Little Bunker Hill … 346

Soliloquy of Rev. Mr. Parish … 348

Tim Treadwell … 350

Important for Married Men … 352

Mr. Clapp’s Soliloquy … 354

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p. 10

What Mrs. Smith Said … 355

Everybody’s Vacation Except Editors’ … 357

Old Jeremiah; or, Sunny Days … 359

“I Can’t” … 362

A Chapter on Clergymen … 364

Uncle Jabe … 367

An Interesting Husband … 369

The Model Lady … 372

Indulgent Husbands … 373

A Fern Soliloquy … 375

Aunt Hetty on Matrimony … 377

Was n’t You Caught Napping? … 380

A Lady on Money Matters … 382

Mrs. Croaker … 384

To the Empress Eugenia … 386

Empress Eugenia’s Maids of Honor … 389

Fast Day … 391

The Bore of the Sanctum … 392

Owls Kill Humming-Birds … 397

“The Best of Men Have Their Failings” … 399

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p. 11

“THE STILL SMALL VOICE.”

Poor, tired little Frank! He had gazed at that stereotyped street panorama, till his eyelids were drooping with weariness. Omnibuses, carts, cabs, wheelbarrows, men, women, horses, and children; the same old story. There is a little beggar-boy driving hoop. Franky never drives hoop;—no, he is dressed too nicely for that. Once in a while he takes the air; but Peter the serving-man, or Bridget the nurse, holds his hand very tightly, lest he should soil his embroidered frock. Now little Frank changes from one foot to the other, and then he creeps up to his young mamma, who lies half-buried in those satin cushions, reading the last new novel, and lays his hand on her soft curls; but she shakes him off with an impatient “Don’t Franky;” and he creeps back again to the window.

There winds a funeral slowly past. How sad the mourners look, clad in sable, with their handkerchiefs to their eyes! It is a child’s funeral, too; for there is no hearse, and the black pall floats from the first carriage window, like a signal of distress. A sudden thought strikes Franky,—the tears spring to his eyes, and

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creeping again to his mother’s side, he says, “Mamma, must I die, too?”

The young mother says, abstractedly, without raising her blue eyes from the novel she is reading, “What did you say, Frank?”

“Mamma, must I die, too?”

“Yes—no! What an odd question! Pull the bell, Charley. Here, Peter, take Frank up stairs to the nursery, and coax Bruno along to play tricks for him;” and Frank’s mamma settles herself down again upon her luxurious cushions.

The room is very quiet, now that Franky is banished; nobody is in it but herself and the canary. Her position is quite easy; her favorite book between her fingers,—why not yield herself again to the author’s witching spell? Why do the words, “Must I die, too,” stare at her from every page? They were but a child’s words. She is childish to heed them; and she rises, lays aside the book, and sweeps her white hand across her harp-strings, while her rich voice floats musically upon the air. One stanza only she sings, then her hands fall by her side; for still that little, plaintive voice keeps ringing in her ear, “Must I die, too, mamma?”

Death!—why, it is a thing she has never thought of;—and she walks up to the long mirror. Death for her, with that beaming eye, and scarlet lip, and rosy cheek, and sunny tress, and rounded limb, and springing step?

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Death for her, with broad lands, and full coffers, and the world of fashion at her feet? Death for her, with the love of that princely husband, who covets even the kiss of the breeze as it fans her white brow? Darkness, decay—oblivion? (No, not oblivion! There is a future, but she has never looked into it.)

—

“Well, which is it, my pet, the opera, the concert, or Madame B.’s soirée? I am yours to command.”

“Neither, I believe, Walter. I am out of tune to-night; or, as Madame B. would say, ‘Vaporish;’ so I shall inflict myself on nobody. But—”

“O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rose; I am fond of a merry face, too. Smile, now, or I’m off to the club, or the billiard room; or, as husbands say when they are ‘hard up’ for an excuse, I have ‘a business engagement.’ What! a tear? What grief can you have, little Rose?”

“You know, Walter, what a strange child our Frank is. Well, he asked me such an odd, old-fashioned question to-day, ‘Must I die, too mamma?’ in that little flute-like voice of his, and it set me thinking, that’s all. I can’t rid myself of it; and, dear Walter,” said she, laying her tearful cheek upon his shoulder, “I don’t know that I ought to try.”

“O, nonsense, Rose!” said the gay husband, “don’t

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turn Methodist, if you love me. Aunt Charity has religion enough for the whole nation. You can’t ask her which way the wind is, but you have a description of ‘Canaan.’ Religion is well enough for priests; it is their stock in trade;—well enough for children and old people;—well enough for ancient virgins, who like vestry meetings to pass away a long evening; but for you, Rose, the very queen of love and beauty, in the first flush of youth and health—pshaw! Call Camille to arrange your hair, and let’s to the opera. Time enough, my pet, to think of religion, when you see your first gray hair.”

Say you so, man of the sinewy limb and flashing eye? See!—up Calvary’s rugged steep a slender form bends wearily beneath its heavy cross! That sinless side, those hands, those feet are pierced—for you. Tortured, athirst, faint, agonized,—the dark cloud hiding the Father’s face,—that mournful wail rings out on the still air, “My God! my God! why has thou forsaken me?”

The dregs of life, our offering for all this priceless love, O sinless Son of God! The palsied hand, and clouded brain, and stammering tongue, and leaden foot of age, thy trophies? God forbid! And yet, alas! amid dance, and song, and revel, that “still small voice” was hushed. The winged hours, mis-spent and wasted, flew quickly past. No tear of repentance fell; no sup-

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pliant knee was bent; no household altar flame sent up its grateful incense.

—

“Must I die, too?”

Sweet child!—but as the sun dies; but as the stars fade out; but as the flowers die, for a resurrection morn! Close the searching eye beneath the prisoning lid; cross the busy hands over the pulseless heart. Life—life eternal! for thee, thou young immortal!

Joy to thee, young mother! From that little grave, so tear-bedewed, the flour of repentance springs, at last. No tares shall choke it; no blight or mildew blast it! God’s smile shall be its sunshine, and heaven thy reward.

—

Dear reader; so the good Shepherd hides the little lamb in his arms, that she who gave it life may hear its voice and follow.

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LOOK ON THIS PICTURE, AND THEN ON THAT.

“Father is coming!” and little, round faces grow long, and merry voices are hushed, and toys are hustled into the closet; and mamma glances nervously at the door; and baby is bribed with a lump of sugar to keep the peace; and father’s business face relaxes not a muscle; and the little group huddle like timid sheep in a corner, and tea is dispatched as silently as if speaking were prohibited by the statute book; and the children creep like culprits to bed, marvelling that baby dare crow so loud, now that “Father has come.”

—

“Father is coming!” and bright eyes sparkle for joy, and tiny feet dance with glee, and eager faces press against the window-pane; and a bevy of rosy lips claim kisses at the door; and picture-books lie unrebuked on the table; and tops, and balls, and dolls, and kites are discussed; and little Susy lays her soft cheek against the paternal whiskers with the most fearless “abandon;” and Charley gets a love-pat for his “medal;” and mamma’s face grows radiant; and the evening paper is read,—not silently, but aloud,—and tea, and toast, and time vanish with equal celerity, for jubilee has arrived, and “Father has come!”

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p. 17

THE WIDOW’S TRIALS.

The funeral was over, and Janie Grey came back to her desolate home. There were the useless drugs, the tempting fruits and flowers, which came all too late for the sinking sufferer. Wherever her eye fell, there was some sad reminiscence to torture her. They, whose life had been all sunshine, came in from cheerful homes, whose threshold death’s shadow had never darkened, to offer consolation. All the usual phrases of stereotyped condolence had fallen upon her ear; and now they had all gone, and the world would move on just the same that there was one more broken heart in it. She must bear her weary weight of woe alone. She knew that her star had set. Earth, sea and sky had no beauty now, since the eye that worshipped them with her was closed and rayless.

—

“Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth,” said Uncle John, joining the tips of the fingers of either hand, and settling himself in a vestry attitude, to say his lesson. “Afflictions come not out of the ground. Man is cut

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down like a flower. God is the God of the widow and the fatherless. I suppose you find it so?” said he, looking into the widow’s face.

“I can scarcely tell,” said Janie. “This was a lightning flash from a summer cloud. My eyes are blinded; I cannot see the bow of promise.”

“Wrong; all wrong,” said Uncle John. “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. You ought to be resigned. I’m afraid you don’t enjoy religion. Afflictions are mercies in disguise. I’ll lend you this volume of ‘Dew-Drops’ to read. You must get submissive, somehow, or you will have some other trouble sent upon you. Good morning.”

Uncle John was a rigid sectarian, of the bluest school of divinity; enjoyed an immense reputation for sanctity, than which nothing was dearer to him, save the contents of his pocket-book. It was his glory to be the Alpha and Omega of parish gatherings and committees; to be consulted on the expediency of sending tracts to the Kangaroo Islands; to be present at the laying of corner-stones of embryo churches; to shine conspicuously at ordinations, donation visits, Sabbath-school celebrations, colporteur meetings,—in short, anything that smacked of a church-steeple, or added one inch to the length and breadth of his pharisaical skirt. He pitied the poor, as every good Christian should; but he never allowed them to put their hands in his pocket;—that was a territory

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over which the church had no control,—it belonged entirely to the other side of the fence.

Uncle John sat in his counting-room, looking very satisfactorily at the proof-sheets of “The Morning Star,” of which he was editor. He had just glanced over his long list of subscribers, and congratulated himself that matters were in such a prosperous condition. Then he took out a large roll of bank bills, and fingered them most affectionately; then he frowned ominously at a poor beggar child, who peeped in at the door; smoothed his chin, and settled himself comfortably in his rocking-chair.

A rap at the door of the counting-room. “May I come in, uncle?” and Janie’s long, black veil was thrown back from her sad face.

“Y-e-s,” said Uncle John, rather frigidly. “Pretty busy,—’spose you won’t stay long?” and he pushed his porte-monnaie further down in his pocket.

“I came to ask,” said Janie, timidly, “if you would employ me to write for your paper. Matters are more desperate with me than I thought, and there is a necessity for my doing something immediately. I believe I have talents that I might turn to account as a writer. I have literally nothing, Uncle John, to depend upon.”

“Your husband was an extravagant man;—lived too fast,—that’s the trouble,—lived too fast. Ought to have been economical as I was, when I was a young man. Can’t have your cake and eat it, too. Can’t expect me to

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make up for other people’s deficiencies. You must take care of yourself.”

“Certainly, that’s just what I wish to do,” said Janie, struggling to restrain her tears. “I—I—” but she only finished the sentence with sobs; the contrast between the sunny past and the gloomy present was too strong for her troubled heart.

Now, if there was anything Uncle John mortally hated, it was to see a woman cry. In all such cases he irritated the victim till she took a speedy and frenzied leave. So he remarked again that “Mr. May was extravagant, else there were have been something left. He was sorry he was dead; but that was a thing he was n’t to blame for,—and he did n’t know any reason why he should be bothered about it. The world was full of widows;—they all went to work, he supposed, and took care of themselves.”

“If you will tell me whether you can employ me to write for you,” said the widow, “I will not trouble you longer.”

“I have plenty who will write for nothing,” said the old man. “Market is overstocked with that sort of thing. Can’t afford to pay contributors, specially new beginners. Don’t think you have any talent that way, either. Better take in sewing, or something,” said he, taking out his watch, by way of a reminder that she had better be going.

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The young widow could scarcely see her way out through her fast-falling tears. It was her first bitter lesson in the world’s selfishness. She, whose tender feet had been so love-guided, to walk life’s thorny path alone; she, for whom no gift was rich, or rare, or costly enough; she, who had leaned so trustingly on the dear arm now so powerless to shield her; she, to whom love was life, breath, being, to meet only careless glances,—nay, more, harsh and taunting words. O, where should that stricken heart find rest, this side heaven?

Yet she might not yield to despair; there was a little, innocent, helpless one, for whom she must live on, and toil, and struggle. Was the world all darkness? Bent every knee at Mammon’s shrine? Beat every human heart only for its own joys and sorrows?

Days and months rolled on. Uncle John said his prayers, and went to church, and counted over his dear bank bills; and the widow sat up till the stars grew pale, and bent wearily over long pages of manuscript; and little Rudolph lay with his rosy cheek nestled to the pillow, crushing his bright ringlets, all unconscious of the weary vigil the young mother was keeping. And now it was New-Year’s night; and, as she laid aside her pen, memory called her back to rich, sunny days,—to a luxurious home. Again she was leaning on that broad, true breast. Troops of friends were about them. O, where were they now? Then she looked upon her small, plainly

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furnished room, so unattractive to the eye of taste and refinement;— then it fell upon her child, too young to remember that father, whose last act was to kiss his baby brow.

Still the child slumbered on,—his red lips parted with a smile,—and, for the first time, she noted the little stocking, yet warm from the dimpled foot, hung close by the pillow, with childhood’s beautiful trust in angel hands to fill it; and, covering her face with her hands, she wept aloud, that this simple luxury must be denied a mother’s heart. Then, extinguishing her small lamp, she laid her tearful cheek against the rosy little sleeper, with that instinctive yearning for sympathy, which only the wretched know. In slumber there is, at least, forgetfulness. Kind angels whisper hope in dreams.

The golden light of New-Year’s morning streamed through the partially opened shutters upon the curly head that already nestled uneasily on its pillow. The blue eyes opened slowly, like violets kissed by the sun, and the little hand was outstretched to grasp the empty stocking. His lip quivered, and tears of disappointment forced themselves through his tiny fingers; while his mother rose, sad and unrefreshed, to meet another day of toil. And Uncle John, oblivious of everything that might collapse his purse, sat comfortably in this rocking-chair, “too busy” to call on his niece. Treading, not in his Lord’s footsteps, where sorrow, and

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misery, and want, made foot-tracks, but where the well-warmed, well-clad, and well-filled, sat at Dives’ table.

Time flew on. A brighter day dawned for Janie. She had triumphed over disappointments and discouragements before which stouter hearts than hers had quailed. Comfort and independence were again hers,— earned by her own untiring hand. Uncle John was not afraid of her now. He turned no more short corners to avoid her. She needed no assistance. Uncle John liked to notice that sort of people. He grew amiable, even facetious; and, one day, in his uproariousness, actually sent a three-cent-piece to his nephew, whom he had not inquired for for three long years.

Janie’s praises reached him from every quarter; and he took a great deal of pains to let people know that this new literary light was his niece. Had he known she would have turned out such a star, he would have employed her. Now she was swelling other editors’ subscription lists, instead of his. That was a feature of the case he was fully prepared to understand!

“No talent that way!” said Janie to herself, as she saw him, at last, very coolly transfer, with his editorial hand, her articles to “The Morning Star,” without credit, without remuneration to herself. Sanctimonious, avaricious Uncle John! Did you count the weary vigils they cost the writer? Did you count the tears which blistered their pages? Did you dream of the torturing

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process by which the bird was blinded, ere it could be learned to sing so sweetly? Knew you that those gushing notes reached you, through prison bars, from a weary captive’s throat? No, no, Uncle John! how should you? For where your heart should have been, there was a decided vacuum.

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MY LITTLE SUNBEAM.

Never saw my little sunbeam? Well, she was a little creature who passed my window each day, on her way to school, and who made my acquaintance, child fashion, with a smile. Perhaps none but myself would have called her pretty; but her eyes were full of love, and her voice of music. Every day she laid a little bunch of violets on my window. You might have thought it a trifling gift, but it was much to me; for, after my little sunbeam had vanished, I closed my eyes, and the fragrance of those tiny flowers carried me back, O, whither?

They told of a fragrant, shadowy wood; of a rippling brook; of a bird’s song; of whispered leaf-music; of a mossy seat; of dark, soul-lit eyes; of a voice sweet, and low, and thrilling; of a vow that was never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. God shield my little Sunbeam! May she find more roses than thorns in her earthly pathway.

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SELF-CONQUEST.

“Well, Bridget, what do you think of the bride?”

“O, she’s a pretty young thing; but if she had known as much as you and I do of her husband’s mother, she never would have come to live with her. She’s a regular old hyena, and if she don’t bring the tears into those blue eyes before the honeymoon is over, my name is n’t Bridget. Why, she’s the most owdacious old thing! She overhauled all her wardrobe yesterday, before she could get here; and, as I passed through the entry, I heard her muttering to herself, ‘Silk stockings, humph!—ruffled under-clothes! Wonder if she thinks I’ll have them ironed here? Embroidered night-caps, silk dresses! Destruction and ruin!”

“I’ll tell you what, Bridget, there never was a house built yet, that was big enough for two families to live in; and you’ll find out that this won’t be, I reckon.”

—

“What! tears, Emma?—tears!” said the young husband, as he returned from his counting-room one day, about a month after their marriage; and, with a look of

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anxiety, he drew her closer to his breast. “Tell me, you do not so soon repent your choice?” The little, rosy mouth was held up temptingly for a kiss; and in those blue eyes he read the answer his heart was seeking.

“What, then, is your pet canary sick? Can’t you dress your hair to suit you? Or are you in despair because you can’t decide in which of all your dresses you look prettiest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry!” said Emma, laughing and crying together. “I feel nervous, that’s all. I’m so glad you’ve come home.”

Harry felt sure that was not all; but he forbore to question her, for he felt very sure she would tell him all in good time.

The truth was, Harry’s mother had been lecturing her daughter-in-law, all the morning, upon the degeneracy of the times;—hoped she would not think of putting on all the fine things her friends had been so foolish as to rig her out in!—times were not now as they used to be!—that if Harry gave her pocket-money, she had better give it to her to keep, and not be spending it for nonsense;—that a young wife’s place was in her husband’s house;—and she hoped she would leave off that babyish trick, of running home every day to see her mother and sisters.

Emma listened in silent amazement. She was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, but she was very high-spirited. The color came and went rapidly in her cheek; but she

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forced back the tears that were starting to her eyes, for she had too much pride to allow her to see them fall.

After old Mrs. Hall retired, she sat for a moment or two, recalling her words. “ ‘Babyish,’ to love my own dear home, where I was as merry as a cricket from morning till night; where we all sang, and played, and read, in mother’s dear old room, and father and mother the happiest of us all—‘babyish!’ I won’t be dictated to!” said the young wife. “I’m married if I am only nineteen, and my own mistress;” and the rebellious tones would come in spite of her determination. But then she thought of Harry,—dear Harry,—whom she had already learned to love so well. Her first impulse was, to tell him. But she had a great deal of good sense, if she was young; and she said to herself, “No, that won’t do;—then he’ll have to take sides with one or the other, and either way it will make trouble. It may wean his love from me, too. No, no, I’ll try to get along without; but I wish I had known more about her, before I came here to live.”

And so she smiled and chatted gayly with Harry, and hoped he had set it down to the account of “nervousness.” Still the hours passed slowly, when he was absent at his business; and she felt uneasy every time she heard a step on the stairs, lest the old lady should subject her to some new trial.

“I wonder what has come over our Emma?” said one

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of her sisters; “she has grown so grave and matronly. I half-hated Harry when he carried her off, and I quite hate him now, for she’s so sedate and moping. I desire to keep my neck out of the matrimonial noose.”

Shortly after this, Emma’s mother sent her some little delicacy, manufactured by herself, of which she knew her daughter to be particularly fond. Mrs. Hall brought it into her room, and set it down on the table as if she were testing the strength of the dish, and said, “I wonder if your mother is afraid you’ll not have enough to eat here. One would think you were a child at a boarding-school.”

Emma controlled herself by a strong effort, and made her no reply, simply taking the gift from her hands, with a nod of acknowledgment. Every day brought her some such petty annoyance; and her father-in-law, who was old and childish, being quite as troublesome as his wife in these respects, it required all Emma’s love for Harry to carry her through.

She still adhered to her determination, however, to conceal her trouble from her husband; and though he noticed she was less vivacious, perhaps he thought the mantle of matronly dignity so becoming to his young wife, that he felt no disposition to find fault with it. In the mean time, old Mrs. Hall being confined to her room with a violent influenza, the reins of government were very unwillingly resigned into Emma’s hands. What endless charges she received about the dusting and sweeping, and

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cooking, ending always with this soliloquy, as the door closed upon Emma’s retreating form, “I am a goose to tell her anything about it. She’s as ignorant as a Hottentot,—it will all go in one ear, and out the other.” And the old lady groaned in spirit, as the vision of the nose of the tea-kettle pointing the wrong way, or the sauce-pan hung on the wrong nail, flitted through her mind. Emma exerted herself to the utmost to please her; but the gruel was always “not quite right,” the pillows not arranged easily behind her back, or she expected to find “Bedlam let loose” when she got downstairs, and various other encouraging prognostications of the same character.

“Emma,” said Harry, “how should you like living five miles out of the city? I have seen a place that just suits my fancy, and I think of hiring it on trial.”

Emma hesitated. She wished to ask, “Does your mother go with us?” but she only said, “I could not tell, dear Harry, how I should like the place, till I saw it; but I should fear it would take you too much from me. It would seem so odd to have five miles’ distance between us for the whole day. O, I’m very sure I should n’t like it, Harry!” and the thought of her mother-in-law clouded her sunny face, and, in spite of herself a tear dropped on her husband’s hand.

“Well, dear Emma, now I’m very sure you will like it,”—and his large, dark eyes had a look she did not

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quite understand, even with all her skill and practice in reading them,—“and so I’m going to drive you out there this very afternoon, and we’ll see,” said he, gayly kissing her forehead.

“O, what a little Paradise, Harry! Look at that cluster of prairie roses! What splendid old trees! See how the wind sweeps the drooping branches across the tall grass! And that little, low window, latticed over with sweet briar; and that pretty terraced flower-garden,—O, Harry!”

“Well, let us go inside, Emma;” and, applying a key he held in his hand, the door yielded to his touch, and they stood side by side in a little rustic parlor, furnished simply, yet so tastefully. Tables, stands, and mantel, covered with vases, sending forth fragrance from the sweetest of wild-wood flowers; the long, white muslin curtains, looped away from a window, whence could be seen wooded hill, and fertile valley, and silvery stream. Then they ascended into the old chamber, which was quite as unexceptional in its appointments. Emma looked about in bewildered wonder.

“But who lives here now, Harry?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody? What a tease you are! To whom does all this furniture belong,—and who arranged everything with such exquisite taste? I have been expecting every minute to see the mistress of the mansion step out.”

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“Well, there she is,” said Harry, leading her gayly up to the looking-glass. “I only hope you admire her hair as much as I do. Do you think I’ve been blind and deaf, because I’ve been dumb? Do you think I’ve not seen my high-spirited little wife, struggling with trial, day by day, suffering, enduring, gaining the victory over her own spirit, silently and uncomplainingly? Do you think I could see all this, and not think she was the dearest little wife in the world?” and tears and smiles struggled for mastery, as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “And now you will have nobody to please here, but me, Emma. Do you think the task will be difficult?”

The answer, though highly satisfactory to the husband, was not intended for you, dear reader; so please excuse Fanny Fern.

-----

a little girl watches a woman read

OUR HATTY.

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“OUR HATTY.”

She might have had twenty other names, but that was the only appellation I ever heard. It was, “Get out of the way, Hatty!”—“I dare say, Hatty broke that vase, or lost that book!”—“Don’t come here; what a fright you are, Hatty!” till the poor, sensitive child almost felt as if she had the mark of Cain upon her forehead. She had brothers and sisters, but they were bright, and saucy, and bold, cunning; and, when they wished to carry out a favorite scheme, could throw their arms about the parental neck, flatter some weak side, carry the day, and then laugh at their juvenile foresight; so their coffers were always filled, while poor Hatty’s was empty;—and she laid all these things up in her little grieved heart, and, as she saw duplicity better rewarded than sincerity, began to have little infidel doubts whether the Bible, that her father read so much out of, was really true; while Joseph’s “coat of many colors” flaunted ever before her tearful eyes! All her sweet, childish impulses were checked and crushed; and, where the sweet flowers of love and confidence should have sprung up, the weeds of distrust and suspicion took bitter root!

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She took no part in the conversation of the domestic circle. “She was stupid,” so they told her; and she had heard it till she believed it true. Sometimes, as was often the case, some talented person made part of the family circle; on such occasions, Hatty would listen in her corner till her great, wild eyes glowed and burned like living coals of fire. But there was one spot where none disputed Hatty’s right to reign,—a little lonely room at the top of the house, which she had fitted up in her own wild way, and where she was free from reproof or intrusion.

You should have seen her there,—with her little yearning heart half broken by neglect,—doubtful of her own powers, and weeping such passionate tears, that she was “so stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable,” that nobody could ever love her! And so she made friends with the holy stars, the fleecy clouds, and the brilliant rainbow, the silver moonbeam, and the swift lightning; and an artistic eye, seeing her soul-lit face at that small window, might have fancied her some Italian improvisatrice! There, the fetters fell off, the soul was free, and the countenance mirrored it forth. Back in the family circle, she was again “Our Hatty!”

—

“That young daughter of yours differs very much from the rest of the family, Mr. Lee,” said a maiden lady, who was visiting there.

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“Yes, yes!” said the old man, with a shrug. “She don’t look much like a Lee; in fact, she’s very plain. She’s a strange, unaccountable child,—likes her own company better than anybody’s else, and don’t care a rush-light for all the nick-nacks other girls are teasing for. Sometimes I think she belongs to another brood,—got changed in the cradle, or something.”

“How does she spend her time?” said Miss Tabetha.

“I’m sure I don’t know. Wife says she has a little den at the top of the house, where she sits star-gazing. Queer child, that Hatty!—plain as a pike-staff;” and Mr. Lee took up his newspaper, and put his feet on the mantel.

Miss Tabetha was confounded! She had an uncommonly warm heart, for an old maid. She had never been a parent;—she wished she had, just to show some people what a nice one she’d have made! She inwardly resolved to know more of “Our Hatty.”

Rap, tap, on the door of Hatty’s little den,—what on earth did it mean? She hoped they were not going to take that away from her; and, with a guilty, frightened look, she opened the door.

Miss Tabetha entered.

“Are you vexed with me for coming here, child? You don’t look glad to see me.”

“No, no!” said Hatty, pushing back a tangled mass

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of dark hair; “but it’s so odd you should want to come. Nobody ever wanted to see me before.”

“And why not, Hatty?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said she, with touching meekness and simplicity; “unless it’s because I’m ‘stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable.’ ”

“Who told you that, Hatty?”

“All of them down stairs,” said she; “and I don’t care about it, only—only,”—and the tears rolled down her cheeks,—“it is so dreadful to feel that nobody can ever love me!”

Miss Tabetha said, “Humph!”

“Hatty,” said she, “come here. Do you ever look in the glass?”

“Not since a long while,” said the young girl, shrinking back.

“Come here, and look in this little mirror. Do you see those large, dark, bright eyes of yours? Do you see that wealth of raven hair, which a skilful hand might render a beauty, instead of that tangled deformity? Do you see those lithe, supple limbs, which a little care and training might render graceful as the swaying willow? There is intellect in your brow; soul in your eyes; your voice has a thrilling heart-tone. Hatty, you are a gem in the rough!—you cannot be ‘ugly;’ but, listen to me. It is every woman’s duty to be lovely and attractive. You have underrated and neglected yourself, my poor

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child. Nature has been no niggard to you. I do not say this to make you vain, but to inspire you with a proper confidence in yourself. But—what have we here?” as a large portfolio fell at her feet.

“O, Miss Tabetha, please don’t! It’s only a little scribbling, just when I felt wretched!—please don’t!”

“Yes, but I shall, though. It’s just what I want to see most;” and she went on reading paper after paper, while Hatty stood like a culprit before her. When she had finished, she said, very slowly and deliberately:

“Hatty, come here! Did you know that you were a genius?”

“A what, Miss Tabetha?”

“A genius, you delicious little bit of simplicity,—a genius! You’ll know fast enough what it means; and to think I should have been the first to find it out!” and she caught the astonished child in her arms, and kissed her, till Hatty thought a genius must be the most delightful thing in the world, to bring so much love with it.

“Look here, Hatty,—does anybody know this?” holding up the manuscripts.

Hatty shook her head.

“So much the better. ‘Stupid, ugly and disagreeable!’ humph! Do you know I’m going to run off with you?” said the little old maid. “We shall see what we shall see, Miss Hatty!”

—

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Five years had rolled away. A new life had been opened to Hatty. She had grown into a tall, graceful woman. Her step was light as a fawn’s. Her face,—not beautiful, certainly, if tried by the rules of art,—and yet, who that watched its ever-varying expression, would stop to criticize? No one cared to analyze the charm. She produced the effect of beauty; she was magnetic; she was fascinating. Miss Tabetha was satisfied;—“she knew it would be just so.”

They had almost forgotten her at Lee house. Once in a while they wondered “if Miss Tabetha was n’t tired of her.” Miss Tabetha thought she would let them know! Unbounded was their amazement, when Miss Tabetha ushered “Our Hatty” in. It was unaccountable! She was really “almost pretty!” Still there was the same want of heart in their manner to her; and the little old maid could not have kept within bounds, had she not had powerful reasons of her own for keeping quiet awhile.

“By the way, Miss Tabetha,” said Mr. Lee, “as you are a blue-stocking, can you enlighten me as to the author of that charming little volume of poems, which has set all the literary world astir? It is n’t often I get upon stilts but I’d give something to see the woman who wrote it.”

Miss Tabetha’s time had come. Her eyes twinkled with malicious delight. She handed him a volume, saying, “Well, here is a book I was commissioned to give you by the authoress herself.”

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Mr. Lee rubbed his glasses, set them astride his nose, and read the following on the fly-leaf:

“To my dear father, James Lee; from his affectionate daughter, The Author.”

Mr. Lee sprang from his chair, and, seizing his child by both hands, ejaculated, “Hatty Lee! I’m proud of you!”

Tears gathered slowly in her large eyes, as she said, “O, not that! Dear father, fold me once to your heart, and say, ‘Hatty, I love you!’ ”

Her head sank upon his shoulder. The old man read his child’s heart at last; he saw it all,—all her childish unhappiness,—and, as he kissed her brow, and cheek, and lips, said, in a choking voice, “Forgive your old father, Hatty!”

Her hand was laid upon his lips, while smiles and tears chased over her face, like sunshine and shadow over an April sky.

O, what is Fame to a woman? Like the “apples of the Dead Sea,” fair to the sight, ashes to the touch! From the depths of her unsatisfied heart, cometh, ever a voice that will not be hushed,—Take it all back, only give me love!

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TWO IN HEAVEN.

“You have two children,” said I.

“I have four,” was the reply; “two on earth, two in heaven.”

There spoke the mother! Still hers, only “gone before!” Still remembered, loved and cherished, by the hearth and at the board;— their places not yet filled; even though their successors draw life from the same faithful breast where their dying heads were pillowed.

“Two in heaven!”

Safely housed from storm and tempest. No sickness there, nor drooping head, nor fading eyes, nor weary feet. By the green pastures, tended by the good Shepherd, linger the little lambs of the heavenly fold.

“Two in heaven!”

Earth less attractive. Eternity nearer. Invisible cords, drawing the maternal soul upwards. “Still small” voices, ever whispering, Come! to the world-weary spirit.

“Two in heaven!”

Mother of angels! Walk softly!—holy eyes watch thy footsteps!—cherub forms bend to listen! Keep thy spirit free from taint; so shalt thou “go to them,” though “they may not return to thee!”

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“SUMMER DAYS;”
OR, THE YOUNG WIFE’S AFFLICTION.

A delightful summer we passed, to be sure, at the —— Hotel, in the quiet village of S——. A collection of prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants, and loose neck-ties; while their wives were equally independent till their return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wild wood.

There were not separate “cliques” or “sets.” Nobody knew, or inquired, or cared, whether your great grand-father had his horse shod, or shod horses for other people. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their fingers, or their reputation, if they washed their children’s faces; and did not consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband’s waistband, or mended a ragged frock.

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Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girdling a fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated, in the cool of the evening, on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty, heated city. It was delightful to see their business faces brighten up, as each fair wife came forward, and relieved them from the little parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated foreheads. A cool bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at the supper-table, where merry jokes flew round, and city news was discussed between the fragrant cups of tea, and each man fell in love with his pretty wife over again,—or his neighbor’s, if he liked!

It was one harmonious, happy family! Mrs. —— and her husband were the prime ministers of fun and frolic in the establishment. It was she who concocted all the games, and charades, and riddles, that sent our merry shouts ringing far and wide, as we sat in the evening on the long, moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the picnics and sails, and drives in the old hay-cart; the berry parties, and romps on the green; and the little cozy suppers in the back parlor, just before bedtime, that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the

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fussy old landlord. It was she who salted our coffee and sugared our toast; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses; it was she who sewed up pockets in overcoats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends in water; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house; it was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps for unskilful mothers; it was she who was here, and there, and everywhere, the embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness; and as she flew past her handsome husband, with her finger on her lip, bent upon some new prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, more eloquent than words.

He was the handsomest man I ever saw—tall, commanding and elegant, with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering white teeth, and a form like Apollo’s. Mary was so proud of him! She would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected as she read its language. He was just the man to appreciate her,—to understand her sensitive, enthusiastic nature,—to know when to check, when to encourage; and it needed but a word, a look; for her whole soul went out to him.

And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of breaking up our happy circle; but ah, there came one, with stealthy steps, who had no such scruples!

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* * * * * *

The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above lies Mary’s princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears that never fall; day and night, without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil; while,—unconscious of her presence,—in tones that pierce her heart, he calls unceasingly for “my wife!” She puts back the tangled masses of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, “to procure a nurse.” She fears not to be alone with him when he is raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the impress of an (almost) deadly blow from the hand that was never before raised but to bless her. And now the physician, who has come once, twice, thrice a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in the hall that his patient must die. No one dare break the news to the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces, with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no question, but she knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no persuasion, can draw her from the bedside.

The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling form, and says, “My child, you can not meet the next hour—leave him with me.”

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A mournful shake of the head is her only answer, as she takes her seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low upon that clammy hand, praying God that she may die with him.

An hour of time—an eternity of agony—has passed! A fainting, unresisting form is borne from that chamber of death.

Beautiful, as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!—no traces of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lay upon the marble cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, clustered profusely round the noble forehead; those chiselled lips are gloriously beautiful in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. O, that bitter, bitter, waking!—for she does wake. God pity her!

Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead; she remembers—she is a widow! She looks about the room—there is his hat, his coat, his cane; and now, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says, betwixt a tear and a smile, “Now, God be praised,—she weeps!”

And so, with the falling leaves of autumn, “the Great Reaper” gathered in our noble friend. Why should I dwell on the agony of the gentle wife; or tell of her return to her desolate home in the city; of the disposal of

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the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its walls by the refined taste of its proprietor; of the necessary disposal of very article of luxury; of her removal to plain lodgings, where curious people speculated upon her history, and marked her moistened eyes; of the long, interminable, wretched days; of the wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet, fatherless child of her love; of her untiring efforts to seek an honorable, independent support? It is but an everyday history, but—God knows—its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt by the sufferer!

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COMFORT FOR THE WIDOW.

A little fatherless boy, four years of age, sat upon the floor, surrounded by his toys. Catching sight of his mother’s face, as the tears fell thick and fast, he sprang to her side, and peeping curiously in her face, as he put his little hand in hers, said—“You’ve got me!” Simple, artless little comforter! Dry your tears, young mother. There is something left to live for; there are duties from which even your bleeding heart may not shrink! “A talent” you may not “bury;” a stewardship, of which your Lord must receive an account; a blank page to be filled by your hand with holy truth; a crystal vase to keep spotless and pure; a tender plant, to guard from blight and mildew; a dew-drop that must not exhale in the sun of worldliness; an angel, for whom a “white robe” must be made; a cherub, in whose hands a “golden harp” must be placed; a little “lamb,” to be led to the “Good Shepherd!”

“You’ve got me!” Ay! Cloud not his sunny face with unavailing sadness, lest he “catch the trick of grief,” and sigh amid his toys. Teach him not, by your vain repinings, that “our Father” pitieth not his children; teach

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him to love Him, as seen in the sky and sea, in rock and river; teach him to love Him in the cloud as in the sunshine! You will have your gloomy hours; there is a void even that little loving heart may not fill, but there is still another, and He said, “Me ye have always.”

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THORNS FOR THE ROSE.

“It will be very ridiculous in you, Rose, to refuse to give up that child,” said a dark-looking man to the pretty widow Grey. “Think what a relief it will be, to have one of your children taken off your hands. It costs something to live now-a-days,”—and Uncle Ralph scowled portentously, and pushed his purse farther down in his coat-pocket,—“and you know you have another mouth to feed. They’ll educate her, clothe and feed her, and—”

“Yes,” said the impetuous, warm-hearted mother, rising quickly from her chair, and setting her little feet down in a very determined manner upon the floor, while a bright flush passed over her cheek,—“yes, Ralph, and teach her to forget and disrespect her mother!”

“Pshaw, Rose, how absurd! She’ll outgrow all that when she gets to be a woman, even if they succeed now. Would you stand in your own child’s light? She will be an heiress, if you act like a sensible woman; and, if you persist in refusing, you may live to see the day when she will reproach you for it.”

This last argument carried some weight with it; and Mrs. Selden sat down dejectedly, and folded her little

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hands in her lap. She had not thought of that. She might be taken away, and little Kathleen forced to toil for daily bread.

Uncle Ralph saw the advantage he had gained, and determined to pursue it,—for he had a great horror of being obliged eventually to provide for them himself.

“Come, Rose, don’t sit there looking so solemn; put it down, now, in black and white, and send off the letter, before one of your soft, womanish fits comes on again,”—and he pushed a sheet of paper toward her, with pen and ink.

Just then the door burst open, and little Kathleen came bounding in from her play, bright with the loveliness of youth and health, and springing into her mother’s lap, and clasping her neck, frowned from beneath her curls at Uncle Ralph, whom she suspected somehow or other to be connected with the tear-drop that was trembling on her mother’s long eye-lashes.

“I can’t do it, Ralph,” said the young widow, clasping her child to her breast, and raining tears and smiles enough upon her to make a mental rainbow.

“You are a fool!” said the vexed man, “and you’ll live to hear somebody there tell you so, I’m thinking;” and he slammed the door in a very suggestive manner, as he passed out.

Poor Mrs. Selden! Stunned by the sudden death of a husband who was all to her that her warm heart craved,

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she clung the more closely to his children. No woman ever knew better than Rose Selden the undying love of a mother. The offer that had been made her for Kathleen was from distant relatives of her husband—of whom she knew little, except that Mr. and Mrs. Clair were wealthy and childless, and had found a great deal of fault with her husband’s choice of a wife. They had once made her a short visit, and, somehow or other, all the time they were there,—and it seemed a little eternity to her for that very reason,—she never dared to creep to her husband’s side, or slide her little hand in his, or pass it caressingly over his broad white forehead, or run into the hall for a parting kiss, or do anything, in short, save to sit up straight, two leagues off, and be proper!

Now you may be sure this was all very excruciating to little Mrs. Rose, who was verdant enough to think that husbands were intended to love, and who owned a heart quite as large as a little woman could conveniently carry about. She saw nothing on earth so beautiful as those great dark eyes of his,—especially when they were bent on her,—nor heard any music to compare with that deep, rich voice; and though she had been married many happy years, her heart leaped at the sound of his footstep as it did the first day he called her “wife.”

Cared “the Great Reaper” for that? Stayed he for the clasped hands of entreaty, or the scalding tear of agony? Recked he that not one silver thread mingled

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in the dark locks of the strong man? No! by the desolation of that widowed heart, no! he laid his icy finger on those lips of love, and chilled that warm, brave heart, and then turned coldly away to seek another victim. And Rose pressed his children to her heart, with a deeper love,—a love born of sorrow,—and said, we will not part. She knew that fingers that never toiled before, must toil unceasingly now. She knew, when her heart was sad, there was no broad breast to lean upon. She had already seen days that seemed to have no end, dragging their slow, weary length along. She dared not go to a drawer, or trunk, or escritoire, lest some memento of him should meet her eye. She struggled bravely through the day to keep back the tears, for her children’s sake; but night came, when those little, restless limbs needed a respite,—even from play,—when the little prattling voices were hushed, and the bright eye prisoned beneath its snowy lid; then, indeed, the long pent-up grief, held in check through the day by a mother’s unselfish love, burst forth; till, exhausted with tearful vigils, she would creep, at the gray dawn, between the rosy little sleepers, and, nestling close to their blooming faces, dream—God knows how mockingly—of happy hours that would never come again.

And O! the slow torture of each morning waking; the indistinct recollection of something dreadful; the hand drawn slowly across the aching brow; the struggle to

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remember! Then,—the opening eye, the unfamiliar objects, the strange, new, small room; nothing home-like but those sleeping orphans.

God help the widow!

—

And now, as if her cup of bitterness were not full little Kathleen must leave her. Must it be? She paced the room that night after Uncle Ralph had left her, and thought of his words, “She may live to tell you so.” Then she went to the bed-side, and parted the clustering hair from Kathleen’s forehead, and marked with a mother’s pride the sweet, careless grace of those dimpled limbs, and noted each shining curl. There were the father’s long lashes, his brow, his straight, classic profile. O, what would he tell her? And, then, old memories came back with a rushing tide that swept all before it! Poor Rose!

Kathleen stirs uneasily, and calls “Mamma,” and smiles in her sleep. O, how could she part with that little, loving heart? Countless were the caresses she received from her every hour. Watchful and sensitive, she noted every shade of sorrow on her mother’s face; and, by a thousand mute remonstrances, testified her unspoken sympathy. That little, impulsive heart would be cased in an armor of frigidity at Clairville. She might be sad, or sick, or dying, and Rose shuddered and

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sat still nearer to her child. What companionship would she have? what moral influence exerted? Might she not even be weaned from the heart she had lain beneath?

Ah, Uncle Ralph! you little knew, as you sat in your office the next morning, and folded a little slip of paper back in its envelope, upon which was written these simple words, “Kathleen shall go,”— you little knew at what cost! You marked not the blistered paper and the unsteady pen-marks, as you smiled satisfactorily, and said, “Very concise and sensible, for a woman.”

Uncle Ralph did think of it again once, as he walked home to his dinner; but it was only to congratulate himself that if Rose should be unable to support herself,—which he doubted,—there would be one less for him to look after! As to a woman’s tears,—pshaw! they were always crying for something; if it was n’t for that, it would be something else.

—

We will pass over the distressful parting between mother and child. The little trunk was duly packed; the little clasp Bible down in one corner. A book-mark, with a lamb embroidered upon it, was slipped in at these words,—“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.” Mother’s God would care for Kathleen; there was sweet comfort in that.

And so Rose choked back her tears, and unclasped

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again and again the little clinging arms from her neck, and bade her sunny-haired child “good-by!” and laughed hysterically, as the little hand waved another, and a last adieu. Even Uncle Ralph felt an uncomfortable sensation about his fifth button, gave his dickey a nervous twitch, and looked very steadily at the tops of the opposite houses!

* * * * * *

Two months had passed! Little Kathleen sat very quiet in that heated, close school-room. There was a dark shadow under her eyes, either from illness, or sorrow, and her face was very pale. Rose had written to her, but the letters were in the grave of Mrs. Clair’s pockets, never to be resurrectionized; so Kathleen was none the wiser or happier. Uncle Ralph made it a principle never to think of anything that impaired his digestion; so he dismissed all uneasy thoughts of, or care for, his niece, and made no inquiries; because he was firmly of the opinion, that “Where ignorance is bliss, ’t is folly to be wise.”

“You are uncommonly obtuse about your lesson this morning,” said Kathleen’s tutor; “you’ve told me twice that France was bounded south by the Gulf of Mexico. What are you thinking about?” said he, as he grasped her arm.

“Sir?” said little Kathleen, abstractedly.

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“I say, what ails you, to be so stupid this morning?” said the vexed pedagogue.

“My head aches badly,” said Kathleen; “and—and—”

“And what?” said Mr. Smith.

“And—I—want—to see—my—mother!” said the child, with a burst of tears.

“Fiddlestick!” said the amiable Mr. Smith; “if she cared much about you, I reckon she would have written to you before now. Mrs. Clair thinks she’s married again, or something of that sort; so don’t worry your head for nonsense. How’s France bounded, hey?”

The division lines on the atlas were quite concealed by Kathleen’s tears; so she was ordered into the presence of her grim relative, who coaxed and threatened in vain, and finally sent her to bed.

For two long, weary months the free, glad spirit of the child had been fettered and cramped at Clairville. No one spoke to her of home, or her mother; or, if they chanced to mention the latter, it was always in a slurring, sneering manner, more painful to the loving, sensitive child than their silence. But why did mamma not write?—that was the only wearing thought by day and night. And so Kathleen drooped, and lost color and spirits, and walked, like an automaton, up and down the stiff garden-walks, and “sat up straight,” and “turned out her toes,” as she was bid; and had a quick, frightened, nervous

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manner, as if she were constantly in fear of reproof or punishment.

“Bridget,” said Mrs. Clair, “how is Kathleen? got over her hysterics? I must break her of that.”

“Dear heart, no ma’am! She’s just fretting the soul out of her, for a sight of her mother; it’s nater, I s’pose,” said Bridget, polishing her face with her checked apron.

“Stuff, Bridget! The child’s just like her mother; and that’s saying enough! However, give her a little valerian, and sleep at the side of her bed to-night. I’ll look in, in the morning,” said the angular lady, as she smoothed out her dress and her wrinkles.

And so Bridget, obedient to orders, stretched her stout Irish limbs “at the side of the bed,” though she might as well have been in Ireland as there, for any response she made to that plaintive petition, through the long night, “O, do call my mamma! please call my mamma!”

And so night passed! and the golden morning light streamed in upon the waxen face of little Kathleen. No breath came from those parted lips; no ringlet stirred with life; the hands lay meekly beside her, and the last tear she should ever shed lay glittering like a gem upon her cheek!

—

“Ralph,” said Mrs. Seldon, “I shall start for Clairville tomorrow; I can stay away from Kathleen no longer.”

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“You’ll be mad if you do,” said Uncle Ralph; “the child’s well enough, or you would hear; you can’t expect them to be writing all the time. Your welcome will be a sorry one, I can tell you; so take my advice, and let well alone.”

Mrs. Seldon made no reply, but began to pack her trunk, and Uncle Ralph left the house.

In about an hour’s time he returned, and found Rose trying, in vain, to clasp the lid of her trunk.

“Do come here, Ralph,” said she, without looking up, “and settle this refractory lock. Dear little Kathleen! I’ve crammed so many traps in here for her. How glad she will be to see me!” and she turned and looked up, to see why Ralph did n’t answer.

Brow, cheek and lip were in an instant blanched to marble paleness. A mother’s quick eye had spared his tongue the sad tidings.

* * * * * *

If you visit the Lunatic Asylum at ——, you will see a very beautiful woman, her glossy ringlets slightly threaded with silver. Day after day, she paces up and down that long corridor, and says, in heart-rending tones, to every one she meets, “O, do call my mamma! won’t you please call my mamma!”

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THANKSGIVING STORY.

“Mary!” said the younger of two little girls, as they nestled under a coarse coverlid, one cold night in December, “tell me about Thanksgiving-day before papa went to heaven. I’m cold and hungry, and I can’t go to sleep;—I want something nice to think about.”

“Hush!” said the elder child, “don’t let dear mamma hear you; come nearer to me;”—and they laid their cheeks together.

“I fancy papa was rich. We lived in a very nice house. I know there were pretty pictures on the wall; and there were nice velvet chairs, and the carpet was thick and soft, like the green moss-patches in the wood;—and we had pretty gold-fish on the side-table, and Tony, my black nurse, used to feed them. And papa!—you can’t remember papa, Letty,—he was tall and grand, like a prince, and when he smiled he made me think of angels. He brought me toys and sweetmeats, and carried me out to the stable, and set me on Romeo’s live back, and laughed because I was afraid! And I used to watch to see him come up the street, and then run to the door to jump in his arms;—he was a dear, kind papa,” said the child, in a faltering voice.

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“Don’t cry,” said the little one; “please tell me some more.”

“Well, Thanksgiving-day we were so happy; we sat around such a large table, with so many people,—aunts and uncles and cousins,—I can’t think why they never come to see us now, Letty,—and Betty made such sweet pies, and we had a big—big turkey; and papa would have me sit next to him, and gave me the wishbone, and all the plums out of his pudding; and after dinner he would take me in his lap, and tell me ‘Red Riding Hood,’ and call me ‘pet,’ and ‘bird,’ and ‘fairy.’ O, Letty, I can’t tell any more; I believe I’m going to cry.”

“I’m very cold,” said Letty. “Does papa know, up in heaven, that we are poor and hungry now?”

“Yes—no—I can’t tell,” answered Mary, wiping away her tears; unable to reconcile her ideas of heaven with such a thought. “Hush!—mamma will hear!”

Mamma had “heard.” The coarse garment, upon which she had toiled since sunrise, dropped from her hands, and tears were forcing themselves, thick and fast, through her closed eyelids. The simple recital found but too sad an echo in that widowed heart.

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SUMMER FRIENDS;
OR, “WILL IS MIGHT.”

“It is really very unfortunate, that forgery of Mr. Grant’s. I don’t see what will become of Emma. I presume she won’t think of holding up her head after it. I dare say she will expect to be on the same terms with her friends as before,—but the thing is—”

“Quite impossible!” said the gay Mrs. Blair, arranging her ringlets; “the man has dragged his family down with him, and there’s no help for it that I can see.”

“He has no family but Emma,” said her friend, “and I suppose some benevolent soul will look after her; at any rate, it don’t concern us;” and the two friends (?) tied on their hats for a promenade.

Emma Grant was, in truth, almost broken-hearted at this sad faux pas of her father’s; but, with the limited knowledge of human nature gleaned from the experience of a sunny life of eighteen happy years, she doubted not the willingness of old friends to assist her in her determination to become a teacher. To one after another of these summer friends she applied for patronage. Some “could n’t in conscience recommend the daughter of a

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defaulter;” some, less free-spoken, went on the non-committal system—“would think of it and let her know,”—taking very good care not to specify any particular time for this good purpose; others, who did n’t want their consciences troubled by the sight of her, advised her, very disinterestedly, to “go back in the country somewhere, and occupy the independent position of making herself generally useful in some farmer’s family;” others, still, dodged the question by humbly recommending her to apply to persons of greater influence than themselves; and, one and all “wished her well, and hoped she’d succeed,”—thought it very praiseworthy that she should try to do something for herself, but seemed nervously anxious that it should be out of their latitude and longitude; and so, day after day, foot-sore and weary, Emma reached home, with a discouraged heart, and a sad conviction of the selfishness and hollow-heartedness of human nature.

In one of these discouraged moods she recollected her old friend, Mr. Bliss. How strange she should not have thought of him before! She had often hospitably entertained him, as she presided at her father’s table; he stood very high in repute as a pious man, and very benevolently inclined; he surely would befriend with his influence the child of his old, though fallen, friend. With renewed courage she tied on her little bonnet, and set out in search of him. She was fortunate in finding him in; but, ah! where was the old frank smile, and extended

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hand of friendship? Mr. Bliss might have been carved out of wood for any demonstration of either that she could see. A very stiff bow, and a nervous twitch of his waistband, was her only recognition. With difficulty she choked down the rebellious feelings that sent the flush to her cheek and the indignant tears to her eyes, as she recollected the many evenings he had received a warm welcome to their hospitable fireside, and timidly explained the purpose of her visit. Mr. Bliss, employing himself during this interval in the apparent arrangement of some business papers, with an air that said, “If you were not a woman I should n’t hesitate to show you the door in a civil way; but as it is, though I may listen, that’s all it will amount to.” Like many other persons in a like dilemma, he quietly made up his mind that if he could succeed in irritating her sufficiently to rouse her spirit, he would in all probability be sooner rid of her; so he remarked that it was “a very bad affair, that of her father’s; there could be but one opinion about its disgraceful and dishonorable nature; that, of course, she was n’t to blame for it, but she could n’t expect to keep her old position now; and that, in short, under the circumstances, he did n’t feel as if it would be well for him to interfere in her behalf at present. He had no doubt in time she might ‘live down’ her father’s disgrace;” and so he very comfortably seated himself in his leather-backed armchair, and took up a book.

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A deep red spot burned on Emma Gray’s cheek, as she retraced her steps. Her lithe form was drawn up to its full height; there was a fire in her eye, and a firmness and rapidity in her step, that betokened a new energy. She would not be crushed by such selfish cowardice and pusillanimity; she would succeed,—and unaided, too, save by her own invincible determination. It must be that she should triumph yet.

“Will is might,” said Emma, as she bent all her powers to the accomplishment of her purpose; and when was that motto ever known to fail, when accompanied by a spirit undiscouraged by obstacles?

It did not. True, Emma rose early, and sat up late; she lived on a mere crust; she was a stranger to luxury, and many times to necessary comforts. Her pillow was often wet with tears from over-tasked spirits and failing strength; the malicious sneer of the ill-judging, and the croaking prophecy of the ill-natured, fell upon her sensitive ear; old friends, who had eat and drank at her table, “passed by on the other side;” and there were the usual number of good, cautious, timid souls, who stood on the fence, ready to jump down when her position was certain, and she had placed herself beyond the need of their assistance! Foremost in this rank was the correct and proper Mr. Bliss, who soiled no pharisaical garment of his, by juxtaposition with any known sinner, or doubtful person.

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At the expiration of a year, Emma’s school contained pupils from the first families in the city, with whose whole education she was entrusted, and who, making it their home with her, received, out of school hours, the watchful care of a mother. It became increasingly popular, and Emma was able to command her own price for her services.

“Why don’t you send your daughter to my friend, Miss Grant?” said Mr. Bliss to Senator Hall; “she is a little protege of mine—nice young woman!—came to me at the commencement of her school for my patronage;—the consequence is, she has gone up like a sky-rocket. They call it the ‘Model School.’ ”

Condescending Mr. Bliss! It was a pity to take the nonsense out of him; but you should have seen the crestfallen expression of his whole outer man, as the elegant widower he addressed turn on him a look of withering contempt, saying,—“The young woman of whom you speak, sir, will be my wife before the expiration of another week; and, in her name and mine, I thank you for the very liberal patronage and the many encouragement you extended to her youth and helplessness in the hour of need.”

—

It is needless to add how many times, in the course of the following week, the inhabitants of ——, who had

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found it convenient, entirely to forget the existence of Miss Emma Grant, were heard to interlard their conversation with “My friend, Mrs. Senator Hall.”

Alas! poor human nature!

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“NIL DESPERANDUM.”

No, never! Every cloud has a silver lining; and He who wove it knows when to turn it out. So, after every night, however long or dark, there shall yet come a golden morning. Your noblest powers are never developed in prosperity. Any bark may glide in smooth water, with a favoring gale; but that is a brave, skilful oarsman who rows up stream, against the current, with adverse winds, and no cheering voice to wish him “God speed.” Keep your head above the wave; let neither sullen despair nor weak vacillation drag you under. Heed not the poisoned arrow of sneaking treachery that whizzes past you from the shore. Judas sold himself when he sold his Master; and for him there dawned no resurrection morning! ’Tis glorious to battle on with a brave heart, while cowering pusillanimity turns trembling back. Dream not of the word “surrender!” When one frail human reed after another breaks, or bends beneath you, lean on the “Rock of Ages.” The Great Architect passes you through the furnace but to purify. The fire may scorch, but it shall never consume you. He will yet label you “fine gold.” The narrow path may be thorny to your tender feet; but the “promised land”

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lies beyond! The clusters of Hope may be seen with the eye of faith; your hand shall yet grasp them; your eyes revel, from the mountain top, over the green pastures and still waters of peace. You shall yet unbuckle your dusty armor, while soft breezes shall fan your victor temples. Nil desperandum!—

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CECILE GREY.

“Alas for Love! if this be all,

And naught beyond; O earth!”

“ ’T is a girl, sir; my lady has a daughter.”

“Heaven be praised!” said the discontented father of six unruly boys. “Now I shall have something gentle to love. Small comfort to me, those boys; house topsy-turvy from morning till night, with their guns, fishing tackle, pointers, setters, hounds, spaniels and what not. Tom’s college bills perfectly ruinous—horses, oysters and cigars all lumped under the general head of et ceteras; I understand it all—or my purse does! But this little, gentle girl,—climbing upon my knee, making music and sunshine in the house, with her innocent face and silvery laugh,—this little, human blossom by life’s rough, thorny wayside, she’ll make amends. I’m not the happiest husband in the world; my heart shall find a resting-place here. She must be highly educated and accomplished. I shall spare no pains to effect that. Ah, I see, after all, I shall have a happy old age.”

Very lovely was the little Cecile. She had her mother’s soft hazel eye and waving auburn hair, and her

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father’s Grecian profile. There was a winning sweetness in her smile, and grace and poetry in every motion. It was a pretty sight, her golden tresses mingling with those silver locks, as she rested her bright head against the old man’s cheek. Even “the boys” could harbor no anger at her quiet reign. She wound herself quite as closely around their hearts. Then it was a new tie to bind the sundered husband and wife together. Something of the old, bygone tenderness crept unconsciously into their manner to each other. It was their idol; and they pressed her rapturously to the parental heart, forgetting she was but clay.

Tutors and governesses without limit went and came, before the important selection was made. Then, so many injunctions! She “must not study so much as to spoil her fine eyes;” she “must draw only a few minutes at a time, lest it should cause a stoop in her shoulders;” she “must not go out in the sun, for fear of injuring her complexion.” She was told, every hour in the day, of some rare perfection; now her attitude—then her eyes—then her shape; she “danced like a fairy”—“sang like a seraph”—in short, needed wings only, to make her an angel!

Every servant in the house knew that his or her fortune was made if Miss Cecile was pleased, and shaped their course accordingly. If “the boys” were doubtful of the success of a request, Cecile was employed secretly

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to negotiate. The reins of household government were in those little, fairy fingers.

No wonder the little Cecile thought herself omnipotent. No wonder she stood before her “Psyche,” arranging, with a maiden’s pride, those glossy ringlets. Small marvel that she saw with exultation those round, polished limbs, pearly teeth, and starry eyes, and tossed her bright curls in triumph, at the hearts that were already laid at her feet. Her mirror but silently repeated the voice of flattery that met her at every step. Cecile was beautiful! The temple was passing fair; but, ah! there rose from its altar no incense to Heaven. Those bright eyes opened and closed like the flowers, and like them drank in the dew and the sunlight, regardless of the Giver.

It was Cecile’s eighteenth birthday. The most expensive preparations had been made to celebrate it. She was to electrify the beau monde with her debut. A gossamer robe, fit for a Peri, silvery and light, floated soft as a fleecy cloud around those matchless limbs. Gems and jewels would have been out of place beside those starry eyes. Nature’s simplest offering, the drooping lily, blended with her tresses. The flush of youth and hope was on her cheek; her step was already on the threshold of that brilliant, untried world, which her beauty was to dazzle and conquer. Other sylph-like forms there were, and bright faces, that made sunlight in

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happy homes; but the peerless Cecile quenched their beams on that happy birth-night.

The proud father looked on exultingly. “Beautiful as a dream!” echoed from one end of the saloon to the other. His eye followed her, noted every glance of admiration, and then he said to himself, “The idol is mine.” Say you so, fond father? See, her head droops heavily,—her limbs relax,—she has fainted! They gather round her,—they bathe her pale face and powerless hands; then they bear her to her dressing-room, and she lies on that silken couch, like some rare piece of sculpture. The revellers disperse; the garlands droop; darkness and silence reign where merry feet tripped lightly. The physician sits by the bedside of his fair patient, and, with mistaken kindness, he says to the frantic parents, “She will be easier soon,—she will be free from pain tomorrow;” and then he leaves her with the anxious watchers.

Morning dawned. Yes, Cecile was “better,”—so her father said; and she sat up, and put her fair arms about his neck, and called him “her own dear father!” and he smiled through his tears, and parted the bright, damp locks from her brow, and said “she should have another ball, gayer than the last, and look lovelier than ever;” and then her mother laid a bandeau of pearls across her pale forehead, and said, “they became her passing well.” Cecile smiled faintly when she replaced them in their

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case, and then her mother came back again to the bedside. Ah! what fearful shadow, in that momentary interval, had crept over that sweet face? “Cecile! Cecile!” said the bewildered woman, shivering with an indefinable terror; “speak to me, Cecile! what is it?”

“Am I dying, mother?—O, mother! you never taught me how to die!”

—

In the still gray dawn, at sultry noon, in the hushed and starry night, long after that bright young head was covered with the violets, rang that plaintive, reproachful voice in the parental ear, “You never taught me how to die!”

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CHILDHOOD’S TRUST

“ ‘I asked God to take care of Johnny, and then I went to sleep,’ said a little boy, giving an account of his wandering in the wood.”

How sublime! how touching! Holy childhood! Let me sit at thy feet and learn of thee. How dost thou rebuke me, with thy simple faith and earnest love! O, earth! what dost thou give us in exchange for its loss?—Rainbows, that melt as we gaze; bubbles that burst as we grasp; dew-drops, that exhale as our eye catches their sparkle. The warm heart, chilled by selfishness, fenced in by doubts, and thrown back upon itself. Eye, lip and brow, trained to tell no tale at the portal, of what passes within the temple. Tears, locked in their fountain, save when our own household gods are shivered. The great strife, not which shall “love most,” but “which shall be the greater;” and aching hearts the stepping-stones to wealth and power. Immortal, yet earth-wedded! Playing with shells upon the shore of time, with the broad ocean of eternity before us. Careful and troubled about trifles, forgetting to “ask God to take care of Johnny,”—and so, the long night of death comes on, and we sleep our last sleep!

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ELISE DE VAUX.

“Well, doctor, what do you think of her? She has set her heart upon going to that New-Year’s ball, and it will never do to disappoint her,—poor thing!”

The blunt old doctor bit his lip impatiently, and, striking his gold-headed cane in no very gentle manner upon the floor, said: “ ‘Think!’ I think it would be perfect insanity for her to attempt it. I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

“Pshaw! my dear sir; she has had a dozen attacks before, quite as bad, and—”

“And that is the very reason she should be more cautious now, madam. Good morning—good morning!—Heaven save me from these fashionable mother!” he muttered, as he banged the door to behind him. “She’ll kill the girl, and then her death will be laid at my door—ugh! It would be a comfort if one could meet a sensible woman, occasionally.”

Elise was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows, when her mother entered. If youth, grace and beauty, could bribe the destroyer, or turn aside his unerring aim, then had she been spared. Her cheek was marble pale, and rested wearily on one little hand; the eyes were closed

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as if sleeping, and from the other hand a few choice flowers had escaped, and lay scattered upon the snowy counterpane.

“O, is that you, mamma? I hope you will have made that stupid doctor give you something that will set me up. I feel such a deadly sinking, from want of nourishment, I fancy. Do pray see what you can get for me. I hope Dr. Wynn did n’t presume to interfere about my going to the ball; because I intend to go, dead or alive; and, mamma, while my lunch is getting ready, just bring me my dress, and let me see if Jeannet has placed the trimmings where they should be; and have a ruche placed around the wrist of my kid gloves; and, mamma, don’t forget to send Tom to Anster’s for that pearl spray I selected for my hair; and, by the way, just hand me that mirror,—I am afraid I’m looking awfully pale.”

“Not now,” said the frightened mother; “you are too weary. Wait till you have had some refreshment;” and the pale beauty sank back on her pillow, crushing a wealth of dark ringlets, and closed her eyes wearily, in spite of her determination to be well.

A ring at the door. A bright flush came to her cheek. “That’s Vivian, mamma. Tell him—tell him”—and a sharp pain through her temples forced her to pause—“tell him I’m better; and he may call for me at ten, tomorrow night; and, mamma, hand him this;” and

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she drew a little perfumed note from beneath her pillow, with a rosebud crushed in its folds.

“Draw aside the curtain, Jeannet. O, we shall have a nice evening for the dance! Now hand me my dressing-gown. Mamma, that medicine is perfectly miraculous; I never felt better. Heaven knows where I should have been, had you not called in a better counsellor than Dr. Wynn. He would like me for a patient a year, I dare say; but I knew better than to line his pockets that way;” and she skipped gayly across the floor to a large fauteuil, and called Jeannet to arrange her hair.

“Softly, softly, Jeannet! My head is n’t quite right, yet. There, that will do,” said Elise, as the skilful French woman bound tress after tress in complicated glossy braids around her well-formed head. “Now place that pearl spray a little to the left, just over my ear. Pretty, is it not mamma?”

“Here, Jeannet!” and she extended the dainty foot for its silken hose and satin slipper.

“Rest awhile, now, Elise,” said her mother, as she looked apprehensively at the bright crimson spot on her cheek, that grew deeper every moment, and contrasted so strikingly with the marble paleness of her brow. “I’m afraid you are going beyond your strength.”

“Mamma, what are you thinking about? Look at me, and see how well I look! Besides, I’d go to this ball, to-night, if it cost me my life. Mabel has triumphed

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over me once; she shall not do it a second time. Besides, there is really no danger. I feel wild with spirits, to-night, and anticipate a most brilliant evening;” and she clasped the pearl pendants in her small ears; and the light, fleecy dress fell in soft folds about her graceful person, and upon her fair arm she placed his gift; and, taking in her hand the rich bouquet, every flower of which whispered hope to her young heart, she held up her cheek with a bewitching smile, and said: “Now kiss me, mamma, and say that you are proud of Elise.”

And now Jeannet, with officious care, draws the rich opera cloak about her shoulders, and with a thousand charges from mamma, “to beware of the draughts, partake sparingly of ice, and not fatigue herself with dancing,” the carriage wheels roll away from the door, freighted with their lovely burden.

“Elise de Vaux, here!” said a tall, queenly girl, attired in black velvet; and she curled her pretty lip with ill-concealed vexation. “I thought her dying, or near it.” And, as Elise glided gracefully past in the dance, every eye following her, and every tongue eloquent in her praise, Mabel’s cheek paled with anger.

“How radiant she is!—how dazzling! Sickness has but enhanced her beauty,—and how proudly Vivian bears her through the waltz! Every step they take is on my heart-strings. This must not,—shall not be! Courage, coward heart!”—and, mastering her feelings

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with a strong effort, she joined the dancers. Excitement and exercise soon brought the rose to her cheek; her eyes grew wildly brilliant, and, had Vivian not been magnetized past recall, his eye would have been caught by the dazzling vision.

All eyes were fixed upon the rival belles; and, amid the voluptuous swell of music, the flashing of lights, the overpowering sweetness of myriad flowers, and the rapid, whirling motion of the dance, every brain and heart were dizzy with excitement.

“Heavens! that is not Elise de Vaux,” said a nephew of Dr. Wynn’s. “What mad folly! My uncle told me, if she came, it would be at the price of her life. How surpassingly beautiful she is!”

Still on, on they whirled—the dancers—till the stars grew pale, and the sweet flowers drooped in the heated atmosphere.

“No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,

To chase the glowing hours, with flying feet”

“What unearthly beauty!” said an old gentleman to a young man, upon whose arm he was leaning, as Elise glided past. “Who is she?”

“Elise de Vaux,” said the young man, mechanically, his eyes riveted to her figure.

“Do you know what you are saying?” said he, tapping him gently on the arm.

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“Yes. Elise de Vaux.”

“Well, why do you look at her so wildly? Has Cupid aimed a dart at you, from out those blue eyes?”

“Good God!” said the young man, leaping forward, as a piercing shriek came upon the air. “Make room!—help!—throw up the windows!” and Elise was borne past, gasping, senseless, to the cool night air.

Ay, Vivian! Kneel at her side, chafe the little jewelled hands, put back the soft hair from the azure-veined temples, press the pulseless wrist, listen for the beating heart,—in vain! Elise is dead!

And in the arms of him, for whom she had thrown away her young life, she was borne to her home;—the diamond sparkled mockingly on the clay-cold finger; the pearls still lingering amid her soft ringlets; the round, symmetrical limbs still fair in their beautiful proportions. The heart she coveted was gained,—the dear-bought victory was won.

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THE WAIL OF A BROKEN HEART.

“ ’T is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”

O, no; no!—else you have never passed from the shield of a broad, true breast, where for long years you had been lovingly folded, to a widow’s weeds, and the rude jostling, and curious gaze, of the heartless crowd!—never knew long, wretched days, that seemed to have no end,—never turned, with a stifled sob, from the clasp of loving little arms, and the uplifted gaze of an eye upon whose counterpart you had watched the death-film gather,—never saw that sunny little face overshadowed with grief, when other children gleefully called “Papa!” nor ever heard the wail of a little one, who might never remember its father’s face!—

No! no!—or you have never turned shudderingly away, in the crowded street, from the outline of a form, or the cast of a face, or the tone of a voice, that brought the dead mockingly before you!—never lain upon a sick bed, among careless strangers, lacking comforts where luxury once abounded, and listening in vain for that footfall, whose lightest tread could charm your pain away!—never draped from your aching sight the

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picture lineaments, that quickened busy and torturing memory, till your heart was breaking!—never waked from a dream of Paradise, to weep unavailing, bitter tears at the sad reality!—and never—alas!—bent your rebellious knee at God’s altar, when your tongue was dumb, to praise Him, and your lips refused to kiss the Smiter’s rod!

O, no; no! better never to have loved!—Tenfold more gloomy is the murky day, whose sunny morning was ushered in with dazzling, golden brightness! Agonizing is the death-struggle of the shipwrecked mariner who perishes in sight of shore and home! Harshly fall careless words upon the ear trained to the music of a loving voice. Wearily stumble the tender feet unguarded by love’s watchful eye! O, no; no! better never to have loved!—He, whose first breath was drawn in a dungeon, never pines for green fields, and blue skies, and a freer air!—God pity the desolate, loving heart, the only star of whose sky has gone out in utter darkness!

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MARY LEE.

“Percy, dear Percy, take back those bitter words! As Heaven is my witness, they are undeserved by me. See, my eye quails not beneath yours; my cheek blanches not. I stand before you, at this moment, with every vow I made you at the altar unbroken, in letter and spirit;” and she drew closer to him, and laid her delicate hand upon his broad breast. “Wrong me not, Percy, even in thought.”

The stern man hesitated. Had he not wilfully blinded himself, he had read truth and honor in the depths of the clear blue eyes that looked so unflinchingly into his own. For a moment, their expression overcame him; then, dashing aside the slender fingers that rested upon him, he left her with a muttered oath.

Mary Lee had the misfortune to be very pretty, and the still greater misfortune to marry a jealous husband. Possessing a quick and ready wit, and great conversational powers, a less moderate share of personal charms would have made her society eagerly sought for.

As soon as her eyes were opened to the defect alluded to in her husband’s character, she set herself studiously to avoid the shoals and quicksands that lay in the matri-

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monial sea. One by one, she quietly dropped the acquaintance of gentlemen, who, from their attractiveness or preference for her society, seemed obnoxious to Percy.

Mary was no coquette. Nature had given her a heart; and superior as she was to her husband, she really loved him. To most women, his exacting unreasonableness would only have stimulated to a finished display of coquetry; but Mary, gentle and yielding, made no show of opposition to the most absurd requirements. But all these sacrifices had been unavailing to propitiate the fiend of jealousy;—and there she sat, an hour after her husband had left her, with her hands pressed tightly together, pale and tearless, striving, in vain, to recall any cause of offence.

Hour after hour passed by, and still he came not. The heavy tramp of feet had long since ceased beneath the window; the pulse of the great city was still; silence and darkness brooded over its slumbering thousands. Mary could endure it no longer. Rising, and putting aside the curtain, she pressed her face close against the window-pane, as if her straining eye could pierce the gloom of midnight. She hears a step! it is his!

Trembling, she sank upon the sofa to await his coming, and nerve himself to bear his bitter harshness.

Percy came gayly up to her and kissed her forehead! Mary passed her hand over her eyes and looked at him

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again. No! he was not exhilarated with wine. What could have caused this sudden revulsion of feeling? Single-hearted and sincere herself, she never dreamed of treachery.

“Percy regrets his injustice,” she said to herself. “Men are rarely magnanimous enough to own they have been in the wrong;” and, with the generosity of a noble heart, she resolved never to remind him, by speech or look, that his words had been like poisoned arrows to her spirit.

The following day, Percy proposed their taking “a short trip into a neighboring town,” and Mary, glad to convince him how truly she forgave him, readily complied. It was a lovely day in spring, and the fresh air and sweet-scented blossoms might have sent a thrill of pleasure to sadder hearts than theirs.

“What a pretty place!” said Mary. “What a spacious house, and how tastefully the grounds are laid out! Do you stop here?” she continued, as her husband reined the horse into the avenue.

“A few moments. I have business here,” replied Percy, slightly averting his face, “and you had better alight too, for the horse is restive and may trouble you.”

Mary sprang lightly from the vehicle and ascended the capacious stone steps. They were met at the door by a respectable gray-haired porter, who ushered them into a receiving room. Very soon, a little, sallow-faced man,

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bearing a strong resemblance to a withered orange, made his appearance, and casting a glance upon Mary, from his little twinkling black eyes, that made the blood mount to her cheeks, made an apology for withdrawing her husband for a few minutes, “on business,” to an adjoining room.

As they left, a respectable, middle-aged woman entered, and invited Mary to take off her hat. She declined, saying, “she was to leave with her husband in a few minutes.”

The old woman then jingled a small bell, and another matron entered.

“Better not use force,” said she, in a whisper. “Poor thing! So pretty, too! She don’t look as though she’d wear a ‘strait-jacket.’ ”

The truth flashed upon Mary at once! She was in a Lunatic Hospital! Faint with terror, she demanded to see her husband,—assured them she was perfectly sane; to all of which they smiled quietly, with an air that said “We are used to such things here.”

By and by, the little wizen-faced doctor came in, and, listening to her eloquent appeal with an abstracted air, as one would tolerate the prattle of a petted child, he examined her pulse, and motioned the attendants to “wait upon her to her room.” Exhausted with the tumult of feeling she had passed through, she followed without a show of resistance; but who shall describe the death-chill

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that struck to her heart as she entered it? There was a bed of snowy whiteness, a table, a chair, all scrupulously neat and clean; but the breath of the sweet-scented blossoms came in through a grated window!

Some refreshment was brought her, of which she refused to partake. She could not even weep; her eyes seemed turned to stone. She could hear the maniac laughter of her fellow-prisoners,—she could see some of the most harmless marching in gloomy file through the grounds, with their watchful body-guard.

Poor Mary! She felt a stifled, choking sensation in her throat, as if the air she breathed were poison; and, with her nervous, excitable temperament, God knows the chance she stood to become what they really thought her. To all her eager inquiries she received only evasive answers; or else the subject was skilfully and summarily dismissed to make place for one in which she had no interest.

Little Dr. Van Brunt daily examined her pulse, and “hoped she was improving”—or, if she was n’t, it was his interest to issue a bulletin to that effect, and all “company” was vetoed as “exciting and injurious to the patient.” And so day after day, night after night, dragged slowly along. And Percy, with the meanness of a revengeful spirit, was “biding his time,” till the punishment should be sufficiently salutary to warrant his recalling her home. But while he was

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quietly waiting the accomplishment of his purpose, the friend of the weary came to her relief.

“Leave me, please, will you?” said Mary to the nurse, as she turned her cheek to the pillow, like a tired child. “I want to be alone.”

The old woman took her sewing and seated herself just outside the door, thinking she might wish to sleep. In a few moments she peeped cautiously through the open door. Mrs. Percy still lay there, in the same position, with her cheek nestling in the palm of her little hand.

“She sleeps sweetly,” she muttered to herself as she resumed her work.

Yes, Dame Ursula, but it is the “sleep” from which only the trump of the archangel shall wake her!

Mary’s secret died with her, and the remorse that is busy at the heart of Percy is known only to his Maker.

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A TALK ABOUT BABIES.

“Baby carts on narrow sidewalks are awful bores, especially to a hurried business man.”

Are they? Suppose you, and a certain pair of blue eyes, that you would give half your patrimony to win, were joint proprietors of that baby! I should n’t dare to stand very near you, and call it a “nuisance.” It’s all very well for bachelors to turn up their single-blessed noses at these little dimpled Cupids; but just wait till their time comes! See them the minute their name is written “Papa,” pull up their dickeys, and strut off down street, as if the Commonwealth owed them a pension! When they enter the office, see their old married partner—to whom babies have long since ceased to be a novelty—laugh in his sleeve at the new-fledged dignity with which that baby’s advent is announced! How perfectly astonished they feel that they should have been so infatuated as not to perceive that a man is a perfect cipher till he is at the head of a family! How frequently one may see them now, looking in at the shop windows, with intense interest, at little hats, coral and bells, and baby-jumpers! How they love to come home to dinner, and press that little velvet cheek to their

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business faces? Was ever any music half so sweet to their ear, as its first lisped “Papa”? O, how closely and imperceptibly, one by one, that little plant winds its tendrils round the parent stem! How anxiously they hang over its cradle when the cheek flushes, and the lip is fever-parched; and how wide, and deep, and long a shadow, in their happy homes, its little grave would cast!

My dear sir, depend upon it, one’s own baby is never “a nuisance.” Love heralds its birth!

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ELSIE’S FIRST TRIAL.

Five happy years had Elsie Lee slept on her husband’s bosom. False prophets were they, who shook their heads at her bridal, and said she would rue the day she wedded Harry Lee;—that he was “unsteady, impulsive and fickle.”

She knew it was true, as they said, that he had loved unhappily before she met him; but the bright vision that had bewildered him was far beyond the seas;—she might never cross his path again. Be that as it may, Elsie was not the woman to cloud the sunshine of the present with dim forebodings, or question the past of the history of a heart now so loyal to her.

They were not rich; but light hearts seldom keep company with heavy coffers; and Elsie’s fairy hand had made their small house better worth the seeing, than many a gorgeous drawing-room with its upholstery show. And for sculpture, she could show you a little dimpled fairy, whose golden head was nightly pillowed on her breast, and whose match it were hard to find in any artist’s studio in the land. Yes, with Harry by her side and her babe upon her knee, Elsie defied the world. Kings and

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queens might lord it where they liked,—her reign was absolute in her own little kingdom.

—

“So you are married and settled since I went abroad,” said Vincent to Harry;—“have a nice little wife, so I hear;—‘sown all your wild oats,’ and made up your mind to be virtuous. Now, I shan’t come to witness your felicity, for two reasons. Firstly, if your wife is n’t pretty, I don’t want to see her. I think it every ugly woman’s pious duty to make way with herself! Secondly, if she is handsome, I should make love to her, spite fate or you; for I’m neither a ‘non-resistant’ nor a ‘perfectionist,’ as you very well know. And, thirdly, to sum up all I have to say, your old ideal, Miss ——, returned in the steamer with me, lovely as a Peri. She inquired about you; and, if your little wife will allow you,”—and a slight sneer curled his handsome lip,—“I’d advise you to call on her; but, prenez garde, Harry, I defy any man to withstand her witchery. I’m an old stager myself, but she plays the very mischief with my petrified heart, for all that.”

“If his little wife would let him!” It rang in Harry’s ear all the way home. Vincent thought him already in leading-strings. That would never do!—and so he persuaded himself this was the reason he intended calling on the fair Marion,—just to show Vincent how angelic Elsie

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was, and how far above such a petty feeling as jealousy. And then his imagination wandered by to bygone days, when a radiant smile of Marion’s, a flower she had worn in her hair, a touch of her small hand, was worth all the mines of Peru to him.

“Pshaw! how foolish!—and I a married man!”—and he stepped off briskly, as if in that way he could rid himself of such foolish thoughts.

Elsie met him at the door, fresh and sweet as a daisy.

“You are not well, Harry,” she said, as she marked his heightened color; “you’ve been annoyed with business.”

“Not a bit,” said he, patting her on the cheek, and tossing up his child. “Not a bit; and now let’s have dinner, for I’ve a business engagement at four.”

How absent he was!—how abstracted!—he seemed to eat just for the form of the thing, although she had been all the morning preparing his favorite dish. “Never mind,” said the gentle little wife to herself; “he has some business perplexity that he is too thoughtful to annoy me with;” and she passed her hand caressingly over his forehead, as if to assure him silently of her sympathy.

“Elsie,” said he, with a slight heart-twinge, “you have heard me speak of Marion Ruthven? Vincent says she has returned with him in the steamer, and as she is a

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stranger in the city, I feel as if I must call on her. She leaves soon for her brother’s house in New York.”

Elsie’s heart throbbed quickly, but she bent her graceful head very closely over the little frock she was embroidering, so that Harry could not see the expression of her face, and said, in her usual tone, “Don’t apologize to me, dear Harry, if you wish to go.”

“Like yourself, dear Elsie!” said he, kissing her cheek. And in half an hour afterwards he emerged from his dressing-room, where he had made himself very unnecessarily handsome, by a most careful toilette.

Elsie complimented him on his appearance, and gave him her usual warm-hearted kiss as he left; and Harry said to himself, as he went down the street, “How glad I am she is not jealous! Some women would have made quite a scene.”

Short-sighted Harry!—look back into that little room. The frock has fallen from her fingers, and tears are falling fast upon it. Now she paces the floor. What! she jealous of Harry? O, no, no!—but the bright, dazzling Marion!—so talented, so gifted, so fascinating! If Harry’s old penchant for her should return! O! what had she to oppose to all her witchery! Only a sweet, childish face, and a heart whose every pulsation was love, love for him who had won it. O, why did she ever come back? Such a happy dream as her wedded life had been, thus far!

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O, how slowly the hours passed, as she gave herself up to this voluntary self-torture! Harry must not see her thus—no. She rose and bathed her eyes, and tried to busy herself with her accustomed occupations, and so far succeeded, that when he sat opposite her at the tea-table, that evening, he was quite convinced that he could repeat his call without giving his little wife a single heart-pang. Poor little, proud Elsie!—he did n’t know how you longed to throw your arms about his neck, and say, “O, never look on those bright eyes again, dear Harry! Be mine—mine only!”

No, he did n’t know that! The spell had begun to work,—he was blinded! Elsie hoped the fair enchantress would soon leave; but it was not so, and Harry became more abstracted every day, although his manner still continued kind as usual.

Elsie’s heart could not be deceived. It was not “business” that kept him so often from his hearth-stone. No, she had twice, thrice, heard him murmur the bright stranger’s name in his dreams. But no word fell from her lips to remind him of all this heart-wandering. She was more studious than ever for his comfort. She never upbraided, never questioned. He went and came, as he liked. Still it was telling fast, this secret sorrow, upon the patient little wife. There was a pallor on her cheek that told its own story,—or would have done so, to eyes less blinded than Harry’s.

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Our sorrows are so lightened by sympathy; but the grief that may not be spoken,—the weight of trouble that slender shoulders must bend under alone,—who shall know, save those who have borne it?

Elsie was alone in her dressing-room, where she had sat for hours, motionless. A sudden thought seemed to inspire her. She started up, bathed her pale face, smoothed her sunny ringlets, and arrayed herself with more than usual care.

“That will be better,” she murmured to herself, as she passed through the busy street to lady Marion’s dwelling.

“I do not recollect,” said Marion, with a graceful courtesy, and blushing slightly, as Elsie entered.

“I am a stranger to you,” said Elsie, her silvery voice tremulous with agitation; and, as her eye glanced over Marion’s full, round figure, with its queenly grace of motion, and noted her large, bright eyes, and raven hair, and snowy shoulders, she marvelled not at the spell! “I am Harry Lee’s wife,” said Elsie. “O, lady Marion! of all the hearts your beauty wins, only one I claim! For God’s sake, do not wrest it from me! Earth would be so dark to me without my husband’s love!” and her tears fell fast upon the fair stranger’s hand.

“As God is my witness, never!” said the impulsive woman, touched with her sweet confidence. “I will

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never see him again;” and she drew her to her side with a sister’s fondness.

“God bless you!” said the happy Elsie. “And you will keep my secret!”

“Elsie, ’t is very odd you were never the least bit jealous of my old friend Marion,” said Harry, a few days after the above occurrence. “Very shabby of her, don’t you think so, to leave town without even saying good-by to me? N’importe; my little wife is worth a dozen of her;” and Harry kissed her cheek fondly.

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A NIGHT-WATCH WITH A DEAD INFANT.

Moorest thou thy bark so soon little voyager? Through those infant eyes, with a prophet’s vision, sawest thou life’s great battle-field, swarming with fierce combatants? Fell upon thy timid ear the far-off din of its angry strife? Drooped thy head wearily on the bosom of the Sinless, fearful of earth taint? Fluttered thy wings impatiently against the bars of thy prison-house, sweet bird of Paradise?

God speed thy flight! No unerring sportsman shall have power to ruffle thy spread pinions, or maim thy soaring wing. No sheltering nest had earth for thee, where the chill wind of sorrow might not blow! No garden of Eden, where the serpent lay not coiled beneath the flowers! No “Tree of Life,” whose branches might have sheltered thee for aye!

Warm fall the sunlight on thy grassy pillow, sweet human blossom! Softly fall the night dews on the blue-eyed violet above thee! Side by side with thee are hearts that have long since ceased hoping, or aching. There lies the betrothed maiden, in her unappropriated loveliness; the bride, with her head pillowed on golden

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tresses, whose rare beauty even the Great Spoiler seemed loth to touch; childhood, but yesterday warm and rosy on its mother’s breast; the loving wife and mother, in life’s sweet prime; the gray-haired pastor, gone to his reward; the youth of crisped locks and brow unfurrowed by care; the heart-broken widow, and tearful orphan,—all await with folded hands, closed eyes, and silent lips, alike with thee, the resurrection morn.

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p. 100

A PRACTICAL BLUE-STOCKING.

“Have you called on your old friend, James Lee, since your return?” said Mr. Seldon to his nephew.

“No, sir; I understand he has the misfortune to have a blue-stocking for a wife, and whenever I have thought of going there, a vision with inky fingers, frowzled hair, rumpled dress, and slip-shod heels has come between me and my old friend,—not to mention thoughts of a disorderly house, smoky puddings, and dirty-faced children. Defend me from a wife who spends her time dabbling in ink, and writing for the papers. I’ll lay a wager James has n’t a shirt with a button on it, or a pair of stockings that is not full of holes. Such a glorious fellow as he used to be, too!” said Harry soliloquizingly, “so dependent upon somebody to love him. By Jove, it’s a hard case.”

“Harry, will you oblige me by calling there?” said Mr. Seldon with a peculiar smile.

“Well, yes, if you desire it; but these married men get so metamorphosed by their wives, that it’s a chance if I recognize the melancholy remains of my old friend. A literary life!” and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

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At one o’clock the next afternoon, Harry might have been seen ringing the bell of James Lee’s door. He had a very ungracious look upon his face, as much as to say,—“My mind is made up for the worst, and I must bear it for Jemmy’s sake.”

The servant ushered him into a pretty little sitting-room, not expensively furnished, but neat and tasteful. At the further end of the room were some flowering plants, among which a sweet-voiced canary was singing. Harry glanced round the room; a little light-stand or Chinese table stood in the corner, with pen, ink, and papers scattered over it.

“I knew it,” said Harry; “there’s the sign! horror of horrors! an untidy, slatternly blue-stocking! how I shall be disgusted with her! Jemmy’s to be pitied.”

He took up a book that lay upon the table, and a little manuscript copy of verses fell from between the leaves. He dropped the book as if he had been poisoned; then picking up the fallen manuscript with his thumb and forefinger, he replaced it with an impatient pshaw! Then he glanced round the room again,—no! there was not a particle of dust to be seen, even by his prejudiced eyes; the windows were transparently clean; the hearth-rug was longitudinally and mathematically laid down; the pictures hung “plumb” upon the wall; the curtains were fresh and gracefully looped; and, what was a greater marvel, there was a child’s dress half finished in a dainty

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little work-basket, and a thimble of fairy dimensions in the immediate neighborhood thereof. Harry felt a perverse inclination to examine the stitches, but at the sound of approaching footsteps he braced himself up to undergo his mental shower-bath.

A little lady tripped lightly into the room, and stood smilingly before him; her glossy black hair was combed smoothly behind her ears, and knotted upon the back of a remarkably well-shaped head; her eyes were black and sparkling, and full of mirth; her dress fitted charmingly to a very charming little figure; her feet were unexceptionably small, and neatly gaitered; the snowy fingers of her little hand had not the slightest “soupcon” of ink upon them, as she extended them in token of welcome to her guest.

Harry felt very much like a culprit, and greatly inclined to drop on one knee, and make a clean breast of a confession, but his evil bachelor spirit whispered in his ear,—“Wait a bit, she’s fixed up for company; cloven foot will peep out by and by!”

Well, they sat down! The lady knew enough,—he heard that before he came;—he only prayed that he might not be bored with her book-learning, or blue-stockingism. It is hardly etiquette to report private conversations for the papers,—so I will only say that when James Lee came home, two hours after, he found his old friend Harry in the finest possible spirits, tête-a-tête with his “blue”

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wife. An invitation to dinner followed. Harry demurred,—he had begun to look at the little lady through a very bewitching pair of spectacles, and he hated to be disenchanted,—and a blue-stocking dinner!

However, his objections, silent though they were, were over-ruled. There was no fault to be found with that table-cloth, or those snowy napkins; the glasses were clean, the silver bright as my lady’s eyes; the meats cooked to a turn, the gravies and sauces perfect, and the dessert well got up and delicious. Mrs. Lee presided with ease and elegance; the custards and preserves were of her own manufacture, and the little prattler, who was introduced with them, fresh from her nursery bath, with moist ringlets snowy robe, and dimpled shoulders, looked charmingly well cared for.

As soon as the two gentlemen were alone, Harry seized his friend’s hand, saying, with a half smile, “James, I feel like an unmitigated scoundrel! I have heard your wife spoken of as a ‘blue-stocking,’ and I came here prepared to pity you as the victim of an unshared heart, slatternly house, and indigestible cooking; but may I die an old bachelor if I don’t wish that woman, who has just gone out, was my wife.”

James Lee’s eyes moistened with gratified pride. “You don’t know half,” said he. “Listen;—some four years since I became involved in business; at the same time my health failed me; my spirits were broken, and I was get-

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ting a discouraged man. Emma, unknown to me, made application as a writer to several papers and magazines. She soon became very popular; and not long after placed in my hands the sum of three hundred dollars, the product of her labor. During this time, no parental or household duty was neglected; and her cheerful and steady affection raised my drooping spirits, and gave me fresh courage to commence the world anew. She still continues to write, although, as you see, my head is above water. Thanks to her as my guardian angel, for she says, ‘We must lay up something for a rainy day.’ God bless her sunshiny face!”

The entrance of Emma put a stop to any further eulogy, and Harry took his leave in a very indescribable and penitential frame of mind, doing ample penance for his former unbelieving scruples, by being very uncomfortably in love with a “Blue-Stocking.”

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a woman accosts a ragged little girl

THE LITTLE PAUPER.

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THE LITTLE PAUPER.

It is only a little pauper. Never mind her. You see she knows her place and keeps close to the wall, as if she expected an oath or a blow. The cold winds are making merry with those thin rags. You see nothing of childhood’s rounded symmetry in those shrunken limbs and pinches features. Push her one side,—she’s used to it,—she won’t complain; she can’t remember that she ever heard a kind word in her life. She’d think you were mocking if you tried it.

She passes into the warm kitchen, savory with odorous dainties, and is ordered out with a threat by the portly cook. In the shop windows she sees nice fresh loaves of bread, and tempting little cakes. Rosy little children pass her on their way to school, well-fed, well-clad and joyous, with a mother’s parting kiss yet warm on their sweet lips.

There seems to be happiness enough in the world, but it never comes to her. Her little basket is quite empty; and now, faint with hunger, she leans wearily against that shop window. There is a lovely lady, who has just passed in. She is buying cakes and bon-bons for her

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little girl, as if she had the purse of Fortunatus. How nice it must be to be warm, and have enough to eat! Poor Meta! She has tasted nothing since she was sent forth with a curse in the morning, to beg or steal; and the tears will come. There is happiness and plenty in the world, but none for Meta!

Not so fast, little one! Warm hearts beat sometimes under silk and velvet. That lady has caught sight of your little woe-begone face and shivering form. O, what if it were her child! And, obeying a sweet maternal impulse, she passes out the door, takes those little, benumbed fingers in her daintily gloved hands, and leads the child,—wondering, shy and bewildered,—into fairy land.

A delightful and novel sensation of warmth creeps over those frozen limbs; a faint color tinges the pale cheeks, and the eyes grow liquid and lovely, as Meta raises them thankfully to her benefactress. The lady’s little girl looks on with an innocent joy, and learns, for the first time, how “blessed are the merciful.”

And then Meta passes out, with a heavy basket, and a light heart. Surely the street has grown wider, and the sky brighter! This can scarcely be the same world! Meta’s form is erect now; her step light, as a child’s should be. The sunshine of human love has brightened her pathway! Ah, Meta!—earth is not all darkness—bright angels yet walk the earth. Sweet-voiced Pity

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and heaven-eyed Charity sometimes stoop to bless. God’s image is only marred, not destroyed. He who feeds the ravens, bends to listen. Look upward little Meta!

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EDITH MAY;
OR, THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME.

A lover’s quarrel! A few hasty words,—a formal parting between two hearts, that neither time nor distance could ever disunite,— then, a lifetime of misery!

Edith May stood before me in her bridal dress. The world was to be made to believe she was happy and heart-whole. I knew better. I knew that no woman, who had once loved Gilbert Ainslie, could ever forget him,—least of all, such a heart as Edith’s. She was pale as a snow-wreath, and bent her head gracefully as a water lily, in recognition of her numerous friends and admirers.

“What a sacrifice!” the latter murmured, between their set teeth! “What a sacrifice!” my heart echoed back.

Mr. Jefferson Jones was an ossified old bachelor. He had but one idea in his head, and that was, to make money. There was only one thing he understood equally well, and that was, to keep it. He was angular, prim, cold and precise; mean, grovelling, contemptible and cunning.

And Edith!—our peerless Edith, whose lovers were

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“legion,”—Edith, with her passionate heart, her beauty, grace, taste and refinement,—Edith, to vow “love and honor” to such a soulless block! It made me shudder to think of it! I felt as though his very gaze were profanation.

Well, the wedding was over; and she was duly installed mistress of Jefferson House. She had fine dresses, fine furniture, a fine equipage, and the stupidest possible incumbrance, in the shape of a husband.

Mr. Jefferson Jones was very proud of his bride;—firstly, because she added to his importance; secondly, because he plumed himself not a little in bearing off so dainty a prize. It gave him a malicious pleasure to meet her old admirers, with the graceful Edith upon his arm. Of course she preferred him to them all; else, why did she marry him?

Then, how deferential she was in her manner since their marriage; how very polite, and how careful to perform her duty to the letter! Mr. Jones decided, with his usual acumen, that there was no room for a doubt, on that point! He noticed, indeed, that her girlish gayety was gone; but that was a decided improvement, according to his view. She was Mrs. Jones now, and meant to keep all whiskered popinjays at a respectful distance,. He liked it!

And so, through those interminable evenings, Edith sat, playing long, stupid games of chess with him, or

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listening (?) to his gains or losses, in the way of trade; or reading political articles, of which the words conveyed no ideas to her absent mind.

She walked through the busy streets, leaning on his arm, with an unseen form ever at her side; and slept—God forgive her!—next his heart, when hers was far away! But when she was alone,—no human eye to read her sad secret, her small hands clasped in agony, and her fair head bent to the very dust,—was he now avenged?

—

It was a driving storm;—Mr. Jones concluded to dine at a restaurant instead of returning home. He had just seated himself, and given his orders to the obsequious waiter, when his attention was attracted by the conversation of two gentlemen near him.

“Have you see la belle Edith, since her marriage, Harry?”

“No; I feel too much vexed with her. Such a splendid specimen of flesh and blood to marry such an idiot! All for a foolish quarrel with Ainslie. You never saw such a wreck as it has made of him. However, she is well punished; for, with all her consummate tact and effort to keep up appearances, it is very plain that she is the most miserable woman in existence; as Mr. Jefferson Jones, whom I have never seen, might perceive,

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if he was n’t, as all the world says, the very prince of donkeys.”

Jones seized his hat, and rushed into the open air, tugging at his neck-tie as if he were choking. Six times he went, like a comet, round the square; then, settling his beaver down over his eyes, in a very prophetic manner, he turned his footsteps deliberately homeward. It was but the deceitful calm before the whirlwind!

He found Edith, clam, pale, and self-possessed, as usual. He was quite as much so himself,—even went so far as to compliment her on a coquettish little jacket that fitted her round figure very charmingly.

“I’m thinking of taking a short journey, Edith,” said he, seating himself by her side, and playing with the silken cord and tassels about her waist. “As it is wholly a business trip, it would hamper me to take you with me; but you’ll hear from me. Meanwhile, you know how to amuse yourself, hey, Edith?”

He looked searchingly in her face. There was no conscious blush, no change of expression, no tremor of the frame. He might as well have addressed a marble statue.

Mr. Jefferson Jones was posed! Well, he bade her one of his characteristic adieus; and when the door closed, Edith felt as if a mountain weight had been lifted off his heart. There was but one course for her to pursue. She knew it;—she had already marked it out.

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She would deny herself to all visitors,—she would not go abroad till her husband’s return. She was strong in her purpose. There should be no door left open for busy scandal to enter. Of Ainslie she knew nothing, save that a letter reached her from him after her marriage, which she had returned unopened.

And so she wandered restlessly through those splendid rooms, and tried, by this self-inflicted penance, to atone for the defection of her heart. Did she take her guitar, old songs they had sang together came unbidden to her lips;—that book, too, they had read. O, it was all misery, turn where she would!

Day after day passed by,—no letter form Mr. Jones! The time had already passed that was fixed upon for his return; and Edith, nervous from close confinement and the weary inward struggle, started like a frightened bird, at every footfall.

It came at last—the letter—sealed with black! “He had been accidentally drowned. His hat was found; all search for the body had been unavailing.”

Edith was no hypocrite. She could not mourn for him, save in the outward garb of woe; but now that he was dead, conscience did its office. She had not, in the eye of the world, been untrue; but there is an Eye that searches deeper!—that scans thoughts as well as actions.

Ainslie was just starting for the continent, by order of

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a physician, when the news reached him. A brief time he gave to decorum, and then they met. It is needless to say what that meeting was. Days and months of wretchedness were forgotten, like some dreadful dream. She was again his own Edith, sorrowing, repentant and happy.

They were sitting together one evening,—Edith’s head was upon his shoulder, and her face radiant as a seraph’s. They were speaking of their future home.

“Any spot on the wide earth but this, dear Ainslie. Take me away from these painful associations.”

“Say you so, pretty Edith?” said a well-known voice. “I but tried that faithful heart of yours, to prove it! Pity to turn such a pretty comedy into a tragedy; but I happen to be manager here, young man!” said Mr. Jones, turning fiercely toward the horror-struck Ainslie.

The revulsion was too dreadful. Edith survived but a week. Ainslie became hopelessly insane.

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MABEL’S SOLILOQUY.

“This is a heartless life to lead,” said Mabel Gray, as she unbanded her long hair, and laid aside her rich robe. “It is a life one might lead, were there no life beyond. When I left the heated ball-room to-night, the holy stars, keeping their tireless watch, sent a thrill through me;—and the little prayer I used to say at my dead mother’s knee came unbidden to my lip. There’s Letty, now;—she’s happier than her mistress. Come here, child;—unbraid my hair, and sing me that little Methodist hymn of yours,

‘Jesus, I my cross have taken.’

“That will do,—thank you, child,—now you may go. What a sweet voice she has! Either that, or my tears, have eased my heart. I’m too restless to sleep. How softly the moonlight falls to-night!—and years hence, when these myriad sleepers shall have sunk to their dreamless rest, earth will still be as fair, the silver moon will ride on as triumphantly. How many sad hearts she looks down upon to-night; and never a thanksgiving has gone up from my lips for countless blessings! Soft sleep with balmy touch has closed these thankless eyes; the

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warm, fresh blood of youth and health has flowed on, unchecked by disease. I have sat at the table of ‘Dives,’ while ‘Lazarus’ has starved at the gate. The gold and purple robe of sunset has been woven for me; the blue vault of heaven arched over my head; the ever-changing, fleecy cloud has gone drifting by; the warm sunlight has kissed open the flowers I love; the green moss has spread a carpet for my careless foot; and I have revelled in all this beauty and luxury—God forgive me!—unmindful of the Giver.”

Dear reader, shall it be only at “Bethesda’s Pool” that you seek your Benefactor? While your life-cup overflows with blessings, when the warm blood courses swiftly, shall there come no generous response to that still small voice, “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by?”

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HOW HUSBANDS MAY RULE.

“Dear Mary,” said Harry —— to his little wife, “I have a favor to ask of you. You have a friend whom I dislike very much, and who I am quite sure will make trouble between us. Will you give up Mrs. May for my sake, Mary?”

A slight shade of vexation crossed Mary’s pretty face, as she said, “You are unreasonable, Harry. She is lady-like, refined, intellectual, and fascinating, is she not?”

“Yes, all of that; and, for that very reason, her influence over one so yielding and impulsive as yourself is more to be dreaded, if unfavorable. I’m quite in earnest, Mary. I could wish never to see you together again.”

“Pshaw! dear Harry, that’s going too far. Don’t be disagreeable; let us talk of something else. As old Uncle Jeff says, ‘How’s trade?’ ” and she looked archly in his face.

Harry did n’t smile.

“Well,” said the little wife, turning away, and patting her foot nervously, “I don’t see how I can break with her, Harry, for a whim of yours; besides, I’ve promised to go there this very evening.”

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Harry made no reply, and in a few moments was on his way to his office.

Mary stood behind the curtain, and looked after him as he went down the street. There was an uncomfortable, stifling sensation in her throat, and something very like a tear glittering in her eye. Harry was vexed,—she was sure of that; he had gone off, for the first time since their marriage, without the affectionate good-by that was usual with him, even when they parted but for an hour or two. And so she wandered, restless and unhappy, into her little sleeping-room.

It was quite a little gem. There were statuettes, and pictures, and vases, all gifts from him either before or since their marriage; each one had a history of its own,—some tender association connected with Harry. There was a bouquet, still fresh and fragrant, that he had purchased on his way home, the day before, to gratify her passion for flowers. There was a choice edition of Poems they were reading together the night before, with Mary’s name written on the leaf, in Harry’s bold, handsome hand. Turn where she would, some proof of his devotion met her eye. But Mrs. May! She was so smart and satirical! She would make so much sport of her, for being “ruled” so by Harry! Had n’t she told him “all the men were tyrants,” and this was Harry’s first attempt to govern her. No, no, it would n’t do for her to yield.

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So the pretty evening dress was taken out; the trimmings readjusted, and remodelled, and all the little et ceteras of her toilette decided. Yes, she would go; she had quite made up her mind to that. Then she opened her jewel-case; a little note fell at her feet. She knew the contents very well. It was from Harry,—slipped slyly into her hand on her birthday, with that pretty bracelet. It could n’t do any harm to read it again. It was very lover-like for a year old husband; but she liked it! Dear Harry! and she folded it back, and sat down, more unhappy than ever, with her hands crossed in her lap, and her mind in a most pitiable state of irresolution.

Perhaps, after all, Harry was right about Mrs. May; and if he was n’t, one hair of his head was worth more to her than all the women in the world. He had never said one unkind word to her,—never! He had anticipated every wish. He had been so attentive and solicitous when she was ill. How could she grieve him?

Love conquered! The pretty robe was folded away, the jewels returned to their case, and, with a light heart, Mary sat down to await her husband’s return.

The lamps were not lit in the drawing-room, when Harry came up the street. She had gone, then!—after all he had said! He passed slowly through the hall, entered the dark and deserted room, and threw himself on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He was not angry, but he was grieved and disappointed. The first doubt that

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creeps over the mind, of the affection of the one we love, is so very painful.

“Dear Harry!” said a welcome voice at his side.

“God bless you, Mary?” said the happy husband; “you’ve saved me from a keen sorrow!”

Dear reader,—won’t you tell?—there are some husbands worth all the sacrifices a loving heart can make!

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LITTLE CHARLEY.

It is hard to lie upon a bed of sickness, even though that bed be of down. Nauseous, too, is the healing-draught, though sipped from a silver cup, held by a loving hand. Wearisome are the days and nights, even with the speaking eye of love over your pillow. But what if the hand of disease lie heavily on the poor? What if the “barrel of meal and cruse of oil” fail? What if emaciated limbs shiver under a tattered blanket? What if lips, parched with fever, mutely beg for a permitted but unattainable luxury? What if the tones of the voice be never modulated to the delicately sensitive ear? What if at every inlet of the soul come sights and sounds harsh and dissonant? Ah! who shall measure the sufferings of the sick poor?

Dear little Charley! you were as much out of place, in that low, dark, wretched room, as an angel could well be on earth. Meekly, in the footsteps of Him who loveth little children, were those tiny feet treading. Patiently, unmurmuringly, uncomplainingly, were those racking pains endured. A tear, a contraction of the brow, a slight, involuntary clasping of the attenuated fingers, were the

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only visible signs of agony. What a joy to sit beside him,—to take that little feverish hand in mine,—to smooth that rumpled pillow,—to part the tangled locks on that transparent forehead,—to learn of one, of whom the Saviour says, “Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!” But never did I bless God so fully, so gratefully, for the gift of song, as when, with that little, sensitive heart held close to mine, I made him forget his pain by some simple strain. I had sung for my own amusement; I had sung when dazzling lights, and fairy forms, and festal hours, were inspiration; but never with such a zest, and with such a thrill of happiness, as when, in that wretched room, I soothed the sufferings of “little Charley.” The garland-crowned prima donna, with half the world at her feet, might have envied me the tightened clasp of that little hand, the suffused, earnest gaze of that speaking eye, and that half-whispered, plaintive,—“One more! Charley is so happy now!”

Ay! Charley is happy now! Music, such as only the blessed hear, fills his soul with rapture. Never a discordant note comes from the harp swept by that cherub hand, while forever that majestic anthem rolls on, in which his infant voice is joining,—“Worthy the Lamb.”

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THE LOST AND THE LIVING

“The husband’s tears may be few and brief,

He may woo and win another;

But the daughter clings in unchanging grief

To the image of her mother!”

But a fleeting twelvemonth had passed since the heart, that for years had beat against his own, was forever stilled, when Walter Lee brought again a fair young creature to share his widowed home. Nor father nor mother, brother nor sister, claimed any part of the orphan heart that he coveted and won. No expense or pains had he spared to decorate the mansion for her reception. Old familiar objects fraught with tenderest associations, had been removed, to make way for the upholsterer’s choicest fancies. There was no picture left upon the wall, with sweet, sad, mournful eyes, to follow him with silent reproach. Everything was fresh and delightful as the newborn joy that filled his heart.

“My dear Edith,” said he, fondly pushing back the hair from her forehead, “there should be no shadow in your pathway, but I have tried in vain to induce Nelly to give you the welcome you deserve; however, she shall

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not annoy you. I shall compel her to stay in the nursery till she yields to my wishes.”

“O, no! don’t do that,” said the young stepmother, anxiously; “I think I understand her. Let me go to her, dear Walter;” and she tripped lightly out of the room.

Walter Lee looked after her retreating figure with a lover-like fondness. The room seemed to him to grow suddenly darker, when the door closed after her. Reaching out his hand, he almost unconsciously took up a book that lay near him. A slip of paper fluttered out from between the leaves, like a white-winged messenger. The joyous expression of his face faded into one of deep sorrow, as he read it. The hand-writing was his child’s mother’s. It ran thus:—

“O, to die, and be forgotten! This warm heart cold—these active limbs still—these lips dust! Suns to rise and set, flowers to bloom, the moon to silver leaf and tree around my own dear home,—the merry laugh, the pleasant circle, and I not there! The weeds choking the flowers at my headstone; the severed tress of sunny hair forgotten in its envelope; the sun of happiness so soon absorbing the dew-drop of sorrow! The cypress changed for the orange wreath! O, no, no; don’t quite forget! close your eyes sometimes, and bring before you the face that once made sunshine in your home! feel again the

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twining clasp of loving arms; the lips that told you—not in words—how dear you were. O, Walter, don’t quite forget! From Nelly’s clear eyes let her mother’s soul still speak to you.

Mary Lee.”

Warm tears fell upon the paper as Walter Lee folded it back. He gave himself time to rally, and then glided gently up to the nursery door. It was partially open. A little fairy creature of some five summers stood in the middle of the floor. Her tiny face was half hidden in sunny curls. Her little pinafore was full of toys, which she grasped tightly in either hand.

“No, you are not my mamma,” said the child. “I want my own, dead mamma, and I’m sorry papa brought you here.”

“O, don’t say that!” said the young stepmother; “don’t call me ‘mamma,’ if it gives you pain, dear. I am quite willing you should love your own mamma best.”

Nelly looked up with a pleased surprise.

“I had a dear mamma and papa once,” she continued; “and brothers and sisters so many, and so merry! but they are all dead, and sometimes my heart is very sad; I have no one, now to love me, but your papa and you.”

Nelly’s eyes began to moisten; and taking out one after another of the little souvenirs and toys from her pinafore, she said, “And you won’t take away this—and this—and this—that my dead mamma gave me?”

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“No, indeed, dear Nelly!”

“And you will let me climb in my papa’s lap, as I used; and put my cheek to his, and kiss him? and love him as much as I ever can, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes, my darling.”

Walter Lee could hear no more,—his heart was full.

What! Mary’s child pleading with a stranger for room in a father’s heart! In the sudden gush of this new fount of tenderness, had he forgotten or overlooked the claims of that helpless little one? God forbid! “From Nelly’s clear eyes let her mother’s soul still speak to you.” Ay! it did!

When next Walter Lee met his young bride, it was with a chastened tenderness. Nelly’s loving little heart was pressed closely against his own. He was again “her own papa!” No, he did not “quite forget!”

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ON A LITTLE CHILD, WHO HAD CREPT BEFORE A LOOKING-GLASS THAT WAS LEFT UPON THE SIDEWALK.

What do you see, pretty one? Large, wondering blue eyes; a tangled mass of sunny curls; small, pearly teeth; plump, white shoulders, that the ragged dress has failed to hide! Saw you never that little face before? A smile of innocent pleasure curls your lip;—ah! you have found out, that little face is fair! Poor and beautiful—holy angels shield you, little one! I look at you with a tear and a smile. Shall sin cast its dark shadow over those clear, pure eyes? Shall the hollow-hearted sensualist find you out? Shall you turn from homely, but honest toil, to honeyed words and liveried shame? Shall you curse the day you first crept to that mirror, and saw your sunny face?

O, heard you never of Him who biddeth “little children come?” In your dark and noisome home, heard you never the name of “Jesus,” save from blasphemous lips? Closed those blue eyes never with a murmured “Our Father?” Have the rough grasp and brutal blow descended on that fair young head? Has daily bread

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come sparingly to those cherry lips? Crept you out into the warm sunlight, under the bright blue sky, with a bird’s longing to soar?

Soar you may, pretty one;—there’s a “song,” and a “harp,” and a “white robe” for you! Just such as you were “blessed” with holy hands; sacred lips have said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” God keep you undefiled, little earth pilgrim!

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KITTY’S RESOLVE.

It would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to tell why Kitty Gray looks so serious as she sits by her latticed window this bright summer morning. Is she not the undisputed belle of —— ?—adored by the young men, envied by the girls, who try in vain to find out the spell by which she monopolizes all hearts. Has she, at last, found one insensible mortal, cold-hearted enough to resist all love’s artillery? That would be a novelty for Kitty! Has she detected a gray hair stealing in among her tresses, or an incipient crow’s-foot at the corner of her eye? Banish the thought, at sweet eighteen!

Mirror never reflected back lovelier tresses, brighter eyes, a fairer brow, or more symmetrical form. The hand her cheek rests on is faultless, and her foot is as perfect as a model. Ah, Miss Kitty, you were cut out for a coquette, but spoilt in the making! Nature gave you a heart. You are neither making a female Alexander of yourself by sighing for fresh hearts to conquer, nor considering profoundly the fashion of your next ball-dress. You have lived eighteen years in this blessed world, and your life has been all sunshine. Why not?

Beauty and wealth have made you omnipotent; but

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you are weary of your crown. My little queen has on her “thinking cap,” and it becomes that sweet brow passing well. She wonders, “Is this all of life?” Has a pretty woman nothing to do but smile and look captivating, and admire herself? She might as well be the marble Venus in her dressing-room! And then she casts her mental eye over the circle of her acquaintance. For aught she sees, they are quite satisfied with the same butterfly existence. Women frivolous; men, on the coxcomb order,—all but Harvey Fay. He is talented; owns a soul; is not dependent on a moustache or French boots for happiness; is refined in all his tastes, and a gentleman in the highest sense of the word; can sing the soul out of you, and make time fly faster than any man you ever saw. Alas! that there must always be a “but!” Harvey, the peerless Harvey, had one sad foible—and it was that which had clouded Kitty’s brow and saddened her heart. True, it had not, as yet, become a fixed habit, but where was the security for the future?

And so Kitty sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and wondering if a woman’s power, if her nice tact and delicacy, were not bestowed upon her for something better than to further her own selfish purposes? Harvey was sensitive, proud and high-spirited,—it must be a very gentle hand that would turn him back from that dizzy precipice. Could she not save him? She resolved

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to try; she would exert her power—for once—for some noble purpose.

—

It was a gay scene—that ballroom! The fairy forms that floated down the dance, with flowing tresses and sparkling eyes, and snowy necks, might have bewildered the sober head of age. Soft, entrancing music, brilliant lights, and the overpowering perfume of myriad sweet flowers, all lent their aid to complete the spell. Kitty shone, as usual, the brightest star of the evening. One cannot gaze long at a “star” without being dazzled; so how can I describe it? I can only say Kitty was irresistible. One minute you’d think it was her eyes; then, the little dimpled hand that rested on your arm; then, her golden ringlets, or the tiny feet that supported that swaying, graceful figure. As to her eyes, whether black, or blue, or hazel, you could not tell. You only knew it was very dangerous looking at them long at a time, unless you had made up your mind to surrender.

Well, Kitty had received her usual share of homage, with her usual sweet nonchalance, and now accepted the arm of a gentleman to the supper-table, where wit flew like champagne corks, and hearts were lost and won with a celerity worthy this progressive age. Harvey was as handsome as he well could be, and be mortal; in high good-humor, and as felicitous as only he knew how to be, in saying a thousand brilliant nothings.

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Kitty followed him with her eyes, and saw him, ere long, retire to a side-table, and, turning out a glass of wine, hold it to his lips. In an instant she was by his side.

“It is mine!” said she, playfully, extending her little hand to grasp it; but there was a deep glow upon her cheek, and an earnest, imploring look in her eyes, that said more than her words, and deepened the flush on Harvey’s temples.

“As you will, fair lady,” said he, with a slight shade of embarrassment; “but wherefore?”

“O, only a woman’s whim!” said Kitty. “You are not true knight, if you cannot serve a lady without a reason.”

“I’d serve you forever!” said Harvey, as he looked admiringly upon her changing countenance.

“Then drink no wine to-night, unless I fill the glass for you,” said she, smiling, as she joined the dancers.

“Only a woman’s whim!” Harvey did n’t believe it. “How very lovely she looked! What could she mean? Could it be she thought him in danger? Had he gone so far, almost imperceptibly to himself? Could Kitty think that of him? Pshaw! it could n’t be;” and he drew himself proudly up. “It must be some girlish nonsense,—a wager, or a bet of some kind. But that imploring, timid look! O there was something in it,

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after all! He would n’t be so tortured; he would know before he slept that night.”

There’s an end to all things, and balls are no exception. Happy cavaliers were performing the agreeable duty of settling refractory shawls upon round, white shoulders. “Rigoletts” were to be tied under pretty chins, and lace kerchiefs around swan-like throats.

These interminable matters being concluded, Kitty accepted Harvey as her escort home. They talked about a thousand little nothings, about which neither cared, when Harry cut it all short, very suddenly, with,

“Miss Gray, will you tell me frankly why you ‘tabooed’ that glass of wine?”

All Kitty’s practiced self-possession forsook her. She hesitated a moment;—she feared to wound his feelings. No, she would not falter! So she said, in a clear, low voice, while her long lashes swept her cheek, “Because I knew that to you it was a poisoned draught, Mr. Fay; and I were not true friend did I fail to warn you. You will not be vexed with me?” said she, with winning sweetness, as she extended him her hand.

Harvey’s answer is not recorded; but it is sufficient to say, that the secret of his high legal eminence is known only to the belle of ——.

Alas! that woman, gifted with an angel’s powers, sent on an angel’s mission, should so often be content with the butterfly life of a pleasure-seeking fashionist!

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WOMAN.

“If a woman once errs,

Kick her down, kick her down;

If misfortune is hers,

Kick her down;

Though her tears fall like rain,

And she ne’er smiles again,

Kick her down.

If man breaks her heart,

Kick her down, kick her down;

Redouble the smart—

Kick her down;

And if low her condition,

On, on to perdition,—

Kick her down.”

Ay! pass her by on the other side; speak no word of encouragement to her; measure not her fall by her temperament, or her temptations, but by the frigidity of your own unsolicited, pharisaical heart. Leave no door of escape open; close your homes and your hearts; crush every human feeling in her soul; teach her that the Bible and religion are a fable; check the repentant prayer on her Magdalen lip; thrust her back upon the cruel

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tender mercies of those who rejoice at her fall; send her forth with her branded beauty, like a blight and a mildew. “Stand aside, for thou art holier;”—holier than the Sinless, whose feet were bathed with her tears, “and wiped with the hairs of her head.” Cast the “first stone” at her, O thou whited sepulchre! though those holy lips could say, “Neither do I condemn thee,—go and sin no more.”

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THE PASSIONATE FATHER.

“Greater is he who ruleth his spirit, than he who taketh a city.”

“Come here, sir!” said a strong, athletic man, as he seized a delicate-looking lad by the shoulder. “You’ve been in the water again, sir! Have n’t I forbidden it?”

“Yes, father, but—”

“No ‘buts!’—have n’t I forbidden it, hey?”

“Yes, sir. I was—”

“No reply, sir!” and the blows fell like a hail-storm about the child’s head and shoulders.

Not a tear started from Harry’s eye, but his face was deadly pale, and his lips firmly compressed, as he rose and looked at his father with an unflinching eye.

“Go to your room, sir, and stay there till you are sent for. I’ll master that spirit of yours before you are many days older!”

Ten minutes after, Harry’s door opened, and his mother glided gently in. She was a fragile, delicate woman, with mournful blue eyes, and temples startlingly transparent. Laying her hand softly upon Harry’s head, she stooped and kissed his forehead.

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The rock was touched, and the waters gushed forth. “Dear mother!” said the weeping boy.

“Why did n’t you tell your father that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate?”

“Did he give me a chance?” said Harry, springing to his feet, with a flashing eye. “did n’t he twice bid me be silent, when I tried to explain? Mother, he’s a tyrant to you and to me!”

“Harry, he’s my husband and your father!”

“Yes, and I’m sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words? Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, mother! It’s too bad, I say! He’s a tyrant, mother!” said the boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth; “and if it were not for you, I would have been leagues off long ago. And there’s Nellie, too, poor, sick child! What good will all her medicine do her? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his footsteps. I say, ’t is brutal, mother!”

“Harry”—and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy’s lips—“for my sake—”

“Well, ’t is only for your sake,—yours and poor Nellie’s,—or I should be on the sea somewhere—anywhere but here.”

Late that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy’s bedside, before retiring to rest. “God be thanked, he sleeps!” she murmured, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bedside, she prayed for patience

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and wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the heavy cross under which her steps were faltering; and then she prayed for her husband.

“No, no, not that!” said Harry, springing from his pillow, and throwing his arms about her neck. “I can forgive him what he has done to me, but I never will forgive him what he has made you suffer. Don’t pray for him,—at least, don’t let me hear it!”

Mary Lee was too wise to expostulate. She knew her boy was spirit-sore, under the sense of recent injustice; so she lay down beside him, and, resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated, in a low, sweet voice, the story of the crucifixion. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!” fell upon his troubled ear. He yielded to the holy spell.

“I will!” he sobbed. “Mother, you are an angel; and if I ever get to heaven, it will be your hand that has led me there.”

—

There was hurrying to and fro in Robert Lee’s house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angry blows on that young head!

The passionate father’s repentance came too late,—came with the word that his boy must die!

“Be kind to her!” said Harry, as his head drooped on his mother’s shoulder.

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It was a dearly-bought lesson! Beside that lifeless corpse, Robert Lee renewed his marriage vow; and now, when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the hasty word springs to his lip, the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angel voice whispers, “Peace, be still!”

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THE PARTIAL MOTHER.

Mother. Is that you, my darling?

Child. No, mamma, ’t is only me!

Fancy that little, pale, neglected, sensitive child, meekly returning that touching answer to the mother of her petted, beautiful sister! Who would not find a warm corner in their heart for her? Who would not hasten to make those sad, pensive eyes beam happiness? Who would not raise her estimate of her own powers, chilled and crushed in the germ, by the hand that should wipe away every childish tear? Ah! “the coat of many colors” is not yet worn out. The sullen brow of defiance, or the early grave, is too often the sad penalty. Other Josephs and Ishmaels may yet “thirst in the desert;” other Jacobs and Elis have their “gray hairs brought with sorrow to the grave.” How seldom is equal justice done to the children of a large family! The superficial, the brilliant, the showy, the witty, throw a dazzling glare over parental eyes. They mark not the less gifted, but often warmer-hearted, child, as she creeps with swelling heart and filling eyes to some unnoticed corner, to sob, with passionate tears, “Ah, it’s only me!”

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Frown not, impatience, at the little, shrinking creature at your side,—slow of speech and stammering of tongue, turning his eye timidly even from a mother’s glance,—because the quick flush of embarrassment mounts to his forehead, and he stands not up with a bold, flashing eye, to answer the pleased guest! Chide him not! Let him hide his tearful eye and blushing cheek in the folds of your dress, if he will; put a loving arm about him, and let him creep to your heart, and nestle there, till the little dove gains courage to flutter and soar with a strong wing. He shall yet, eagle-like, face the sun! You shall yet scarce keep in sight his soaring pinions! Bear with him yet a while, ambitious mother!

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THE BALL-ROOM AND THE NURSERY.

“You are quite beautiful to-night,” said Frank Fearing to his young wife, as she entered the drawing-room dressed for a ball; “I shall fall in love with you over again. What! not a smile for your lover-husband? and a tear in your eye, too! What does this mean, dearest?”

Mary leaned her beautiful head upon her husband’s shoulder, and turned pale as she said:

“Frank, I feel a strange, sad presentiment of some impending evil; from whence, I cannot tell. I have striven to banish it, but it will not go away. I had not meant to speak of it to you, lest you should think me weak or superstitious; and, Frank,” said his sweet wife, in pleading tones, “this is a frivolous life we lead. We are all the world to each other,—why frequent such scenes as these? A fearful shadow lies across my path. Stay at home with me, dearest; I dare not go to-night.”

Frank looked at her thoughtfully a moment, then, gayly kissing her, he said,

“This vile east wind has given you the blues; the more

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reason you should not give yourself time to think of them; beside, do you think me such a Blue Beard as to turn the key on so bright a jewel as yourself? No, no, Mary, I would have others see it sparkle and shine, and envy me its possession; so throw on your cloak, little wife, and let us away.”

“Stop a moment, then,” said Mary, with a smile and a sigh, “let me kiss little Walter before I go; he lies in his little bed so rosy and so bright. Come with me, Frank, and look at him.”

With kisses on lip, brow, and cheek, the child slumbered on, and the carriage rolled away from the door to the ball.

It was a brilliant scene; that ball-room!—Necks and arms, that shamed for whiteness the snowy robes that floated around them; eyes rivalling the diamond’s light; tresses whose hue was borrowed from the sun; manhood’s peerless form and noble brow; odorous garlands, flashing lights, music to make the young blood race more swiftly through the veins; all—all—were there, to intoxicate and bewilder.

Peerless in the midst—queen of hearts and of the dance—stood the young wife of Frank Fearing. Accepting the offered hand of an acquaintance, she took her place among the waltzers. She made a few turns upon the floor, then, pale as death, she turned to her husband, saying,

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“O, Frank, I cannot,—I feel such an oppression here, here;” and she placed her hand on heart and brow.

Frank looked annoyed; he was very fond of his wife; her beauty was the admiration of the room. She had never looked lovelier than to-night. Whispering in her ear, “For my sake, Mary, conquer this weakness,” he led her again to the dancer. With a smile of gratified pride he followed her with his eyes, as her fairy form floated past him, excitement and exercise lending again to her cheek its loveliest glow, while on all sides murmurs of “Beautiful,—most beautiful!” fell on his ear. “And that bright vision is mine,” said Frank to himself; “I have won her from hearts that were breaking for her.”

When the dance was over, following her to the window, he arranged her scarf about her neck, with a fond care; and with a “Thank you, dearest,” was leaving her, when she again laid her hand upon his arm, saying, with a wild brilliancy in her eye, “Frank! something has happened to Walter! take me home now.”

“Pshaw! Mary, dear; you looked so radiant, I thought you had danced the vapors away. One more, dearest, and then, if you say so, we will go.”

Suffering herself to be persuaded, again those tiny feet were seen spurning the floor; towards the close, her face grew so deadly pale, that her husband, in alarm, flew to her side.

“The effort costs you too much, Mary,” said Frank;

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“let us go home.” He wrapped her cloak carefully about her. She was still, and cold as a marble statue.

As her carriage stopped at their door, she rushed past him with the swiftness of an antelope, and, gaining her boy’s chamber, Frank heard her exclaim, as she fell senseless to the floor, “I knew it, I told you so!” The child was dead.

The servant in whose care it had been left,—following the example of her mistress,—had joined some friends in a dance in the hall. That terrible scourge of children, the croup, had attacked him, and alone, in the still darkness, the fair boy wrestled with the “King of Terrors.”

From whence came the sad presentiment that clouded the fair brow of the mother; or the mysterious magnetism drawing her so irresistibly back to her dying child? Who shall tell?

For months she lay vibrating between life and death.

“Yet the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart,

And taken her treasure away;

To allure her to Heaven, he has placed it on high,

And the mourner will sweetly obey.”

“There had whispered a voice,—’t was the voice of her God,—

‘I love thee! I love thee! pass under the rod!”

* * * * * * * *

Other fair children now call her “mother;” but never again, with flying feet, has she chased the midnight hours away. Nightly, as they return, they find her within the

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quiet circle of home,—within call of helpless childhood. Dearer than the admiration of the gay throng,—sweeter to her than viol or harp,—is the music of their young voices, and tenderly she leads their little feet “into the green pastures and unto the still waters of salvation;” blest with the smile of the Good Shepherd, who saith, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.”

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ALL’S WELL.

“Twelve o’clock at night, and all’s well!”

False prophet! Still and statue-like, at yonder window, stands the wife. The clock has told the small hours; yet her face is pressed closely against the window-pane, striving in vain, with straining eye, to pierce the darkness. She sees nothing; she hears nothing, but the beating of her own heart. Now she takes her seat; opens a small Bible, and seeks from it what comfort she may, while tears blister the pages. Then she clasps her hands, and her lips are tremulous with mute supplication. Hist! There is an unsteady step in the hall; she knows it! Many a time and oft it has trod on her very heart-strings. She glides down gently to meet the wanderer. He falls heavily against her; and, in maudlin tones, pronounces a name he had long since forgotten “to honor.” O, all-enduring power of woman’s love! No reproach, no upbraiding—the slight arm passed around that reeling figure, once erect in “God’s own image.” With tender words of entreaty, which he is powerless to resist, if he would, she leads him in. It is but a repetition of a thousand such vigils! It is the performance of a vow,

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with a heroism and patient endurance too common and everyday to be chronicled on earth; too holy and heavenly to pass unnoticed by the “registering angel” above!

“All’s well!”

False prophet! In yonder luxurious room sits one whose curse it was to be fair as a dream of Eden. Time was when those clear eyes looked lovingly into a mother’s face—when a gray-haired father laid his trembling hand, with a blessing, on that sunny head—when brothers’ and sisters’ voices blended with her own, in heart-music, around that happy hearth. O! where are they now? Are there none to say to the repenting Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee,—go, and sin no more?” Must the gilded fetter continue to bind the soul that loathes it, because man is less merciful than God?

“All’s well!”

False prophet! There lies the dead orphan. In all the length and breadth of the green earth there was found no sheltering nest where that lonely dove could fold its wings, when the parent birds had flown. The brooding wing was gone, that covered it from the cold winds of neglect and unkindness. Love was its life; and so it drooped!

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“All’s well!”

False prophet! Sin walks the earth in purple and fine linen; honest poverty, with tear-bedewed face, hungers and shivers and thirsts, “while the publican stands afar off!” The widow pleads in vain to the ermined judge for “justice;” and, unpunished of Heaven, the human tiger crouches in his lair, and springs upon his helpless prey!

“All’s well!”

Ah, yes, all is well!—for “He who seeth the end from the beginning” holds evenly the scales of justice. “Dives” shall yet beg of “Lazarus.” Every human tear is counted. They shall yet sparkle as gems in the crown of the patient and enduring disciple! When the clear, broad light of eternity shines upon life’s crooked paths, we shall see the snares and pitfalls from which our hedge of thorns has fenced us in; and, in the maturity of our full-grown faith, we shall exultingly say,—“Father! not as I will, but as Thou wilt!”

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HOW WOMAN LOVES.

“Walter,” said Mrs. Clay, “you have not tasted your coffee this morning; are you ill?” and she leaned across the table, and laid her hand upon his arm.

“No—yes, not quite well. I had a great deal to occupy me yesterday;” and he arose from his seat to avoid the scrutiny of those clear eyes, adding, “If I should n’t be home at the dinner-hour, Marion, don’t wait for me;—I may be detained by business. And now kiss me before I go.”

“If Walter would only leave that odious bank!” said Marion to herself. “Such a tread-mill life for him to lead,—they are killing him with such close application;” and she moved about, busying her little head devising certain pathetic appeals to the “Board of Directors” for a mitigation of his sufferings.

When one is away from a dear friend, ’t is a satisfaction to be employed in performing some little service for them, how trifling soever it may be. So Marion passed into the library;—arranging Walter’s books and papers, producing order out of confusion from a discouraging and heterogeneous heap of pamphlets and letters; moved

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his easy-chair round to the most inviting locality; and then her eyes fell upon a little sketch he had drawn. “Poor Walter!” said she; “with his artist eye and poet heart, to be counting up those interminable rows of figures, day after day, that any man who had brains enough for the rule of three could do just as well. To think he must always lead such a tread-mill life!—never feast his eyes on all that is beautiful and glorious beyond the seas, while so many stupid people are galloping over the continent, getting up fits of sham enthusiasm, just as the ‘Guide Books’ direct! It is too bad.” She wished heartily she had brought him other dowry than her pretty face and warm heart.

Well, dinner-hour came, but came not Walter. Marion was not anxious, because he had prepared her for his absence; but she missed his handsome face at the table, and pushed away her food untasted. She was unfashionable enough to love him quite as well—although she had been married many happy years—as on the day when the priest’s blessing fell on her maiden ear.

“Come here, Nettie,” said she to a noble boy. “Spring into my lap, and let me look at papa’s eyes;”—and she pushed back the clustering curls from his broad, white forehead. “Tell me, Nettie, which do you love best, papa or me?”

“Papa said I must love you best, because he does,” said the child.

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“Bless your baby lips for that sweet answer! Where can that dear papa be, I wonder?”

The words had but just escaped her lips when her father entered. Not with his usual beaming smile and extended hand, but with a slow, uncertain step, as if he could with difficulty sustain himself. And such a haggard look!

“Send away the child,” said he, huskily; “I want to speak with you, Marion.”

“He is not dead?—don’t tell me that!” said she, with ashen lips—her thoughts at once reverting to her husband.

“Better so, better so,” said the old man, shaking his gray head, “than to live to disgrace us all as he has!”

“Who dare couple ‘disgrace’ with Walter’s name?” said Marion, with a flashing eye. “Not you, O, not you, dear father!” and she looked imploringly in his face.

“He has disgraced us all, I say!” said the proud old man;—“you and I, and that innocent child. He has embezzled money to a large amount, and is now in custody; and I’ve come to take you home with me,—you and Nettie,—for you must forget him, Marion.”

“Never, never, never!” said she, solemnly. “ ’T is false!—my noble, generous, high-minded husband!—never! There is a conspiracy,—it will all be cleared up. O, father, unsay those dreadful words! I will

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never leave him, though all the world forsake him. Let me go to him, father!”

“Marion,” said the old man, “he will be sentenced to a felon’s cell;—there is no escape for him. When that takes place, the law frees you. Would you disgrace your boy? Come back to your childhood’s home, and forget him,—’t is your duty. He is unworthy your love or mine. If not,” said the old man, marking her compressed lip and heightened color, “if not—”

“What then?” said Marion, calmly.

“You are no child of mine!” said the irritated old man.

“God help me, then!” said Marion; “for I will never leave nor forsake him.”

—

It was a sight to move the stoutest heart, that fair, delicate woman in the prison cell. Walter started to his feet, but he did not advance to meet her. There was little need. Her arms were about his neck, her head upon his breast. Once, twice he essayed to speak, but her hand was laid upon his lips;—she would not hear, even from his own mouth, that he had fallen. The old jailer, stony-hearted as he was, drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, as he closed the door upon them.

“Some fiend from hell tempted me!” said the wretched man, at last; “but the law frees you from me, Marion,” said he, bitterly.

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“Yours till death!” whispered the weeping wife.

“God bless your noble heart, Marion! Now I can bear my punishment.”

If “death loves a shining mark,” so does malice. Every petty underling, who owed Walter Clay a grudge, took this opportunity to pay the debt. The past was ransacked for all the little minutiae of his history; dark hints and innuendoes were thrown out, to prejudice still more the public mind. There were cowardly stabs in the dark, from the pusillanimous villains, who would have been livid with fear had their victim been free to face them. Reporters nibbed their pens with an appetite; and the “extras” teemed with exaggerated accounts of the prisoner and the trial. Even the sacredness of the wife’s sorrow was intruded upon by those ravenous, must-have-a-paragraph gentry. Then there were the usual number of sagacious people, who shook their empty heads, and “always expected he would turn out so, because those who held their heads so high generally did.” First and foremost were these “Good Samaritans” at the trial; noting every flitting expression of the agonized prisoner’s face, and only wishing it were in their power to prolong his acute suffering and their exquisite enjoyment months instead of hours. “Good enough for him!” was their final doxology, when the verdict of “Guilty” was rendered. “It will take his pride down a peg.” O, most Pharisaical censors! who shall say, that, with equal

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opportunity and temptation, your vaunted virtue would have better stood the test?

“The worst is over now,” said Walter, as Marion bathed his temples. “I will struggle to bear the rest, since you do not desert me, Marion; but Nettie, poor, innocent Nettie!” and the strong man bowed his head, and wept at the heritage of shame for that brave boy.

And so days, and weeks, and months, dragged their slow length along to the divided pair. He, in the livery of ignominy, bearing his sentence as best he might among the desperate and degraded; experiencing every moment a refinement of torture of which their dull intellects and deadened sensibilities knew nothing. She, pointed out as the “felon’s wife” by the rude crowd; shrinking nervously from notice; trembling at the apprehension of insult, as she toiled on heroically, day by day, for daily bread.

Whence came that quiet dignity with which Walter Clay exacted respect even from his jailers? Ah! there was a true heart throbbing for him outside those prison walls. Nightly was he remembered in her prayers. Daily she taught their boy to lisp, even now, his father’s name. Like music to his ear was that light footstep echoing through the gloomy corridor to his cell. Tenderly those loving arms twined about his neck; sacred and true were the holy words with which she cheered his sinking spirit. Hopefully she painted the future—this trial past—when, in some home beyond the seas, he should

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yet be the happier for being so chastened by sorrow, and where no malicious tongue should remind him of his temptation or his fall. Sweetly upon his ear fell those soothing words—first uttered by sacred lips—“Go and sin no more.”

No, Walter Clay was not deserted quite! He was not degraded, even there and thus, while he could hold up his head and boast of a love so devoted, so pure, so holy!

The hour of emancipation came at last, and Walter Clay stepped forth under the broad, blue sky, once more a free man; and in the little room where the heroic wife had suffered and toiled, she once more clasped her husband to her breast.

“And Nettie, where is he? Let me kiss my boy,” said the joyful father. “Where’s Nettie?”

“On the Saviour’s bosom!” said Marion, with a choking voice.

“Dead? And you have buried this sad secret in your breast, and borne this great grief unshared, lest you should add to my sorrow!” and he knelt at her feet reverently.

“God knows you had enough to bear!” said Marion, as they mingled their tears together, and gazed at the long, bright, golden tress, all that remained to them of little Nettie.

—

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“What an interesting couple!” said a travelling artist in Italy to his companion. “That woman’s face reminds one of a Madonna,—so pensive, sweet and touching. If she would but sit to me. Who are they, Pietro?”

“They came here about a year since,—live in the greatest seclusion, and seem anxiously to avoid all contact with their own countrymen. All the poor peasantry bless them; and Father Giovanni says they are the best people, for heretics, he ever saw.”

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A MOTHER’S SOLILOQUY.

’T is mine! Bound to me by a tie that death itself cannot sever. That little heart shall never thrill with pleasure, or throb with pain, without a quick response from mine. I am the centre of its little world; its very life depends on my faithful care. It is my sweet duty to deck those dimpled limbs,—to poise that tiny, trembling foot. Yet stay,—my duty ends not here! A soul looks forth from those blue eyes,—an undying spirit, that shall plume its wing for a ceaseless flight, guided by my erring hand.

The hot blood of anger may not poison the fount whence it draws its life, or the hasty word escape my lip, in that pure presence. Wayward, passionate, impulsive,—how shall I approach it, but with a hush upon my spirit, and a silent prayer!

O, careless sentinel! slumber not at thy post over its trusting innocence!

O, reckless “sower of the seed!” let not “the tares” spring up!

O, unskilful helmsman! how shalt thou pilot that

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little bark, o’er life’s tempestuous sea, safely to the eternal shore?

“ ’Tis ours!”

A father bends proudly over that little cradle! A father’s love, how strong, how true! But O, not so warm, not so tender, as hers whose heart that babe hath lain beneath!

Fit me for the holy trust, O good Shepherd, or fold it early to thy loving bosom!

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THE INVALID WIFE.

“Every wife needs a good stock of love to start with.”

Don’t she?—You are upon a sick bed; a little, feeble thing lies upon your arm, that you might crush with one hand. You take those little velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly to the pillow. Little brothers and sisters,—Carry, and Harry, and Fanny, and Frank, and Willy, and Mary, and Kitty,—half a score,—come tiptoeing into the room, “to see the new baby.” It is quite an old story to “nurse,” who sits there like an automaton, while they give vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers, and make profound inquiries, which nobody thinks best to hear. You look on with a languid smile, and they pass out, asking, “Why they can’t stay with dear mamma, and why they must n’t play puss in the corner,” as usual? You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he went to school, and whether Betty will see that your husband’s flannel is aired, and if Peggy has cleaned the silver, and washed off the front-door steps, and what your blessed husband

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is about, that he don’t come home to dinner. There sits old nurse, keeping up that dreadful tread-mill trotting, “to quiet the baby,” till you could fly through the key-hole in desperation. The odor of dinner begins to creep up stairs. You wonder if your husband’s pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to put wine in the sauce, as he likes it; and then the perspiration starts out on your forehead, as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and a child’s suppressed scream; and nurse swathes the baby up in flannel to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you to “leave the family to her, and go to sleep.” By and by she comes in,—after staying down long enough to get a refreshing cup of coffee,—and walks up to the bed with a bowl of gruel, tasting it, and then putting the spoon back into the bowl. In the first place, you hate gruel; in the next, you could n’t eat it, if she held a pistol to your head, after that spoon has been in her mouth; so you meekly suggest that it be set on the table to cool—hoping, by some providential interposition, it may get tipped over. Well, she moves round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran-new gingham gown, that rattles like a paper window-curtain, at every step; and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a drawer by mistake (?), “thinking it was the baby’s drawer.” Then you hear little nails scratching on the door; and Charley whispers through the key-

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hole, “Mamma, Charley’s tired; please let Charley come in.” Nurse scowls, and says no; but you intercede—poor Charley, he’s only a baby himself. Well, he leans his little head wearily against the pillow, and looks suspiciously at that little, moving bundle of flannel in nurse’s lap. It’s clear he’s had a hard time of it, what with tears and molasses! The little shining curls, that you have so often rolled over your fingers, are a tangled mass; and you long to take him, and make him comfortable, and cosset him a little and, then, the baby cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charley is taken struggling from the room. You take your watch from under the pillow, to see if husband won’t be home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuff over your bowl of gruel, and sits down nodding drowsily, with the baby in alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a dear step on the stairs. It’s your Charley! How bright he looks! and what nice fresh air he brings with him from out doors! He parts the bed-curtains, looks in, and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay hour head on his shoulder, and have such a splendid cry! but there sits that old Gorgon of a nurse,—she don’t believe in husbands, she don’t! You make Charley a free-mason sign to send her down stairs for something. He says,—right out loud,—men are so stupid!—“What did you say, dear?” Of course, you protest

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you did n’t say a word,—never thought of such a thing!—and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and cry because you don’t know what else to do, and because you are weak and weary, and full of care for your family, and don’t want to see anybody but “Charley.” Nurse says “she shall have you sick,” and tells your husband “he’d better go down, and let you go to sleep.” Off he goes, wondering what on earth ails you, to cry!—wishes he had nothing to do but lie still, and be waited upon! After dinner he comes in to bid you good-by before he goes to his office,—whistles “Nelly Bly” loud enough to wake up the baby, whom he calls “a comical little concern,”—and puts his dear, thoughtless head down to your pillow, at a signal from you, to hear what you have to say. Well, there’s no help for it, you cry again, and only say “Dear Charley;” and he laughs, and settles his dickey, and says you are “a nervous little puss,” gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles the new baby with the first whiff, and takes your heart off with him down the street!

And you lie there and eat that gruel! and pick the fuzz all off the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ate that apple,—Genesis 3:16,—or that you were “Abel” to “Cain” her for doing it!

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THE STRAY LAMB.

I was walking through the streets yesterday, chilled outwardly and inwardly, as one is apt to be, by the first approach of winter,—somewhat out of humor with myself, and indisposed to be pleased with others,—when I noticed before me, on foot, a party of emigrants in a very destitute condition. One of the women was tottering under the weight of a huge chest she carried upon her head; most of them were ragged, and all travel-stained and careworn. Bringing up the rear, with uncertain, faltering steps, somewhat behind the rest of the party, was a little girl of eight years, bonnetless, bare-footed and bare-legged, her scanty frock barely reaching to her little, purpled knees; her tangled brown hair the sport of the winds. She stepped wearily, as if she had neither aim nor object in moving on; showing neither wonder nor childish curiosity at the new sights and scenes before her. It seemed to be a matter of indifference to the rest of the party whether she kept pace with them or not. My heart ached for her, she looked so friendless, so prematurely careworn.

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What should be her future fate in this great city of snares and temptations? Who should take her by the hand? Ah, look! the Good Shepherd watches over the stray lamb! I hear a shriek of joy! A well-dressed woman before me sees her; with the spring of an antelope she seizes her, presses her lips to those little chilled limbs, then holds her, at arms’ length, pushes back the hair from her forehead, strains her again to her breast, while tears of gratitude fall like rain from her eyes; then lifts her far above her head, as if to say, “O God, I thank thee!”

What can this pantomime mean?—for not a word have they spoken, amid all these sobs and caresses. “What does this mean?” said I to a bystander. “O and it’s a child come over from the old counthry, ma’am, to find her mother; and sure, she’s just met her in the street, and the hearts of ’em are most breaking with the joy, you see.” “God be thanked!” said I, as I wept too; “the dove has found the ark, the lamb its fold. Let the chill wind blow, she will heed it not! The little, weary head shall be pillowed, sweetly, to-night, on that loving breast; the chilled limbs be warmed and clothed; the desolate little heart shall beat quick with love and hope.” And there I left them,—still caressing, still weeping,—unconscious of the crowd that had gathered about them, forgetting the weary years of the past,

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pressing a life-time of happiness into the joy of those blissful moments.

“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father.”

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artist and model gaze languidly at each other across an easel

LENA MAY.

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LENA MAY;
OR, DARKNESS AND LIGHT.

Such a gloomy room as it was! You may sometimes have seen one just like it. The walls were dingy, the windows small, the furniture scanty and shabby. In one corner was a small bed, and on it a boy of about nine years; so pallid, so emaciated, that, as he lay there with his long lashes sweeping his pale cheek, you could scarce tell if he were living. At the foot of the bed sat a lady, whose locks sorrow, not time, had silvered. Her hands were clasped hopelessly in her lap, and her lips moved as if in silent prayer.

“Good morning, Mrs. May,” said the doctor, as he laid aside his gold-headed cane, very pompously. “I have but a minute to spare. General Clay has another attack of the gout, and can’t get along without me. How’s the boy?” and he glanced carelessly at the bed.

“He seems more than usually feeble,” said the mother, dejectedly, as the doctor examined his pulse.

“Well, all he wants is something strengthening, in the way of nourishment, to set him on his feet. Wine and

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jellies, Mrs. May,—that’s the thing for him,—that will do it. Good morning, ma’am.”

“Wine and jellies!” said the poor widow; and the tears started to her eyes, for she remembered sunnier days, when those now unattainable luxuries were sent away untasted from her well-furnished table, rejected by a capricious appetite; and she rose and laid her hand lovingly on the little sufferer’s head, and prisoned the warm tears ’neath her closed eyelids.

Little Charley was blind. He had never seen the face that was bending over him; but he knew, by the tone of her voice, whether she was glad or grieving; and there was a heart-quiver in it now, as she said, “Dear, patient boy,” that made his little heart beat faster; and he pressed his pale lips to her hand, as if he would convey all he felt in that kiss; for love and sorrow had taught Charley a lesson—many of his seniors were more slow to learn—to endure silently, rather than add to the sorrow of a heart so tried and grief-stricken. And so, through those tedious days, and long, wearisome nights, the little sufferer uttered no word of complaint, though the outer and inner world was all darkness to him.

—

Gently, noiselessly, a young, fair girl glided into the room. She passed to the bedside; then, stooping so low

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that her raven ringlets floated on the pillow, she lightly pressed her dewy lips to the blind boy’s forehead.

“That’s your kiss, Lena,” said he, tenderly. “I’m so glad you are come!” and he threw his wasted arms about her neck. “Put your face down here,—close, Lena, close. The doctor has been here, and mamma thought me sleeping; but I heard all. He said I must have wine and jellies to make me well, and dear mamma so poor, too! O, you should have heard her sigh so heavily! And, Lena, though I cannot see, I was sure her eyes were brimming, for her voice had tears in it. Now, Lena, I want you to tell her not to grieve, because Charley is going to heaven. I dreamed about it last night, Lena. I was n’t a blind boy any longer; and I saw such glorious things.”

“Don’t, don’t, Charley!” said the young girl, sobbing. “Take your arms from my neck. You shall live, Charley,—you shall have everything you need. Let me go, now, there’s a darling;” and she tied on her little bonnet, and passed through the dark, narrow court, and gained the street.

“Wine and jellies!”—yes, Charley must have them; but how? Her little purse was quite empty, and the doctor’s bill was a perfect night-mare to think of. O, how many tables were loaded with the luxuries that were strength, health, life, to poor Charley!—and she walked on despairingly. The bright blue sky seemed to mock

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her; the well-clad forms and happy faces to taunt her. O, throbbed there on the wide earth one heart of pity? Poor Lena!—excitement lent a deeper glow to her cheek, and a brighter lustre to her eye; and the cold wind blew her long tresses wildly about. One could scarce see a lovelier face than Lena’s then,—so full of love, so full of sorrow.

At least so thought Ernest Clay; for he stopped and looked, and passed, and looked again. It was the embodiment of all his artist dreams. “I must sketch it,” said he to himself. “She is poor,—that is evident from her dress; that she is pure and innocent, one may see in the holy expression of her face.” And low and musical was the voice which expressed his request to Lena. His tone was respectful; but his ardent look embarrassed her, and she veiled her bright eyes with their long lashes, without replying.

“If your time is precious, you shall be well paid;—it will not take you long. Will money be any object to you?”

“O, yes, yes!” said Lena, despair giving her courage. “O, sir, I have a brother, sick, dying for necessaries beyond our reach! Give me some wine to keep him from sinking—now, if you please, sir!”—and she blushed at her own earnestness,—“then I will come to you tomorrow. My name is Lena May.”

—

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“Dear, dear mother!—wine for Charley, and more when this is gone.”

“Lena!” said her mother, alarmed at her wild, excited manner.

“An artist, mother, gave me this, if I would let him make a sketch of me. Dear Charley!”—and she held the tempting luxury to his fever-parched lip,—“drink, Charley. Now you’ll be strong and well, and all for this foolish face;” and she laughed hysterically; then her hands fell at her side, her head drooped; the excitement was too much for her,—she had fainted.

—

“There, that will do; thank you. Now turn your head a trifle to the left, so;” and the young artist’s eye brightened as his hand moved over the canvas. In truth it were hard to find a lovelier model. That full, dark eye and Grecian profile; that wealth of raven hair, those dimpled shoulders. Yes, Lena was the realization of all his artist dreams;—and then, she was so pure, so innocent. Practiced flatterer as he was, professionally, praise seemed out of place now,—it died upon his lip. He had transferred many a lovely face to canvas, but never one so holy in its expression.

And little Charley, day by day, grew stronger; and rare flowers lay upon his bed; and he inhaled their fra-

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grance, and passed his slender fingers over them caressingly, as if their beauty could be conveyed by the touch. And then he would listen for Lena’s light footstep, and ask her, on her return, a thousand questions about the picture, and sigh as he said, “I can never know, dear sister, if it is like you;” and then he would say, “You will not love this artist better than me, Lena?” and then Lena would blush, and say, “No, you foolish boy!”

—

“Well, Lena,” said Ernest, “your picture will be finished to-day. I suppose you are quite glad it is over with?”

“Charley misses me so much!” was love’s quick evasion.

“There are still many comforts you would get for Charley, were you able, Lena?”

“O, yes, yes!” said the young girl, eagerly.

“And your mother, she is too delicate to toil so unremittingly?”

“Yes,” said Lena, dejectedly.

“Dear, good, lovely Lena! they shall both have such a happy home, only say you will be mine.”

Dear reader, you should have peeped into that artist’s home. You should have seen the proud, happy husband. You should have seen with what a sweet grace the little

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child-wife performed her duty as its mistress. You should have seen Charley with his birds and his flowers, and heard his merry laugh, as he said to his mother, that “if he was blind, he always saw that Ernest would steal away our Lena.”

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THOUGHTS BORN OF A CARESS.

“O, what a nice place to cry!” said a laughing little girl, as she nestled her head lovingly on her mother’s breast.

The words were spoken playfully, and the little fairy was all unconscious how much meaning lay hid in them; but they brought tears to my eyes, for I looked forward to the time when care and trial should throw their shadows over that laughing face,—when adversity should overpower,—when summer friends should fall off like autumn leaves before the rough blast of misfortune,—when the faithful breast she leaned upon should be no longer warm with love and life,—when, in all the wide earth, there should be for that little one “no nice place to cry.”

God shield the motherless! A father may be left,—kind, affectionate, considerate, perhaps,—but a man’s affections form but a small fraction of his existence. His thoughts are far away, even while his child clambers on his knee. The distant ship with its rich freight, the state of the money-market, the fluctuations of trade, the office, the shop, the bench; and he answers at random the little

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lisping immortal, and gives the child a toy, and passes on. The little, sensitive heart has borne its childish griefs through the day unshared. She don’t understand the reason for anything, and nobody stops to tell her. Nurse “don’t know,” the cook is “busy,” and so she wanders restlessly about, through poor mamma’s empty room. Something is wanting. Ah, there is no “nice place to cry!”

Childhood passes; blooming maidenhood comes on; lovers woo; the mother’s quick instinct, timely word of caution, and omnipresent watchfulness, are not there. She gives her heart, with all its yearning sympathies, into unworthy keeping. A fleeting honeymoon, then the dawning of a long day of misery; wearisome days of sickness; the feeble moan of the first-born; no mother’s arm in which to place, with girlish pride, the little wailing stranger; lover and friend afar; no “nice place to cry!”

Thank God!—not unheard by Him, who “wipeth all tears away,” goeth up that troubled heart-plaint from the despairing lips of the motherless!

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A CHAPTER ON LITERARY WOMEN.

“Well, Colonel, what engrosses your thoughts so entirely this morning? The last new fashion for vests, the price of Macassar oil, or the misfit of your last pair of primrose kids? Make a ‘clean breast’ of it.”

“Come, Minnie, don’t be satirical. I’ve a perfect horror of satirical women. There’s no such thing as repose in their presence. One needs to be always on the defensive, armed at all points; and then, like as not, some arrow will pierce the joints of his armor. Be amiable, Minnie, and listen to me. I want a wife.”

“You! a man of your resources! Clubs, cigars, fast horses, operas, concerts, theatres, billiard-rooms! Can’t account for it,” said the merciless Minnie. “Had a premonitory symptom of a crow’s foot, or a gray hair? Has old Time begun to step on your bachelor toes?” and she leveled her eye-glass at his fine figure.

The Colonel took up a book, with a very injured air, as much as to say,—Have it out, fair lady, and when you get off your stilts, I’ll talk reason to you.

But Minnie had no idea of getting off her stilts; so she

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proceeded,—“Want a wife, do you? I don’t see but your buttons, and strings, and straps, are all tip-top. Your laundress attends to your wardrobe, your hôtel de maître to your appetite, you’ve nice snug quarters at the —— House, plenty of ‘fine fellows’ to drop in upon you, and what in the name of the gods do you want of a ‘wife?’ And if it is a necessity that is not postponable, what description of apron-string does your High Mightiness desire? I’ve an idea you’ve only to name the thing, and there’d be a perfect crowd of applicants for the situation. Come, bestir yourself, Sir Oracle, open your mouth, and trot out your ideal.”

“Well, then, negatively, I don’t want a literary woman. I should desire my wife’s thoughts and feelings to centre in me,—to be content in the little kingdom where I reign supreme,—to have the capacity to appreciate me, but not brilliancy enough to outshine me, or to attract ‘outsiders.’ ”

“I like that, because ’t is so unselfish,” said Minnie, with mock humility. “Go on.”

“You see, Minnie, these literary women live on public admiration,—glory in seeing themselves in print. Just fancy my wife’s heart turned inside-out to thousands of eyes beside mine, for dissection. Fancy her quickening ten thousand strange pulses with ‘thoughts that breathe and words that burn.’ Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as Mr. Somebody, that the talented Miss

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—— condescended to marry. Horrible! Minnie, I tell you, literary women are a sort of nondescript monsters; nothing feminine about them. They are as ambitious as Lucifer; else, why do they write?”

“Because they can’t help it,” said Minnie, with a flashing eye. “Why does a bird carol? There is that in such a soul that will not be pent up,—that must find voice and expression; a heaven-kindled spark, that is unquenchable; an earnest, soaring spirit, whose wings cannot be earth-clipped. These very qualities fit it to appreciate, with a zest none else may know, the strong, deep love of a kindred human heart. Reverence, respect, indeed, such a soul claims and exacts; but think you it will be satisfied with that? No! It craves the very treasure you would wrest from it, Love! That there are vain and ambitious female writers, is true; but pass no sweeping condemnation; there are literary women who have none the less deserved the holy names of wife and mother, because God has granted to them the power of expressing the same tide of emotions that sweep, perchance, over the soul of another, whose lips have never been touched ‘with a coal from the altar.’ ”

—

“Good morning, Colonel,” said Minnie; “how did you like the lady to whom I introduced you last evening?”

“Like her? I don’t like her at all,—I love her!

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She took me by storm! Minnie, that woman must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt. She’s my ideal of a wife embodied.”

“I thought she’d suit you,” said Minnie, not trusting herself to look up. “She’s very attractive; but are you sure you can secure her?”

“Well, I flatter myself,” said the Colonel, glancing at an opposite mirror, “I shall, at least, ‘die making an effort,’ before I take No for an answer. Charming woman! feminine from her shoe-lacings to the tips of her eyebrows; no blue-stockings peeping from under the graceful folds of her silken robe. What a charmed life a man might lead with her! Her fingers never dabbled with ink, thank Heaven! She must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt, Minnie!”

She was “Mrs. Col. Van Zandt.” A week after their marriage, Minnie came in, looking uncommonly wicked and mischievous. “What a turtle-dove scene!” said she, as she stood at the door. “Do you know I never peep into Paradise, that I don’t feel a Luciferish desire to raise a mutiny among the celestials? And apropos of that, you recollect ‘Abelard,’ Colonel; and the beautiful ‘Zeluka,’ by the same anonymous writer; and those little essays by the same hand, that you hoarded up so long? Well, I’ve discovered the author,—after a persevering investigation among the knowing ones,—the anonymous author, with the signature of ‘Heloise.’ You

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have your matrimonial arm around her this minute! May I be kissed if you have n’t!” and she threw herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of mirth. “O, Colonel! ‘marry a woman who has just sense enough to appreciate you, and not brilliancy enough to attract outsiders! Fancy my wife quickening ten thousand strange pulses with thoughts that breathe, and words that burn! Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as the Mr. Somebody the talented Miss —— condescended to marry’! I declare, I’m sorry for you, Colonel; you have my everlasting sympathy; you look already like a man ‘transported for life!’ ”

“Laugh away, Minnie! You might have played me a worse trick,—for instance, had you married me yourself! ‘Heloise’ or Amy, ’t is all one to me, so long as I can call her wife. I’m quite happy enough to be willing you should enjoy your triumph; and quite willing to subscribe, on my knees, to your creed, that a woman may be literary, and yet feminine and lovable; content to find her greatest happiness in the charmed circle of Home.”

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HE WHO HAS MOST OF HEART.

“He who has most of heart knows most of sorrow.”

Yes, yes,—they are a fair target for the envious, the malicious, the selfish, and the crafty. God pity them, when the wide world is before them;—when every rough breath of unkindness sends a chill like death to the trusting heart;—when the coarse sneer, and brutal jest, fall with a crucifying sharpness on the sensitive ear,—when private griefs and sorrows, borne with all their crushing weight unshared, too sacred to be trusted to ears that may prove treacherous, are rudely probed, and laid bare to careless eyes, by hands and tongues that should say, “Lean on me, I will shelter you.”

Yes, yes,—most of heart, most of sorrow! Treachery repaid for trust,—once, twice, thrice,—the heart still throwing out its tendrils to clasp again but a crumbling ruin. Leaves—buds—flowers—stem, all trampled under the ruthless foot. The same blue, mocking sky overhead; the same heavy thunder-cloud ever looming up in the distance. The little bark, feebly piloted, dashing on amid the billows, amid rocks, and shoals, and quicksands;

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no strong arm to help; no friendly voice to say, “God speed you!” no hope on earth; no haven of rest; no olive branch for the weary dove. The waters never assuaged; the bow of peace never in the heavens. The feeble, fluttering wing beaten earthward when it would soar. O, surely, “he who has most of heart knows most of sorrow!”

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DARK DAYS.

“Dying! How can you ever struggle through the world alone? Who will care for you, Janie, when I am dead?”

—

“Have you rooms to let?” said a lady in sable to a hard-featured person.

“Rooms? Why—yes—we have rooms;” surveying Mrs. Grey very deliberately. “You are a widow, I suppose? Thought so by the length of your veil. Been in the city long? How long has your husband been dead? What was the matter of him? Take in sewing or anything? Got any reference? How old is that child of yours?”

“I hardly think the situation will suit,” said Mrs. Grey, faintly, as she rose to go.

“Don’t cry, mamma,” said Charley, as they gained the street. “Won’t God take care of us?”

—

“Put another stick of wood on the fire, Charley; my fingers are quite benumbed, and I’ve a long while to work yet.”

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“There’s not even a chip left,” said the boy, mournfully, rubbing his little purple hands. “It seems as though I should never grow a big man, so that I could help you!”

—

“Hist! there’s a rap.” “Work done?” said a rough voice; “cause, if you ain’t up to the mark, you can’t have any more. ‘No fire, and cold fingers.’ Same old story. Business is business; I’ve no time to talk about your affairs. Women never can look at a thing in a commercial p’int of view. What I want to know is in a nut-shell. Is them shirts done or not, young woman?”

“Indeed, there is only one finished, though I have done my best,” said Mrs. Grey.

“Well, hand it along; you won’t get any more; and sit up to-night and finish the rest, d’ye hear?”

—

“Have you vests that you wish embroidered, sir?”

“Y-e-s,” said the gentleman (?) addressed, casting a look of admiration at Mrs. Grey.—“Here, James, run out with this money to the bank.—Wish it for yourself, madam?” said he blandly. “Possible? Pity to spoil those blue eyes over such drudgery.”

A moment, and he was alone.

—

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“He’s a very sick child,” said the doctor, “and there’s very little chance for him to get well here;” drawing his furred coat to his ears, as the wind whistled through the cracks. “Have you no friends in the city, where he could be better provided for?”

Mrs. Grey shook her head mournfully.

“Well, I’ll send him some medicine to-night, and tomorrow we will see what can be done for him.”

“Tomorrow!” All the long night the storm raged fearfully. The driving sleet sifted in through the loose windows, that rattled, and trembled, and shook. Mrs. Grey hushed her breath, as she watched the little, waxen face, and saw that look creep over it that comes but once. The sands of life were fast ebbing. The little taper flickered and flashed—and then—went out forever!

—

It was in the “poor man’s lot” that Harry Grey’s pet boy was buried. There were no carriages, no mourners, no hearse. Mrs. Grey shuddered, as the wagon jolted over the rough stones to the old burying-place. She uttered a faint scream, as the sexton hit the coffin against the wagon in lifting it out. Again and again she stayed his hand, when he would have fastened down the lid; she heard with fearful distinctness the first heavy clod that fell upon her boy’s breast; she looked on with a dreadful fascination, while he filled up the grave; she saw the last

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shovelful of earth stamped down over him, and when the sexton touched her arm, and pointed to the wagon, she followed him mechanically, and made no objection, when he said “he guessed he’d drive a little faster, now that the lad was out.” He looked at her once or twice, and thought it very odd that she did n’t cry; but he did n’t profess to understand women folks. So, when it was quite dusk, they came back again to the old wooden house; and there he left her, with the still night and her crushing sorrow.

—

“Who will care for you, Janie, when I am dead?”

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NIGHT.

Night! The pulse of the great city lies still. The echo of hurrying feet has long since died away. The maiden dreams of her lover; the wife, of her absent husband; the sick, of health; the captive, of freedom. Softly falls the moonlight on those quiet dwellings; yet, under those roofs are hearts that are throbbing and breaking with misery too hopeless for tears; forms bent before their time with crushing sorrow; lips that never smile, save when some mocking dream comes to render the morrow’s waking tenfold more bitter. There, on a mother’s faithful breast, clam and beautiful, lies the holy brow of infancy. O, could it but pass away thus, ere the bow of promise has ceased to span its future!—ere that serenest sky be darkened with lowering clouds!—ere that loving heart shall feel the death-pang of despair!

There, too, sits Remorse, clothed in purple and fine linen, “the worm that never dieth” hid in its shining folds. There, the weary watcher by the couch of pain, the dull ticking of the clock striking to the heart a nameless terror. With straining eye its hours are counted; with nervous hand the draught that brings no healing is held to the pallid lip.

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The measured tread of the watchman as he passes his round, the distant rumble of the coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone breaks the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts, like unbidden guests, rush in. Life appears like the dream it is. Eternity, the waking; and, involuntarily, the most careless eye looks up appealingly to Him by whom the hairs of our heads are all numbered.

Blessed night! Wrap thy dark mantle round these weary earth-pilgrims! Over them all the “Eye that never slumbereth” keepeth its tireless watch. Never a fluttering sigh escapes a human breast unheard by that pitying ear. Never an unspoken prayer for help, that finds not its pitying response in the bosom of Infinite mercy.

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CHILDREN’S RIGHTS.

Men’s rights! Women’s rights! I throw down the gauntlet for children’s rights! Yes, little pets, Fanny Fern’s about “takin’ notes,” and she’ll “print ’em,” too, if you don’t get your dues. She has seen you seated by a pleasant window, in a railroad car, with your bright eyes dancing with delight, at the prospect of all the pretty things you were going to see, forcibly ejected by some overgrown Napoleon, who fancied your place, and thought, in his wisdom, that children had no taste for anything but sugar-candy. Fanny Fern knew better. She knew that the pretty trees and flowers, and bright blue sky, gave your little souls a thrill of delight, though you could not tell why; and she knew that great big man’s soul was a great deal smaller than yours, to sit there and read a stupid political paper, when such a glowing landscape was before him, that he might have feasted his eyes upon. And she longed to wipe away the big tear that you did n’t dare to let fall; and she understood how a little girl or boy, that did n’t get a ride every day in the year, should not be quite able to swallow that great big lump in the throat, as he or she sat jammed down in a

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dark, crowded corner of the car, instead of sitting by that pleasant window.

Yes; and Fanny has seen you sometimes, when you’ve been muffled up to the tip of your little nose in woollen wrappers, in a close, crowded church, nodding your little drowsy heads, and keeping time to the sixth-lie and seventh-lie of some pompous theologian, whose preaching would have been high Dutch to you, had you been wide awake.

And she has seen you sitting, like little automatons, in a badly-ventilated school-room, with your nervous little toes at just such an angle, for hours; under the tuition of a Miss Nancy Nipper, who did n’t care a rush-light whether your spine was as crooked as the letter S or not, if the Great Mogul Committee, who marched in once a month to make the “grand tour,” voted her a “model school-marm.”

Yes, and that ain’t all. She has seen you sent off to bed, just at the witching hour of candle-light, when some entertaining guest was in the middle of a delightful story, that you, poor, miserable “little pitcher,” was doomed never to hear the end of! Yes, and she has seen “the line and plummet” laid to you so rigidly, that you were driven to deceit and evasion; and then seen you punished for the very sin your tormentors helped you to commit. And she has seen your ears boxed just as hard for tearing a hole in your best pinafore, or breaking a

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China cup, as for telling as big a lie as Ananias and Sapphira did.

And when, by patient labor, you had reared an edifice of tiny blocks,—fairer in its architectural proportions, to your infantile eye, than any palace in ancient Rome,—she has seen it ruthlessly kicked into a shattered ruin, by somebody in the house, whose dinner had n’t digested!

Never mind. I wish I was mother to the whole of you! such glorious times as we’d have! Reading pretty books, that had no big words in ’em; going to school where you could sneeze without getting a rap on the head for not asking leave first; and going to church on the quiet, blessed Sabbath, where the minister—like our dear Saviour—sometimes remembered to “take little children in his arms, and bless them.”

Then, if you asked me a question, I would n’t pretend not to hear; or lazily tell you I “did n’t know,” or turn you off with some fabulous evasion, for your memory to chew for a cud till you were old enough to see how you had been fooled. And I’d never wear such a fashionable gown that you could n’t climb on my lap whenever the fit took you; or refuse to kiss you, for fear you’d ruffle my curls, or my collar, or my temper,—not a bit of it; and then you should pay me with your merry laugh, and your little confiding hand slid ever trustingly in mine.

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O, I tell you, my little pets, Fanny is sick of din and strife, and envy, and uncharitableness!—and she’d rather, by ten thousand, live in a little world full of fresh, guileless, loving little children, than in this great museum full of such dry, dusty, withered hearts.

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SORROW’S TEACHINGS.

“How is it,” said I, despondingly, to Aunt Milly, “that you, who have been steeped to the lips in trouble, can be so cheerful?”

“Listen to me, Ellen. You know my first great sorrow,—the loss of my husband. When the grave closed over him, the star of hope faded from my sky. I could see no mercy in the Hand that dealt that blow. The green earth became one wide sepulchre; the sweet ministrations of nature had no healing power. In my selfish despair, I would have shrouded the blue heavens in sable, and thrown a pall of gloom over every happy heart. Months passed by slowly, wearily, and I found no alleviation of my sorrow; no tears came to ease that dull, dead pain that seemed crushing the life from out my heart; no star of Bethlehem shone through the dark cloud over my head.

“I was sitting one afternoon, as usual, motionless and speechless. It was dark and gloomy without, as my soul within. The driving sleet beat heavily against the windows. Twilight had set in. My little Charley had patiently tried for hours to amuse himself with his toys,

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now and then glancing sadly at my mournful face. But the oppressive gloom was becoming unendurable to the child. At length, creeping slowly to my side, and leaning heavily against my shoulder, he said, in a half sob, ‘Does God love to see you look so, mamma?’

“ ‘No, no, Charley!’ said I, as I clasped him to my heart with repentant tears. ‘No, no!—I’ll cloud your sunny face no longer.’

“Alas! dear Ellen, I but turned from one idol to another;—I gave God the second place, and lived only for my boy; and so my wayward heart needed another lesson. The grave took in my last earthly treasure. But when the Smiter had done his work, those little lips, though silent, still said to me, ‘God loveth the cheerful giver;’ and so, smiling through my tears, I learned to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ Dear Ellen, if the good Father takes away with one hand, he gives with the other. There is always some blessing left. ‘Ilka blade of grass keeps its ain drap o’ dew!’ ”

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“AN INFIDEL MOTHER.”

Can it be? Can you look into the depths of those clear blue eyes, that seek yours in such confiding, innocent trust,—can you deck those dimpled limbs, so “fearfully and wonderfully made,”—can you watch with him the first faint streak of light, that ushers in another happy day,—can you point him to the gold and purple sunset glory,—can you look upward with him to the shining host, or place in his eager hand the field flowers which bend their dewy eyes with grateful thanks, and never name “Our Father!”

When, at dead of night, you watch beside his sick couch; when you hush your very breath, to listen to his pained moan; when every gust of wind makes your cheek grow pale; when you turn with trembling hand the healing drops; when every tick of the clock seems beating against your heart; when the little, pallid face looks beseechingly into yours, for the “help” you cannot give; O, where can you turn the suppliant eye, if you see not the “Great Physician?”

When health slowly returns; when the eye brightens, and the red blood colors cheek and lip; when the vacant

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chair is again filled; when the little feet are again busy; when loving arms in playful glee twine again around your neck;—comes there from that mother’s heart of thine no burst of grateful thanks to Him who notes even the sparrow’s fall?

—

Suppose death come. You fold away the little, useless robes; you turn with a filling eye from toys and books, and paths those little feet have trod; you feel ever the shadowy clasp of a little hand in yours; you turn heart-sick from happy mothers, who number no missing lamb from their flock. A sunny ringlet, a rosy cheek, or a piping voice, gives your heart a death-pang. You walk the busy street, and turn your head involuntarily when a little, strange voice calls “Mother!” O, where can you go for comfort then, if you believe not that the “good Shepherd” folds your lamb to his loving breast?

—

There is perfidy at your household hearth. There are broken vows, which you may not breathe to human ear. There is treachery repaid for trust! Childhood looks on with a sad wonder; you must “go backward and cast the mantle” of evasion over the moral deformity. Whence shall strength come to your slender shoulders, to bear this heavy cross? How silence the ready tempter’s

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voice? Where shall all those warm affections now be garnered up, if not in heaven?

O, you have no anchor, no rudder or compass!—your little bark is adrift, at the mercy of every pitiless gale,—the sea is dark and fearful, the billows mountain high, the sky black with darkness, if you turn from the Great Pilot!

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LITTLE CHARLIE, THE CHILD-ANGEL.

I am one of that persecuted class, denominated old maids. By going quietly about the world, taking care not to jostle my neighbors, or hit against any of their rough angles, I manage to be cheerful, contented and happy. In my multitudinous migrations, I have had some opportunity to study human nature. Lately, I have become a temporary inmate of a crowded boarding-house. My little room has already begun to look home-like. The cheerful sun has expanded the fragrant flowers I love so well to nurture; my canary trills his satisfaction in a gayer song than ever; and my pictures, book, and guitar, drive “dull care away,” and beguile many a pleasant hour. And now my heart has found a new object of interest. I’ve noticed on the staircase, and in the hall and lobby, a lovely child, who seemed wandering about at his own sweet will; sometimes sitting wearily on the stairs, almost asleep; then loitering at the kitchen door, watching the operations of the cook; then peeping into the half-open doors of the different apartments. As, by a rule of the house, “no children were permitted at

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table,” it was some time before I could ascertain who claimed this little stray waif.

One morning, attracted by the carol of my canary, he ventured to put his little, curly head inside my door. He needed little urging to enter, for he read, with a child’s quick instinct, his welcome in my face. An animated conversation soon ensued about birds, flowers, and pictures,—his large, blue eyes growing bright, and his cheek flushing with pleasure, as story followed story, while he sat upon my knee.

At length I said to him, “Charlie, won’t mamma be anxious about you, if you stay so long?”

“O, no,” said he, “Lizzie don’t care.”

“Who’s Lizzie?”

“Why, my mamma! She don’t care, if I’m only out of the way. Lizzie made me this pretty dress,” said he, holding up his richly-embroidered frock; “but Lizzie don’t know any stories, and she says I’m a bore. What is a ‘bore?’ ” said the sweet child, as he looked trustingly in my face.

“Never mind, now,” said I, tearfully; “you may stay with me whenever you like, and we will be very good friends.”

The dinner-bell sounding, a gayly-dressed young thing vociferated, in a voice anything but musical, “Charlie, Charlie!” When I apologized for keeping him, she said, carelessly, as she rearranged her bracelets, “O, it

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don’t signify, if you can have patience with him, he’s so tiresome with his questions. I’ve bought him heaps of toys, but he never wants to play, and is forever asking me such old-fashioned questions. Keep him and welcome, when you like; but take my word for it, you’ll repent your bargain!” and she tripped gayly down to dinner.

Poor little Charlie! Time in plenty to adjust all those silken ringlets; time to embroider all those little gay dresses; time to linger till midnight over the last new novel; but for the soul that looked forth from those deep blue eyes, no time to sow the good seed, no time to watch lest the enemy should “sow tares.”

From that time Charlie and I were inseparable. The thoughtless mother, well content to pass her time devouring all sorts of trashy literature, or in idle gossip with her drawing-room companions. The young father, weary with business troubles, contenting himself with a quiet “good-night,” and closing the day by a visit to the theatre or concert-room. Poor Charlie, meanwhile, put to bed for safe-keeping, would lie hours, tossing restlessly from side to side, “with nothing in his mind,” as he innocently said to me. What a joy to sit by his side and beguile the lonely hours! There I learned to understand the meaning of our Saviour’s words, “For of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

In his clear, silvery tones, he would repeat after me

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“Our Father,” asking me the meaning of every petition; then he would say, “Why don’t you tell Lizzie? Lizzie don’t know any prayers!”

One night I sang him these lines,—

“Sweet fields, beyond the swelling flood,

Stand dressed in living green;”—

he raised himself in bed, while the tears trembled on his long lashes, and said, “O, sing that again,—it seems as if I saw a beautiful picture!” Then, taking my guitar, I would sit by his bedside, and watch the blue eyes droop and grow heavy with slumber as I sang to him. And she, whose duty, and joy, and pride, it should have been to lead those little feet to Him who biddeth, “little children come,” was indolently and contentedly bound in flowery fetters of her own weaving, unmindful than an angel’s destiny was intrusted to her careless keeping.

—

Little Charlie lay tossing in his little bed, with a high fever. It is needless to tell of the hold he had upon my heart and services. His childish mother, either unable or unwilling to see his danger, had left me in charge of him,—drawn from his side by the attraction of a great military ball. I changed his heated pillows, gave him the cooling draught, bathed his feverish temples, and, finally, at his request, rocked him gently to quiet his

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restlessness. He placed his little arms caressingly about my neck, and said, feebly, “Sing to me of heaven.” When I finished, he looked languidly up, saying, “Where’s Lizzie?—I must kiss Lizzie!” and as the words died upon his lips, his eyes drooped, his heart fluttered like a prisoned bird, and little Charlie was counted one in the heavenly fold.

As I closed his eyes, and crossed the dimpled hands peacefully upon his little breast, his last words rang fearfully in my ears,—“Where’s Lizzie?”

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THE CROSS AND THE CROWN.

Are there no martyrs of whom the world never hears? Are there no triumphs save where one can grasp earth’s laurel crown? See you none who rise early and sit up late, and turn with a calm, proud scorn from a gilded fetter to honest toil? Pass you never, in your daily walks, slight forms, with calm brows, and mild eyes, whose whole life has been one prolonged self-struggle? Lip, cheek and brow tell you no tale of the spirit’s unrest!

The “broad road” is passing fair to look upon. The coiled serpent is not visible ’mid its luxurious foliage. The soft breeze fans the cheek wooingly, laden with the music of happy, careless idlers. Youth, and bloom, and beauty,—ay, even silver hairs, are there! No tempest lowers; the sky is clear and blue. What stays yonder slender foot? Why pursue so courageously the thorny, rugged, stumbling path? The eye is bright; the limbs are round and graceful; the blood flows warm and free; the shining hair folds softly away from a pure, fair brow; there are sweet voices yonder to welcome; there is an

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inward voice to hush; there are thrilling eyes there, to bewilder! What stays that slender foot?

Ah! the foot-prints of Calvary’s sufferer are in that “narrow path!” That youthful head bends low and unshrinkingly to meet its “crown of thorns.” The “star in the east” shines far above those rugged heights, on which its follower reads,—“To him that overcometh, will I give to eat of the Tree of Life.”

Dear reader, for a brief day the Cross for uncounted ages the Crown!

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LILLA, THE ORPHAN.

It was a rough, dark, unsightly looking old farmhouse. The doors were off the hinges, panes of glass were broken in the windows, the grass had overgrown the little gravel path, and the pigs and poultry went in and out the door as if they were human. Farmer Brady sat sunning his bloated face on the door-step, stupid from the effects of the last debauch; his ungainly, idle boys were quarrelling which should smoke his pipe, and two great romps of girls, with uncombed locks and tattered clothes, were swinging on the gate in front of the house.

Everything within doors was in keeping with the disorder that reigned without, save a young, fair girl, who sat at the low window, busily sewing on a coarse garment. Her features were regular and delicate, her hands and feet, small and beautifully formed, and, despite her rustic attire, one could see, with a glance, that she was a star that had wandered from its sphere.

“I say, Lilla,” said one of the hoydens, bounding into the kitchen, and pulling the comb out of Lilla’s head as she bent over her work, shedding the long, brown hair around her slight figure, till her white shoulders and

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arms were completely veiled,; “I say, make haste about that gown. Ma said you should finish it by noon, and you don’t sew half fast enough.”

Lilla’s cheeks flushed, and the small hands wandered through the mass of hair in the vain attempt to confine it again, as she said, meekly, “Won’t you come help me, Betsey? My head aches sadly, to-day.”

“No, I won’t. You think, because you are a lady, that you can live here on us, and do nothing for a living; but you won’t; and you are no better than Peggy and I, with your soft voice, and long hair, and doll face.” So saying, the romp went back again to her primitive gymnasium, the gate.

Lilla’s tears flowed fast, as her little fingers flew more nimbly; and by afternoon her task was completed, and she obtained permission from her jailers to take a walk. It was a joy to Lilla to be alone with nature. It was a relief to free herself from vulgar sights and sounds; to exchange coarse taunts, and rude jests, and harsh words, for the song of birds, the ripple of the brook, and the soft murmur of the wind as it sighed through the tall tree-tops.

Poor Lilla!—with a soul so tuned to harmony, to be condemned to perpetual discord! Through the long, bright summer days, to drudge at her ceaseless toil, at the bidding of those harsh voices. At night, to creep into her little bed, but to recall tearfully a dim vision of

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childhood;—a gentle, wasted form; a fair, sweet face growing paler day by day; large, lustrous, loving eyes that still followed her by day and night; then, a confused recollection of a burial,—afterwards, a dispute as to her future home, ending in a long, dismal journey. Since then, scanty meals, the harsh blow, coarse clothing, taunting words and bitter servitude; and then she would sob herself to sleep, as she asked, “Must it always be thus? Is there none to care for me?”

The golden days of summer faded away; the leaves put on their dying glory; the soft wind of the Indian summer lifted gently the brown tresses from Lilla’s sweet face. She still took her accustomed walks, but it was not alone. A stranger had taken up his residence at the village inn. He had met Lilla in her rambles, and his ready ingenuity soon devised a self-introduction. He satisfied himself that she claimed no affinity to the disorderly inmates of the farm-house. He drew from her her little history, and knew that she was an orphan, unprotected in her own sweet innocence, save by Him who guards us all.

And so the dewy, dim, twilight witnessed their meetings, and the color came to the pale cheek of Lilla, and her eyes grew wondrously beautiful, and her step was as light as her heart, and harsh household words fell to the ground like arrows short of the mark; for Lilla was happy. In the simplicity of her guileless heart, how should

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she know that Vincent lived only for the present? That she was to him but one of many beautiful visions, admired to-day, forgotten tomorrow? It was such a joy to be near him, to feel herself appreciated, to know that she was beloved!

And so time passed on;—but their meetings had not been unnoticed. Rough threats were uttered to Lilla, if they were continued, for she had made herself too useful to be spared. All this was communicated to her lover, as they met again at the old trysting-place; and then, as she leaned trustingly on his arm, Vincent whispered in her ear words whose full import she understood not. Slowly the truth revealed itself! Her slight figure grew erect, as she withdrew from his supporting arm;—her soft eye flashed with indignation, and the man of the world stood abashed in the presence of innocence! A moment—and he was alone, beneath the holy stars!

That night Lilla fled her home. She could scarce be more desolate or unprotected. The next day found her, foot-sore and weary, in the heart of the great city, startled and trembling like the timid deer fleeing from its pursuers.

Lilla knew that she was beautiful. She read it in the lengthened gaze of the passers-by. Friendless, houseless and beautiful! God help thee, Lilla!

—

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In a dark, unhealthy garret sat Lilla! Her face, still lovely, was pale as marble. Her fingers flew with lightning rapidity over the coarse work that yielded her only a shelter. But there were angel faces,—unseen by her,—smiling approval; and she could clasp those small hands, when the day’s toil was over, and say, “Our Father,” with the innocent heart of childhood; and invisible ones had charge to guard her footsteps, and “He who feedeth the ravens” gave her “daily bread.”

One day she took her little bundle, as usual, to the shop of her employers; and, while waiting for the small pittance due, her eye fell upon an advertisement “for a housekeeper,” in a newspaper before her. But how could she obtain it, without recommendation, without friends? She resolved to try. Her little hand trembled nervously as she pulled the bell of the large, handsome house. She was preceded by the servant into the library, where sat a fine-looking man, in the prime of life. He looked admiringly upon the shrinking, modest face and form before him. She told him, in a few simple words, her history.

The eccentric old bachelor paused for a moment, then taking her hand, he said, “I advertised for a housekeeper, but I’m more in need of a wife. Will you marry me?”

And so Lilla became a happy, honored wife. And

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if a flush pass over her sweet face when she meets Vincent in the circle of her husband’s acquaintances, it is from no lingering feeling of affection for the treacherous heart, that held in such light estimation the sacred name of Orphan.

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OBSERVING THE SABBATH.

“And ye shall call the Sabbath a delight, Holy of the Lord, honorable.”

“Don’t accept the invitation sent you to that Sunday excursion, Harry.”

“What a solemn phiz, Fan!—why not? The better the day the better the deed.”

“My dear coz, if the fourth commandment has no restraining power, then avoid it for its vulgarity. Depend upon it, it is the more coarse and unrefined portion of the community who outrage the feelings of church-going people by Sabbath desecration. Let good taste deter you from it, Harry, if I must resort to so weak an argument, when so many better ones are on my side.”

“Well;—but, coz, I have already given my word that I will accept.”

“Break it, then;—you owe allegiance to a friend who has a prior claim.”

“Now, Fan, if I would do it for anything, I would do

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it for you; but, do you know, I don’t believe in Sunday, and in going to meeting?”

“Your mother did, Harry.”

“Yes—I—know,” said he, thoughtfully; “and, strange as it may seem to you, that is the reason I don’t. When I was a ‘little shaver,’ Sunday was the gloomiest day in the calendar, to me. From sunrise to sunset, we were scarcely allowed to wink. As soon as we were dressed, we were seated in a row, with our Bibles, catechisms and hymn-books. Even religious newspapers were prohibited; and we should as soon have thought of dancing a hornpipe on the pulpit stairs, as stepping over the threshold of the door, except to church. There we sat, repeating hymns, creeds and commandments, till the bell summoned us to a change of scene; and he was a very bold urchin who dared stop to pluck a tempting daisy or buttercup by the roadside. Our patriarchal pastor was fond of disentangling knotty theological snarls, and diving beyond his depth, in the doctrines of election and total depravity. Our childish minds refused to follow in those labyrinthine mazes, though we had sundry pulls by the ears, and raps on the knuckles, by way of reminders. Amid all this ‘strong meat,’ the ‘milk for babes,’ ordered by the infant-loving Saviour, was quite overlooked.

“Our Sunday dinner was looked forward to as a sort of juvenile ‘millennium;’ though our inclination to pro-

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long it indefinitely was unceremoniously cut short by sending us back to our little chairs and big catechisms. The advent of a vagrant fly, or profane mosquito, was hailed with an internal thanksgiving, as affording a convenient respite for the study of anatomy and natural history; stray leaves of ‘Tom Thumb,’ ‘Mother Goose,’ and ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ occasionally found their way between the pages of more doctrinal reading; and the soporific tendency of a second sermon from our argumentative pastor, bade defiance to every attempt of our vigilant parents to keep us from migrating to the land of Nod.

“With what anxiety and impatience we watched for the disappearance of ‘Old Sol’ behind the hills! What a welcome release for overtasked spirits, what stretching of wearied limbs, as his last golden beam was lost in the twilight! With what a feeling of complete disenthralment we threw ourselves on the grass, beneath the old apple-tree, or explored the meadow behind the house, or drove ‘old Brindle’ home from pasture! And when we crept into our little beds at night, what sorrowful discussions we held upon that sentence in father’s prayer, that announced ‘Heaven to be one eternal Sabbath!’ O, coz, Sunday was made a weariness in my boyhood!”

Very true, thought I, sorrowfully, as he gayly waved an adieu. The cord was drawn too tightly, and this

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is the rebound! And yet it is an old-fashioned error; caution points with her finger to the other extreme, at the present day. Discretion and wisdom mark out a middle path.

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THE PROPHET’S CHAMBER.

My grandfather’s house was, to all intents and purposes, a ministerial tavern;—lacking the sign. But though “entertainment for man and beast” was not written upon the door-posts, yet one might read it, in very legible characters, in the faces of its master and mistress, and in the very aspect of the mansion itself. At least, so the travelling world, especially the clerical part of it, seemed to think; for almost every steamboat, stage and railroad car brought them a visitor. They dropped their carpet-bags in the hall with the most perfect certainty of a welcome; and if the inmates were out, the fire was not, and the boot-jack and slippers of “Brother Clapp” were in the same old place. You should have seen the “Prophet’s Chamber,”—that never, within my recollection, was unoccupied more than time enough “to clear it up,”—with its old-fashioned bedstead and hangings, its capacious old arm-chair, its manifold toilet accommodations, its well-furnished, writing-desk, its large fire-place filled up,—not with a black, gloomy, funereal-looking pillar of a stove, with an isinglass window about as big as a ninepence, mocking the

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chilled traveller with its muffled blaze,—but great, stalwart logs of wood, laid over the large, old-fashioned andirons, that stood guard, like two brazen sentinels, over the bright flame that flickered and flashed, and leaped forth exultingly, lighting up the faces of the saints and martyrs that hung upon the wall, from the time of John Rogers down to the last poor missionary that was ate up by the savages in our own day. There was a very orthodox atmosphere in that room, you may be sure; and when my grandmother used to send me up,—then a little girl,—with some dainty morsel, prepared by her own skilful hands for the “good minister,” I used to stop at the door till I imagined my little, round face was drawn down to the proper length, before I dared show it on the other side. How glad I was when that dyspeptic Mr. Ney’s visit was at an end, with his “protracted” walkings up and down, and across the floor, and his sighs and groans, and “O dear me’s!” and how grandmother used to shake her head at me, and pity him, with his “big family, and large parish, and small salary.” And when he went home, how full she used to stuff that old carpet-bag of his, which I used to think must have been made of India rubber, for it always held just as much as she had to put in it, more or less; and how I used to wonder if my heart was as “awful hard, and dreadful wicked,” as he used to tell me! Poor Mr. Ney! I understand it better now; it was disease, not religion, that made him so

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gloomy. His sky was always lead color; no flowers bloomed under his feet; his ears heard nothing but “the thunder and lightning;” his eyes saw only the “thick cloud upon the mount.”

But what a sunshine brightened the Prophet’s Chamber when dear Mr. Temple came to stay with us! I used to think our Saviour must have such a smile when he said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” How low and musical was his voice! How gently he would lay his dear hand upon my head, when I stooped to put on his slippers, and say, “ ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me,’—God bless you, my daughter!” And when the excitement of preaching brought one of those cruel attacks of nervous headache, what a pleasure it was, when I stood up on the little cricket behind his chair, to pass my little hand slowly across his broad, pale forehead, till the long silken lashes drooped heavily upon his cheek, and he sank into a soothing slumber! How softly I would tiptoe back to my little seat by the fire-place, to watch for his waking, to gaze upon his sweet, quiet face, and wonder if he would n’t look like that in heaven! And, then, proud and happy I was, when he awoke refreshed, to be beckoned to my old place on his knee, and to hear the pretty story of the “Little Syrian Maid,” or “Abraham and Isaac,” or the “Resurrection of Lazarus,”—possessing some new charm for me every time he related them! And how

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soft and liquid his large, dark eyes grew, and how tremulous his low voice, as he told me of “the Crucifixion!” And how I used to think if I could always live with dear Mr. Temple I should never be a naughty little girl again in my life—never! never!

And years afterwards, when I had grown a tall girl, and he chanced to come to preach in the place where I was sent to a boarding-school, he selected me from a hundred romping girls, and, laying his dear hand again on my head, said to my teacher, “This is one of my lambs!” was n’t that a proud and happy day for me?

But to return to my grandfather’s. You should have been there “Anniversary Week!” “Such a many ministers!” as little Charley used to say. How all of us children gave up our little bedrooms, and huddled, promiscuously, in one room! What nice things grandmother was getting ready, weeks and weeks beforehand! What appetites they did have, and how bright grandmother’s face shone, the more they ate and drank and the more they made themselves at home! And how pleasant it was to sit in the corner with my bit of gingerbread, and hear them talk! And how I used to wonder if they really were all “brothers”—as they called each other when they spoke;—and what they all meant by calling my grandmother “Sister Clapp.” Well-a-day!—years have flown by, since then. Dear grandmother and kind Mr. Temple sleep quietly in the church-yard. Sacrilegious

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feet have trod the “Prophet’s Chamber.” Poor, gloomy Mr. Ney is walking the New Jerusalem, and a new song is put in his mouth,—the song of Canaan. “Anniversary week” is not now what it used to be then. People’s hearts and houses have contracted; and, growing “forgetful to entertain strangers,” they miss the presence of the “angel that cometh unawares.”

* * * * * * *

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LILIES OF THE VALLEY.

To the unknown friend who sent me a bouquet of “lilies of the valley”:—

You dream not, as the soft wind stirs those little bells on their delicate stems, that my heart is filled with a sad pleasure. Each one has a voice for my heart; in each cup there is a history.

They bring before me a little form, fragile and sweet as themselves. I hear again the soft fall of little tripping feet. Large, brown, spiritual eyes gaze upward into mine. A cloud of shining hair shades a brow too holy for earth. Again, as in the olden time, I wander with the clasp of a little hand in cool, mossy paths; for that fair young head I bind wreaths of these sweet lilies. Silently I watch with her for the stealing forth of evening’s first star. The gray dawn, the sultry noon, the solemn midnight, find us side by side. I tremble when I look into those deep eyes. As childhood’s years pass on, no taint of earth comes over that pure heart. The passerby gazes, and turns, and looks again, and marvels whence comes the spell which chains his eye to that little face.

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Gray-haired wisdom smiles sadly, and says the dewdrop will exhale.

* * * * * * *

When the careless feet which lightly tread the sacred paths of Mount Auburn, have left its quiet sleepers to the hush of evening, then go with me; and we will sit down together, on that mossy seat under the hawthorn; and, with only the holy stars for listeners, I will tell you how gently that little hand pushed aside the cup of life;—of that long, last earnest look which was bent on me, when the tongue was powerless to speak its love;—of the gradual flickering and fading out of life’s little taper. Then you shall retrace with me a rough and thorny path of trial, which those little feet were spared from treading; and we will kneel beside that marble cross, and say, from full hearts, “It is well with the child!”

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GRANDFATHER GLEN.

The driving snow and hail beat mercilessly again the windows; the piercing north wind seemed to search the very bones. Shivering pedestrians were seen hurrying through the streets, tightly grasping their umbrellas rendered almost useless by the fury of the storm. Robust men turned their collars about their ears, and snapped their frost-bitten fingers, and stamped their feet to promote circulation; dainty dames, muffled to the chin in costly furs, were to be seen through the closed window of carriages.

It was a day to bless God for warmth, and food, and think shudderingly of the houseless poor. It was Thanksgiving day,—known throughout New England as a day of unlimited feasting and rejoicing, warm heart-greetings and glad memories. At the windows of elegant mansions, where rarest flowers blossomed, and birds warbled, as if in midsummer, where heavy silken curtains, and warm fires, bade defiance to the chill blast, were seen happy faces and graceful forms, clad in tints rivalling autumn’s gayest livery.

In such a mansion as this, around a daintily spread

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tables, were seated Mr. Glen’s wife and family,—children and children’s children. The little, high chair, in which, regularly, sat a new baby every year, had been duly placed at the table, and its little, curly-headed occupant, in scarlet dress and white apron, looked the picture of childish happiness. Sons and daughters, in manly beauty and womanly grace, made the scene fair to look upon.

A servant entered, with a note for Mr. Glen. As he read, the color mounted to his temples, but, shaking his hand angrily, and saying, “There is no answer,” he addressed himself again to the pleasures of the table. It was from his truant daughter, Ellen, who, years before, had clandestinely given her heart and hand to a youthful lover. Mr. Glen had said “he would never see her more.” All his household were forbidden to see or speak to her.

“Think of her as one dead,” said he, “and never let her name be mentioned in my presence.”

Everything that could remind him of her he caused to be removed from his sight. The key was turned upon the room she occupied; there lay her guitar, with the blue ribbon, that had so often rested on her fair neck; there were her work-box, drawing materials, a faded bunch of flowers, dainty little slippers, fairy robes, and the mirror which had so often reflected back the form that had lent such a grace to them all.

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Her father had said she was “dead to him,” and he tried to think so; and yet, he would start nervously at a household tone, or a remembered strain of music, or a soft footfall; and ever, in his dreams, a sweet, pale face looked tearfully out from amid its golden tresses, and a soft voice plead musically for pardon; but the morrow’s sun found him colder, sterner, more unyielding than ever.

In vain the faithful wife of his youth, around whose brow silver threads were twining, plead with a mother’s love for her child. In vain did the moistened eyes of brother and sister add their silent eloquence.

And there he sat, at his Thanksgiving board;—he had just refused her last request. For him the viands had now lost their flavor. He could only see before him shivering forms and haggard faces.

—

In an upper chamber, in a shattered, rickety building, lay a man in the last stage of consumption. At his bedside sat a sweet, pale creature, upon whose face sorrow, more than time, had left its traces. At her knee stood a noble boy of six years, striving with his tiny hand to wipe away the tears that were falling thick and fast among his clustering locks. Through the broken panes of glass the snow was forcing its way; the little handful of fire on the hearth was fast dying out, and the sick man’s hollow cough echoed fearfully through the desolate

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chamber, as he shiveringly drew around his emaciated limbs the scanty bed-clothing.

“Don’t cry, Ellen,” said he; “when I am gone, your father will relent.”

“No, no,” sobbed his wife, as she laid her pale cheek to his; “no, no! it must be that he will pity us now.”

As she spoke, her father’s refusal was handed to her.

“I told you so,” said the sick man, groaning, as he turned his face to the wall.

Ellen stood still a moment; then calling her boy to her side, while her face grew ashy pale, she parted the rich curls from his forehead, and wrapping about him her own tattered mantle, she sent him forth, in the storm, like Noah’s dove from the ark.

Mr. Glen sat at his table, nervously twisting his napkin between his fingers, absorbed in thought. The storm, that raged so fearfully without, was emblematical of the conflicting feelings in his breast. He turned his head towards the opening door, and before him stood a little creature, in whose curly locks the drifting snow still lingered, his cheeks reddened with intense cold, and his little toes and fingers peeping out, blue and benumbed, from their scanty covering.

“Where’s my Grandfaver Glen?” said the child, as he looked innocently and fearlessly round upon the group.

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Mr. Glen gazed at him, as if spell-bound. There were Ellen’s ringlets; those clear, blue eyes and silvery tones were hers.

The child advanced and laid his little, benumbed hand upon his grandfather’s knee. Nature could no longer dissemble. The old man pressed him to his breast, laid his silver locks upon his sunny head, chafed his shivering limbs, and offered him food.

“No—no,” said the child, refusing to eat, “I want some for poor mamma, she’s so hungry, and papa is dying, and—”

The little creature, overcome with excitement, sobbed as if his heart were breaking.

A few moments found Mr. Glen and his wife, with Charley for a guide, on the way to their suffering children. A servant accompanied them, carrying wine and refreshments. They threaded the dark alley, climbed the rickety stairway, preceded by Charley, whose eyes sparkled with delight. Throwing wide open the door of the miserable room, he said,

“Wake up, mamma; wake up, dear papa;—here’s something to make you well.”

“Merciful God!” said Mr. Glen, “we are too late,” as his eye rested on the lifeless forms of his daughter and her husband.

In vain he listened to hear them breathe; trouble, sorrow, cold and famine had too surely done their work.

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With bitter tears they laid together in the tomb those who, even in death, could not be divided.

—

The April tears of childhood are soon dried, and little Charley is now the sunbeam in the house of “Grandfaver Glen.”

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THE WIDOW’S PRAYER.

“Something to moisten my lips,” said the restless sufferer, as he turned his head languidly towards his widowed mother. The cool, refreshing draught was handed him, and a soft hand was laid on his throbbing temples, and the anxious mother turned away her head, that the quivering lip and falling tear might not distress her boy. He was her only child; and, through a tedious and sickly infancy, she had patiently endured wearisome days and wakeful nights, until at last he stood before her with cheeks mantling with the huge of health, and limbs strong and graceful in youthful beauty. No music was so sweet to her as his ringing laugh; and, when he slept, he would creep to his bedside, as the bright eyes lay veiled under their long, sweeping lashes, and the thick curls were carelessly tossed from his white temples; and happy tears fell from her eyes as the lost husband of her youth was again restored to her in the person of her sleeping boy. And she would picture a long, happy future, a quiet old age; and for him, honor and renown, and fame; and his children should climb her knee. But now—there he laid! “there was but a step between him

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and death;” the bright eye faded, the features sharpened by disease, the round limbs wasted and shrunken.

And then to that house of mourning came the holy man of God. On his bended knee, at the bedside of the dying boy, fervently he prayed that “if it be God’s will the life so dear might be spared.” “If it be God’s will?—it must be God’s will,” said the insubmissive mother, as she rose sobbing from her knees. And “the Highest” heard her prayer!

The sun shone brightly and cheerfully into the sick room. The hue of health took the place of pallor on the face of the invalid; the locks, that were damp with the dew of agony, grew crisp and glossy; the bright eye sparkled; the old familiar smile played upon the red lips; the dainty morsels, prepared by the hand of the happy mother, were partaken of with the keen relish of returning health. He was rescued!—he was saved! The gift was accepted, but the Giver was forgotten, and the Great Physician went unthanked. And so the boy grew up to manhood;—and his slightest word was law, and the glance of his eye was a command, to the mother who bore him; and she, who should have received obedience, rendered it; and to her own child she was a willing slave!

* * * * * * *

The governor of —— sat in his drawing-room, surrounded by a pleasant party of friends. A woman

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begged an immediate audience. She was old and feeble, and travel-stained; her gray locks floated unchecked over her furrowed temples. Panting, exhausted, she could only stammer forth, “For God’s sake, a pardon for my only son, condemned to die!” The man relented, but the judge was inexorable! “Justice must have its due.” Large drops of agony started from those furrowed temples. Clasping his knee, she cried, “A reprieve, then!—have mercy!—a reprieve!” It was a vain prayer; for ere the morning sun should rise, the head that had slumbered so often on her breast would be laid by rough hands in a dishonored grave; and then, too late, she knew, that not in mercy, but in wrath, that impious prayer had been answered,—“It must be God’s will!”

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THE STEP-MOTHER.

“Mother, I want to slide on the ice?”

“No, my dear; the air is sharp and cold, and your cough was very bad last night;” and Mrs. Lansing passed her hand affectionately over the silken hair of the little Minnie, as if to conciliate her.

The child shrugged her little, fat shoulders, and withdrew, pouting, to the other side of the room, saying, “I wish my own mamma was out of the ground; she’d let me go. I don’t love you!”

Tears sprang to the eyes of the gentle step-mother, but she wavered not in what she believed to be her duty. Soon after she left the room, and returned with some pretty paper dolls, calling to Minnie to come and help dress them; but the child’s wayward temper was not to be so conciliated. Another shrug of the shoulders and a portentous frown were the only answer.

Mrs. Lansing did not enter upon the marriage relation unapprized of the trials to which a “step-mother” is always exposed. She shrank timidly from the responsibility involved in the charge of Minnie, and fully expressed these feelings to her father; but Mr. Lansing

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repeatedly assured her that “he had seen no one, since his wife’s death, to whom he would so readily intrust the care of his child;” and her sensitive fears were quieted. From her infancy, Minnie had been accustomed to rule. With the want of energy attendant upon feeble health, her mother had yielded to her imperious temper, rather than provoke a struggle; and Mr. Lansing, being necessarily absent on business, Minnie was left to the injudicious chance-training of nurses and hirelings. After his wife’s death, the widowed father’s heart was more closely knit in love to his child; and, with mistaken kindness, he overlooked her little, perverse fits of temper, and humored her waywardness. Minnie, who was quick of perception, and wise beyond her years, soon found out that the staff was in her own hands; and the injurious phrase, repeated unthinkingly in her hearing, about “cruel step-mothers,” but ill prepared her to submit to Mrs. Lansing’s gentle sway. With the promptings of a naturally kind heart, quickened by a sense of duty, and a desire to win this child of her heart’s adoption, she endeavored by every ingenious device to conciliate her; but her efforts hitherto had been unavailing, or short-lived. On Mr. Lansing’s return at night, Minnie would climb his knee, and, placing her little mouth close to his ear,—with a defying glance at Mrs. Lansing,—repeat her little, distorted story of complaint, unrebuked, and receive from the inexhaustible pocket a package of bon-bons, or a new toy, by way of

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sedatives, which she, of course, contrasted, in her wise little head, most unfavorably with the gentle firmness with which Mrs. Lansing strove to govern her. All this told most disastrously upon the disposition of the child, and undermined every attempt at reformation. Added to this—although it might be passed unnoted by a casual observer—the sensitive spirit of Mrs. Lansing was wounded on those occasions, by perceiving the slightly clouded brow of her husband. The smile, so dearly prized, so jealously watched for, was a shade less beaming,—the tone of the loved voice less cordial and heart-cheering; and she soon found that to retain his love she must sacrifice her duty to his child! Curious eyes, too, watched for her halting. Inquisitive neighbors tortured every accidental circumstance to extract food for their own suspicions, or skilfully catechized the child, by questions suggestive of an answer to their liking. There was no human ear into which the loving wife could pour her sorrow.

One evening, before retiring to rest, she entered the room where Minnie lay sleeping. The dimpled arms were tossed, with the careless grace of childhood, over the little curly head; the pearly teeth were peeping from beneath the coral lips, and in broken murmurs the child repeated the name of “Mother.” Mrs. Lansing knelt by the bedside, and her tears flowed freely. She asked herself, had no jealous feeling of rivalry in the father’s

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love clouded her sense of justice toward the wilful little sleeper? With the angel eye of her whom she believed to be still hovering over the child, bent full upon her, she weighed every motive, and questioned every passing feeling; and conscience acquitted her of being actuated by any other motive than that of a desire to perform faithfully her duty. And now, should she waver? The thought of risking the father’s love was torture to her. Covering her face with her hands, she prayed,—“If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”

There had been an unnoticed listener to this spirit-conflict; and when she rose from her knees, she was folded to a heart that manfully sustained her in every future struggle; and Minnie joined him, in after years, in thanking God for the gift of a Christian step-mother.

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A WORD TO MOTHERS.

“Dear mother,” said a delicate little girl, “I have broken your China vase!”

“Well, you are a naughty, careless, troublesome little thing, always in some mischief. Go up stairs and stay in the closet till I send for you!”

And this was a Christian mother’s answer to the tearful little culprit, who had struggled with, and conquered, the temptation to tell a falsehood to screen her fault! With a disappointed, disheartened look, the child obeyed; and, at that moment, was crushed in her little heart the sweet flower of truth, perhaps never again in after years to be revived to life. O, what were the loss of a thousand “vases,” by comparison!

’T is true, an angel might shrink from the responsibilities of a mother. It needs an angel’s powers. The watch must never, for an instant, be let up; the scales of justice must always be nicely balanced; the hasty word, that the overtasked spirit sends to the lip, must die there ere it is uttered. The timid and sensitive child must have a word of encouragement in season; the forward and presuming, checked with gentle firmness; there

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must be no deception, no evasion, no trickery, for the keen eye of childhood to mark. And all this, when the exhausted frame sinks with ceaseless vigils, perhaps, and the thousand petty interruptions and unlooked-for annoyances of every hour, almost set at defiance any attempt at system. Still must that mother wear an unruffled brow, lest the smiling cherub on her knee catch the angry frown. Still must she “rule her own spirit,” lest the boy, so apparently engrossed with his toys, repeat the next moment the impatient word his ear has caught. For all these duties, faithfully and conscientiously performed, a mother’s reward is in secret and in silence. Even he, on whose earthly breast she leans, is too often unmindful of the noiseless struggle, until, too late, alas! he learns to value the delicate hand that has kept in unceasing flow the thousand springs of his domestic happiness!

But what if, in the task that devolves upon the other, she utterly fail? What if she consider her duty performed when her child is fed, and warm, and clothed? What if the priceless soul be left to the chance-training of hirelings? What if she never teach those little lips to lisp “Our Father”? What if she launch her child upon life’s stormy sea without rudder, or compass, or chart? God forbid that there should be many such mothers!

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THE TEST OF LOVE.

“For charity’s sake, take me in!” said the lively little Mrs. Grey, with a look of mock-distress, as she peeped her bright face into my room. “If you’ll credit it, my husband has n’t spoken five consecutive words since tea-time; and I’m quite undecided whether to request to have the roof raised, so that I can breathe freer, or to go into a violent fit of hysterics. Matty,” said she, with a ludicrously solemn air, “I should n’t be surprised if I had married the wrong man! Now, Edward is one of the best creatures in the world;—there, that’s just it,” said she, jumping up, “he’s too good. I can’t think of a fault he has; he’s awfully correct,—a living reproof to me. Do compassionate me, Matty; I have what the old ladies call ‘a model husband.’ Now, is n’t it a pity that goodness and stupidity generally go together?” said she, laughing. “Ned is so matter-of-fact! Now, if I’m reading a book, and come across a passage that delights me, I always want to put my arms round the author’s neck and kiss him. Well, I read it to Ned, and he says, quietly,—without looking up from his newspaper,—‘Yes, it is pretty good.’ O, dear! he never gets up enthusiasm about anything. He lacks feeling. It’s

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really pitiable, Matty;”—throwing herself on the sofa with a suppressed yawn.

“ ‘All is not gold that glitters,’ Mary; and there are gems, of whose value the possessor is sometimes ignorant. These butterflies, that dazzle in society, are mostly mere moths at home. Abroad they are elegant, refined, polished, graceful, full of repartee and wit; but by their own hearth-stones silent, moody, selfish, exacting and uninteresting. You’d never recognize them! You remember Vivian ——? Well, that’s his mental daguerreotype; in private he is the most unlovable of mortals.”

“Well, this world is a humbug, then,” said Mary, “or I’m one of its restless, dissatisfied ones; and, by the way, Matty, how came you to be an old maid?”

“Simply because you appropriated the only man I ever wanted,” was Matty’s quiet reply.

The blood rushed to Mary’s temples; she was by Matty’s side in an instant, urging her to “full confession.”

“Ah, I see, my little lady, your heart is in the right place, after all, else you would not be jealous. I have great hopes of you! ‘Blessings often brighten’ when we imagine they are ‘about to take flight!’ Your husband never spoke a word of love to me in his life,—I only wish that he had! I shall not enjoin secrecy upon you as to my preference, because I know very well you

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would not have him know it for a kingdom! So I am safe! But seriously, Mary, you don’t know how to value Edward. A few more years over your sunny head, and a little more experience of the world, and you would not barter him for the most brilliant idol your imagination ever set up for your heart to worship.”

That day was nearer than Matty prophesied! Mary, shortly after, was taken dangerously ill. For weeks she balanced between life and death. Whose supplicating eye sought the physician’s with such tearful anxiety? Whose hand, with more than a woman’s tenderness, smoothed her pillow, and shaded the light from her aching eyeballs? Who, with uplifted finger, crept softly about the house, hushing every noisy footfall? Who surrounded her with every comfort and luxury that affection could think of, or money—hardly earned—could procure? Who, when wearied with business cares, still kept tireless vigil, till the stars faded away, at the bedside of the poor sufferer?

Who grasped the physician’s hand, saying, “Save her! It is life or death with me, as well as Mary?” Who but the “matter-of-fact” Edward?

One day, after Mary was convalescent, I called to see her. She was looking very lovely, though pale and wasted. “Thank God you are spared to us!” said I, touching my lips to her forehead.

“After Him, thank my husband,” said Mary, with eyes

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liquid with feeling. “In this sick-room I have learned a lesson I shall never forget. O, Matty! there may be deep, strong love in the heart where deeds, not words, are the interpreters! Please God to spare my life, my poor love shall be his reward for this!”

Mary kept her word.

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CHILD-LIFE.

How often do we hear a mother say, complainingly, of her child, “She has such exuberant spirits!—she is so full of life!” Hush! lay your finger on your lip. Thank God for it. He who appointeth our lot knows for what purpose it was given. Have you never observed that the pathway of such an one is sure to be marked by no ordinary trials? It is a wise bestowment, from Him who seeth the end from the beginning. Deal tenderly with her; check not her innocent gayety. Make her childhood and youth happy. Cloud not her sunny brow by drawing, unnecessarily, dark pictures of life; fill not her confiding heart with distrust towards its fellows.

Let her read, if she will, love in human faces. Earth is not all a charnel-house of decayed hopes and blasted anticipations. “God is love.” Life is beautiful. Midnight,—starry, silent midnight,—with its glorious beauty; the silver moon riding in majesty or veiled in fleecy clouds; the cheerful sun walking in brightness; the rainbow-tinted sunset clouds; the sweet gray dawn, with its stirring life; the forest-clad hills crowned with the bow of promise; the towering rock, the shining river, the

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flower-wreathed meadow, the deep blue sea, the grand old woods, with their whispered music; and in and among them all, still, hearts that are noble, good, and true, beat with sympathy for a brother’s wrongs, and are open-handed to the call of charity. Tell not the young heart, so keenly susceptible, that every cup is drugged with poison; that ’neath every flower a serpent coils. Who, among us, could fearlessly again enter upon life, and cheerfully enjoy it with such a chart of shoals and quicksands before our vision? God, in His mercy, has hidden the future from our vision. “Give us this day our daily bread,” is the petition He has taught us. Shall the blessings of to-day be received with a churlish spirit, because we know not what tomorrow may bring us? That morrow we may never see; nor should we impatiently demand to know, whether for us it come frighted with joy or sorrow.

I have read a story of three little trout, which, discontented and unhappy, desired each to have a wish that should be granted. The first wished for wings, that it might fly; the next wished for a great deal of knowledge, and to understand all about hooks and nets, that it might keep out of danger; the third,—a poor ignorant fish, and not knowing what was best,—wished that God would take care of him, and choose for him, and give him just what he saw best. So God gave wings to the first; and, delighted with the exercise of his new power, he flew far,

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far away, to a desert, where he died from thirst. To the second he gave knowledge, and so he was all the time in terror; he was afraid to go into deep water, lest the great fishes should swallow him, and he was afraid to go into shallow water, lest it should dry up and leave him. He dared not eat anything, lest a hook might be concealed in it; and so he pined away and died.

But God loved the third little trout (who trusted in Him), and took care of him, and kept him from all dangers, so that he was always happy.

My story carries with it its own moral. Let the buoyant-hearted, hopeful little mariner you love, launch his little bark on life’s ocean, praying always the Great Pilot for a happy voyage and safe port.

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“THE OLD HOUSE.”

With its ancient elms, its ambitious woodbine,—which never was weary of trying to peep into the fourth-story window;—its honeysuckle porch, where lovers came for a bright-eyed welcome, and lingered to repeat their adieux; where papa made his appearance at the orthodox hour of “nine,” to warn bewitched daughters of—“the night air” (?); where midnight serenaders charmed open the eyes of beauty; where the poor, maimed and blind came, sure of a wholesome morsel; where relations—by Adam, and nearer—had carte blanche to pass in, and take their own time to pass out; where the hummingbird and drowsy bee lingered lovingly amid the flowers; where the soft west wind lifted refreshingly the silver hair of age, the silken tendrils of the infant, and the glossy tresses of laughing girlhood.

Now pass we in through the wide hall. See the antique clock, surmounted by a picture of a sailor approaching a tavern. Papa is a stanch Taylorite; so he has had “Bethel” inscribed over the inn door, and Jack is arbitrarily made a temperance man;—and has held that Bible in his hand ever since I wore

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pantalettes! And here is the old-fashioned parlor, with its broad fireplace, its carved moldings, and its anti-modern landscape paper,—so interesting to the juveniles. Here the timid, doubtful lover first asked consent of papa “to hang up his hat.” Here the die was cast whether the son should be allowed to be, what nature made him, a poet! Here were read the confidential family letters from college and boarding-school. Here was planted the “Christmas tree,” with its shining lights and glittering gifts. Here was spread our New Year’s supper, with its little remembrances; here our Thanksgiving dinner, with “chicken fixins” enough to feed a small army. Here sat the newly-affianced maiden, bearing, with the best grace she might, certain allusions to “next year at this time!” Happy grandpapa, as he “numbered the people”!—smiling as he looked backward on life’s track, tearful as he glanced forward to its goal! Under that window,

“The hand of blessing was trembling laid

On snowy forehead and simple braid;

And the words were spoken

By lips that never their trust betrayed.”

Under that window rested the coffin of the bride of a year! There, too, we looked our last upon the face of “sweet, lovely Lena!” There the dimpled hands of childhood were crossed by the broken-hearted mother. There, dear, warm-hearted grandmother received the

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caresses of her children with—for the first time—neither smile nor word of blessing! We shall surely “meet again.” But now “the old house” is desolate! The roses and clematis are rooted up, like our hopes. The utilitarian axe has been laid at the root of every tree. A house has been planted in the garden; the blessed sunlight streams no longer in our pleasant sitting-room. The fingers which swept the guitar, at that vine-clad door, are dust! The tips that sang of heaven, are “nearer home.” Husband and wife sleep peacefully, unmindful of the storm which beats down the fluttering wings of their timid household doves. The widow walks alone. The orphan finds no heart so true as the one over which the green sod is pressing. Far and wide are scattered the remnant of that household band. Oceans have been crossed, foreign lands travelled o’er, silver threads have mingled in dark tresses; but “may our right hand forget its cunning,” if that dear “old house” be not treasured in our hearts as a sacred thing forever!

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“SEEING THE FOLLY OF IT.”

“Now, mother,” said Edward, “don’t say a word against Etta’s going to the dance to-night. I have talked myself hoarse, before I could bring father over. The sleighing is fine, and, with a swift horse, ten miles will soon be compassed,—and Etta is such a pretty dancer!”

“But you don’t consider, Edward, that your sister’s health is delicate, and a change of dress will be a great exposure. And, then, the biting cold.”

“Mother, you would n’t have talked so at nineteen,” said Edward, laughing. “You forget when you and father used to dance till two in the morning.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Leland, with a sigh, “but we’ve seen the folly of it.”

“Well, that’s just what we want to do! There’s nothing like experience, you know. We want to see the folly of it, too; so say no more, please!” said the coaxing boy.

Mrs. Leland, persuaded against her judgment, gave a reluctant consent. “Remember, Edward,” said she, “it must be the last time.”

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“Thanks for so much, then,” said Ned, as he flew upstairs to find his sister. “Come, Etta, I am victor; leave your guitar, pick up your trinkets, and brush out those long curls. The sleigh will be here in an hour, and we must meet our party at the hotel by eight. Wear a becoming dress, and look your prettiest. I have a reason of my own for being over-particular to-night. Mother has gone out, but she has charged me to tell you to wrap up warm. One would think you were sixty, instead of sixteen.”

And so the bright ringlets were smoothed, and the silken stocking was drawn over the graceful ankle, and the snowy arms glittered with gems, and the warm merino dress was discarded, and the round, white shoulders rose fair from the blue robe that fitted so charmingly, and the little rose that nestled in her curls looked not fresher or sweeter than the wearer.

“That’s a darling!” said Edward; “you are looking your very best. I don’t know how you are going to ‘wrap up,’ though,” said the thoughtless boy; “but I suppose women understand such things. I never shall hear the last of it, if you should happen to sneeze tomorrow. But here’s the sleigh. What a nice horse! How the snow will fly from under his feet! Won’t we have a merry time, hey?”

The buffalo robes were carefully wrapped about them, and Edward took the reins. The fleet horse skimmed

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the ground like a bird on the wing; the city was soon left behind; fences, houses, trees, disappeared as if by magic. They chatted and laughed, and for the first few miles, Etta enjoyed the swift motion and keen, frosty air.

“I can’t think what mother meant,” said Edward, “by saying that this must be your ‘last time!’ I had made up my mind for a dozen more frolics like this, before winter is over; and father and mother used to be so gay, too, at our time of life. I have heard Uncle Ralph tell what a belle mother was, and how handsome she used to look; and that we used to be fed on ‘Godfrey’s Cordial’ by the nurse, to keep us quiet till she came back. Well, well; we will have a good time to-night, if we never have another. What, shivering? Here, curl down under the buffalo, pull your veil down, and nestle up to me;” and, spurring up the spirited horse anew, they dashed on. Etta kept very quiet; and Ned, intent upon gaining the hotel in the shortest possible space of time, left her reverie undisturbed. On—on—on they went, distancing all competitors, till the foaming, panting horse had performed well his task!

“Come, Etta, we are here at last. Fast asleep, I declare! It would be a joke to take her up, furs and all, and carry her in, just as she is.” Suiting the action to the words, he carefully lifted his light burthen, and,

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entering the little parlor appropriated to their reception, and, “Here, girls; Etta is fast asleep, or pretending to be;—any of you who choose may unroll the mummy. I think you will find her fresher than Glidden’s!” The gay bevy gathered round her, and, untying her thick veil, stood speechless with horror. Poor Etta was frozen to death! It was, indeed, “her last time!”

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THE TRANSPLANTED LILY.

They were neat little pallets. One could find no fault with them, with their snowy sheets and Mosaic quilts of patchwork. In each was a little, homeless, houseless orphan, taken in for shelter. “Miss Betsey” had been the rounds, and seen each little head duly deposited on its pillow. A very nice, particular, proper person, was Miss Betsey! The “Board of Directors” said so, and Miss Betsey thought so herself! Her hair was as smooth as her tongue, and her kerchief starched as stiff as her manners. Not one of those little vagrant hands would have thought of touching that immaculate calico dress. She had heard them all say their prayers,—listened at the door to see if any dared break the rule that “forbade their speaking,” and went down to a comfortable dish of tea and hot buttered muffins, satisfied that she had ministered to every want of their childish natures, temporal and spiritual. Blind Miss Betsey! There are depths, even in a child’s soul, yours cannot fathom!

A little head is cautiously raised from its pillow. The eyes that look slowly around upon those sleeping forms, are large, dark, and sorrowful. Hot tears fall thick

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and fast upon the clasped hands. “Mother! mother!” is wrung from a little heart, too young to bear its weight of grief unshared; and the little head falls back again in helpless, hopeless misery, on the pillow. Lily closes her eyes, but she is not asleep. No, no! She sees a form, languid and emaciated, stretched upon a dying bed. She feels the soft touch of a dear hand on her forehead; large, mournful eyes follow, follow, follow her, sleeping or waking. A sweet, low voice lingers ever in her ear; “God protect my orphan child!”

Miss Betsey has told Lily that He has done it; that she ought to be very thankful she is in such a nice institution; and that if she is “good,” she shall live out to service, some day, with a good lady. And Lily pushes back the thick hair with her delicate hand, and wonders what “going out to service,” means; and Miss Betsey takes the long curls she has clipped from her head, and throws them out the window, and asks her if she don’t feel grateful she has such a kind friend as herself? And Lily tries to swallow a great lump in her throat, that seems like to choke her, and says, “Yes, ma’am;” while she forces back to their source the large tears that are gathering under her eyelids. Then she looks at the unbending, prim figure of Miss Betsey, and wonders was she ever a little girl? And did her mother ever die, and leave her all, all alone? And she feels as if she must throw herself on somebody’s neck, and ask them to love

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her. And then she looks again at Miss Betsey; but the quick instinct of childhood says,—“No, no, not there!” And then she wonders what makes all the children in the house seem like grown people; and why they tremble if they tumble down, or drop a book by accident; and why they eat less and less, every day, of their little soup dinners; and what makes her head so dizzy when she tries to knit. And then she wonders if heaven is a great way off, and how long it will be before she gets there. And then her over-charged heart can restrain itself no longer amid those voiceless, silent sleepers, but finds vent in a long, long, bitter cry of anguish.

“Miss Betsey” comes up, and tells her she is “very naughty to break the rules;” and Lily says, amid her sobs, that she “wants to go to heaven, with mamma!” And Miss Betsey asks, “if mamma belonged to the church?” and Lily “thinks not.” And Miss Betsey shakes her head, doubtfully,—tells her she hopes she will be better than her mother. Advises her to “say her prayers,” and goes down again to her buttered muffins.”

—

“I’m tired of life, Mary!” said the elegant widow Gray. “I’m sick of its hollowness and insincerity. I owe all my friends, save yourself, to the accidents of wealth and position. If Heaven had only blessed me

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with children! Could I find one to my mind, I’d adopt it tomorrow; but it must be a poetical child, Mary,—a little, fragile, spiritual, delicate blossom. Wouldn’t it be a joy to watch such a mind unfold itself!—to listen to all its naive, original sayings, and teach it to love me as only such a child can love! Where’s my bonnet? I’m off to the —— Asylum! That imaginary child of mine must have its human counterpart somewhere.”

“Stay!” said her thoughtful friend. “Such a child as you speak of—should you find it—requires skilful training. No careless, unpracticed hand should sweep so delicate a harp. A heart with such a capacity to love, has a capacity equally intense for suffering. When you have trained her to habits of luxury, and refined her tastes, if you weary of your charge, and allow her to fall back upon the guardianship of the rough, the coarse, and unfeeling, who would consider her superiority only a fit mark for the brutal sneer or coarse jest,—spiteful, because so far beneath her,—what then?”

“O, don’t preach, Mary! ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ &c. Where’s my hat and shawl?” said the impulsive woman.

—

“This is our school-room, Mrs. Gray,” said Miss Betsey. “The children are all very comfortable and very

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happy, as you see. It would be hard for one of them to leave me, I suppose; but I shall say ‘It is for the best,’ if you find one to your mind.”

Mrs. Gray glanced up and down the long rows of benches, and her artistic eye failed to be favorably impressed with the little cropped heads and bolster-like forms, swathed up in factory gingham; and she was just about retiring, disappointed, when her eye caught sight of “Lily.” A quick, bright flush came to her cheek, and her eye kindled, as she stood before her.

The vigil of the night previous had exhausted the little creature. Her knitting lay upon the floor, her small hands had fallen listlessly on her lap, her head resting lovingly on the shoulder of her next neighbor. Her long lashes were damp with tears that still trembled on her cheek; her silken hair, in spite of Miss Betsey, had formed itself in little rings about her temples; and the careless grace of her attitude, notwithstanding her unbecoming dress, was a study for a painter.

“Will you go with this lady?” said the prim Miss Betsey, as the startled child unclosed her eyes at the touch of those skeleton fingers. Lily brushes her hand across her eyes, as if bewildered with the sweet face before her, and not quite sure that she is not dreaming. “My mother smiled at me so,” said she, musingly, as she slid her little hand into Mrs. Gray’s.

—

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At the side of a richly canopied bed, kneels our little Lily. “Please God bless my new mamma, and let her go to heaven with me.” Mrs. Gray stands concealed behind the curtain. Her lip quivers, her eyes fill; she has never prayed that prayer for herself! She struggles a moment with her pride, then, gliding forward, she kneels by the side of the little petitioner, and says, “Let us pray together, Lily.”

And days, and months, and years glide by, and Lily grows more beautiful every day, in the sunshine of love, unspoiled by prosperity. The gay world has lost its power to charm the mother; her ear is deaf to the voice of adulation, for she has taken an angel to her bosom, and in that pure presence, she looks shuddering back upon long, wasted years of frivolity, and blesses God “that a little child” hath “let her.”

But Lily’s mission now is over. The bright hectic glows with fearful brilliancy on that marble cheek. the eyes are bright with a fire that is fast consuming her. Mother and child! knit together by a spiritual birth, how shall they part now? “Earth is still fair; Heaven is fairer!” whispers Lily.

“Arms empty of her child she lifts,

With spirit unbereaven,—

God will not take back all his gifts,

My Lily’s mine in heaven.

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Still mine,—maternal rights serene,

Not given to another,

The crystal bars shine faint between

The souls of child and mother.

Well done of God to halve the lot,

And give her all the sweetness!

To us, the empty room and cot;

To her, the heaven’s completeness.

To us, this grave; to her, the rows

The mystic palm trees spring in;

To us, the silence in the house;

To her, the choral singing!

For her, to gladden in God’s view;

For us, to hope and bear on;

Grow, Lily, in thy garden new,

Beside the Rose of Sharon!”

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NO FICTION.

The last ray of sunlight faded from Helen Gray’s attic window, as she folded the coarse garment upon which she had toiled, unceasingly, since daylight. Leaning her head wearily upon the window sill, her eyes rested upon the large house opposite. A servant had just drawn aside the rich curtains at the bidding of his mistress. With what a queenly grace the Lady Emma reclined upon that blue satin fauteuil! How softly the light fell upon braided hair, fair brow, and soft, dark eyes! Passing well those rare gems became her slender fingers! Helen’s eyes noted it all, even to the rich vases, and glittering harp, and sweet pictures. “Beauty and wealth, and wedded love!” she sighed, as she closed the casement,—that must be happiness.

Helen rose the next morning, restless and miserable; her little room seemed to have contracted and grown darker; her work looked coarser and more repulsive. She looked at her hands, they were slender and delicate,—like Lady Emma’s;—her brown hair was parted over as fair a brow; the coarse robe which necessity compelled her to wear covered limbs as round and symmetrical.

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“O! why not some of the pain to her, and some of the joy to me?” she murmured, as rebellious tears forced themselves through her slender lashes.

Short-sighted Lily!

It is midnight. The Lady Emma sits alone in her room, with unbanded hair, ungirdled robe, and swollen eyelids. Costly gems and rich robes lie there unheeded; her small foot is half-buried in the thick, rich carpet. Everywhere the eye sees luxury, and in the midst a broken-heart! She has lived to see him who stood by her side at God’s altar, and who promised there to “protect and cherish her,” persecute her with the malice of a fiend. In no point of a wife’s duty has she failed toward him; but when she is present he is overlooked; he cannot forgive her mental superiority. Money, that he thought would buy him respect and deference, has but made more glaring his mental deficiencies, and careless in his revenge that the slanders he sets in circulation, will, if believed, dishonor as well the circulator as his victim, he stops short of no underhand baseness to accomplish his purpose.

He would rob her, if he could, of what is dearer to a woman than life itself,—her good name. He would make it—by an unseen agency—a gibe, a sneer, a taunt, wherever her feet shall pass. For this purpose, her escritoire has been rifled in her absence,—private letters unsuccessfully perused, while, before God, he knows her to be spotlessly innocent. Harsh words drive

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the color from her lips, as he enters the house; the rough grasp of the delicate arm, contempt in the presence of servants, and the accursed sneer in the presence of a boon companion, giving encouragement to bandy the sacred name of wife with treacherous lips, have all been added. What human ear is a safe receptacle for such fireside treachery? And this is the Lady Emma’s happiness!

O, dry those envious tears, sweet Lily! and know that it is the lofty oak, in its beauty and glory, that is riven by the lightning stroke; while the humble violet breathes out its little day of sweetness in unmolested peace.

-----

two women in a cemetary gasp as a ghostly little figure runs toward them

INCIDENT AT MOUNT AUBURN.

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INCIDENT AT MOUNT AUBURN.

A mother had laid her darling in the earth. Many mothers have done this; it is an everyday occurrence. Myriads of little sculptured forms have been thus laid to rest, with blinding tears,—like little Mary.

Friends and acquaintances accompany them to “the narrow door,” and there they leave them. Not so the mother! Ah! there is an empty crib in the nursery; there is an untenanted chair at the table; there are little frocks hanging up in the wardrobe; there are half-worn shoes about, with the impress of a chubby little foot; there is a little, useless straw hat in the entry, there are toys that have borne its wearer happy company; there are little sisters left,—and they are loved. But, O, not like the dead! It was the first-born, and every mother who reads this will understand the height and breadth, and length and depth of that word. In all the wide earth there is no spot so dear to her as the little mound that covers her child, and she weeps and shudders when the cold wind sweeps past as night, and would fain warm its chilled limbs in the familiar resting-place. She knows the casket is rifled of the gem, but

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the eye of faith is blind with tears, and she would make her home at its grave, and would not, if she could, divest herself of the idea that such companionship would make that “long, last sleep” more peaceful.

So felt my bereaved friend, Emma ——, and the watchful love of her husband provided her a temporary home near the grave of little Mary. The rough gardener would draw his hand across his eyes, as he passed her every morning, at early dawn, sitting by that little headstone, crowning her child with the flowers she loved best; while the uplifted finger and softened tread of the stranger testified his mute sympathy.

One evening she expressed a desire to go in after the “gates were closed.” She was so restlessly miserable that it seemed a cruelty to deny her, and we effected an entrance through a broken palisade. Amid that silent company we were alone! The stars shone on as brightly as when the rayless eyes beneath had looked lovingly and hopefully upon their radiance. The timid little birds fluttered under the leaves as we passed. The perfume of a thousand flowers was borne past us on the night breeze. In that spiritual atmosphere earth seemed to dwindle, and the spirit, like a caged bird, beat against the bars of its prison-house, and longed to try its pinions in a freer air. There was an unearthly expression on Emma’s face which recalled me to myself. I gently drew her away from the grave, but no persua-

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sion could induce her to leave the cemetery. Her cheek was as pale as a snow-wreath, but we wandered on—on—till, reaching a low seat, beneath the trees, she wearily leaned her head upon my shoulder, and we sat silently down.

Listen! Distinctly, a sweet, childish voice rings out upon the still air: “Mother! mother!” Emma started to her feet,—clasping me tightly,—with lips apart, and eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. Neither spoke; and, though I am no believer in the supernatural, my limbs tottered under me. With trembling finger, Emma silently pointed in an opposite direction. It was no illusion! There was a little figure, in white, gleaming through the darkness, with outstretched arms, and snowy robe, and flowing hair! “Mother! mother!” As it approached nearer, Emma fell heavily to the ground.

It was long before she recovered from the shock; and yet, dear reader, the solution of the mystery is simple. Her youngest child, escaping from its bed, and the charge of a careless nurse, had started, with childhood’s fearless confidence, to seek us in the dim labyrinthine paths of the cemetery.

Ah, little Minnie! After all, it was “an angel” that we saw, “robed in white,” with that shining hair and seraph face!

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A SUNDAY MORNING SOLILOQUY.

I wonder if one could n’t stay at home from church to-day? I’ve a threatening of a headache,—it’s uncomfortably hot,—it’s a trouble to dress. It would be so much more comfortable to sit here in this cool room, with closed blinds, en dishabille, than to encounter this hot, August sun, and sit down among a handful of people, and listen, perchance, to some inanimate preacher, who would drawl out the hymns very much as an ignorant nursery-maid might repeat melodies to a sleepy child.

Now, here’s a nice book to read,—newspapers, too; and there’s that seductive little rocking chair. O, I’ll stay at home! No I won’t; it’s a bad habit. I always feel happier if I go to church. I always come home, wishing I was more of a saint and less of a sinner. The little trifles and vexations of everyday life dwindle when viewed from Mount Calvary. One thinks tearfully of the hasty word, when its meek Sufferer is mentioned! Ah! we have need of all these helps to arrest the tide of worldliness which rushes over our spirits through the week. The stupidest preacher utters some truths. If

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the messenger have a stammering tongue, I’ll think more of his errand and the Master who sent him.

If there are but a handful of people, the more need I should not stay away. Yes, I’ll go, and I’ll go to the poor man’s church, where the pale cheek of labor is not flushed with embarrassment as the robe of plenty sweeps past; where, side by side, as they should, kneel mistress and maid, in God’s presence, of one clay. The prayer-book, which has been handled by the statesman, passed through the toil-hardened hands of his servant. Thank God, one day in the week he can realize his soul is of as much value as his master’s! How soothing is that solemn chant! How impressive the words of “Life!” How blessed is the influence of the Sabbath!

And so, with chastened spirits, we return home; and the little creature who holds my hand, says, naively,—“Aunty, I liked that sermon; it seemed just like a hymn!” An older head might less graphically have described the poet preacher’s discourse.

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LITTLE ALLIE.

The day was gloomy and chill. At the freshly-opened grave stood a little, delicate girl of five years, the only mourner for the silent heart beneath. Friendless, hopeless, homeless, she had wept till she had no more tears to shed, and now she stood, with her scanty clothing fluttering in the chill wind, pressing her little hands tightly over her heart, as if to still its beating.

“It’s no use fretting,” said the rough man, as he stamped the last shovelful of earth over all the child had left to love. “Fretting won’t bring dead folks to life. Pity you had n’t got no ship’s cousins somewheres, to take you. It’s a tough world, this ere, I tell ye. I don’t see how ye’re going to weather it. Guess I’ll take ye round to Miss Fetherbee’s; she’s got a power of children, and wants a hand to help her; so come along. If you cry enough to float the ark, it won’t do you no good.” Allie obeyed him mechanically, turning her head every few minutes to take another look where her mother lay buried.

The morning sun shone in upon an underground kitchen in the crowded city. Mrs. Fetherbee, attired in a gay-

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colored calico dress, with any quantity of tinsel jewelry, sat sewing some showy cotton lace on a cheap pocket-handkerchief. A boy of five years was disputing with a little girl of three, about an apple;—from big words they had come to hard blows; and peace was finally declared, at the price of an orange apiece and a stick of candy,—each combatant “putting in” for the biggest.

Poor Allie, with pale cheeks and swollen eyelids, was staggering up and down the floor, under the weight of a mammoth baby, who was amusing himself, by pulling out at intervals little handfuls of her hair.

“Quiet that child, can’t ye?” said Mrs. Fetherbee, in no very gentle tone. “I don’t wonder the darling is cross to see such a solemn face. You must get a little life into you somehow, or you won’t earn the salt to your porridge, here. There, I declare, you’ve half put his eyes out with those long curls, dangling round. Come here, and have ’em cut off; they don’t look proper for a charity child;” and she glanced at the short, stubby crops on the heads of the little Fetherbees.

Allie’s lip quivered, as she said, “Mother used to love to brush them smooth every morning. She said they were like little dead sister’s;—please don’t!” said she, beseechingly.

“But I tell you I do please to cut ’em off; so there’s an end of that!” said she, as the severed ringlets fell in

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a shining heap on the kitchen floor. “And do, for creation’s sake, stop talking about ‘dead’ folks;—and now eat your breakfast, if you want it. I forgot you had n’t had any. There’s some of the children’s left; if you’re hungry, it will go down; and if you ain’t, you can go without.”

Poor Allie! The daintiest morsel would n’t have “gone down.” Her eyes filled with tears that would n’t be forced back, and she sobbed out, “I must cry, if you beat me for it, my heart pains me so bad.”

“H-i-t-y, T-i-t-y! What’s all this?” said a broad-faced, rosy milkman, as he set his shining can down on the kitchen table. “What’s all this, Miss Fetherbee? I’d as lief eat pins and needles as hear a child cry. Who is she?” pointing at Allie, “and what’s the matter of her?”

“Why, the long and the short of it is, she’s a poor pauper that we’ve taken in out of charity, and she’s crying at her good luck,—that’s all,” said the lady, with a vexed toss of her head. “That’s the way benevolence is always rewarded. Nothing on earth to do here, but tend the baby, and amuse the children, and run to the door, and wash the dishes, and dust the furniture, and tidy the kitchen, and go of a few errands. Ungrateful little baggage!”

Jemmy’s heart was as big as his farm, and that covered considerable ground. Glancing pitifully at the lit-

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tle weeper, he said, skilfully, “That child’s going to be sick, Miss Fetherbee, and then what are you going to do with her? Besides, she’s too young to be of much use to you. You’d better let me take her.”

“Well, I should n’t wonder if you was half right,” said the frightened woman. “She’s been trouble enough, already. I’ll give her a ‘quit-claim.’ ”

“Will you go with me, little maid?” said Jemmy, with a bright, good-natured smile.

“If you please,” said Allie, laying her little hand confidingly in his rough palm.

“Sit up closer,” said Jemmy, as he put one arm round her, to steady her fragile figure, as they rattled over the stony pavement. “We shall soon be out of this smoky old city. Consarn it!—I always feel as if I was poisoned every time I come into town. And then we’ll see what sweet hay-fields, and new milk, and clover blossoms, and kind hearts, will do for you, you poor little plucked chicken! Where did you come from when you came to live with that old Jezebel?”

“From my mother’s grave!” said Allie.

“Poor thing!—poor thing!” said Jemmy, wiping away a tear with his coat-sleeve. “Well, never mind. I wish I had n’t asked you. I’m always running my head agin’ a beam. Do you like to feed chickens, hey? Did you ever milk a cow, or ride on top a hay-cart, or go a berrying? Do you love bouncing red apples, and

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peaches as big as your fist? It shall go hard if you don’t have ’em all. What’s come of your hair, child? Have you had your head shaved?”

“Mrs. Fetherbee cut if off,” said Allie.

“The old vixen! I wish I’d come in a little quicker. Was it your curls them young ’uns was playing with? Well, never mind,” said he, looking admiringly at the sweet face before him; “you don’t need ’em; and they might get you to looking in the glass oftener than was good for you.”

“Well, here we are, I declare;—and there stands my old woman in the door-way, shading her eyes from the sun. I guess she wonders where I raised you!”

“Look here, Betsey; do you see this child? The earth is fresh on her mother’s grave! She has neither kith nor kin. I’ve brought her from that old skinflint of a Fetherbee’s, and here she is. If you like her, it’s well and good; and if you don’t, she’ll stay here just the same. But I know you will!” said he, coaxingly, as he passed his brawny arm round her capacious waist. “And now get her something that will bring the color to her cheeks; for, mind you, I’ll have no white slaves on my farm!”

How sweetly Allie’s little, tired limbs rested in the fragrant lavendered sheets! A tear lingered on her cheek but its birth was not of sorrow. Jemmy pointed it out

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to his wife, as they stood looking at her before retiring to rest.

“Never forget it, Betsey!” said he. “Harsh words ain’t for the motherless. May God forget me, if she ever hears one from my lips!”

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THE FLIRT;
OR, THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER.

Kate Stanley was a brilliant, sparkling brunette. Woe to the rash youth who exposed his heart to her fascinations! If he were not annihilated by the witching glance of her bright eye, he would be sure to be caught by the dancing dimple that played “hide-and-seek” so roguishly in her rosy cheek, or the little, rounded waist that supported her faultless bust, or the tiny feet that crept, mice-like, in and out from under the sweeping folds of her silken robe.

I am sorry to say Miss Kitty was an arrant coquette. She angled for hearts with the skill of a practiced sportsman, and was never satisfied till she saw them quivering and bleeding at her feet; then, they might flounce and flutter, and twist and writhe at their leisure,—it was no further concern of hers. She was off for a new subject.

One fine morning she sat listlessly in her boudoir, tapping one little foot upon the floor, and sighing for a new sensation, when a note was handed her. It ran thus:

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“Dear Kitty:—Our little cottage home is looking lovely, this ‘leafy June.’ Are you not weary of city life? Come and spend a month with us, and refresh heart and body. You will find nothing artificial here, save yourself!

“Yours,

“Nelly.”

Just the thing,” said Kitty. “But the girl must be crazy, or intolerably vain, to bring me into such close contact with her handsome lover. I might as well try to stop breathing as to stop flirting; and the country, of all places, for a flirtation! The girl must be non compos. However, it’s her own affair, not mine;” and she glanced triumphantly at her beautiful face, and threaded her jewelled fingers through her long ringlets, and conquered him—in imagination!

“When do you expect your friend?” said a laughing young girl to Nelly. “From the descriptions I have had of her, your bringing her here will be something akin to the introduction of Satan into Paradise. You would not find me guilty of such a folly, were I engaged to your handsome Fitz. Now you know, Nelly dear, that although you are fascinating and intellectual, you have no pretensions to beauty, and there are few men who prize a gem, unless it is handsomely set, however great its value. Now be warned in time, and send him off on a

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pilgrimage, till her visit is over. I won’t bet on his constancy!”

“On the contrary,” said Nelly, as she rose slowly from the little couch where she was reclining, and her small figure grew erect, and her large eyes lustrous, “I would marry no man who could not pass through such an ordeal and remain true to me. I am, as you see, hopelessly plain and ungraceful; yet, from my earliest childhood, I have been a passionate worshipper of beauty. I never expect to win love; I never expected to marry; and when Fitz, with all his glorious beauty, sued for my hand, I could not convince myself that it was not all a bewildering dream. It was such a temptation to a heart so isolated as mine; and eloquently it pleaded for itself! When I drank in the music of his voice, I said, ‘Surely I must be lovely in his eyes; else why has he sought me?’ Then, in my solitary moments, I said, sadly, ‘There are none to dispute the prize with me here. He is deceiving himself. He has mistaken his own heart.’ Then, again, I would ask myself, ‘Can nothing but beauty win a noble heart? Are all my intellectual gifts valueless?’ And still, Fitz, unable to understand my contradictory moods, passionately urged his suit. It needed not that waste of eloquence; my heart was already captive. And now, by the intensity of that happiness of which I know myself to be capable, I will prove him. Kate’s beauty,—Kate’s witchery, shall be the test! If

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his heart remains loyal to me, I am his. If not,”—and her cheek grew pale, and large tears gathered slowly in her eyes,—“I have saved myself a deeper misery!”

Fitz Allan had “travelled;” and that is generally understood to mean to go abroad and remain a period of time long enough to grow a fierce beard, and fiercer moustache, and cultivate a thorough contempt for everything in your own country. This was not true of Fitz Allan. It had only bound him the more closely to home and friends. His splendid person and cultivated manners had been a letter of recommendation to him in cultivated society. He was no fop, and yet he was fully aware of these personal advantages. What handsome man is not? He had trophies of all kinds, to attest his skilful generalship; such as dainty satin slippers, tiny kid gloves, faded roses, ringlets of all colors, ebony, flaxen and auburn, and bijouterie without limit.

Happy Fitz! What spell bound him to the plain, but lovable Nelly? A nature essentially feminine; a refined, cultivated taste; a warm, passionate heart. Did he remember, when he listened to that most musical of musical voices, and sat hour after hour, magnetized by its rare witchery, as it glanced gracefully and skilfully from one topic to another, that its possessor had not the grace and beauty of a Hebe or a Venus?

It was a bright, moonlight evening. Fitz and Nelly were seated in the little rustic parlor, opening upon the

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piazza. The moon shone full upon Kate, as she stood in the low doorway. Her simple white dress was confined at the waist by a plain silken cord. Her fair white shoulders rose gracefully from the snowy robe. Her white arms, as they were crossed upon her breast, or raised above her head to catch playfully the long tendrils of the woodbine, as the wind swept them past her forehead, gleamed fair in the moonlight; and each and all had their bewildering charm. She seated herself upon the low doorstep. Song after song was borne upon the air. Her eyes now flashing with the enthusiasm of an improvisatrice; then, soft, and lustrous, and liquid, and—dangerous! Nelly’s heart beat quick; a deep crimson spot glowed upon her cheek, and, for once, she was beautiful.

Kate, apparently, took but little notice of the lovers; but not an expression that flitted across the fine face of Fitz Allan passed unnoticed by her. And she said, proudly, to herself, “I have conquered him!”

And so the bright summer month passed by, and they rambled through the cool woods, and rose through the winding paths, and sang to the quiet stars in the dim, dewy evening.

* * * * * *

“Fie, Mr. Fitz Allen! What would Nelly say, to see you kneeling here at my feet? You forget,” said the gay beauty, mockingly curling her rosy lip, “that you

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are an affianced lover, when you address such flattering language to me!”

“I only know that you are beautiful as a dream!” said the bewildered Fitz, as he passionately kissed the jewelled hand that lay unresistingly in his own.

That night, Fitz might be seen pacing his room with rapid strides, crushing in his hands a delicate note, from Nelly, containing these words:

“ ‘The moon looks on many brooks;

The brook sees but one moon.’

“Farewell!

“Nelly.”

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FERN GLEN.

“I love God, and every little child.”—Richter

A very nice old gentleman is Uncle Peter! Who minds if he does live in a rickety old house? Who ever stops to think that the cut of his coat may have been borrowed from Noah’s tailor? Who cares if he does cook his own food, and do his own waiting and tending? What if he does turn his head the other way when he sees a bonnet, with a woman under it? There is a tender place somewhere in his heart, or he would not be afraid of them! Well, never mind that. Where do the kites, and bats, and balls, and bows, and arrows, and sleds, all come from, for half the urchins in the village, if not from Uncle Peter? Are not those capacious pockets of his filled with nuts and checkerberries, and apples, and maple sugar, till the seams burst? Has he not been driving round all this blessed morning, to hunt up everything in the shape of a child, to take tea with him this afternoon?

A handsome old man is Uncle Peter! They say he has been “crossed in love.” Pity it did not happen oftener,

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then, I say, if it would make other people like him! There he stands, in the midst of his lilacs and laburnums, as simple, and child-like, and young at heart, as if the snows of age had not long since crowned his head. The birds peep curiously out from the tiny house he has leased to them, and Uncle Peter taxes them only for—songs.

There they come—the children—head-over-heels! No fear of scowls, or frowns, or boxed ears, or birchen rod, at Fern Glen. On they come!—a merry troop, with shining cheeks, bright eyes, and clean pinafores. Rosy Tom, laughing Ellen, timid Fanny, pensive Laura, queenly Kate, modest Mary, romping Ruth,—ay, Uncle Peter! “May you play with the hay? To be sure, you little monkey;—did n’t I have it cut on purpose?” Is n’t that a pretty sight, now? See that little curly head emerging from the hay-heap! With what a pretty grace she shakes out those long ringlets, and smooths her tumbled dress with those little, fat hands. Now she is in Uncle Peter’s arms, as much at home as if she had been cradled there all her life. ’T is spring and autumn! The little, rosy lips are held temptingly up for a kiss. Uncle Peter’s eyes moisten. There is a stone in yonder churchyard, that covers the heart the child has lain beneath. The blue eyes, that look so lovingly in his, have borrowed their hue from those now so dark and rayless. The mother smiles again upon the solitary man.

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He holds little Nelly closer to his heart;—the wide earth contains nothing for him so precious as the love of that sweet child. Uncle Peter thanks God there is no trace, on lip, or cheek, or brow, of him who won the mother’s love but to break her heart. But no more reveries, if you please, Uncle Peter! Curious eyes have been peeping through that vine-clad bower, at the “good things” spread upon that rustic table. Strawberries, red and tempting as childhood’s lip; cakes, that only Uncle Peter could conjure up; sugar-plums and candy, from Betty Prim’s thread-and-needle store; sweet milk from steady old Brindle; crispy little crackers for cunning little mouths, and a bunch of wood violets for each little plate.

And now the dimpled hands are reverently folded, and laughing eyes grow serious, for good old Uncle Peter cannot forget to thank “Our Father” for daily bread and for the sweet solace of childhood’s love. And soon the table is cleared, as if scoured by a party of squirrels; and what cannot be eaten is stowed away in little pockets, for future use. They all gather round Uncle Peter, and every story he tells is “prime,” and better than the one that went before. There are no captious critics in his audience, you may be sure! Little Nelly is nestled in his arms; the dimple in her rosy cheek has ceased to play; the long lashes lay wearily over the violet eyes, and the silver locks of age mingle lovingly with childhood’s sunny

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ringlets, as her little head droops on his shoulder. The rest of the merry troop all say, “Good night, good night;” still there sit Uncle Peter and Nelly. The old crone who has charge of her, cares little how long she stays at Fern Glen; and the wretched father, in his recklessness, willingly forgets the angel whose pure presence is a living rebuke to his vices; so Uncle Peter watches the flush deepen on that little cheek, and thinks, dreamily, of the past, and wishes he might never part with his little treasure.

—

Beautiful as the poet’s vision was Nelly on her eighteenth birthday. Peter’s wish had been granted,—the treasure was his. The death of the father had left her to the only heart which loved her, and for years she has been the sunshine of Fern Glen. It was she who placed the arm-chair under the old elm, when the sun was declining. It was her round arm which supported the trembling limbs of the aged man to his accustomed resting-place. It was she who smoothed the silver locks on his aged temples. It was her voice, whose sweet carol woke him to the enjoyment of another happy day. It was her hand which held the cooling draught to his lips; and there was not a moment when his eye did not linger with a blessing upon the light figure that flitted like an angel visitant before him.

—

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“And so you will leave your old uncle, and marry this fine gentleman?” said old Peter, as he pushed back the clustering hair from her blushing face.

“Never, never, dear uncle!” said the young girl, as she laid her rosy cheek caressingly to his withered face. “Naught but death shall part thee and me!”

—

In one corner of Fitz Roy’s travelling carriage Uncle Peter was snugly ensconced with his staff and his snuff-box,—the simple villagers crowding round, to take a last look of him and “The Rose of Fern Glen;” and many a little brimless hat went up in the air, as a farewell salute to “dear old Uncle Peter, God bless him!”

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MINNIE.

“I wish I could extract the secret of Minnie’s happiness,” said the languid Mrs. Grey, as she lounged upon the sofa. “Such a world of trouble as she has had, first and last,—enough to annihilate a dozen women, yet, she is quite embonpoint, and always smiling and joyous. Well dressed,—nobody knows how,—never troubling her head about what this, or that, or the other person says;—flitting round, bee-fashion, gathering only honey. I declare, she’s beyond my penetration to sound. Miss Prue Pry made a special errand over there, the other day, to tell her something that ought to have worried her half to death; but I don’t believe she heard half she said; or, if she did, it did n’t move her any. She is contented anywhere, while I am ennuyed to death.”

Ah, Mrs. Grey, Minnie sings with the poet, “My mind to me a kingdom is!” Your eye is quick to detect a camel’s hair shawl, a mock diamond, or a ruinous lace. You know the damage of an upholsterer’s permit to remodel and drapery your parlors; the very last new mode for toilette; who is, and who is not, of the charmed “upper ten,” and how to graduate your bows

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accordingly. You understand “keeping tradespeople in their proper place,” and never make a mistake in selecting the shade of a silk, or a ribbon. You were brought up with an eye to “an establishment,” and you have fulfilled your destiny!

Minnie, the happy Minnie, lives in a world of her own creating, and people it to her own taste. Sunshine and rainbows come at her bidding. Poor, yet rich! “Her mind to her a kingdom is!” A golden-tinted cloud, a whispering zephyr, a twinkling star, a silver moon-beam, a rippling wave, a child’s carol, a bird’s song, a dewy flower! Behold Minnie’s dower!

Ah, Mrs. Grey, you never closed your world-dazzled eyes to listen to fairy whispers; you never walked with shadowy forms invisible to other eyes; you never heard music inaudible to other ears; you never shed delicious, happy tears at the magnetic bidding of minstrel or poet! These charmed lines are written in an unknown tongue to you!

“Take, O, boatman, thrice thy fee,—

Take, I give it willingly;

For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have crossed with me!”

And so, smile on, joyous Minnie! Your alchemist touch turns dross to gold. Your altar-flame shall never die out;—the star you gaze at shall never dim. Sing “Eureka!” Minnie.

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SWEET-BRIAR FARM.

“Dear father, I am so sick of brick and mortar! Have pity on me, and exile me to the woods, where I can hear the birds sing, and catch a glimpse of blue skies and green fields.”

“Can’t spare you, Kitty,” said old Mr. Kaime. “Who’ll attend to my gouty old foot; and keep the flies away when I take my nap; and hand me my cane? And whom shall I lean on when I go to walk? And who’ll read me the newspaper—politics and all—over my coffee? And what will all your lovers do, little puss?”

“Let her go,” chimed in dear, homely, cheerful Aunt Mary; “I’ll take care of you. Let her stay till she is stick of it; and, as to the ‘lovers,’ they must take care of themselves.”

—

“Wife,” said Farmer Moore, as he sat eating a huge bowl of bread and milk at the kitchen table, “I’ve had a letter from Cousin Walter, and he wants his daughter to come and make us a visit.”

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“She can’t come,” said Mrs. Moore, in a peevish tone. “I hate these city folks, with their thin shoes and fine manners, and flounced dresses and furbelows. She’d set me distracted with her airs. What did you tell him?”

“I told him to send her along,” said blunt old Uncle Tim, setting his bowl down with an extra flourish, as if he had quite made up his mind on the subject.

Aunt Betsey Moore drew a long sigh, as if she was regularly victimized. She was an inefficient, dawdling, nervous, fidgety woman, taking no interest either in house or farm; always fancying herself “just gone” with some incurable complaint; exacting, peevish and fretful; making everybody as uncomfortable as herself. Uncle Tim bore it like a philosopher, availing himself of every stray gleam of sunshine which shone across his path, among which Kitty was brightest. His heart turned to love, like a flower to the sunlight, and his cheerfulness brought its own reward. His two sons, Jonathan and Pete, had brought themselves up, and were straight-limbed, strong-minded, “go-ahead” specimens of Yankeeism, profoundly ignorant of the last D’Orsay cravat tie, and quite benighted as to the most fashionable cut for dress coats and pantaloons; more learned in hay-making than in Greek and Latin; and quite well satisfied with the rustic Venuses which graced the village church of a Sunday. They made it their

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home in the kitchen, year in and year out,—Aunt Betsey having no desire to superintend the sweeping of another room. The “best parlor” was consequently given over to its green paper curtains, and yellow wooden chairs, except on such time-honored occasions as Thanksgiving and Fourth of July, when Uncle Tim persisted in brushing down the cobwebs, and letting in a little daylight.

Pete and Jonathan were raking hay, in front of the house, when the stage drove up with Kitty. They had cased themselves in an impenetrable armor of reserve, determined to take as little notice as possible of their city cousin. Kitty sprang lightly to the ground, and Pete, being the boldest man of the two, advanced to give her a welcome. There was no withstanding her gay, good-humored smile, and no resisting the dainty little hand that was extended to clasp his rough palm. Pete’s reserve vanished in the sunshine of her smile; he thought her “a little the prettiest girl he ever saw,” and for the first time in his life distrusted his ability to “make an impression.” Aunt Betsey smiled a grim dyspeptic welcome, and Kitty, nothing daunted, seated herself on the kitchen doorstep, among a brood of chickens, and began fanning herself with a huge plantain leaf. “How very delicious this all is!” said she, as the cool breeze lifted the curls from her forehead. “What a charming little brook that is yonder! and what a fine tree! and, O,

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that must be Uncle Tim coming up the lane with the hay-cart! I do love to ride on a hay-cart.” And away she bounded to meet him. Pete looked after her in a sort of amazed bewilderment, and wished he was as old as his father when he saw her kiss him! Uncle Tim was delighted with his niece, and even Aunt Betsey’s muscles began to relax when Kitty insisted on turning out tea and waiting on her uncle. The next morning she was up with the lark, had sketched the great tree under the window, trained a stray rosebush over the door-way, and taken a general survey of the premises, including the mysterious “best parlor.”

When Uncle Tim came home, weary, to his dinner, Kitty handed him a glass of milk, cool and sweet; brought him a basin to lave his hands and face, and then drew him gently toward the best parlor. What a metamorphosis! The stiff green paper curtains had disappeared, and simple white muslin was gracefully looped in their place. A vase of wild flowers, exquisitely arranged, stood on the little table. A distorted drawing of “Time with his scythe and hour-glass” was skilfully concealed under a frame of evergreen. The blinds were but partially closed, and every breeze wafted in a fragrant shower of rose-leaves; and, better than all, Aunt Betsey sat in the corner, with her knitting and footstool to her mind, and something very like her old smile playing round the corners of her mouth.

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“I wish we could keep you here always,” said Uncle Tim, as his brown hand rested on her white forehead. “You are a ray of sunshine yourself!”

“I never’ll say any more agin city folks,” said Aunt Betsey, “except that they are not all like Kitty.”

Days flew by like magic, and Kitty was here, and there, and everywhere; skimming the ground like a swallow on the wing; down in the meadow with Uncle Tim, “taking after;” then in the barn with Pete, petting the pony; now in the garden culling flowers; then, with her dimpled arms bare, preparing some little dainty “for Uncle Tim’s supper.” Aunt Betsey forgot her “last complaint;” the boys grew fond of staying in the house, and Kitty had a general admiration for everything on the farm, down to the speckled chicken. Meanwhile, her city adorers grew desperate at her long absence, and one, more determined than the rest, made up his mind to try if his wooing would not be more prosperous in the country than in the city. A shrewd calculation, Mr. Frank! there were ugly, crooked stiles to be helped over! There were dim, fragrant old woods to traverse, in search of wild flowers; there were cool, delicious sunsets, and balmy, still moonlight evenings; and little Miss Kitty began to think Frank had “improved wonderfully;” and that it would be very ridiculous for her to keep up stiff city manners at “Sweet Briar Farm.” Uncle Tim saw “which way the wind blew,”

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as he said, but wisely kept his own counsel; and when Frank, proud and happy, drove off triumphantly with their pretty cousin, Pete and Jonathan both agreed that very nice, warm-hearted people might be “raised” even in the artificial atmosphere of a city.

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“THE ANGEL-CHILD.”

Little Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom. Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a passing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel’s scrutiny; her little footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for nightly slumber.

The house in which Mabel lived was large and splendid. You would have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by no envious cross-lights. Light and shade were artistically disposed. Beautiful statues, which the sculptor, dream-inspired, had risen from a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light which streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as if

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taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress.

I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large, dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel’s were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists and sculptors had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment. Rhere was only one little thing she had forgotten,—the Lady Mabel had no soul.

Not that she forgot to deck little Mabel’s limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fashioning. Not that every shining ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged, by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel’s silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, the little Mabel had no mother!

See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow; her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves; for the gorgeous west is one sea

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of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen, then fade and die away. And now the last bright beam disappears behind the hills, and the soft, gray twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deepening shadows, one bright star springs suddenly to its place in the heavens. Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are coursing down her sweet face; or why her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast; or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright angel. She had a nurse once, who told her “there was a God.” She wants to know if He holds that bright star in its place. She wants to know if heaven is a long way off, and if she shall ever be a bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is so full, if she only knew how; but, poor, sweet little Mabel,—she has no mother!

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NOT A “MODEL MINISTER.”

What a pity people will not fulfil their destiny, and stay in their own proper niche in this world’s gallery! Why will they mistake their vocation? Now don’t think this is a great portico before a little building, for the matter I am about to speak of is a “crying evil.”

Yesterday was a beautiful Sunday,—just such a day as makes one feel devotional, whether or no;—quiet and still, soft and balmy. Little children,—the flowers and poetry of life’s wayside,—looking fresh and sweet as if the Saviour’s hands had just blessed them; and fathers and mothers, forgetting life’s cares and turmoil, to look heavenward; the dim, subdued light of the time-honored chapel; the grand, solemn voluntary on the organ,—all were suggestive and impressive. The clergyman rose, and read that beautiful hymn,—

“There is a land of pure delight.”

Shade of Watts!—how it was murdered! Commas, semicolons and periods, of no account at all. The perspiration stood in drops on my forehead. I could have rushed through the eye of a needle, had I as many humps

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on my back as a camel! Well, the singing brought me to a little;—revived me in time for a fresh—crucifixion! Why need he have selected the beautiful story of the little ewe lamb? Such a sledge-hammer, wooden delivery! His voice and right hand went up and down together, as if they were keeping time on a wager. I could not stand it;—I took up the hymn-book to read, till I remembered that I should respect “the Master,” though I might dislike the messenger. “O, your heart was not right!” I beg your pardon;—I started fair; never felt so good in my life, till he knocked it all in the head! O, I so love beauty and harmony in everything! A very good, careful merchant was spoiled when that black coat was put on; somebody ought to tell him of it,—I dare not! He was as much out of place in that pulpit, as I should be commanding a ship of war. O-o-h, that hymn is ringing in my ears yet!

-----

a woman embraces a sailor

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

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“MERRY CHRISTMAS!—HAPPY CHRISTMAS!.”

How it flew from one laughing lip to another!—trembling on the tongue of decrepitude; lisped by prattling infancy, and falling like a funeral knell on the ear of the grief-stricken!

Little, busy feet were running to and fro, trumpeting the fame of “good Santa Claus.” The pretty blue-eyed maiden blushed, as she placed her Christmas gift on the betrothal finger. Yes, it might have been ten times colder than it was, and nobody would have know it, everybody’s heart was so warm.

See that great house opposite! How bright the fire-light falls on those rare old pictures; on marble, and damask, and gold and silver! Now, they are decking a Christmas-tree. Never a diamond sparkled brighter than those children’s eyes. ’T is all sunshine at the great house.

Kathleen sits at her low, narrow window. She sees it all. There are no pictures on her walls; though she has known the time when they were decked with the rarest. There is nothing there, now, that the eye would look

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twice upon, save the fair, sad face of its inmate. But it is not of gilded splendor she is thinking.

Last Christmas the wealth of a noble heart was laid at her feet. Now she is written widow! How brief a word to express such a far-reaching sorrow! Walter and she were so happy. “Only one voyage more, dear Katie, and then I will turn landsman, and stay with you on shore;” and so Kathleen clung, weeping, to his neck, and bade him a silent farewell. And since! * * * O, how wearily pass time’s leaden footsteps, to the watchful eye and the listening ear of love! “Her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away.”

Day after day crept on. Then came, at last, these crushing words,—“All on board perished!”

With that short sentence, the light of hope died out in her heart, and the green earth became one wide sepulchre. The blight fell early on so fair a flower. There were many who would gladly have lit again the love-light in those soft, blue eyes; but from all Kathleen turned, heart-sick, away to her little, lonely room, to toil, and dream, and weep, and pray.

And now the twilight has faded away, and the holy stars, one by one, have come stealing out, to witness her sorrow. There she sits, with a filling eye and an aching heart, and watches the merry group yonder. Life is so bright to them; so weary to her, without that dear arm to lean upon. Could she but have pillowed that dying

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head; heard him say but once more, “I love you, Kathleen.” But that despairing struggle with those dark, billowy waves; that shriek for “help,” where no help could come; that strong arm and brave heart so stricken down! Poor Kathleen!

Blessed sleep!—touch those sad eyes lightly. Torture not that troubled heart with mocking dreams. See, she smiles!—a warm flush creeps to her cheek, and dries away the tear. Sleep has restored the dear one to her. Dream on while you may, sweet Kathleen!

—

“That is the house, sir. God bless me, that you should be alive! That one, sir, with the small windows. No light there. Find the way, sir?”

Tap, tap, on the window! Kathleen wakes from that sweet dream to listen. She does not tremble, for grief like hers knows neither hope nor fear. She is soon apparelled, and, shading the small lamp with her little hand, advances to the door. Its flickering ray falls upon the stalwart form before her. What is there in its outline to palsy her tongue, and blanch her cheek? This torturing suspense! If the stranger would but speak!

“Kathleen!”

With one wild cry of joy, she falls upon his neck.

Ah, little Katie! Dreams are not always a mockery! A merry Christmas to you!

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LETA.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

“Be careful, dear father,” said Leta, as she smoothed the old man’s gray locks, and placed a little basket in his hand. “Mind the crossings,—you are so hard of hearing, and the streets are so crowded. If you would but wait till I get this work done.”

“Never fear,” said the old man, taking his staff from the corner; “I shall be back before you hardly know I’m gone. These old limbs won’t carry me far. My work is most done, Leta. I shall have my six feet of earth before long, and that’s all the richest man in the land can hold at the last.”

—

Hurry, drive and bustle; coaches, wheelbarrows, carts and omnibuses, dogs and children, ladies and shop-girls, apprentices and masters, each one at tip-top speed, as if they were going to sign a quit-claim to life the next minute. Everybody looking out for number one, and caring little who jostled past, if their rights were not infringed. Very gay the ladies looked in their rainbow dresses; the

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school-room, flushed with delight at their temporary emancipation, and their little owners were trying the strength of their respective lungs in a way that made the old man’s deafness a very questionable affliction. The overtasked sempstress, in her shabby little bonnet, looked on hopelessly at the moving panorama. She had become habituated to brick pavements and Babel sounds, an aching side, weary eyes and a dull, dead weight at her heart; and so she creeps home from her daily task,—home to her gloomy attic, to look at the patch of blue sky from her roof window. Now and then a blade of grass, that has forced its way through the brick pavements, brings to her mind the fragrant hay-field, and sunny meadow, and dim old woods of her country home; and she wonders if the little wild-flowers still grow in their favorite nook; and if the little brook, where she bathed her feet, goes babbling on as musically as ever; and if the golden moss blossoms out on the rock clefts; and if the wind makes sweet leaf-music in the tall tree-tops; and if the bright sunset clouds still rest like a glory on the mountain-brow; and if the little lake lies like a sheet of silver in the clear moonbeams; and if her old father sits in the honeysuckle porch, that the wind may lift the silver hairs from his heated temples; and if her little brother and sister still sit under the old shady oak, making tea-sets of acorns.

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Hurry, bustle and drive!—on they go, and the little sempstress disappears around the corner with the crowd.

A shriek, a shout! Poor, old man!—there he lies under the horses’ hoofs, his gray hairs trampled in the dust, struggling, with what strength he may, for the remnant of his poor life. The coachman “was not to blame.” Nobody is ever “to blame,” now-a-days! So he swore as he dismounted, and dragging the old man, covered with dust and blood, to the sidewalk, jumped on his coach-box, cracked his whip, and thanked his stars it was “nothing but an old beggar-man, whom nobody cared for.” And the young physician, whose maiden sign was that morning hung out the door, popped his head out the window, took a professional bird’s-eye view of the case,—sighed, as he returned to this cigar, that accidents always seemed to happen, now-a-days, to people from whom one could not get a fee. It was a case he did not feel called upon to notice. His net was spread for golden fish.

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THE MODEL STEP-MOTHER.

Gratifies every childish desire, how injurious soever, or unreasonable, and yet maintains the most perfect government;—is perfectly willing her step-children’s relatives should feed them to surfeiting, with pickles, preserves, and sugar,—meekly holding herself in readiness for a two months’ siege by a sickbed rather than venture a remonstrance;—has no objection to their being stopped on the way to school, by a self-appointed committee of Paul Prys in petticoats, to pass an examination as to the fitness of their shoe-strings, pinafores and satchels;—always lets “the children” take papa’s two hands going to church, and walks behind herself, if the neighbors think best;—is quite charmed to welcome a stage-load of their relatives, who come on a foraging expedition, to see “how the dear children are treated;”—looks as sweet as a June morning, when she finds them peeping into tea-caddies, and punching their knuckles into the bread, “to see if it has riz;”—goes through the catechism, without flinching, from the price of brown soap and the wages of her cook, to the straw mat in the

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entry, and the trimming on her Sunday gown;—is perfectly willing to see them holding little, private caucuses with the juveniles, who are keen enough to see which way they are expected to answer;—shuts her own children up in a dark room, if they make any objection to being used for a pincushion, or to being scalped, one hair at a time, by the strange brood;—after wearing herself to a skeleton trying to please everybody, has the satisfaction of hearing herself called “a cruel, hard-hearted step-mother!”

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A PAGE FROM A WOMAN’S HEART;
OR, FEMALE HEROISM.

“How did you come in possession of this?” said a young man, directing the pawnbroker’s attention to a small, ruby pin in the show-case.

“That? O, that was brought here last night, by a prettyish young woman, who seemed to be in a great fluster about the money; and so I bought it of her.”

“How did she look? Had she blue eyes? Was she tall and slender?”

“Lord bless your soul!” said the pawnbroker, “I has hundreds of ’em in here every day; I never looks twice at ’em. She was a broken-down lady, I reckon. Somebody said she lived up that court yonder. Like to redeem the brooch, sir?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Ernest; and, paying the extortioner five times what he had given for it, he deposited it in his vest pocket.

“Good God! that Agnes Kearn should come to this!” was his first exclamation on reaching the street. “That brooch, that I have seen sparkle on her snowy neck thou-

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sands of times, when I could have kissed the very ground her little foot trod upon! Agnes in a pawnbroker’s shop!” And he reeled and leaned for support against a jutting wall of the old building. Just then, a little girl tripped past, and, striking her foot against the curbstone, fell heavily against him. Ernest raised her in a moment, and kissing her little, innocent face, was about releasing her, when the thought struck him that she might assist him in his search for Agnes.

“Where do you live, pretty one?” said he, looking into her bright blue eyes.

“I can’t tell,” said the child, blushing; “my mamma bids me not talk to strangers. Won’t you please put me down, sir?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Ernest, as he saw her little lip begin to quiver; “only tell me your name first.”

“I can’t tell,” said she again, with a womanly decision that would have amused him at any other time. So, putting her gently down upon the pavement, he prepared to follow her at a distance. There was something in the expression of her face that interested him,—that reminded him of one he had loved, O, how deeply! And then he counted the weary years that had intervened since her marriage. Yes; it might be her child.

On she went, little Minnie, turning corner after corner, with the speed of an antelope, then disappeared up the

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small, dingy court, into the doorway of a small, black house, never once turning her graceful little head.

Ernest followed; she opened a small door, and, for getting in her haste to close it after her, he heard her say,—almost breathless from speed and agitation,—“I did n’t tell mamma; I did n’t tell. The gentleman asked me my name, and where I lived; but,—kiss me, mamma,—I certainly did n’t tell him.”

“Dear child,” said the mother, as she gave her a kiss.

That voice! there was but one in the wide world that could so thrill him.

“O, mamma, here he is!” said Minnie, as she tried to close the door. “I certainly did n’t tell him,” and she began to sob piteously.

“Agnes! Ernest!” They were simple words to convey so much meaning! “You husband, Agnes, is he dead? Why do I find you here?” She shook her head, and turned deadly pale.

“What then?” said Ernest, drawing himself up as if he were already called upon to protect her.

“Dead to me,” said Agnes, in a low voice.

Ernest took from his pocket the small brooch. “You must have suffered much, ere you would have parted with this, Agnes. It has told me a silent tale of misery, that I will not pain your heart to echo. I ask you not of him. It is enough for me, that he is living, while you

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are suffering here. I will not curse him in your presence; but, Agnes, you must give me the right of an old friend to care for you; you must leave this wretched place;” and he looked first at her, then at the miserable surroundings.

“Your father, Agnes! does he know of this? Is money still his god?”

Agnes replied only by her tears.

“Tell me,—how have you lived?” said Ernest.

She pointed to a small escritoire in the corner of the room.

“Slow starvation!” said he contemptuously. “This is folly, Agnes. Just look at your position; deserted, from avaricious motives, by those who should rally around you in your hour of trial; wasting your youth and health in humbling yourself for employment to those who can neither understand your position nor appreciate yourself. Agnes, give me,—if I may claim no dearer title,—a brother’s right to provide and care for you.”

Agnes Kearn rose from her chair, pale, but calm. “Listen to me, Ernest. What I have been, you know; what I am now, by God’s dark providence, you see. That I have suffered more keenly than even you, who read my heart so well, can dream, I acknowledge. Nothing that meets my eye here that is not coarse and repulsive. I have deprived myself of food, that my child might not hunger. I have toiled till morn-

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ing for my daily bread. I have no earthly father save in name; but through all this, Ernest, I have maintained my self-respect, and I would rather die than take one dollar, even as a loan, from you. Nay, hear me out,” said she, laying her hand upon his arm, as he strode impatiently across the room. “This poor, weary heart is tried and tasked to the utmost. Like Noah’s dove, it finds no resting-place. Nay, spare your reproaches, and be generous. Think you it costs that heart nothing to turn coldly away, and say Nay?” and her voice trembled, and her eyes filled. “Ernest, my heart may not echo back your words of kindness; the love that is born of sorrow is strong, and wild, and deep. Leave me, Ernest. Do not deceive yourself; it is not a brother’s heart you offer me. I must toil on, unaided by you. The night has been long, tedious and starless; the morning must dawn ere long. I will wait and trust. If I forsake not myself, God will not forsake me.”

“Once more,—shall I leave you, Agnes?” said the young man, as he took her hand.

“God wills it,” was her low reply.

The door closed upon Ernest’s retreating figure; then her woman’s heart gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she wept long and bitterly; then came a holy calm,—a peace which only those may know who are self-conquerors.

And where was that “earthly father?” He ate and

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drank and slept, careless who befriended his child; careless of the more than mortal strength she needed to keep that warm and tried heart from yielding to the pressure of poverty, temptation and despair. “Like as a father pitieth his children” were unmeaning words to poor Agnes.

—

“This is a very correct translation,” said the pedantic Professor Boggs; “very well done, madam; could n’t have done better myself; and that’s the highest praise I can bestow upon it. I suppose you expect to be well paid for it, like all the rest of our applicants for this sort o’ thing.”

“I need all you can give me,” said Agnes dejectedly; “it has cost me a week of unremitting labor.”

“V-e-r-y p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e,” said the professor, looking at her through his glasses; “I’m told you are the daughter of old Mr. Kearn; he is a man who is well off; how came you to be reduced to this extremity?” (Cruel, avaricious father! the dagger again driven home to that suffering heart by your neglectful hand!)

Agnes replied, “You will excuse me, sir, from entering into the details of my private history. If the translation pleases you, I shall be happy to dispose of it; if not, I must look elsewhere.”

Mr. Boggs returned it, with a stately bow. Agnes

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found her way into the open air. The excitement of her interview with Ernest, fasting and fatigue, “told” at last. Her steps became unsteady, her sight failed her; she reeled, and fell upon the pavement.

“Drunk!” said one of the bystanders, with a sneer.

“A fallen angel!” said another.

“Take her to the watch-house,” said a third.

“Here, little girl,” said a rowdy lad, seizing a child, who seemed quite bewildered by the crowd, “don’t you want to get a sight of the drunken woman?”

“No, no,” said the child, struggling to free herself as he lifted her above their heads; then, with a piercing shriek, as her eyes fell on the prostrate form, “O, it is my mamma! my own dear mamma! she’s dead! my mamma is dead!” and making her way to her side, she kissed her pale lips, and sobbed, and clung to her neck, till there was not a dry eye in the crowd.

“Mr. Kearn,” said a little, dapper man, as he touched that gentleman’s gold-headed cane, “do you see that crowd yonder?”

“Yes—yes—what of it? A crowd is nothing. What of it?”

“Nothing in particular,—only they are looking at your daughter Agnes, who has fainted from fasting and hard work; and your little grandchild is sobbing over her as if her heart would break. Now, look here, sir! I respect gray hairs; but if it was n’t for that, I would call

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you (what your Bible calls those who fail to provide for their own households) ‘worse than an infidel!’ Now I am a rich, childless old man, and I’m going to take her off your hands. She told my nephew, Ernest, when she nobly refused his assistance, that ‘if she did not forsake herself, God would not forsake her;’—and He has not! She is my daughter from this day, sir, and may God forgive your avarice!”

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LITTLE MAY.

“I wonder who made God? Mamma don’t know. I thought mamma knew everything. The minister don’t know, because I asked him. I wonder do the angels know? I wonder shall I know, when I go to heaven?”

Dear little May! She looked like an angel then, as she stood under the linden-tree, with her eyes fixes on the far-off sky, and the sunlight falling on that golden hair, till it shone like a glory round her head. You would have loved our little May,—not because her face had such a pensive sweetness in it, or that her step was light as a fawn’s, or her little limbs so gracefully moulded,—but because her heart was full of love for every living thing which God had made. One day I rambled with her in the wood. She had gathered her favorite flowers,—the tiniest and most delicate;—the air was full of music, and the breeze laden with fragrance; the little birds were not happier than we. Little May stood still; her large eyes grew moist with happy tears, and, dropping her little treasures of moss, leaves, and flowers, at my feet, she said, “Dear Fanny, let me pray.”

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She knew that the good God scattered all this beauty so lavishly about us, and she could not enjoy it without thanking Him. Dear little May! we listen in vain for her voice of music now.

“The church-yard hath an added stone,

And Heaven one spirit more.”

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PART II.

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a man looks down his nose at a woman with her hand out

NICODEMUS NEY.

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NICODEMUS NEY.
A DASH AT A CHARACTER WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN.

Mr. Nicodemus Ney is a philanthropist,—so the world says; (and I, as in duty bound, have a great respect for the opinion of the world;) that is, he goes about collecting ninepences and half-dollars from poor, overtasked servant girls, and half-fed clerks, for the founding of “charitable institutions” for all sorts of distressed persons, who never knew what an unfortunate situation they were in, until he told them.

How much of the money thus obtained is paid out for the purpose specified is “nothing to nobody!” He often takes long journeys to Niagara, and other places of fashionable resort; but it would be very malicious “to put that and that together.” Some of the donors, too, are occasionally impertinent enough to inquire, point blank, what has become of their funds! As if a man who belongs to the church, wears such a long face, fortified with such a white and stiff cravat, makes such long prayers, and has such a narrow creed, could be anything but the quintessence of honesty! It is astonishing how

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suspicious and impertinent some people are! Beside, don’t Nicodemus dine once a week with the Hon. Dives Doncaster? And is he not always on the platform on all public occasions, as solemn as an owl, alongside of the other great guns? You can see, with half an eye, that suspicion of him is perfectly ridiculous.

Should Mr. Nicodemus Ney sit toasting his feet at the fire, after a surfeiting dinner, and should a poor, down-trodden creature come in for relief, you could not expect him to disturb his digestion by attending to such a petty case of distress. He is a great man, and only does things on a large scale,—on a scale that will tell! Beside, it is his forte to draw money out of people’s pockets, not to put it in.

Very circumspect is Nicodemus. It would puzzle you to keep track of any of his personal or domestic expenditures; all his bargains are strictly “private,” and he was never known to answer the simplest question without first doubling Cape Look-out! Is he attacked? He goes whining to “Dives;” and I would like to see any dog bark when a rich man tells him to hold his tongue.

And so Nicodemus grows fatter and sleeker every year, keeping wrinkled and rumors at bay. The poor draw a long, hopeless sigh as he passes them, and the uninitiated touch their hats respectfully, and say, “It is Nicodemus Ney, the great philanthropist!”

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ADVICE TO LADIES.

When the spirit moves you to amuse yourself with “shopping,” be sure to ask the clerk for a thousand-and-one articles you have no intention of buying. Never mind about the trouble you make him; that’s part of the trade. Pull the fingers of the gloves you are examining quite out of shape; inquire for some nondescript color, or some scarce number, and, when it is found, “think you won’t take any this morning;” then, keep him an hour hunting for your sun-shade, which you, at length, recollect you “left at home;” and depart without having invested a solitary cent.

When you enter a crowded lecture-room, and a gentleman rises politely,—as American gentlemen always do,—and offers to give up his seat,—which he came an hour ago to secure for himself,—take it, as a matter of course; and don’t trouble yourself to thank him, even with a nod of your head. As to feeling uneasy about accepting it, that is ridiculous! because, if he don’t fancy standing during the service, he is at liberty to go home; it is a free country!

When you enter the cars, and all the eligible places

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are occupied, select one to your mind; then walk up to the gentleman, who is gazing at the fine scenery through the open window, and ask him for it, with a queenly air, as if he would lose caste instanter, did he hesitate to comply. Should any persons seat themselves near you, not exactly of “your stamp,” gather up the folds of your dress cautiously, as if you were afraid of contagion, and apply a “vinaigrette” to your patrician nose!

Understand, thoroughly, the dexterous use of a sun-shade, in enabling you to avoid the infliction of a “bore,” or an “unpresentable person,” in the street; avoiding, under that shield, the unladylike impropriety of the “cut direct,”—allowable only in cases of undisguised impertinence.

Should you receive an invitation to a concert, manage to accept it,—conditionally;—leaving a door to escape, should a more eligible offer present itself.

When solicited to sing at a party, decline, until you have drawn around you the proper number of entreating swains; then yield gracefully, as if it were a great sacrifice of your timidity.

Flirt with an admirer to the last end of the chapter, and then “be so taken by surprise” when he makes the declaration you were driving at! As “practice makes perfect,” every successful attempt of this nature will render you more expert at angling for hearts, besides exerting a very beneficial effect upon your character.

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As to cultivating your mind, that is all waste powder; you have better ammunition to attack the enemy; and as to cultivating your heart, there is no use in talking about a thing that is unfashionable! So, always bear in mind that all a pretty woman is sent into the world for, is to display the fashions as they come out; waltz, flirt, dance, sing, and play the mischief generally!

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THE MODEL WIDOW.

Would not wear her veil up, on any account;—thinks her complexion looks fairer than ever, in contrast with her sables;—sends back her new dress, because the fold of crape on the skirt “is not deep mourning enough;”—steadfastly refuses to look in the direction of a “dress coat” for—one week!—wonders if that handsome Tompkins, who passes her window every day, is insane enough to think she will ever marry again;—is fond of drawing off her glove, and resting her little, white hand on her black bonnet, thinking it may be suggestive of an early application for the same;—concludes to give up the loneliness of housekeeping, and try boarding at a hotel;—accepts Tompkins’ invitation to “attend the children’s concert,” just to please little Tommy. Tommy is delighted, and thinks Tompkins “a very kind gentleman,” to give him so much candy and so many bonbons. His mamma begins to admit certain alleviations of her sorrow, in the shape or protracted conversations, walks, rides, calls, &c. She cries a little, when Tommy asks her if she has not “forgotten to plant the flowers” in a certain cemetery. Tompkins comes in, and thinks her love-

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lier than ever, smiling through her tears. Tommy is sent out into the garden, to make “pretty dirt pies,”—to the utter demolition of a new frock and trousers,—and returns very unexpectedly, to find his mamma’s cheeks very rosy, and to be tossed up in the air by Tompkins, who declares himself “his new papa.”

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THE MODEL WIDOWER.

Begins to think of No. 2 before the weed on his hat loses its first gloss;—may be seen assisting young girls to find a seat in church, or ordering carts off dry crossings, for pretty feet that are waiting to pass over;—is convinced he “never was made to live alone;”—his “children must be looked after,” or, if he has not any, he would like to be looked after—himself;—draws a deep sigh every time a dress rustles past, with a female woman in it;—is very particular about the polish of his boots and the fit of his gloves;—thinks he looks very interesting in black;—don’t walk out in public much with his children; when he does, takes the youngest;—revives his old taste for moonlight and poetry;—pities single men with all his heart; wonders how they contrive to exist!—reproves little John for saying “Pa” so loud, when he meets him in the street;—sets his face against the practice of women’s going home “alone and unprotected” from evening meeting;—tells the widows his heart aches for them!—wonders which, of all the damsels he sees, he shall make up his mind to marry;—is sorry he shall be obliged to disappoint them all but one!—has long since preferred

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orange-blossoms to the cypress-wreath;—starts up, some fine day, and refurnishes his house from garret to cellar;—hangs his first wife’s portrait in the attic,—shrouded in an old blanket,—and marries a playmate for his oldest daughter.

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THE TEAR OF A WIFE.

“The tear of a loving girl is like a dew-drop on a rose; but on the cheek of a wife, is a drop of poison to her husband.”

It is “an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” Papas will be happy to hear that twenty-five dollar pocket-handkerchiefs can be dispensed with now, in the bridal trousseau. Their “occupation’s gone”! Matrimonial tears “are poison.” There is no knowing what you will do, girls, with that escape-valve shut off; but that is no more to the point, than—whether you have anything to smile at or not; one thing is settled—you must not cry! Never mind back-aches, and side-aches, and head-aches, and dropsical complaints, and smoky chimneys, and old coats, and young babies! Smile! It flatters your husband. He wants to be considered the source of your happiness, whether he was baptized Nero or Moses! Your mind never being supposed to be occupied with any other subject than himself, of course a tear is a tacit reproach. Besides, you miserable little whimperer! what have you to cry for? A-i-n-t y-o-u m-a-r-r-i-e-d? Is n’t that the summum bonum,—the height of feminine ambition? You can’t get beyond that! It

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is the jumping-off place! You’ve arriv!—got to the end of your journey! Stage puts up there! You have nothing to do but retire on your laurels, and spend the rest of your life endeavoring to be thankful that you are Mrs. John Smith! “Smile!” you simpleton!

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EDITORS.

We know of no state of slavery on earth like that attendant upon the newspaper life, whether it be as director or subordinate. Your task never ended, your responsibility never secured, the last day’s work is forgotten at the close of the day on which it appeared, and the dragon of tomorrow waits open-mouthed to devour your thoughts, and snap up one morsel more of your vexed existence. Be as successful as is the nature of things to be;—write with the least possible degree of exertion;—be indifferent to praise, and lion-hearted against blame;—still will the human heart wear out before its time, and your body, if not your mind, exhibit every symptom of dry rot.—Newspaper

“Dry” fiddlestick! That man’s dinner did not digest; or the wind was “dead east;” or his wife had astonished him with a pair of twins; or his boots pinched him.

I will wager you a new neck-tie that he is one of the cross-grained sort, who would go to fisticuffs with Gabriel and raise a rebellion in Paradise. There is not a word of truth in what he says. I have been behind the curtain, and I will speak this time! I tell you that editors are just the fattest, sleekest, happiest, most rolicksome, the cleverest, brightest, most intelligent and lovable set of humans in existence; and the only reason they don’t

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“own up,” is because they are afraid to let the world in general know how many little favors and perquisites fall to their lot!

They go down to the office in the morning,—after a careful toilette and a comforting breakfast,—make up a fire in the stove hot enough to roast an Icelander, “hermetically seal” every door and window, put on a pair of old slippers, light a cigar, draw up a huge easy-chair, stick their feet up twice as high as their heads, and—proceed to business (?); that is to say, between the whiffs of that cigar they tell excruciatingly funny stories, poke each other in the ribs, agree to join the mutual admiration society, retail all the “wire-pulling” behind the scenes, calculate which way the political cat is going to jump, and shape the paragraphs accordingly;—tell who threw that huge bouquet, at last night’s concert, to Madam Fitz Humbug;—shake hands, and make room for all the “hale-fellows-well-met” that drop in to see them;—keep their intellects sharpened up by collision with the bright and gifted,—in short, live in one perpetual clover-field, and when they die, all the newspapers write nice little obituary notices, and give them a free pass to Paradise. I would like to know if that looks like a “vexed existence?”

Time would fail me to tell of the wedding-cake, and flowers, and fruits, and annuals, embroidered purses and tasselled smoking-caps, pretty little notes, braided watch-

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chains, the handkerchiefs they get perfumed, and gloves mended,—for nothing!

How everybody nudges his neighbor, when they appear at lecture, or concert, or opera, and says, “There’s that clever fellow, the editor of The Comet!” How he has a season-ticket to a free seat by a Frog Pond; how he has,—but there is no use in telling all a body knows! Christopher Columbus! Editor’s life a “vexed existence!”

“Let those laugh now who never laughed before,

And those who always laughed now laugh the more.”

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BACHELOR HOUSEKEEPING.

Mr. Brown.—Pray, Jane, what on earth is the reason I am kept waiting for my breakfast in this way?

Jane.—Please, sir, the rolls is n’t come, and there’s no bread in the house.

Mr. Brown.—Now, upon my word! How can you annoy me with such trifles? No bread! then bring me some toast. (Exit Jane in dismay.)

I think I see him! Ragged dressing-gown; beard two days old; depressed dickey; scowling face; out at elbows, out of sorts, and—out of “toast!” Poor thing! Don’t the sight make my heart ache? How should he be expected to know that bread was the fore runner of toast, without a wife to tell him?

Bachelors never cut their “wisdom teeth!” It is astonishing how people can make themselves merry at their expense. I consider their case calls for the deepest commiseration. It is not toast they want,—it is a wife! Toast will naturally follow,—and in fine order, too! But, bless your soul! the poor creaturs don’t know, half the time, what ails them. They have a general undefined feeling of discomfort which they cannot account for; never can find their winter or summer

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clothes when they want them; moths eat up all their woolens; the washerwoman ruins their flannels,—letting them soak in the water,—scorches their Sunday dickey, and irons off their shirt-buttons; stockings get mis-mated;—if you pulled off their boots, you would find they were—“Odd Fellows!” Silk neck-ties want hemming; when they run their arm into a coat-sleeve it gets tangled in a ragged lining; lose their portemonnaies, because the daylight shines through their pockets; fingers all peeping out their gloves; miss half their duds, moving from one boarding-house to another; chamber-maids thumb their nice books with greasy fingers, use all their Cologne, and make acquaintance with their head and tooth brush; let all their letters and notes,—everything but their tailor’s bills—stay downstairs a week before they are delivered.

Poor things!—they feel themselves perfect ciphers, every time they see a family man go strutting past, like chanticleer with his hen and chickens! Afraid to ask a woman to have them, for fear she will say “No!” Ain’t their sufferings intolerable?

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BORROWED LIGHT.

“Don’t rely too much on the torches of others;—light one of your own.”

Don’t you do it!—borrowed light is all the fashion. For instance, you wake up some morning, fully persuaded that your destiny lies undeveloped in an ink stand. Well, select some popular writer; read over his or her articles carefully; note their peculiarities and fine points, and then copy your model just as closely as possible. Borrow whole sentences, if you like, taking care to transpose the words a little. Baptize all your heroes and heroines at the same font;—be facetious, sentimental, pathetic, terse, or diffuse, just like your leader. It may astonish you somewhat to ascertain how articles which read so easy, are, after all, so difficult of imitation; but, go on, only take the precaution, at every step, to sneer at your model, for the purpose of throwing dust in people’s eyes.

Of course, nobody sees through it; nobody thinks of the ostrich who hides his head in the sand, imagining his body is not seen. Nobody laughs at your servility; nobody exclaims, “There’s a counterfeit!” Nobody says, what an unintentional compliment you pay your leader.

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In choosing your signature, bear in mind that nothing goes down now-a-days, but alliteration. For instance, Delia Daisy, Fanny Foxglove, Harriet Honeysuckle, Lily Laburnum, Paulena Poppy, Minnie Mignonette, Julia Jonquil, Seraphina Sunflower, etc., etc.

If anybody has the impertinence to charge you with being a literary pirate, don’t you stand it. Bristle up like a porcupine, and declare that it is a vile insinuation; that you are a full-rigged craft yourself, cruising round on your own hook, and scorning to sail under false colors. There’s nothing like a little impudence!

That’s the way it’s done, my dear. Nobody but regular workies ever “light a torch of their own.” It’s an immensity of trouble to get it burning; and it is sure to draw round it every little buzzing, whizzing, stinging insect there is afloat. No, no!—make somebody else light the torch, and do you flutter round in its rays; only be careful not to venture so near the blaze as to singe those flimsy wings of yours.

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MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY.

“Don’t moralize to a man who is on his back;—help him up, set him firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means.”

There’s an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited for the enlightened age we live in; fished up, probably, from some musty old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that inconvenient appendage called a heart! Don’t pay any attention to it. If a poor wretch—male or female—comes to you for charity, whether allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most stoical, “get thee behind me,” expression you can muster. Listen to him with the air of a man who “thanks God he is not as other men are.” If the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in hand, button your coat up tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a piece of—good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life, and bring that up as a reason why you can’t give him anything more substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes!—ask him

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more questions than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism, about his private history, and when you’ve pumped him high and dry, try to teach him—on an empty stomach—the “duty of submission.” If the tear of wounded sensibility begins to flood the eye, and a hopeless look of discouragement settles down upon the face, “wish him well,” and turn your back upon him as quick as possible.

Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity, and make up your mind to bestow some worn-out old garment, that will hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you’ve bought him, body and soul, of course; and are entitled to the gratitude of a life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you, after that, he is an “ungrateful wretch,” and “ought to suffer.” As to the “golden rule,” that was made in old times; everything is changed now; it is not suited to our meridian.

People should not get poor; if they do, you don’t want to be bothered with it. It is disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You would rather see Dives than Lazarus; and, it is my opinion, your taste will be gratified in that particular,—in the other world, if not in this!

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THE MODEL MINISTER.

He never exchanges;—is not particular whether he occupies a four-story house or a ten-footer for a parsonage;—considers “donation parties” an invention of the adversary;—preaches round and round the commandments, in such a circular way as not to hit the peculiarities of any of his parishioners;—selects the hymn to suit the singing choir instead of himself;—never forgets, when excited in debate, that pulpit cushions are expensive articles;—visits all his people once a month, and receive their visits whenever they choose to inflict them;—brings forth things “new and old” every Sunday, more particularly new;—knows, by intuition, at a funeral, the state of mind of every distant relative of the deceased, and always hits the right nail on the head in his prayers;—when he baptizes a girl-baby, never afflicts the anxious mother by pronouncing Louisa, Louizy;—frowns upon all attempts to get him a new cloak;—looks upon bronchitis, throat complaints, and journeys to Europe, as modern humbugs;—never wears a better coat than any of his parishioners;—submits his private personal expenses to a committee of the greatest dunderheads in his

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congregation;—has the eloquence of Paul, the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job, the meekness of Moses, the constitution of an elephant, and—lives on two hundred dollars a year!

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THE WEAKER VESSEL.

“Time after time you must have known women decide questions on the instant, with unerring accuracy, which you had been poring over for hours, perhaps, with no other result than to find yourself getting deeper in the tangled noose of difficulties. A witty French writer says, ‘When a man has toiled step by step, up a flight of stairs, he will be sure to find a woman at the top.’ ”

My dear Monsieur, that’s Gospel truth; but only a gallant Frenchman like you would own it. “Jonathan” would whittle, and John Bull would eat roast-beef, till jack-knife and digestion gave out, before they would step into that confession-box. You are a gentleman, and a scholar, if you do live on fricasseed kittens and frog-soup. I’ll tell you what it is, Monsieur,—between you and I and your snuff-box,—when an American woman gets to the top of that mental staircase, she is obliged to appear entirely unconscious of it, or it would be “disputed territory” quicker than a report of your musket. You may have heard of a place this side of the “big pond,” called “Bunker Hill;”—if you have n’t, John Bull knows all about it. Well, all the husbands over here have signed the “Declaration of Independence,”—that’s all,—and the way they won’t surrender to flesh and blood, or even

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to one of their own “ribs,” would be edifying to your French ears. Consequently, my dear Monsieur, what can’t be had by force, must be won by stratagem. So we sit on “that top stair,” and laugh in our sleeves at them,—all the time demurely deferring to their opinion. Just so long as they have no suspicion of bit, bridle, or mistress, they can be led by the nose. It is only very fresh ones, Monsieur, who keep the reins in sight. You won’t be astonished to hear, in such cases, that there is great rearing, and plunging, and curveting, without even the reward of “throwing dust in the eyes” of the animal driven. I think you will agree with me, that it is a great mistake to contend with one of the “lords of creation.” A little finesse, Monsieur;—you understand!—walk round the bump of antagonism, and pat the bump of self-conceit. That’s the way we do it.

Remember me to “my uncle’s” nephew; and tell him he is about as near the mental state of “Napoleon,” as Tom Thumb is to the Colossus of Rhodes! Bon jour!

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A TEMPEST IN A THIMBLE.

Never in Frogtown? That shows you have not made the “grand tour.” It had one long street, one orthodox steeple, one blacksmith’s shop, one town-pump, one pair of hay-scales, and a little thread-and-needle shop, four feet square. Should you go into the latter to buy a spool of cotton, the number of your spool, and the name of the purchaser, would be ticketed on the village record in less than half an hour.

Was n’t there a hum-buzz in Frogtown when sunset released all the gossips from their labors? Did n’t they collect in knots in the doorways, on the fences, on barn-yard gates, and on the church steps, and, with rolled up sleeves and eyes, empty each their particular budget of news, and compare notes and observations? The tailor, the farmer, the dressmaker and the milliner, loved scandal, better than patronage, or coppers, or crops. The price of the minister’s last new hat, or his wife’s new churn, was no more of a secret than the fall of Adam. They “guessed that the ’squire and his wife had had a falling out,” and “they guessed the ’squire did n’t know about the smart young man who walked about with his pretty wife,” just as if they were not posted up, when every

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bush in Frogtown had an eavesdropper under it, and every tree had a “Zachheus” perched in its branches! And Miss Pinch, the seamstress, who had been five-and-forty years trying to solve the problem of her single-blessedness, laughed derisively, till her little gooseberry eyes were quite shut up, at the idea of there being a secret in the village that she could not be at the top and bottom of.

O, Frogtown was a great place! Did a stranger walk through it, the plough was left sticking in the furrow; the children flew out, with unwashed faces; the matrons ran to the door, with the suds dripping from their red elbows; the dogs barked, and poor old Brindle’s milk was riled up for an hour, trying to fathom the disturbance!

You ought to have been there! Such an event as it was, when the “Neptune” was dragged from the engine-house, once a week, to be washed; when the “trainers” shared the village green with the pigs, on a muster-day; when the old cracked school-house bell summoned the Fogtownites to “town meetin’;” when the minister’s son walked up the aisle, on a Sunday, in his first long-tail coat! Kossuth’s advent, or the nuptials of Louis Napoleon, were nothing to it. The excitement was perfectly tremendous.

O, they are “fast” livers in Frogtown! After getting seasoned up there, one might venture to spend the “carnival” at Rome or a winter in Paris!

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THE QUIET MR. SMITH.

“What a quiet man your husband is, Mrs. Smith!”

Quiet! a snail is “an express train” to him! If the top of his house should blow off, he’d just sit still and spread his umbrella! He’s a regular pussy-cat. Comes into the front door as though the entry was paved with eggs, and sits down in his chair as if there was a nest of kittens under the cushion. He’ll be the death of me yet! I read him all the horrid accidents, dreadful collisions, murders and explosions, and he takes it just as easy as if I was saying the Ten Commandments. He is never astonished, or startled, or delighted. If a cannon-ball should come through that window, he would n’t move an eye-lash. If I should make the voyage of the world, and return some fine day, he’d take off his spectacles, put them in the case, fold up the newspaper and settle his dickey, before he’d be ready to say, “Good morning, Mrs. Smith.” If he’d been born of a poppy he could n’t be more soporific. I wonder if all the Smiths are like him. When Adam got tired of naming his numerous descendants, he said, “Let all the rest be called Smith!” Well, I don’t care for that, but he ought to

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have known better than to call my husband Abel Smith! Do you suppose, if I were a man, I would let a woman support me? Where do you think Abel’s coats and cravats, and canes and cigars come from? Out of my brain! “Quiet?”—it’s perfectly refreshing to me to hear of a comet, or see a locomotive, or look at a streak of chain lighting! I tell you he is the expressed essence of chloroform!

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PRUDENCE PRIM.

I don’t know about this being “a very nice world,” said Aunt Sally. There’s people enough in it, such as they are; and enough of them if they can’t be any better; but if there’s one kind that I can’t get along with, it is the hypocrites! Now, when anybody swears, or steals, or cuts another’s throat, I understand it; I know—on the spot—which commandment has been tripped over; but these two-faced, oily-tongued people, who twist, and turn, and double, like rabbits in a wood, why, it needs a gun that will shoot round a corner to hit them, and somebody that is deeper than I to see through them. How exactly they will mark out the path of duty for other people’s feet to tread! What magnifying glasses they wear to look at other people’s sins, and how very good they are till their principles conflict with their interest!

Prudence Prim was of this order. How careful and conscientious she was to admit the right sort of toys into her shop for the children! All the drummers, and fifers, and “sojers,” underwent an anatomical examination before they stood up in her shop-window; all the little sixpenny

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cotton handkerchiefs had hymns and creeds printed on them, and “golden rules,” and all that sort of thing. To be sure, Prudence sometimes gave them the wrong change; but I’ve known that done in other places than Primtown! Be that as it may, she reigned there “triumphant, happy and glorious,” with an undisputed monopoly of juvenile coppers, till “eleven-foot” came, at last, in the shape of Miss Giggle and a rival toy-shop! Prudence watched her with a jealous eye; and, finally, thought it her “duty” to remonstrate against the Fanny Elssler dolls she was exhibiting in her shop-window. They were “frivolous” and “improper,” and she was astonished Miss Giggle “could let herself down so!” The little folks were of a different opinion, and coaxed papas and mammas into the same belief. Coppers changed hands, and flew with astonishing celerity into the Giggle treasury. Mirth went ahead of melancholy, till Prudence could stand it no longer; but took a darling leap over her “principles” for the sake of interest, and Fanny Elssler dolls were forthwith seen kicking up their unrebuked heels in Miss Prim’s shop-window! “This would be a dull world without laughing!” she said, apologetically!

Never mind, Aunt Prudence; we won’t inquire too particularly into the date of that newborn opinion! You are not the only specimen extant of an iron creed, and an India-rubber conscience!

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MEN’S DICKEYS NEVER FIT EXACTLY.

Now that must be a mistake! Husbands don’t bring home a “new dickey pattern,” or a “French fit,” oftener than seven days out of a week,—I’m sure of it! You never saw one sit down with a dozen sheets of paper in his lap, take up your scissors,—looking as wise as Diogenes,—and after wasting any quantity of paper, and making as much litter on the parlor carpet as a carpenter with his chips, hand you a nondescript-looking thing, saying, “Now, Susan—if—you—make—those—dickeys—exactly—like—that—pattern (?), you’ll hit it.” Well, with a solemn sense of the responsibility of the undertaking, “Susan” does as she is bid,—former experience, however, making her rather more skeptical than Diogenes about the “hit!” The dickey is done; washed, starched, sprinkled, ironed and put on. In about an hour, Diogenes comes tearing back from the office to say that “Tom Smith’s dickey is a little lower in front, and a little higher behind, and a little more hollowed out in the sides, and has two rows of stitching, and fastens before instead of behind, and if Susan will make these little alterations it will suit him, and no mistake!”

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A LITTLE BUNKER HILL.

“No person should be delicate about asking for what is properly his due. If he neglects doing so, he is deficient in that spirit of independence which he should observe in all his actions. Rights are rights, and, if not granted, should be demanded.”

A little “Bunker Hill” atmosphere about that! It suits my republicanism; but I hope no female sister will be such a novice as to suppose it refers to any but masculine rights. In the first place, my dear woman, “female rights” is debatable ground; what you may call a “vexed question.” In the next place (just put your ear down, a little nearer), granted we had “rights,” the more we “demand,” the more we shan’t get them. I’ve been converted to that faith this some times. No sort of use to waste lungs and leather trotting to SIGH-racuse about it. The instant the subject is mentioned, the lords of creation are up and dressed; guns and bayonets the order of the day; no surrender on every flag that floats! The only way left is to pursue the “Uriah Heep” policy; look ’umble, and be desperate cunning. Bait them with submission, and then throw the noose over the will. Appear not to have any choice, and as true as gospel

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you’ll get it. Ask their advice, and they’ll be sure to follow yours. Look one way, and pull another! Make your reins of silk, keep out of sight, and drive where you like!

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SOLILOQUY OF REV. MR. PARISH.

“I’ve really an intolerable pain in my chest, sitting here in my study so long. I should like to work a little in my garden; but Deacon Smith thinks ‘it looks too secular.’ Brother Clapp has offered me his horse and chaise; but Deacon Smith says

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people will talk, if I ride about. Well, I’ll take a walk with my wife,—I suppose I can do that. Here’s a hole in my coat;—it’s all holes. I wonder where that new one is which wife’s father sent me. O, I recollect, Deacon Smith says it will cause heart-burnings in the church if I wear so fine a broadcloth. Well, I’ll go in my old one. No, I can’t either; Deacon Smith says it’s a reflection on the parish for me to go out in an old coat. I wish my people would pay me the last two quarters’ salary;—think I’ll write, and tell them how closely I’m cornered. No, it won’t do; Deacon Smith says if there’s anything that deserves a rebuke, it’s a minister who thinks about money. I wonder how long I had better make my sermon next Sabbath. Brother Jones says half an hour; Brother Clapp three quarters, and Deacon Smith says they don’t get their money’s worth if ’t is short of an hour long. Brother Jones is a temperance man—Brother Clapp is n’t;—Brother Harris is an abolitionist—Deacon Smith says he’s anti-fuss! and wants the world to go on the old-fashioned way!

Wife has just been in, and wants to know “if John may go a fishing;” but Deacon Smith says minister’s boys never ought to be born with the bump of destruction. Little Susy wants a doll; but Deacon Smith says it’s too much like worshipping wooden idols, forbid in the Scriptures! My wife is worn out, and needs a servant; but Deacon Smith says ministers’ wives should never be weary in well-doing. Wife’s sister made me a present of a book-mark for the pulpit Bible, in the form of a cross; Deacon Smith says “it’s a rag of popery!”—Mem. To have it removed before next Sunday. I should like to change with Brother Putnam; but Deacon Smith says he has never made it quite clear, to his mind, whether little babies are admitted to heaven at nine months and two days, or two months and nine days!— Brother Hill, too, is a very good man, but Deacon Smith says he ought never to have entered the ministry if he could n’t get the curl out of his hair! Really, I’m quite puzzled to find out the path of duty!”

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TIM TREADWELL.

Never saw Tim Treadwell? I am astonished! Well, he bore a striking resemblance to a pair of rusty tongs in locomotion. His bow was a cross between a St. Vitus shake and a galvanic spasm. It was edifying to see him go over the ground, with so little superfluous play of limb or muscle; coat, vest, dickey and pants, all in unyielding harness. Tim had a realizing sense of the value of the dimes and dollars his Benedict foresight had accumulated, and poised every ninepence long and affectionately on his forefinger before committing it to the tender mercies of this horse-leech world. It mattered little to him how narrow was the door of humiliation through which he crawled to get a step higher on this world’s ladder; he was perfectly contented to play lackey, for the time being, to any pompous aristocrat who would condescend to notice him in public next time they met. But what was very astonishing (notwithstanding, Tim owned a looking-glass), he labored under the hallucination that every woman he met was plotting against his single-blessedness. He read a story once, in an old-fashioned book, in which “Delilah” figured very con-

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spicuously; and, though it would have been a puzzle to Solomon, where Tim’s “great strength” lay, he had a mortal and daily horror of being “Samson”-ized. Not that he lacked appreciation of a pretty face or form, but he considered it safer to admire at a distance, and never passed a widow without an involuntary “pater noster.” There were other safe and innocent amusements which he did n’t feel called upon to deny himself. For instance, he had the scent of a pointer for partridges and woodcock, and ever failed to call in, by accident, when they were served up at a cozy little family supper, or when a birthday was gastronomically celebrated. He had a taste for music, too, and might be seen, solus, at all the concerts, taking a free gratis opera-glass scrutiny of the pretty women whose company other Benedicts considered cheaply purchased at the tune of a bouquet, a carriage, and a three-dollar seat. Tim never was known to make but one female call, and then he took his friend, Harry Smith, along, to neutralize the force of the compliment. He was fully persuaded that the ladies were ready to drop into his mouth like so many ripe peaches; but he had no idea,—not he!—of shaking the matrimonial tree! The greatest proof on record of his extraordinary sagacity was the delightful feeling of safety which came over him, in the company of a married lady. Poor Tim! Profound Tim! Requiescat in pace!

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IMPORTANT FOR MARRIED MEN.

“The Budget says, that a lady lost the use of her tongue for nearly a week the other day, from eating too many tomatoes. The price of this indispensable vegetable will, no doubt, rise in consequence.”

No it won’t! There is nothing in this world—with one exception—that gentlemen love so well as to hear women talk to each other. You are sitting tete-a-tete with Moses, at your domestic fireside. A lady friend comes in; she is bright, and witty, and agreeable. You have both a tremendous budget of feminine “bon mots” and good things to share with each other. The question is, how to get rid of Moses. You hint that there is a great political meeting at Tammany Hall, on which occasion Cass, or whoever is god of your husband’s political idolatry, is going to speak. He don’t stir a peg. Then you adroitly raise the window-curtain, and speak of the beauty of the night, and how many gentlemen are out with cigars in their mouths. It don’t “end in—smoke!” Then you ask him “if he has carried the morning’s paper over to his mother?” He is as deaf as a “post!” Finally, in despair, you get into the remotest

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corner of the room, and commence operations, leaving Moses to his corner and his book, for fear of disturbing (?) him.

Kitty tells you a most excruciating story, and you tell her another; and you laugh till the tears start. Well, now you just creep slily round Moses’ chair, and take a peep at him. St. Cecilia! if that book is not upside down, and his mouth stretched from ear to ear! He has swallowed every word with the avidity of a cat over her first mouse banquet; and yet, if you did not face him up with that upside down book, he would persist he had been reading the funniest book alive! And so he has, but it was not bound in “calf” or “sheep-skin!”

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MR. CLAPP’S SOLILOQUY.

Another girl! What can Mrs. Clapp be thinking of? It’s perfectly ridiculous! There’s four of them now, and that’s four more than is necessary. I don’t believe in girls,—lovers and laces, ringlets and romances, jewelry and jump-ropes, silks and satins. What’s to be done? There’s a whole chest full of my old coats I’ve been saving to make my boys’ jackets. I wish Mrs. Clapp would think as I do. Another girl! Who’s to keep the name in the family, I’d like to know? I shall be extinct! And now she wants me to put up a note in the church for “blessings received!”

Mrs. Clapp has a very obstinate streak in her disposition in this respect. It’s wasting powder to reason with her. It seems to go into one ear and out at the other. If she gets going on one particular track, you may just fold your arms and let her take her time to get off it. She knows I prefer boys,—that woman does,—just as well as she knows her name is Hetty. Well, there’s a limit to human patience. I shall tell her, very decidedly, as soon as her gruel-probation is over, that a stop must be put to this. It’s no use for a man to pretend to be master in his own house, when he is n’t!

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WHAT MRS. SMITH SAID.

“Saint Agatha!—not been out of the city this summer?”

“No;—Mr. Jones said he could n’t afford it.”

“My dear, innocent Abigail! Mr. Jones smokes his forty-nine cigars a day, as usual, don’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he rides horseback every morning?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he plays billiards, and takes his sherry and hock, and all that sort o’ thing down town, don’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, put that and that together! Just so Mr. Smith told me—‘could n’t afford it.’ I did n’t dispute the point. It was too much trouble. I smiled just as sweetly at him as if I did n’t know it was all a humbug. But I very quietly went to my boudoir, and dispatched a note to that jewel of a doctor, ——, saying that I should be taken violently ill about the time Mr. Smith came home to dinner, and should n’t probably recover till after a trip to Saratoga, or Niagara, or some of those quiet places. Well, he is as keen as a briar; and when Mr. Smith sent for him, he came in and found me in a state of foreor-

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dained exhaustion, in the hands of my maid, Libby. He felt my pulse, looked wise and oracular, and said I ‘must have instant change of air.’ Of course I objected; declared I never could bear to be moved; was quite entirely run down, etc. Doctor said he ‘would n’t be answerable for the consequences,’ and finally, to oblige Mr. Smith, I gave in. Understand? Nothing like a little diplomacy. Always use the check-rein, my dear, if you want to start Jones off in a new direction. Men are little contrary, that’s all. They’d be perfect treasures, every mother’s son of them, if it was n’t for that!”

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EVERYBODY’S VACATION EXCEPT EDITORS’.

“Everybody is having a vacation except editors.”

I should like to have the editor who wrote that, look me in the face, answer the following “catechize,” and then dare whine after that fashion! Who gets tickets to all the Siamese boys, fat girls, white negroes, learned pigs, whistling canaries, circuses, concerts and theatres? Who has a free pass to railroad celebrations, water excursions, balloon ascensions, anti-slavery fights, Webster dinners, Kossuth suppers, and “great rejection” meetings? Who has the first great squash of the season? Who feeds on anonymous pears and nectarines, strawberries, grapes, peaches and melons? Who gets a slice of wedding-cake every time a couple make fools of themselves, and who had “pi” in his office, year in and year out? Who has all the big and lesser literary lights, male and female, constantly revolving round him? Who amasses a magnificent library, free gratis for nothing,—save a puff or two? Who gets pretty bouquets when he

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is sick, from his lady contributors? “Vacation!” forsooth! Don’t talk to me! I know all about it! The first gentleman I ever saw was “an editor.” I have been acquainted with them ever since I was knee high to a huckleberry!

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a little girl watches a cobbler

OLD JEREMIAH.

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OLD JEREMIAH;
OR, SUNNY DAYS.

It was a sultry morning in August when I first halted under the shade of Jeremiah Crispin’s old sycamore trees. Bless the old house, with its red eaves, and the little shoe-maker’s shop adjoining, where for many a long year he had hammered away at his lap-stone, at peace with all mankind! His wife slept quietly in the moss-grown church-yard nearby; and Jeremiah and his daughter Xantippe were sole tenants of the red-eaved house. I beg pardon of Miss Xantippe, for allowing her father to precede her! It is a sin I should not dare to be guilty of, were there not a good twenty miles between us; for, truth to tell, the old man’s shop was the only place where he could reign unmolested by petticoat government. Dear old Jeremiah! When the house was too hot for us, what an ark of refuge was the old shop; and what cozy talks we used to have over that old lap-stone! With what native politeness he would clear a place for me to sit beside him, where “my dress should not be soiled!” What long, wonderful stories I used to hear about “the Brit-

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ish;” and how skilfully he wove “a moral” into the warp and woof of his narrative! How many sermons in disguise did I voraciously swallow! and how sorry we were when Xantippe’s shrill voice called us in “to supper!” With what a sublime unconsciousness of “outward appearances” did Jeremiah, in his leather apron and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, grasp the back of the rude chair, with his toil-worn hands, and say “grace,”—travelling over the world, never forgetting a tribe or nation that the sun shone upon,—embracing Jew and Hottentot, black and white, in the open arms of his Christian philanthropy,—to the manifest discomfort of the carnal-minded hens and chickens, under the table, who were impatiently waiting for their share of the loaves and fishes! How patiently he listened, for the five hundred and fortieth time, to Xantippe’s account of the obstreperous conduct of old Brindle in “kicking over the milk-pail;” and of the ingratitude of the hens, who persisted in laying Jeremiah eggs in neighbor Hiram Smith’s barn! How uncomplainingly he crumbed Xantippe’s sour bread—manufactured simultaneously with the perusal of “The Young Woman’s Guide”—into his scanty allowance of milk! How circumspectly he set the four legs of that chair down in its appropriate corner! How many impromptu errands he got up to the village, after sundown, for “leather” and “meal,” (?) as much to my delight, as to the astonishment and indignation of the asthmatic old horse, who

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had a way of his own remonstrating, by quietly standing still every three paces, until reminded by the whip, that—when Xantippe was not present—Jeremiah held the reins! What sweet mouthfuls of berries and pretty bunches of flowers found their way into the wagon, never forgetting the mullein stalk and elder blow, to stow away under the seat as a propitiatory “olive branch” to Miss Xantippe! How many nights I have been lulled to sleep with the song of “happy Canaan,” issuing from the old raftered chamber across the entry! How many mornings, with the first golden sunbeams, has come to my ear the tremulous voice of old Jeremiah, “wrestling” like the angel at “day-break,” for a blessing!

God be thanked,—in this day of many creeds, of intolerance, and sham piety,—these memories sweep over my soul’s dark hours, soothing as the sweet music of David’s harp to Saul’s chafed spirit.

Jeremiah’s simple, unpretending piety, and childlike trust and love, chase away every shadow of unbelief, and again I am a guileless child, listening with round-eyed wonder to lessons of wisdom,—then but half understood,—from the silver-haired patriarch, over the old lap-stone.

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“I CAN’T.”

Apollo!—what a face! Doleful as a hearse; folded hands; hollow chest; whining voice; the very picture of cowardly irresolution. Spring to your feet, hold up your head, set your teeth together, draw that fine form of yours up to the height that God made it; draw an immense long breath, and look about you. What do you see? Why, all creation taking care of number one;—pushing ahead like the car of Juggernaut, over live victims. There it is; and you can’t help it. Are you going to lie down and be crushed?

By all that is manly, no!—dash ahead! You have as good a right to mount the triumphal car as your neighbor. Snap your fingers at croakers. If you can’t get round a stump, leap over it, high and dry. Have nerves of steel, a will of iron. Never mind sideaches, or heartaches, or headaches,—dig away without stopping to breathe, or to notice envy or malice. Set your target in the clouds, and aim at it. If your arrow falls short of the mark, what of that? Pick it up and go at it again. If you should never reach it, you will shoot higher than if you only aimed at a bush. Don’t whine, if your friends

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fall off. At the first stroke of good luck, by Mammon! they will swarm around you like a hive of bees, till you are disgusted with human nature.

“I can’t!” O, pshaw! I throw my glove in your face, if I am a woman! You are a disgrace to corduroys. What! a man lack courage? A man want independence? A man to be discouraged at obstacles? A man afraid to face anything on earth, save his Maker? Why! I have the most unmitigated contempt for you, you will pusillanimous pussy-cat! There is nothing manly about you, except your whiskers.

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A CHAPTER ON CLERGYMEN.

O, walk in, Mr. Jones, walk in! A minister’s time is not of much account. He ought to expect to be always ready to see his parishioners. What’s the use of having a minister, if you can’t use him? Never mind scattering his thoughts to the four winds, just as he gets them glowingly concentrated on some sublime subject,—that is a trifle. He has been through college, has n’t he? Then he ought to know a thing or two, and be able to take up the thread of his argument where he laid it down; else where is the astonishing difference between him and a layman? If he can’t make a practical use of his Greek and Latin and Theology, he had better strip off his black coat, unshake his “right hand of fellowship,” and throw up his commission. Take a seat, Mr. Jones. Talk to him about your crops; —make him plough over a dozen imaginary fields with you; he ought to be able to make a quick transit from “predestination” to potatoes. Why, just think of the man’s salary,—and you helping to pay it! Nebuchadnezzar!—have you not hired him, soul and body? He don’t belong to himself at all, except when he is asleep. Mind

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and give him a little wholesome advice before you leave. Inquire how many pounds of tea he uses per week, and ask him how he came to be so unclerical as to take a ride on horseback the other day;—and how much the hostler charged him for the animal; and whether he went on a gallop, or a canter, or an orthodox trot? Let him know, very decidedly, that ministers are not expected to have nerves, or headaches, or sideaches, or heartaches. If they are weary writing,—which they have no right to be,—let them go down cellar and chop wood. As to relaxation, suggestive of beautiful thoughts, which a gallop on a fleet horse through the country might furnish,—where the sweet air fans the aching temples caressingly; where fields of golden grain wave in the glad sunlight; where the blended beauty of sky and sea, and rock, and river, hill and valley, send a thrill of pleasure through every inlet of the soul,—pshaw! that is all transcendental nonsense, fit only for green boarding-school girls and silly, scribbling women. A minister ought to be above such things, and have a heart as tough as the doctrine of election. He ought to be a regular theological sledge-hammer, always sharpened up, and ready to do execution without any unnecessary glitter.

The fact is, Mr. Jones,—between you and me and the vestry door,—it is lucky there are some philanthropic layman, like yourself, who are willing to look after

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these ministers. It is the more generous in you, because we are all aware it is a thing you don’t take the slightest pleasure in doing (?). You may not get your reward for it in this world, but if you don’t in the next, I shall make up my mind that Lucifer is remiss in his duty.

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UNCLE JABE.

“I’ve always noticed,” said Uncle Jabe, “that the man who speaks disrespectfully of a woman, is very apt to be an unmitigated scoundrel.”

Softly, softly, Uncle Jabe! Mind whose toes you tread on; you may make them hobble. What’s the use of being a man if you can’t say just what you like? It’s a pantaloons’ perquisite. Out with it, either by word of mouth or in print; free your manly bosom!

If you know a literary lady who prefers a quiet life to notoriety, don’t let any scruples prevent you from intruding on that privacy. Trot her out before a gaping public. Notice her fine personal points, with the same free and easy familiarity that you would if speaking of a well-formed horse or pointer. Mention her in a dashing, insolent vein of admiration, as if it were something she was more likely to elicit than respect.

Advise everybody to cultivate her delightful and fascinating acquaintance as intimately as you have (?), if he can! Not a bad idea, you see, of advertising yourself, by hitching on to her literary apron-string, especially when your own ascension-robe has been tediously long in making.

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Don’t be afraid of consequences. You know you can say a thousand things about a bonnet, that would not be quite safe to say about a hat. Immense advantage that, to a gentleman (?) of weak nerves and courage! The most a woman can do is to turn the “cold shoulder” to you, and that don’t begin to hurt like a cold bullet!

Imitate your type,—the highwayman,—who, when requested by the lady he was robbing to desist, “as she was alone and defenseless,” replied, with a grin, “That’s the very reason why I do it!”

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AN INTERESTING HUSBAND.

“If you could see my husband, Solomon Stillweather! It is my firm conviction, he will be the death of me! I am naturally a happy, bright, energetic, warm-hearted, chain-lightning, impulsive woman,—born after stages were exploded, and in the days of railroads and steam engines. I have the most capacious heart that ever thumped against a silken bodice;—can hate like Lucifer, and love in proportion, and be eternally grateful to one who is kind to me. Now, S-o-l-o-m-o-n is a perpetual calm. Nothing ruffles him, nothing disturbs him. Mount Vesuvius could n’t make him hurry. He does everything,—mercantile and matrimonial,—by rule, square and compass. When the proper time arrives, it ‘comes off,’ and it don’t a fraction of a second before. Were the house on fire, he would stop to take the lint off his coat, and brush his teeth, before starting. If I ask him a question at breakfast, I never get an answer before tea. He walks around the house with a noiseless, velvety tread, like a superannuated pussy-cat. Should the children in their play knock

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over the tea-table and its contents, he looks quietly up from his book, and drawls out, ‘A-i-n-’t y-o-u r-a-t-h-e-r r-u-d-e, c-h-i-l-d-r-e-n?’

“One summer evening, in the country, as he sat on the grass, smoking his cigar, it occurred to me whether anything short of an earthquake would start him up; so I placed a string of crackers directly behind him, and touched ’em off; and, as sure as I’m a living woman, he never so much as winked.

“You should see him getting ready for church on Sunday, as he pares and polishes his fingernails, lays every hair on his head over its appropriate bump, sprinkles a drop of cologne on the north-west corner of his pocket handkerchief, and ties the bow of that cravat for the for-tieth time. I never saw Solomon excited. I never heard him laugh;—and he don’t know the luxury of tears. Now, if I could only get up a domestic squabble!—thunder clouds clear the atmosphere, you know,—but it’s no use. I’ve tried to stir him up on politics; but he’s ‘on the fence,’—had as lief jump one way as another, too. I’ve put on the sulks, and been distant and dignified; I tell you, he likes it,—besides, you could n’t freeze him colder than he is. I’ve been loving, and petted him; it’s a waste of ammunition,—he can’t be thawed out!

“It’s my solemn belief, he was originally intended

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for an old maid, but, by some horrid mistake—he’s my husband. I can double Cape Horn while he is saying, ‘My dear.’ O—O! when the Coroner’s Jury sits on me, won’t the verdict be,—‘Died of excess of Still-weather?’ ”

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THE MODEL LADY.

Puts her children out to nurse and tends lap-dogs;—lies in bed till noon;—wears paper-soled shoes, and pinches her waist;—gives the piano fits, and forgets to pay her milliner;—cuts her poor relations, and goes to church when she has a new bonnet;—turns the cold shoulder to her husband, and flirts with his “friend;”—never saw a thimble;—don’t know a darning-needle from a crow-bar;—wonders where puddings grow;—eats ham and eggs in private, and dines on a pigeon’s leg in public;—runs mad after the last new fashion;—dotes on Byron;—adores any man who grins behind a moustache;—and when asked the age of her youngest child, replies, “Don’t know, indeed; ask Betty!”

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INDULGENT HUSBANDS

“A husband too indulging is apt to make an impertinent wife.”

Now, how did you know that, Mr. True Flag? Bachelors never cut their wisdom teeth. Put ’t is as true as gospel. If you did take it on credit, I endorse it. A husband should always wrap himself in a mantle of dignity,—never step off his pedestal to be communicative or facetious. The very minute you do it your wife will take advantage of it. I should n’t wonder if she sat down on the other half of your chair, or pushed the hair off your godlike forehead, or settled your neck-tie with her profane little fingers. Just think of it once. You ought to be on your guard, and mind what precedents you set up. You ought not to call her anything but MRS. Jeremiah Jones; and, if the little monkey gets loquacious, just make her ask you a question a dozen times over, to show her that you have a few other topics under consideration besides those she suggests; and don’t, for mercy’s sake, ever ask her opinion about anything. I would n’t give a soap-bubble for your connubial sceptre after you have committed that egregious blunder. If you can ever get

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the noose over her wilful head after that, my name is n’t Fanny. She’ll arch her neck, and canter off to the farthest limit of the matrimonial pasture; ten to one she’ll leap the bars if you persist! Just as if, when you had allowed her to taste the sweets of liberty, she would bend her head and be dragged off, to trot only at your pace, for the rest of your life. Never a bit! So I tell you,—mind how you begin. Women are like children; they won’t bear petting. It makes them saucy as the mischief! They never will stop till they get ready, after they once get a-going, if you frown at them till your face looks like “Glidden’s Mummy.” It stands to reason a man can’t be trifled with that way. A lord of creation, too! Where’d be the distinction between a hat and a bonnet, I’d like to know? Jupiter Olympus! It would be perfectly ridiculous!

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A FERN SOLILOQUY.

That I, who detest uniformity; who go frantic at a pair of anything; who hate “a four-leaved clover;” who adore “striped grass,” because there’s no two blades alike; who love the clouds, because they change as I gaze; the sea, because it ebbs and flows; the wind, because it is untameable and fetterless,—first an anthem, then a wail, then a soft, low sigh; that I, by some mysterious Providence, should have a pew behind the six Misses Pecksniff, with their six pink silk bonnets, and six rosettes on corresponding sides; with their six sky-blue shawls, crossed over their six unappropriated hearts; six pair of brimstone kid gloves, clutching six Village Hymn Books, folded in six pocket-handkerchiefs trimmed with sham cotton lace; six muslin collars, embracing their six virgin jugulars, fastened with six gold crosses all of a size! It’s perfectly annihilating! I can’t think what I’ve done to be punished that way. I never “stole;” I never “coveted;” I never—well, at any rate, I wish they’d catch the cholera or a husband—either will answer my purpose, as far as they are concerned;—wish they would n’t sit down on the pew-cushion as if it

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was stuffed with live kittens;—wish they’d take a nap in meeting, or get off the track in singing time, or get into the wrong pew;—wish there’d come a shower and spoil their six pink bonnets;—wish they’d do anything but sit there, so straight, so proper, and so pasteboard-y. O, I shall die of excess of Pecksniff, I’m sure of it, if the sexton don’t put some of them out of sight!

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p. 377

AUNT HETTY ON MATRIMONY.

“Now girls,” said Aunt Hetty, “put down your embroidery and worsted work; do something sensible, and stop building air-castles, and talking of lovers and honeymoons. It makes me sick; it is perfectly antimonial. Love is a farce; matrimony is a humbug; husbands are domestic Napoleons, Neroes, Alexander,—sighing for other hearts to conquer, after they are sure of yours. The honeymoon is as short-lived as a lucifer-match; after that you may wear your wedding-dress at breakfast, and your night-cap to meeting, and your husband would n’t know it. You may pick up your own pocket-handkerchief, help yourself to a chair, and split your gown across the back reaching over the table to get a piece of butter, while he is laying in his breakfast as if it was the last meal he should eat in this world. When he gets through he will aid your digestion,—while you are sipping your first cup of coffee,—by inquiring what you’ll have for dinner; whether the cold lamb was all ate yesterday; if the charcoal is all out, and what you gave for the last green tea you bought. Then he gets up from the table, lights his cigar with the last evening’s

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paper, that you have not had a chance to read; gives two or three whiffs of smoke,—which are sure to give you a headache for the afternoon,—and, just as his coat-tail is vanishing through the door, apologizes for not doing ‘that errand’ for you yesterday,—thinks it doubtful if he can to-day,—‘so pressed with business.’ Hear of him at eleven o’clock, taking an ice-cream with some ladies at a confectioner’s, while you are at home new-lining his coat-sleeves. Children by the ears all day; can’t get out to take the air; feel as crazy as a fly in a drum. Husband comes home at night; nods a ‘How d’ye do, Fan?’ boxes Charley’s ears; stands little Fanny in the corner; sits down in the easiest chair in the warmest nook; puts his feet up over the grate, shutting out all the fire, while the baby’s little pug nose grows blue with the cold; reads the newspaper all to himself; solaces his inner man with a cup of tea, and, just as you are laboring under the hallucination that he will ask you to take a mouthful of fresh air with him, he puts on his dressing-gown and slippers, and begins to reckon up the family expenses; after which he lies down on the sofa, and you keep time with your needle, while he sleeps till nine o’clock. Next morning, ask him to leave you a ‘little money,’ he looks at you as if to be sure that you are in your right mind, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, and asks you ‘what you want with it, and if a half-a-dollar won’t do?’ Gracious

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king! as if those little shoes, and stockings, and petticoats could be had for half-a-dollar! O, girls! set your affections on cats, poodles, parrots or lap-dogs; but let matrimony alone. It’s the hardest way on earth of getting a living. You never know when your work is done. Think of carrying eight or nine children through the measles, chicken-pox, rash, mumps, and scarlet fever,—some of them twice over. It makes my head ache to think of it. O, you may scrimp and save, and twist and turn, and dig and delve, and economize and die; and your husband will marry again, and take what you have saved to dress his second wife with; and she’ll take your portrait for a fire-board!

“But, what’s the use of talking? I’ll warrant every one of you’ll try it the first chance you get; for, somehow, there’s a sort of bewitchment about it. I wish one half the world were not fools, and the other half idiots.”

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p. 380

WAS N’T YOU CAUGHT NAPPING?.

Tupper, speaking of the choice of a wife, says, “Hath she wisdom? it is well, but beware that thou exceed!”

My dear sir, was n’t you caught napping that time? Did n’t you speak in meeting? Did n’t cloven feet peep out of your literary shoe? Don’t it take an American woman to see through you? Is n’t that a tacit acknowledgment that there are women who do “exceed”? Wouldn’t you think so if you lived this side the pond? Hope you don’t judge us by John Bull’s daughters, who stupefy themselves on roast beef and porter. I tell you, Yankee women are on the squirrel order. You’d lose your English breath trying to follow them. There is not a man here in America who knows as much as his wife. Some of them own it, and some don’t but they all believe it like gospel. They ask our opinion about everything; sometimes straight forward, and sometimes in a circle; but they ask it! There are petticoats in the pulpit, petticoats in the editorial chair, petticoats in the lecturer’s desk, petticoats behind the counter, petticoats labelled “M.D.” O, they “exceed”! no mistake about that. All femality is wide awake, over

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here, Mr. Tupper. They crowd, and jostle, and push, just as if they wore hats. I don’t uphold them in that, because, as I tell them, ’t is better policy to play possum, and wear the mark of submission. No use in rousing any unnecessary antagonism. But they don’t all know as much as I do. I shall reach the goal just as quick, in my velvet shoes, as if I tramped on rough-shod, as they do, with their Woman’s Rights Convention brogans!

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p. 382

A LADY ON MONEY MATTERS.

“The Military Argus has a long and prosy article, headed ‘How to make Home Happy.’ A friend of ours has now a work in preparation, which solves the question. ‘It is, to give your wife as much money as she asks for.’ This entirely abolishes the necessity of kisses and soft sawder.”

Betty! throw up the windows, loosen my belt, and bring my vinaigrette!

It’s no use to faint, or go into hysterics, because there’s nobody here just now that understands my case! But I’d have you to understand, sir—(fan me, Betty!)—that—o-o-h!—that—(Julius Caesar, what a Hottentot!)—that if you have a wife, who deserves the name, neither “kisses,” “soft sawder,” nor “money,” can ever repay her for what she is to you.

Listen to me! Do you remember when you were sick? Who tip-toed round your room, arranging the shutters and curtain-folds, with an instinctive knowledge of light, to a ray that your tortured head could bear? Who turned your pillow to the cool side, and parted the thick, matted locks from your hot temples? Who moved glasses and spoons and phials without collision or jingle? Who looked at you with a compassionate smile, when you

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persisted you “would n’t take your medicine because it tasted so bad;” and kept a sober face, when you lay chafing there, like a caged lion, calling for cigars and newspapers, and mint-juleps, and whiskey punches? Who migrated, unceasingly and uncomplainingly, from the big baby before her to the little baby in the cradle, without sleep, food or rest? Who tempted your convalescent appetite with some rare dainty of her own making, and got fretted at because there was “not sugar enough in it?” Who was omnipresent in chamber, kitchen, parlor and nursery, keeping the domestic wheels in motion, that there should be no jar in the machinery? Who oiled the creaking door that set your quivering nerves in a twitter? Who ordered tan to be strewn before the house, that your slumbers might be unbroken by noisy carriage-wheels? Who never spoke of weary feet or shooting pains in the wide, or chest, as she toiled up and down stairs to satisfy imaginary wants, that “nobody but wife” could attend to? And who, when you got well and moved about the house just as good as new, choked down the tears, as you poised the half-dollar she asked you for, on your forefinger, while you inquire “how she spent the last one?”

“Give her what money she asks for!” Julius Caesar!—Betty! come here and carry away my miserable remains!—Nobody but a polar bear or a Hottentot would wait to have a wife “ask” for “money!”

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p. 384

MRS. CROAKER.

“How do you manage your husband, Mrs. Croaker? Such a job as I have of it with Smith!”

“Easiest thing in the world, my dear;—give him a twitch backwards, when you want him to go forward. For instance, you see, to-day I had a loaf of cake to make. Well, do you suppose, because my body is in the pastry-room, that my soul need be there, too? Not a bit of it! I’m thinking of all sorts of celestial things the while. Now, Croaker has a way of tagging round at my heels, and bringing me plump down, in the midst of my aerial flights, by asking the ‘price of the sugar I’m using.’ Well, you see, it drives me frantic! And when I woke up this morning, and saw this furious storm, I knew I had him on my hands for the day, unless I managed right;—so I told him that I hoped he would n’t think of going out to catch his death, such weather;—that if he was n’t capable of taking proper care of himself, I should do it for him;—that it was very lonesome, rainy days, and that I wanted him to stay at home and talk to me; at any rate, he must n’t go out; and I hid his umbrella and india-rub-

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bers. Well, of course, he flared up directly,—just as I expected,—and in less than five minutes, he was streaking off down street, at the rate of ten knots an hour.

“You see there’s nothing like understanding human nature! No woman should be married till she is thoroughly posted up in this branch of her education.”

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p. 386

TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIA.

“The new Empress of France had fifty-eight splendid wedding dresses made a few days previous to her marriage. Her pocket handkerchiefs, it is said, cost 2000 francs apiece.”

It can’t be possible, my dear woman, that you sold all your bright charms for that silly trash! It is my female opinion, that those “two thousand franc” pocket handkerchiefs will be pretty well tear-stained before you get through with them. You ambitious little monkey! you played your card to perfection. I like you for that, because I like to see everything thoroughly done, if it is only courting; but if you don’t get tired to death of that old roue, my name is not Fanny. He bears about as much resemblance to his “uncle,” as Tom Thumb does to the Colossus of Rhodes. He is an effeminate, weak-minded, vacillating, contemptible apology for a man;—never has done anything worthy the name of Napoleon, that ever I heard of. Keep him under your thumb, you beautiful little witch, or your pretty head may pay the forfeit,—who knows? It won’t require much diplomacy, for you are the smarter of the two, unquestionably; but you had better look as meek as Moses, and “keep dark”

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about that. Don’t let that managing mother of yours be poking her Spanish nose into French state secrets. Give her a baby to tend, and keep her quiet. Look as handsome as you can. Frenchmen adore beauty;—in that respect differ from men in general! Keep on good terms with the common people, and don’t flirt—if you can help it—with the prime ministers. If you can get a chance to think, and to improve your mind, I would;—but it don’t matter much; you are so handsome you will be a “card,” anyhow. I wonder if you have a true woman’s heart, hey!—or are you nothing but a miserable little butterfly of a coquette? Do you like anything so well as your own pretty self? And have you any resources when your youth and beauty have flown? Bless my soul! what a stupid Americanism! I humbly beg your Highness’ pardon,—I forgot that a French woman never grows old or ugly! Well, dance away, little Empress; but I tell you that you are dancing over a volcano. I would not be in your satin slippers for a bright sixpence. In the first place, I should despise such a doll-baby husband. In the next place, I hate form, and state, and etiquette. I should be as nervous as an eel in a frying-pan, to have all those maids of honor tagging at my heels. I know that I should be sure to laugh in the wrong place, and cry when I felt like it, spite of dukes and duchesses. I should be just as likely to tell Napoleon to tie up my slipper, or pull his moustache, if he

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said anything I did not like. Yes, a French court would not take my republican blood. I will give you permission, my dear, to drop me a line now and then, when your old gentleman is asleep, or closeted with some of his old “parlez vous,” and tell me if you don’t tire of all their French grandeur, and long to drop your regal robes, and slip off incog. to some dim old wood, where you can lay your soft cheek to the cool grass, and hear only the little birds sing! My name is Fanny Fern, your Highness; and any further information you may require, you can procure of anybody in the United States, for they all know more about my own affairs than I do myself!

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p. 389

EMPRESS EUGENIA’S MAIDS OF HONOR.

“Rumor tell us that two New York ladies, Mad. R., late Miss L., and Mrs. R., formerly Miss C., have been appointed dames d’honeur of the Empress Eugenia.”

Certainly! it takes American gems to sparkle in foreign diadems. Now, my dears, stand up for your own country, and all its institutions, till your last gasp. Send over here for all your boots and bonnets. Tell them France is a villainous place, and you are never sure you are not eating a defunct frog in your fricassee; that here in America we all have our blessed little homes, full of love and sunlight, and don’t go wandering round spending half our lives in a cafe, and the other half in a theatre. Tell them that all the proceeds from the sale of Uncle Tom’s Cabin the authoress will devote to liberating, and educating, and polishing up all the dark meat in slaverydom (?), and that the American woman don’t go stampeding round the country in dickeys and broadcloth, vociferating for “Woman’s Rights!” (?)

Yes, and see you keep a stiff upper lip when that milk and water Napoleon speaks to you, and give those little dapper Frenchmen fits all round. Tell them they make

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passable cavaliers; but it would take a whole nation of them, fed on frogs’ legs, and sugar and water, to make one of our satisfactory, magnificent, American husbands. Stay that our men are the handsomest, and the most gallant, and the bravest, and the best informed of any nation upon the face of the globe; that our babies are all born repeating “the Declaration of Independence;” and that our backs will be up quicker than the click of a musket, if things are not managed over there to suit our Bunker Hill notions.

And now, good-by; toss your bonnets up in the air every time you see “the stars and stripes;” hiss at the “Marseilles Hymn,” and clap your hands till they are blistered whenever our blessed “Yankee Doodle” strikes upon your ear.

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p. 391

FAST DAY.

What is Fast Day? O! ’t is a day set apart by “his Excellency the Governor,” for the special benefit of fast men, fast horses, fat foot-balls, fast cricket-matches, fast eating, fast drinking, fast billiard-playing, and fast ninepin-rolling. A fast day for theatres, and concerts, and museums,—for the literary pig,—for the calf with two heads,—and for the nondescript animal captured by Capt. Humbug, which measures ’zactly six feet form his nose to his tail, and ten feet from his tail to his nose!

A day when the “upper ten” stay carefully within doors because the “snobs” go out; a day when Nancy hangs up her mop at an early hour, puts on a yellow bonnet and a rainbow gown, and rest the tips of her cotton gloves confidingly on John’s broadcloth, as they saunter lovingly round the Frog Pond.

A day when “Brother Jonathan” yawns prodigiously at the idea of a whole day of pleasuring; when the straight-laced earn an uproarious appetite for an early tea; when the ministers fire off political squibs,—for their audience, the sexton;—and when the streets and environs of the city look as if Boston had taken an emetic.

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THE BORE OF THE SANCTUM.

Walk in, Mr. Leisure; you are perfectly welcome. There is never anything of importance going on in an Editor’s Sanctum; visitors are always anxiously expected, and the advent of anybody like yourself is a perfect God-send. Editors have nothing of consequence to do; they are only drones in the literary hive, living on the honey made by their subordinates. They have a little manuscript and a few letters to read occasionally, and perhaps a bill or two to settle, now and then; but that is nothing.

Take the arm-chair, Mr. Leisure,—the one with a cushion and revolving seat; draw it up to the table, and with one sweep of your elbow send all the Editor’s scissor-ations flying, like snow-flakes, into the air; examine the superscriptions of his letters, and peep inside of them if you like. What’s the use of calling this a free country, if you can’t act with freedom? Pull over the “exchanges,” tear off the wrappers, and pocket any papers you may fancy, before the Editor has had an opportunity of seeing them, and without troubling yourself to ascertain whether you are welcome to do so, or not. Suppose you are not, that’s nothing to you; and what the Editor’s wishes may be, is of no consequence.

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Order the office boy to make up more fire, or to open a window, just as your individual thermometer may dictate. You will, of course, wish to write a letter. Very well; help yourself to paper,—there is plenty of it, you see; and a pen and ink, too. Interrupt the Editor’s cogitations by asking him the day of the month, and what county the town of Shrewsbury, state of Iowa, is in. Tell him that his ink is abominable and his pen perfectly atrocious,—throwing in a few general remarks, to the effect that editorial and hotel pens are always unmitigatedly bad,—and set him rummaging for something better. Then tell him that your letter is to a lady, and that, of course, you want a white envelope, instead of “one of those yellow things;” and a letter stamp, too, as you must prepay it. If he has no white envelopes or letter stamps, request him to send the boy out for some; and express your regret that you have no small change to pay for them, saying,—and you can laugh at your wit, and so pass the thing off handsomely,—“But these little things always regulate themselves in the end.” Having sealed your letter, vociferate to the “devil” to come and carry it to the post-office, quick; and borrow a quarter of the editor to pay him for carrying it; remarking that it is a principle with you never to ask a gratuitous favor of anybody, especially of a boy; but that you always pay for services rendered. Now, you borrow a cigar from the editor’s case; call for matches;

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“apply the caloric to the prepared weed;” throw your muddy boots over a pile of “accepted manuscripts,” and puff away; occasionally humming, in a tone between a gurgle and a howl, snatches of—

“I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled,”—

or of something else “appropriate to the occasion;” ever an anon knocking off your cigar ashes into the ink stand.

Your cigar finished, turn around to your victim, and ask, in a confidential tone, “What is the exact circulation of his paper?” and stick to the point till you get some definite information about it. Try, also, to worm out of him what each assistant editor gets a week; what contributors receive; how much the advertisements annually yield; if some persons don’t get advertising cheaper than others; if the Journal is really honest and impartial in its criticisms; who actually writes the leaders; who writes the “searching” articles on the rascality of the Aldermen; how many share-holders there are in the Journal, and who owns the most stock; what is the actual valuation of the establishment, and what percentage it pays, and who writes the musical criticisms; continuing this pumping process as long as it may prove agreeable—to you.

Ah! here comes a lot of proof. Pounce upon it, Mr. Leisure, and read it slowly; although you see the compositor waiting for the editor to correct it. Try your

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hand at making a few corrections yourself. You will, of course, scratch and blot the proof so as to render it illegible; but no matter; you can make that all square by throwing it down, at last, with the exclamation, “that you never could get the hang of correcting proof.” And now, while the editor is restoring the defaced document, you should carefully examine the manuscript copy; as you may, perhaps, recognize the handwriting, and thus make another addition to your stock of useful information. Proofs of the telegraphic despatches and other postscript matter are now brought in; the paper is nearly ready to go to press, and these should be read and returned at once; but never mind; you must have the first look at them,—you are so anxious to know what has “turned up.”

You can wind up by giving the editor some wholesome advice about the management of his paper. Tell him it lacks life and variety; that he harps too much on one string; that there is not back-bone enough in his articles; that his course lacks unity, and is not always in harmony with itself; that he should have more young blood in his editorial corps; that, if you had time, you would give him a lift yourself, by sending in a few spicy and nervous articles on miscellaneous topics. Take another cigar from his case; light it; throw the unextinguished match into a heap of papers; drag your hat across the editor’s table, upsetting his ink stand and knocking

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over his wafer-box; carry off his scissors and penknife by mistake; leave the door swinging wide open as you pass out, and tell your friend, Tom Smith, on the next corner, that of all the bores you ever knew, the editor of the Journal is the greatest; that his paper can’t live long, he is so stupid; that he has no appreciation of courteous attentions; for you have been in his sanctum nearly all day, doing your best to entertain him, but that he never looked pleased, or even once smiled, while you were there.

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p. 397

OWLS KILL HUMMING-BIRDS.

“We are not to suppose that the oak wants stability because its light and changeable leaves dance to the music of the breeze;—nor are we to conclude that a man wants solidity and strength of mind because he may exhibit an occasional playfulness and levity.”

No, indeed! So, if you have the bump of mirthfulness developed, don’t marry a tombstone. You come skipping into the parlor, with your heart as light as a feather, and your brain full of merry fancies. There he sits! stupid—solemn—and forbidding.

You go up and lay your hand on his arm; he’s magnetized about as much as if an omnibus-driver had punched him in the ribs for his fare; and looks in your face with the same expression he’d wear if contemplating his ledger.

You turn away and take up a newspaper. There’s a witty paragraph; your first impulse is to read it aloud to him. No use! He would n’t see through it till the middle of next week. Well, as a sort of escape-valve to your ennui, you sit down to the piano and dash off a waltz; he interrupts you with a request for a dirge.

Your little child comes in,—Heaven bless her!—and utters some one of those innocent pettinesses which are

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always dropping like pearls from children’s mouths. You look to see him catch her up and give her a smothering kiss. Not he! He’s too dignified!

Altogether, he’s about as genial as the north side of a meeting-house. And so you go plodding through life with him to the dead-march of his own leaden thoughts. You revel in the sunbeams; he likes the shadows. You are on the hill-tops; he is in the plains. Had the world been made to his order, earth, sea, and sky would have been one universal pall—not a green thing in it except himself! No vine would “cling,” no breeze “dally,” no zephyr “woo.” Flowers and children, women and squirrels, would never have existed. The sun would have been quenched out for being too mercurial, and we should have crept through life by the light of the pale, cold moon!

No—no—make no such shipwreck of yourself. Marry a man who is not too ascetic to enjoy a good, merry laugh. Owls kill humming-birds!

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p. 399

“THE BEST OF MEN HAVE THEIR FAILINGS.”

I wish I could ever take up a paper that endorsed my liberal sentiments. I’ve always warped to the opinion that good men were as safe as homoeopathic pills. You don’t suppose they ever patronize false words or false weights, false measures or false yardsticks? You don’t suppose they ever slander their neighbors after making a long-winded exhortation in a vestry meeting? You don’t suppose they ever lift their beavers to a long purse, and turn their backs on a thread-bare coat? You don’t suppose they ever bestow a charity to have it trumpeted in the newspapers? You don’t suppose, when they trot devoutly to meeting twice a day on Sunday, that they overhaul their ledgers in the intermission? You don’t suppose they ever put doubtful-looking bank bills in the contribution box? You don’t suppose they ever pay their minister’s salary in consumptive hens and damaged turkeys? I wish people were not so uncharitable and suspicious. It disgusts me with human nature.

Now, if I once hear a man make a prayer, that’s enough said. After that, Gabriel could n’t make me

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believe he was a sinner. If his face is of an orthodox length, and his creed is dyed in the wool, I consider him a prepared subject for the undertaker. If his toes are on an evangelical platform, I am morally certain his eyes never will [go on] a “fool’s errand.” If he has a proper reverence for a church steeple, I stake my life on it, his conduct will be perpendicular. I should be perfectly willing to pin my faith on his sleeve till the final consummation of all things. Yes, I’ve the most unswerving, indestructible, undying confidence in any man who owns a copy of Watts’ Psalms and Hymns. Such a man never trips, or, if he does, you never catch him at it!

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[frontispiece]

a cozy cottage among the trees

The Little Brown House

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[half title page]

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[blank page]

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[title page]

THIRTIETH THOUSAND
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FERN LEAVES
FROM
FANNY'S PORTFOLIO.

———
SECOND SERIES.
———

With Original Designs by Fred. M. Coffin.

AUBURN AND BUFFALO:
MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO.
CINCINNATI:
HENRY W. DERBY.
1854.

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[copyright page]

————
Published first in England by International Arrangement with the American
Proprietors, and entered at Stationers’ Hall.
——
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three,
BY DERBY AND MILLER,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Northern District of New York.
————

AUBURN:
MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN,
STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.

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[dedication]

TO
MY TRUEST FRIEND,
OLIVER DYER,
WHOSE FRIENDSHIP NEVER FALTERED, IN ADVERSITY;
WHOSE SYMPATHY AND ENCOURAGEMENT CHEERED ME,
WHEN NO BOW OF PROMISE WAS SET IN MY SKY;
This Book is Gratefully Dedicated,
BY
THE AUTHOR.

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[blank page]

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[p. 5]

PREFACE.

——

To my Readers:

Six months since, I was in a deplorable state of ignorance as to the most felicitous style of Preface; at this lapse of time, I find myself not a whit the wiser. You will permit me, therefore, in pressing again your friendly hands, simply to say, that I hope my second offering of “Fern Leaves" will be more worthy of your acceptance, than the first.

Fanny Fern.

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[blank page]

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[p. vii]

CONTENTS.

Shadows and Sunbeams … 13

Aunt Hepsy … 36

Thoughts at Church … 40

The Brothers … 42

Curious Things … 48

The Advantages of a House in a Fashionable Square … 49

Winter is Coming … 59

The Other Sex … 61

Soliloquy of Mr. Broadbrim … 63

Willie Grey … 65

Tabitha Tompkins’ Soliloquy … 82

Soliloquy of a Housemaid … 85

Critics … 87

Forgetful Husbands … 89

Summer Friends … 91

How the Wires are Pulled … 92

Who would be the Last Man … 95

Only a Cousin … 96

The Calm of Death … 99

Mrs. Adolphus Smith sporting the Blue Stocking … 101

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p. viii

Cecile Vray … 103

Sam Smith’s Soliloquy … 105

Love and Duty … 110

A False Proverb … 114

A Model Husband … 116

How is it? … 118

A Morning Ramble … 120

Hour-Glass Thoughts … 123

Boarding-House Experiences … 125

A Grumble from the (H)altar … 132

A Wicked Paragraph … 133

Mistaken Philanthrophy … 135

Insignificant Love … 137

A Model Married Man … 139

Meditations of Paul Pry, jun., … 141

Sunshine and Young Mothers … 144

Uncle Ben’s attack of Spring Fever, and how Cured … 146

The Aged Minister Voted a Dismission … 150

The Fatal Marriage … 152

Frances Sargeant Osgood … 157

Best Things … 161

The Vestry Meeting … 164

A Broadway Shop Reverie … 167

The Old Woman … 170

Sunday Morning at the Dibdins … 172

Items of Travel … 175

Newspaper-dom … 178

Have we any men among us? … 181

How to Cure the Blues … 183

Rain in the City … 185

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p. ix

Mrs. Weasel’s Husband … 187

Country Sunday vs. City Sunday … 189

Sober Husbands … 192

Our Street … 194

When you are Angry … 199

Little Bessie … 201

The Delights of Visiting … 205

Helen Haven’s Happy New Year … 207

Dollars and Dimes … 212

Our Nelly … 214

Study Men, not Books … 218

Murder of the Innocents … 220

American Ladies … 224

The Stray Sheep … 226

The Fashionable Preacher … 230

Cash … 233

Only a Child … 235

Mrs. Pipkin’s idea of Family Retrenchment … 237

A Chapter for Nice Old Farmers … 239

Madam Rouillon’s Mourning Saloon … 241

Fashion in Funerals … 243

Household Tyrants … 245

Women and Money … 247

The Sick Bachelor … 249

A Mother’s Influence … 252

Mr. Punch Mistaken … 257

Fern Musings … 259

The Time to Choose … 261

Spring is Coming … 262

Steamboat Sights and Reflections … 265

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p. x

A Gotham Reverie … 268

Sickness in the City and Country … 269

Hungry Husbands … 273

Light and Shadow … 275

A Matrimonial Reverie … 278

What Love will Accomplish … 279

Mrs. Grumble’s Soliloquy … 283

Henry Ward Beecher … 285

An Old maid’s Decision … 289

A Punch at Punch … 291

Father Taylor, the Sailor’s Preacher … 292

Signs of the Times … 296

Whom does it concern … 300

Who Loves a Rainy Day … 306

A Conscientious Young Man … 310

City Scenes and City Life, No. 1 … 312

do 2 … 317

do 3 … 322

do 4 … 326

Two Pictures … 330

Feminine Waiters at Hotels … 332

Letter to the Empress Eugenia … 334

Music in the Natural Way … 337

For Ladies that go Shopping … 339

Modern Improvements … 344

The Old Merchant wants a Situation … 348

A Moving Tale … 350

This Side and That … 358

Mrs. Zebedee Smith’s Philosophy … 361

Opening of the Crystal Palace … 363

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p. xi

A Lance Couched for the Children … 369

A Chapter on Housekeeping … 371

Barnum’s Museum … 373

A Fern Reverie … 377

Apollo Hyacinth … 381

Spoiled Little Boy … 384

A Brown Study … 386

Incidents at the Five Points House of Industry … 388

Nancy Pry’s Soliloquy … 396

For Little Children … 397

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[p. xii]

ILLUSTRATIONS.
——+——

Vignette title.

The Little Brown House, (Frontispiece.)

Mr. Stubbs and His Friends … 82

The Blue Stocking … 101

The Aged Minister … 150

Our Street … 194

Simon Skinflint … 300

The May-Day Moving … 350

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p. 13

SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS.

CHAPTER I.

I can see it now: the little brown house, with its sloping roof, its clumsy old chimneys, and its vine-clad porch; where the brown bee hummed his drowsy song, and my silver-haired old father sat dozing the sultry summer noons away, with shaggy Bruno at his feet. The bright earth had no blight or mildew then for me. The song of the little birds, resting beneath the eaves, filled my heart with a quiet joy. It was sweet, when toil was over, to sit in the low door-way, and watch the golden sun go down, and see the many-tinted clouds fade softly away (like a dying saint) into the light of heaven, and evening’s glittering star glow, like a seraph’s eye, above them. ’Twas sweet, when Autumn touched the hill-side foliage with rainbow dyes, to see the gorgeous leaves come circling down on the soft Indian-summer breeze. ’Twas sweet, when the tripping, silver stream lay still and cold in Winter’s icy clasp, and the flowers fainted beneath his chilly breath, and the leafless trees stretched out their imploring arms, and shook off, impatiently, their snowy burthen, and the heavy wagon-

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p. 14

wheels went creaking past, and the ruddy farmer struck his brawny arms across his ample chest, for warmth, and goaded the lazy, round-eyed oxen up the icy hill. Even then, it was sunshine still, in the brown house: in the ample chimney glowed and crackled the blazing faggots; rows of shining pans glittered upon the shelves; the fragrant loaf steamed in the little oven; the friendly tea-kettle, smoking, sang in the chimney corner, and by its side still sat the dear old father, with the faithful newspaper, that weekly brought us news from the busy world, from which our giant forest-trees had shut us out.

Ah! these were happy days: few wants and no cares: the patriarch’s head was white with grave blossoms, yet his heart was fresh and green. Alas! that, under the lowliest door-way, as through the loftiest portal, the Guest unbidden cometh. The morning sun rose fair, but it shone upon silver locks that stirred with no breath of life, upon loving lips forever mute, upon a palsied, kindly hand that gave no returning pressure. Soon, over the heart so warm and true, the snow lay white and cold; the winter wind sang its mournful requiem, and from out the little brown house, the orphan passed with tearful gaze and lingering footstep.

—+—

CHAPTER II.

Oh the bitter, bitter bread of dependence! No welcome by the hearth-stone: no welcome at the board: the mocking tone,

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p. 15

the cutting taunt, the grudged morsel. Weary days, and sleepless, memory-torturing nights.

“Well, Josiah’s dead and gone,” said my uncle, taking down his spectacles from the mantel, to survey me, as I sank on the settle, in the chimney corner. “Take off your bonnet, Hetty[.] I suppose we must give you house-room. Josiah never had the knack of saving anything—more’s the pity for you. That farm of his was awfully mismanaged. I could have had twice the produce he did off that land. Sheer nonsense, that shallow ploughing of his, tiring the land all out; he should have used the sub-soil plough. Then he had no idea of the proper rotation of crops, or how to house his cattle in winter, or to keep his tools where they would n’t rust and rot. That new barn, too, was a useless extravagance. He might have roofed the old one. It’s astonishing what a difference there is in brothers, about getting beforehand in the world. Now I’ve a cool thousand in the bank, all for taking care of little things. (There, Jonathan! Jonathan! you’ve taken the meal out of the wrong barrel: it was the damaged meal I told you to carry to Widow Folger.)

“Well, as I was saying, Hetty, in the first place, your father did n’t know how to manage; then he did n’t know how to say No. He’d lend money to anybody who wanted it, and pay his workmen just what they took it into their heads it was right to ask. Now, there’s Jonathan, yonder; a day or two since, he struck for higher wages. Well, I let him strike, and got an Irishman in his place. This morning he came whining back, saying that his wife was sick, and his youngest child lay dead

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in the house, and that he was willing to work on at the old wages. That’s the way to do, Hetty. If Jonathan chose to saddle himself with a wife and babies, before he was able to feed them, I don’t see the justice of my paying for it. But it’s time for family prayers: that will be something new to you, I suppose. I don’t want to judge any body: I hope your father has gone to Heaven, but I’m afraid he did n’t let his light shine. Don’t whimper, child; as the tree falls so it must lie. You must see that you do your duty: make yourself useful here in my house, and try to pay your way. Young people of your age consume a great deal in the way of food and clothes.

Oh, the monotony of those weary days! how memory lingered over the sunny past: how thought shrank back affrighted from the gloomy future: how untiringly and thanklessly I strove to cancel the debt for daily bread, and how despairingly I prayed for relief from such bitter thraldom.

—+—

CHAPTER III.

“Make up the bed in the north room, Hetty,” said my aunt; “it’s our turn to board the schoolmaster this week. You need n’t put on the best sheets: these book-learning folks are always wool-gathering. He never’ll know the difference. What a hungry set these schoolmasters are, to be sure: it keeps a body all the time cooking. A bushel of doughnuts is a mere

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p. 17

circumstance. When the last master was here, our winter barrel of cider went off like snow in April. I hope Jonathan learned enough at school to pay for it, but I have my doubts: he trips in the multiplication table yet. Your uncle and I think that this boarding schoolmasters is a poor business—a losing bargain. He says I must put less on the table, but it is no use to try that game with George Grey. He’s as independent as Adam in Eden, before the serpent and his wife got in. He’d just as lief call for anything he wanted as not, and somehow or other, when he does, I always feel as if I had no choice about bringing it. That eye of his always makes me think of forked lighting; and yet he’s kindly spoken, too. He is as much a riddle to unravel, as one of Parson Jones’ doctrinal sermons. But, go make his bed, Hetty, and mind you stuff a few rags in that broken pane of glass over it. I spoke to your uncle about getting it mended, but he said warm weather would be along in three months, and that’s very true, Hetty. Hist! your uncle is calling you. He says he is going out in the barn to thresh, and if Peter Tay comes up the road, and stops in here again, for him to subscribe towards the minister’s new cloak, you must say that he has gone to Jifftown, and will not be home for a week at least. Now don’t forget Hetty: people seem to think one earns money now-a-days on purpose to give away. A new cloak! humph! I wonder if the Apostle Paul’s hearers ever gave him a new cloak? I wonder if John the Baptist ever had a donation party? Don’t the minister have his salary, two hundred dollars a year—part in produce, part in money; paid regularly, when the times ain’t too hard?

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p. 18

Go make the school-master’s bed now, Hetty. One pillow will do for him. Goodness knows he carries his head high enough when he is awake. I should n’t wonder if he had been captain or colonel, or something, some muster day.”

The schoolmaster! Should I be permitted to go to school? or should I be kept drudging at home? Would this Mr. Grey think me very ignorant? I began to feel as if his forked-lightning eyes were already on me. My cheeks grew hot at the idea of making a blunder in his awful presence. What a miserable room my aunt had provided for him! If I could but put up some nice white curtains at the window, or get him a cushioned chair, or put in a bureau, or chest of drawers. It looked so comfortless—so different from the welcome my dear old father was wont to give to “the stranger within the gates;” and now memory pictured him, as he sat in the old arm chair, and I knelt again at the low foot-stool at his feet, and his hand strayed caressingly over my temples, and I listened to old continental stories, till the candle burned low in the socket, and only the fire-light flickered dimly on the old portrait of General Washington, and on my father’s time-worn face.

My aunt’s shrill voice soon roused me from my reverie. Dinner time had come, and with it Mr. Grey—a gentlemanly young man, of about two and twenty, with a bright, keen, blue eye, and a frank, decided, off-hand manner, that seemed to me admirably in keeping with his erect, imposing figure and firm step. Even my uncle reefed in a sail or two in his presence, and my aunt involuntarily qualified her usual bluntness of manner. I uttered a heartfelt thanksgiving when dinner was over.

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p. 19

CHAPTER IV.

“Hetty,” said my uncle, as the door closed upon Mr. Grey, “I suppose you must go to school, or the neighbors will say we don’t treat you well. You ought to be very thankful for such a home as this, Hetty; women are poor miserable creatures, left without money. I wish it had pleased Providence to have made you a boy. You might then have done Jonathan’s work just as well as not, and saved me his wages and board. There’s a piece of stone wall waiting to be laid, and the barn wants shingling. Josiah now would be at the extravagance of hiring a mason and a carpenter to do it.

“Crying? I wonder what’s the matter now? Well, it’s beyond me to keep track of anything in the shape of a woman. One moment they are up in the attic of ecstasy; the next, down in the cellar of despondency, as the Almanac says; and it is as true as if it had been written in the Apocrypha. I only said that it is a thousand pities that you were not a boy; then you could graft my trees for me, and hoe, and dig, and plant, and plough, and all that sort of thing. This puttering round, washing dishes a little, and mopping floors a little, and wringing out a few clothes, don’t amount to much toward supporting yourself. Let me see, you have had, since you came here”—and my uncle put on his spectacles, and pulled out a well-thumbed pocket memorandum—“You’ve had t-w-o p-a-i-r-s of shoes, at t-h-r-e-e s-h-i-l-l-i-n-g-s a pair, and nine yards of calico, for a dress, as s-i-x c-e-n-t-s a yard. That ’mounts up, Hetty, ’mounts up. You see it costs something to keep you. I earned my

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p. 20

money, and if you ever expect to have any, you must earn yours”—and my uncle took out his snuffbox, helped himself to a pinch, and, with the timely aid of a stray sunbeam, achieved a succession of very satisfactory sneezes.

The following day, under the overwhelming consciousness of my feminity and consequent good-for-nothingness, I made my debut at Master Grey’s school.

It was a huge barn of a room, ill lighted, ill warmed, and worse ventilated, crowded with pupils of both sexes, from the little, chubby A B C D-arian, to the gaunt Jonathan of thirty, who had begun to feel the need of a little ciphering and geography, in making out his accounts, or superscribing a business letter. There were rows of awkward, mop-headed, freckled, red-fisted boys; and rosy-checked, buxom lasses, bursting out of their dresses, half-shy, half-saucy, who were much more conversant with “apple bees,” and “husking frolics,” than with grammar or philosophy. There was the parson’s son, and the squire’s and the blacksmith’s son, besides a few who hadn’t the remotest idea whose sons they were, having originally been indentured to their farming masters, by the overseers of the county alms-house.

Amid these discordant elements, Master Grey moved as serenely as the August moon of a cloudless night; now patting some little curly head, cruelly perplexed by “crooked S;” now demonstrating to some slow, older brain, a stumbling block in Euclid; now closing the creaking door after an ill-mannered urchin; now overlooking the pot-hooks and trammels of an unsophisticated scribe, who clutched the pen as if it were a hoe-

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p. 21

handle; now feeding the great, draftless Behemoth of a stove with green hickory knots, and vainly attempting to thaw out his own congealed fingers.

In a remote corner of the school-room sat Zeb Smith, the village blacksmith’s son, who came into the world with his fists doubled up, and had been pugilist-ing ever since. It was Zeb’s proud boast that “he had whipped every schoolmaster who had ever appeared in Frog-town,” and in his peaceful retreat from under his bent brows, he was now mentally taking the measure of Master Grey, ending his little reverie with a loud, protracted whistle.

Master Grey turned quickly round, and facing his overgrown pupil of thirty said in a voice clear as the click of a pistol, “You will be pleased not to repeat that annoyance, Mr. Smith.” Zeb bent his gooseberry eyes full upon the master, and gave him a blast of “Yankee Doodle.”

All eyes were bent on Master Grey. The g[au]ntlet of defiance was thrown in his very teeth. Zeb had a frame like an ox, and a fist like a sledge-hammer, and he knew it. Master Grey was slight, but panther-y; to their unscientific eyes, he was already victimized.

Not a bit of it! See! Master Grey’s delicate white fingers are on Zeb’s check shirt-collar; there is a momentary struggle; lips grow white; teeth are set; limbs twist, and writhe, and mingle, and now Zeb lies on the floor with Master Grey’s handsome foot on his brawny chest. Ah, Master Grey! science is sometimes a match for bone and muscle. Your boxing master, Monsieur Punchmellow, would have been proud of his pupil.

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p. 22

Peace restored, Master Grey shakes back from his broad forehead his curly locks, and summons the first class in geography. A row of country girls, round as little barrels and red as peonies, stand before him, their respect and admiration for “the master” having been increased ten per cent. by his victory over Zeb. Feminity pardons any thing in a man sooner than lack of courage. The recitation goes off very well, with the exception of Miss Betsey Jones, who persists in not reciting at all. Master Grey looks at her: he has conquered a man, but that’s no reason why he should suppose he can conquer a woman. He sees that written in very legible characters in Miss Bessie’s saucy black eye. Miss Bessy is sent to her seat, and warned to stay after school, till her lesson is learned and recited perfectly. With admirable nonchalance, she takes her own time to obey, and commences drawing little caricatures of the master, which she places in her shoe, and passes round under the desk, to her more demure petticoat neighbors.

School is dismissed: the last little straggler is kicking up his heels in the snow drifts, and Master Grey and Miss Bessie are left alone. Master Grey inquires if the lesson is learned, and is told again by Miss Bessie, with a toss of her ringlets, that she has no intention of learning it. Master Grey again remind her that the lesson must be recited before she can go home. Bessie looks mischievously at the setting sun, and plays with the master’s commands and her apron strings. An hour passes, and Bessie has not opened the book. Master Grey consults his watch, and reminds her “that it is growing dark.” Bessie smiles till the dimples play hide and seek on her cheek,

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p. 23

but she says nothing. Another hour: Master Grey bites his lip, and, replacing his watch in his pocket, says, “I see your intention, Miss Betsey. It is quite impossible, as you know, for us to remain here after dark. To-morrow morning, if your lesson is not learned, I shall punish you in the presence of the whole school. You can go.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Bessie, with mock humility, as she crushed her straw hat down over her bright ringlets.

“Mischief take these women,” Master Grey was heard to utter, as he went through the snow by starlight to a cold supper. “Shall I conquer Zeb, to strike my colors to a girl of sixteen?”

There was plenty to talk about over the brown bread and milk, at the farmers’ tea-tables that night; the youngsters all made up their minds that if there was “a time to play,” it was not in Master Grey’s school-room, and the old farmers said they were glad the District had a schoolmaster at last that was good for something, and that they should think better of city chaps in future for his sake. Even Zeb himself acknowledged, over his father’s forge, as he mended his broken suspenders, that Master Grey was a “trump.”

The nine o’clock bell summoned again the Frog-town pupils to the District School. Master Grey in vain looked in Bessie’s face for any sign of submission. She had evidently made up her mind to brave him. After the usual preliminary exercises, she was called up to recite. Fixing her saucy black eyes upon him, she said, “I told you I would not learn that lesson, and I have not learned it.” “And I told you,” said Master Grey, (a

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p. 24

slight flush passing over his forehead) that I should punish you if you did not learn it? Did I not?” Bessie’s red lip quivered, but she deigned him no reply.

“You will hold out your hand, Betsey,” said Mr. Grey, taking up a large ferule that lay beside him. The color left Bessie’s cheek, but the little hand was extended with martyr-like determination, and amid a silence that might be felt, the ferule came down upon it, with justice as unflinching as if it were not owned by a woman. Betsey was not proof against this humiliation; she burst into tears, and the answering tear in Master Grey’s eye showed how difficult and repugnant had been the task.

From that day, Master Grey was “monarch of all he surveyed,” and, truth compels me to own, by none better loved or more implicitly obeyed, than by Miss Bessie.

Master Grey’s “boarding week” at my uncle’s had now expired. What a change had it effected in me! Life was no longer aimless: the old, glad sparkle had come back to my heavy eye; I no longer dreaded the solitude of my own thoughts. The dull rain dropping on my chamber roof had its music for my ears; the stars wore a new and a glittering brightness, and Winter, with his snowy mantle, frosty breath, and icicle diadem, seemed lovelier to me than violet-slippered Spring, with roses in her hair. I still saw Master Grey each day at school. How patiently he bore with my multiplied deficiencies, and with what a delicate and womanly appreciation of my extreme sensitiveness, he soothed my wounded pride.

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p. 25

No pale-eyed flower fainting beneath the garish noonday heat, ever so thirsted for the cool dews of twilight, as did my desolate heart for his soothing tones and kindly words.

—+—

CHAPTER V.

“Betsey,” said my uncle, “we shall want you at home now. It will be impossible for me to get along without you, unless I hire a hand, and times are too hard for that: so you must leave school. You’ve a good home here, for which you ought to be thankful, as I’ve told you before; but you must work, girl, work! Some how or other the money goes;” (and he pulled out the old pocket-book;) “here’s my grocer’s bill—two shillings for tea, and three shillings for sugar; can’t you do without sugar, Hetty? And here’s a dollar charged for a pair of India rubbers. A dollar is a great deal of money, Hetty; more than you could earn in a month. And here’s a shilling for a comb; now that’s useless, you might cut your hair off. It won’t do—won’t do. I had no idea of the additional expense when I took you in. Josiah ought to have left you something[;] no man has a right to leave his children for other people to support; ’t isn’t Christian. I’ve been a professor these twenty years, and I ought to know. I don’t know as you have any legal claim on me because you are my niece. Josiah was thriftless and extravagant. I suppose ’t is in your blood, too, for I can’t find out that you have begun to pay your way by

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any chores you have done here. If you must live on us, (and I can’t say that I see the necessity,) I repeat, I wish you had been born a boy.”

“But as I am not a boy, Uncle, and as I do not wish to be a burthen to you, will you tell me how to support myself?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m sure I don’t know. That is your business. I have my hands full to attend to my own affairs. I am deacon of the church, beside being trustee of the Sandwich Island Fund. I don’t get a copper for the office of deacon; nobody pays me for handing round the contribution box; not a cent of the money that passes through my hands goes into my till; not a mill do I have by way of perquisite, for doling it out to bed-ridden Widow Hall, or asthmatic Mr. Price. Not a penny the richer was I, for that twenty dollars I collected in the contribution box at last communion: no, I am a poor man, comparatively speaking. I may die yet in the almshouse; who knows? You must work, girl, work; can’t have any drones in my hive.”

A shadow just then passed the window. I should know that retreating footstep! Could it be that Master Grey had come to the door with the intention of calling, and overheard my uncle? At least, then, I was spared the humiliation of exposing his parsimony.

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p. 27

CHAPTER VI.

It was the night for the weekly vestry lecture. I was left quite alone in the old kitchen. My uncle had extinguished the lamp in leaving, saying that it was “a waste to burn out oil for me.” The fire, also, had been carefully taken apart, and the brands laid at an incombustible distance from each other. The old clock kept up a sepulchral, death-watch tick, and I could hear the falling snow drifting gloomily against the windows.

I drew the old, wooden settle closer between the tall andirons, and sat sorrowfully gazing into the dying embers. What was to become of me? for it seemed impossible to bear longer the intolerable galling of my yoke. Even the charity of strangers seemed to me preferable to the grudging, insulting tolerance of my kindred. But, with my sixteen years’ experience of quiet valley-life, where should I turn my untried footsteps? To Him who guideth the little bird through the pathless air, would I look.

Weeping, I prayed.

“My poor child,” said a voice at my side; and Master Grey removed my hands gently from my tear-stained face, and held them in his own. “My poor Hetty, life looks very dark to you, does it not? I know all you suffer. Don’t pain yourself to tell me about it; I overheard your uncle’s crushing words. I know there are none to love you—none to care for you—none on whom you can lean. It is a bitter feeling, my poor child. I, too, have passed through it. You would go

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from hence, but where? Life is full of snares, and you are too young, and too inexperienced to brave them.

“Hetty,” and Master Grey drew me gently toward him,—“Hetty, could you be happy with me?”

Is the ship-wrecked mariner happy, who opens his despairing eyes at length in the long looked for, long prayed for, home?

Is the little bird happy, who folds her weary wings safe from the pursuer’s talons, in her own fleece-lined nest?

Is the little child happy, who wakes, sobbing, in the gloomy night, from troubled dreams, to find his golden head still safely pillowed on the dear, maternal bosom?

—+—

CHAPTER VII.

It was very odd and strange to me, my new home in the great, busy city; with its huge rows of stores and houses, its myriad restless feet, and anxious, care-worn faces; its glittering wealth, its squalid poverty; the slow moving hearse, and the laughing harlequin crowd; its noisy Sabbaths, and its gorgeous churches, with its jeweled worshippers, and its sleepy priests; its little children, worldly-wise and old, and its never-ceasing, busy hum, late into the day’s pale light. I had no acquaintances: I needed none; for I moved about my pretty little home as in a glad dream. My husband was still “Mas-

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p. 29

ter Grey,” but over a private school of his own, bounded by no “District,” subject to the despotic dictation of no “Committee.” In his necessary absence, I busied myself in arranging and re-arranging his books, papers and wardrobe, thinking the while such glad thoughts! And when the little mantel clock chimed the hour of return, my cheek flushed, my heart beat quick, and my eyes grew moist with happy tears, at the sound of the dear, loved footstep.

How very nice it seemed to sit at the head of that cheerful little table—to make, with my own hands, the fragrant cup of tea—to grow merry with my husband, over crest-fallen Zeb, and poor, stubborn little Bessie, and my uncle’s time-worn bug-bear of a memorandum book!

And how proud I was of him, as he sat correcting some school-boy’s Greek exercise, while I leaned over his shoulder, looking attentively at his fine face, and at those unintelligible hieroglyphics, and blushing that he was so much wiser than his little Hetty.

This thought sometimes troubled me. I asked myself, will my husband never weary of me? I even grew jealous of his favorite authors, of whom he was so fond. Then I pondered the feasibility of pursuing a course of reading unknown to him, and astonishing him some day with my profound erudition. In pursuance of my plan, I would sit demurely down to some great, wise book; but I saw only my husband’s face looking out at me from every page, and my self-inflicted task was sure to end in some blissful dreamy reverie, with which Cupid had much more to do than Minerva.

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p. 30

CHAPTER VIII.

“A proposition, Hetty!” said my husband, throwing aside his coat and hat, and tossing a letter in my lap. “It is from a widow lady, who desires that I should take charge of her little boy, and give him a home in my family, while she goes to the continent, to secure some property lately left her by a foreign relative. It will be advantageous to us, in a pecuniary way, to have him board with us, unless it should increase your cares too much. But, as you are so fond of children, it may, perhaps, after all, prove a pleasant care to you. She is evidently a superior woman. Every line in her letter shows it.”

My husband immediately answered in the affirmative, and the child arrived a week after. He was a fine, intelligent, gentlemanly boy of eight years, with large hazel eyes, and transparently beautiful temples: disinclined to the usual sports of childhood, sensitive, shy, and thoughtful beyond his years—a human dew-drop, which we look to see exhale. He brought with him a letter from his mother, which powerfully affected my husband. During its perusal he drew his hand repeatedly across his eyes, and sat a long while after he had finished reading it, with his eyes closed, in a deep reverie. By-and-by he said, handing me the letter, “There is genius there, Hetty. I never read anything so touchingly beautiful. Mrs. West must be a very talented and superior woman.”

I glanced over the letter. It fully justified my husband’s encomiums. It was a most touching appeal to him to watch with paternal care over her only child; but while she spoke with a

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mother’s tenderness of his endearing qualities, she wished him taught implicitly that first of all duties for the young, obedience. Then followed allusions to dark days of sorrow, during which the love of that cherished child, was the only star in her sky.

I folded the letter and sat very still, after my husband left, in my little rocking-chair, thinking. Such a gifted woman as that my husband should have married. One who could have sympathised with him and shared his intellectual pursuits; who would have been something besides a toy to amuse an idle hour, or to minister to his physical necessities. Perhaps it was of this that my husband was thinking, as he sat there with his eyes closed over the open letter. Perhaps he had wed me only from a generous impulse of pity, and that letter had suddenly revealed to him the happiness of which he was capable with a kindred spirit. I was very miserable. I wished the letter had never reached us, or that I had declined the care of the child. Other letters, of course, would come, and the boy would keep alive the interest in the intervals. I wept long and bitterly. At length I was aroused by the entrance of little Charley. A bright flush mounted to his forehead, when he saw my swollen eyes. He hesitated a moment, then gliding up to my side he said, sweetly, “Are you sick? Shall I bathe your head? I used to bathe mamma’s head when it pained her.”

I stood abashed and rebuked in the child’s angel presence, and taking the boy, her boy, in my arms, I kissed him as tenderly as if I had been his mother; while in his own sweet way he told me with childish confidence of his own

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dead papa; how much he loved mamma; how many, many beautiful things he used to bring her, saying that they were not half good, or half handsome enough for her; how distressed he used to be if she were ill; how carefully he closed the shutters, and tip-toed about the house, with his finger on his lip, telling the servants to close the doors gently; and how he promised him little toys, if he would not disturb mamma’s slumbers; and then, how like diamonds his eyes shone, when she got well; and what beautiful flowers he brought her for her vases; and what a nice, soft-cushioned carriage he brought for her to take the air; and how tenderly he wrapped the shawls about her, and how many charges he gave the coachman, to drive slowly and carefully. And then, how dear papa, at last, grew sick himself; and how mamma watched day and night beside his bed, forgetting to sleep, or eat, or drink; and how nobody dared to tell her that the doctor said he must die; and how papa grew fainter and weaker, and how he said, “Kiss me, Mary, and lay your cheek to mine; I can’t see you.” And then, how mamma fainted and was carried out, and for many, many long days did n’t know even her own little Charley;—and how dreadful it was when she first waked, and tried to remember what had happened; and how nobody could comfort her but Charley; and how he used often to wake up in the night, and find her with a lamp looking at him, because when he was asleep he looked so much like dear, dead papa; and how bitterly she would sob when she was sick, because papa was not there to pity her, and bathe her aching head; and how he (Charley) meant, when he grew up to be a

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man, to get a nice house for her, and put everything she wanted in it, and make her just as happy as he could.

Well has the Saviour said, “Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” That night I bent over little Charley’s bed, blessing the little sleeper for his angel teachings, with a heart as calm and peaceful as the mirrored lake, reflecting only the smile of Heaven.

Time passed on. Life became earnest; for a little heart pulsated beneath my own, and a strange, sweet, nameless thrill sent to my chastened lips a trembling prayer. Tiny caps and robes, with many a hope and fear interwoven in their delicate threads, lay awaiting the infant’s advent. I, myself should know the height, and breadth, and depth of a mother’s undying love. What could come between me and this new found treasure?

Meantime letters continued to come from Charley’s mother to her boy, and my husband. It was impossible for me to blind myself to his growing interest in them. On the days they were expected, (for she wrote at regular intervals,) he would be absent and abstracted, or if any delay occurred, almost irritable. When they were received, his eye kindled, his step became elastic, and his whole face grew radiant with happiness.

As the time drew near for the birth of my infant, I grew timid with sad forebodings. I was sitting, one evening at twilight, watching the setting sun, and thinking of the quiet grave it was gilding, where my silver-haired father slept, in the old church yard, when my husband entered. An expression of pain flitted

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over his feature, as he looked at me, and taking my hand, he said, gently, almost tenderly, “You are less well than usual, Hetty; you must not sit here, moping, by yourself.”

I laid my head upon his shoulder with a happiness I had not known for many months. “Listen to me, dear Grey,” said I; “I have a confidence to repose in you that will ease my heart.

“It was pity, only, that drew your heart to mine; you do not love me. I have known it a long while since. At first, the discovery gave me a pang keener than death; but I have had a long and bitter struggle with myself, and have conquered. It is not your fault that you cannot love me. To the many voices of your heart, which cry, ‘Give, give,’ my response is weak and unsatisfying. Your wife should be gifted. She should sympathise with you in your intellectual pursuits. She should stimulate your pride, as well as your love. Such an one is Charley’s mother. Your heart has already wed her, and as God is my witness, I have ceased to blame you. We cannot help our affections. I cannot help loving you, though I know her mysterious power over your heart. I have seen your struggles, your generous self-reproaches, in some sudden outburst of kindness toward me, after the indulgence of some bright dream, in which I had no share. Dear Grey, she is worthy of your love. She has a heart, noble, good and true; a heart purified by suffering. I see it in every line she writes. Should I not survive the birth of my infant, I could give your happiness into her keeping without a misgiving, though I have never looked upon her face.”

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Little Hetty’s noble heart has long since ceased to throb with joy or pain. To her husband’s breast is folded the babe, for whose little life her own was yielded up. Threads of silver prematurely mingle amid his ebon locks; for memory writes only on bereaved hearts the virtues of the dead, while, with torturing minuteness, she pictures our own short-comings, for which, alas! we can offer no atonement but our tears.

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AUNT HEPSY.

It was a comical little old shop, “Aunt Hepsy’s,” with its Lilliputian counter, shelves and stove, and its pigmy assortment of old-fashioned ginghams, twilled cambrics, red flannels, factory cotton and homespun calicoes; its miniature window, with its stock of horn-combs and candy, tin horses and peppermint drops, skeins of yarn and Godfrey’s Cordial, gaudy picture books, and six-penny handkerchiefs, from whose center Lafayette and George Washington smiled approbatively upon the big A’s and little A’s printed round the border.

“Aunt Hepsy;” so every brimless-hatted urchin in the neighborhood called her, though it would have puzzled them worse than the multiplication table, had you asked them why they did so. Year in and year out, her ruddy English face glowed behind the little shop window. Sometimes she would be knitting a pair of baby’s socks, sometimes inventing most astonishing looking bags out of rainbow fragments of silk or ribbon. Sometimes netting watch-guards, or raveling the yarn from some old black stocking, to ornament the “place where the wool ought to grow,” on the head of some Topsy doll she was making. Sometimes comforting herself with a sly pinch of snuff,

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or, when sunbeams and customers were scarce, nodding drowsily over the daily papers.

Aunt Hepsy had been a beauty, and her pretty face had won her a thriftless husband, of whom champagne and cigars had long since kindly relieved her. And though Time had since forced her to apply to the perruquier, he had gallantly made atonement by leaving her in the undisputed possession of a pair of very brilliant black eyes. Add to this a certain air of coquetry, in the fanciful twist of her gay-colored turban, and the disposal of the folds of her lace kerchief over her ample English bust—and you have a faithful daguerreotype of “Aunt Hepsy.”

From the window of her little shop she could look out upon the blue waters of the bay, where lay moored the gallant ships, from whose tall masts floated the stars and stripes, and whose jolly captains might often be seen in Aunt Hepsy’s shop, exchanging compliments and snuff, and their heavy voices heard, recounting long Neptune yarns, and declaring to the buxom widow that nothing but the little accident of their being already spliced for life, prevented their immediately spreading sail with her for the port of Matrimony. Aunt Hepsy usually frowned at this, and shook her turbaned head menacingly, but immediately neutralized it, by offering to mend a rip in their gloves, or replace a truant button on their overcoats.

It was very odd, how universally popular was Aunt Hepsy. She had any number of places to “take tea,” beside a standing invitation from half-a-dozen families, to Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners, and to New-Year’s suppers. She had an eligible

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seat in church, gratis; an inexhaustible bottle of sherry for her often infirmities; fresh pies on family baking days, newspapers for stormy day reading; tickets to menageries, and invitations to picnics.

She always procured lodgings at a cheaper rate than anybody else; had the pleasantest room in the house at that, the warmest seat at table, the strongest cup of coffee, the brownest slice of toast, the latest arrival of buckwheats, the second joint of the turkey, and the only surviving piece of pie. To be sure, she always praised ugly babies, asked old maids why they would be so cruel as to persist in remaining unmarried, entreated hen-pecked husbands to use their powerful influence over their wives to secure to her their custom; begged the newly fledged clergyman to allow her a private perusal of his last Sunday’s able discourse; complimented ambitious Esaus on the luxuriant growth of their very incipient, and microscopically perceptible whiskers; asked dilapidated, rejected widowers, when they intended taking their choice of a wife out a bevy of rosy girls, and declared to Editors that she might as well try to get along without her looking glass, as without their interesting newspapers.

One day, the little shop was shut up. Nine o’clock came—eleven o’clock, and the shutters were still closed, and Aunt Hepsy so punctual, too! What could it mean? Old Mrs. Brown was ready to have fits because she could n’t get another skein of yarn to finish her old man’s stockings. Little Pat Dolan had roared himself black in the face, because he could n’t spend his cent to buy some maple sugar; and the little match

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girl stood shivering at the corner for a place to warm her poor benumbed fingers, while the disappointed captains stamped their feet on the snow, stuffed their cheeks with quids, and said it was “deuced funny,” and an old maid, opposite, who had long prayed that Aunt Hepsy’s reign might be shortened, laid her skinny forefinger on her hooked nose, and rolled up the whites of her eyes like a chicken with the pip.

It was no great enigma, (at any rate not after you found it out!) Rich old Mr. Potts ventured into Aunt Hepsy’s shop, one day, to buy a watch-ribbon. He was very deaf; so Aunt Hepsy had to come round the counter to wait upon him, and the upshot of it was, that she and Cupid together, hailed him through an ear-trumpet; and all I know about it is, that they have now a legalized right to a mutual pillow and snuff-box, and that the little shop window still remains unopened, while the old maid hisses between her teeth, as Aunt Hepsy rolls by in her carriage, “How do you suppose she did it?”

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THOUGHTS AT CHURCH.

I have an old-fashioned way of entering church, before the bells begin to chime. I enjoy the quiet, brooding stillness. I love to think of the many words of holy cheer that have fallen there, from heaven-missioned lips, and folded themselves like snow-white wings over the weary heart of despair. I love to think of the sinless little ones, whose pearly temples have here been laved at the baptismal font. I love to think of the weak, yet strong ones, who have tearfully tasted the consecrated cup, on which is written, “Do this in remembrance of me.” I love to think of those self-forgetting, self-exiled, who, counting all things naught for Gethsemane’s dear sake, are treading foreign shores, to say to the soul-fettered Pagan, “Behold the Lamb of God.” I love to think of the loving hearts that at yonder altar have throbbed, side by side, while the holy man of God pronounced “the twain one.” I love to think of the seraph smile of which death itself was powerless to rob the dead saint, over whose upturned face, to which the sunlight lent such mocking glow, the words, “Dust to dust,” fell upon the pained ear of love. I love, as I sit here, to list through the half open vestry door, to the hymning voices of happy Sabbath scholars, sweet as the timid chirp of morn’s first peeping bird. I love to hear their

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tiny feet, as they patter down the aisle, and mark the earnest gaze of questioning childhood. I love to see the toil-hardened hand of labor brush off the penitential tear. I love—“our minister.” How very sad he looks to-day. Are his parish unsympathetic? Does the laborer’s “hire” come tardily and grudgingly to the overtasked, faithful servant? Do censorious, dissatisfied spirits watch and wait for his halting?

Now he rises and says, slowly—musically, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” Why at such sweet, soul-resting words, do his tears overflow? Why has his voice such a heart quiver? Ah! there is a vacant seat in the pastor’s pew. A little golden head, that last Sabbath gladdened our eyes like a gleam of sunlight, lies dreamlessly pillowed beneath the coffin lid: gleeful eyes have lost their brightness: cherry lips are wan and mute, and beneath her sable vail the lonely mother sobs. And so the father’s lip quivers, and for a moment nature triumphs. Then athwart the gloomy cloud flashes the bow of promise. He wipes away the blinding tears, and with an angel smile, and upward glance, he says, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

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THE BROTHERS.

Close the door. One would scarcely think, in this luxurious atmosphere, that we had left mid-winter behind us. The warm air is heavy with the odor of blossoming greenhouse plants, over whose fragrant clusters a tiny fountain tosses its sparkling spray: bright-winged, sweet-voiced canaries dart, like flashes of sunlight, through the dark green foliage: beautiful are those sculptured infants, cheek to cheek, over whose dimpled limbs the crimson drapery throws such a rosy glow: beautiful is that shrinking Venus, with her pure, chaste brow, and Eve-like grace: lovely those rare old pictures, to the artistic eye: beautiful that recumbent statuette of the peerless, proud “Pauline.”

Hush! tread softly; on yonder couch a gentleman lies sleeping. His crimson velvet cap has fallen back from his broad white forehead; his long curving lashes droop heavily upon his cheek, and his Grecian profile is as faultless as a sculptor’s dream. Pity, that the stain of sensuality should have left so legible an impress there.

A servant enters, bearing a note upon a silver tray. His master languidly opens a pair of large dark eyes, and beckons him to approach. As he breaks the seal, a contemptuous sneer

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disfigures his handsome lip, and an angry flush mounts to his brow. Motioning the servant away, he crushes the note between his fingers, muttering,—“No—no—as he has made his bed, so let him lie in it.” Then walking once or twice rapidly across the room, he takes up a small volume, and throws himself again upon the velvet couch. He does not turn the leaves, and if you peep over his shoulder, you will see that the book is upside down. His thoughts are far away. He remembers a bright-eyed, open-browed, guileless-hearted brother, whom early orphanage had thrown upon his fraternal care; whose trusting nature he had perverted; whose listening ear he had poisoned with specious sophistries and worldly maxims; whom he had introduced to the wine party, where female virtue was held in derision, and to the “green room,” where the foreign danseuse understood well how to play her part; whom he had initiated into modern follies and dissipations, and then launched upon the Charybdis of fashionable society, without chart, or rudder, or compass, other than his own headstrong passions and unbridled will.

Soon came a rumor, at first vague and undefined, and then voraciously seized upon and circulated by Paul Pry penny-a-liners, (who recked little, in their avidity for a paragraph, of broken-hearted mothers or despairing gray-haired fathers,) of a true heart that had been betrayed, of a disgraced household, of a fair brow that much henceforth walk the earth shame-branded. Then from his avenging pursuers the rash boy fled for refuge to him who had first turned his youthful footsteps aside from truth and honor. He was repulsed with scorn, not

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because he had wronged his own soul and hers whose star had forever set in night, but because he had not more skilfully and secretly woven the meshes for his victim.

Across the seas, amid the reckless debauchery of God-forgetting Paris, the miserable boy sought oblivion; welcoming with desperate eagerness the syren Pleasure, in every chameleon shape that could stifle conscience or drown torturing memory. Sometimes by a lucky throw of the dice he was enabled to shine as the Adonis of some ball, or theatre, or gay saloon: sometimes destitute as the humblest chiffonier, who suns himself in the public square, and solicits charity of the indifferent passer-by. In the rosy glow of morning, the bright stars paled while Harry sat at the enticing gaming table, till even those accustomed to breathe the polluted atmosphere of those gates of perdition, turned shuddering away, from the fiendish look of that youthful face.

Nature revenged herself at last. Wearisome days of sickness came, and he who was nurtured in luxury, was dependent upon the charity of grudging strangers.

Oh! what a broad, clear beam eternity throws upon the crooked by-paths of sin! how like swift visions pass the long forgotten prayer at the blessed mother’s knee; the long-forgotten words of Holy Writ; the soothing vesper hymn, of holy time; the first cautious, retrograding step—the gradual searing of conscience, till the barrier between right and wrong is ruthlessly trampled under foot; the broken resolutions, the misspent years, the wasted energies; the sins against one’s own soul, the sins against others; the powerless wish to pray, ’mid

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paroxysms of bodily pain; the clinging hold on life—the anxious glance at the physician—the thrilling question, “Doctor, is it life or death?”

Poor Harry! amid the incoherent ravings of delirium, the good little grisette learned his sad history. Her little French heart was touched with pity. Through her representations, on his partial restoration to health, a sufficient sum was subscribed by the American consul, and some of his generous countrymen, to give him the last chance for his life, by sending him to breathe again his native air. Earnestly he prayed that the sea might not be his sepulchre.

Tearfully he welcomed the first sight of his native shore. Tremblingly he penned those few lines to the brother whose face he so yearned to see—and on whose fraternal breast it would seem almost easy to die. Anxiously he waited the result, turning restlessly from side to side, till beaded drops of agony started from his pallid temples. Walter would not refuse his last request. No—no. The proud man would at least, at the grave’s threshold, forget that “vulgar rumor” had coupled his patrician name with disgrace. Oh, why had the messenger such leaden footsteps? when life and strength like hour-glass sands, were fleeting! A step is heard upon the stairs! A faint flush, like the rosy tinting of a sea-shell, brightens the pallid face.

“No answer, sir,” gruffly says the messenger.

A smothered groan of anguish, and Harry turns his face to the wall, and tears, such only as despair can shed, bedew his pillow.

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“Do go, dear Walter; ’tis your own brother who asks it. If he has sinned, has he not also suffered? We all so err, so need forgiveness. Oh, take back those hasty words; let him die on your breast, for my sake, Walter,” said the sweet pleader, as her tears fell over the hand she pressed.

“That’s my own husband,” said the happy Mary, as she saw him relent. “Go now, dear Walter. Take away the sting of those cruel words, while yet you may, and carry him these sweet flowers, he used to love, from me. Quick, dear Walter.”

——

“This way, sir, this way. Up another flight,” said the guide, gazing admiringly at the fine figure before him, enveloped in a velvet Spanish cloak. “Second door to the left, sir. Maybe the gentleman’s asleep now; he’s been very quiet for some time. Seen trouble, sir, I reckon. ’Tis not age that has drawn those lines on his handsome face. He’s not long for this world, God rest his soul. That’s right, sir; that’s the door. Good day, sir.”

Walter stood with his finger on the latch. He had at all times a nervous shrinking from sickness—a fastidious horror of what he termed “disagreeables.” He half repented that he had suffered a woman’s tears to unsettle his purpose. Perhaps Harry would reproach him. (His own conscience was prompter to that thought.) There he stood, irresolutely twirling Mary’s lovely flowers in his nervous grasp.

If Harry should reproach him!

Slowly he opened the door. The flowers fell from his hand!

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Was that attenuated, stiffened form his own, warm-hearted, bright-eyed, gallant young brother?

“Reproach?”

Oh, Walter, there is no “reproach” like that passionless upturned face; no words so crushing as the silence of those breathless lips; no misery like the thought that those we have injured are forever blind to our gushing tears, and deaf to our sobs of repentance.

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CURIOUS THINGS.

CURIOUS: The exaggerated anxiety of wives to see the women who were formerly loved by their husbands.—Exchange.

Well, yes—rather curious; there are a great many curious things in this world. Curious, your husband always perceives that you are “sitting in a draft,” whenever one of your old lovers approaches you in a concert room; curious he insists upon knowing who gave you that pretty gold ring on your little finger; curious that you can never open a package of old letters, without having his married eyes peeping over your shoulder; curious he never allows you to ride on horseback, though everybody says you have just the figure for it; curious he always sends his partner on all the little business trips of the firm; curious such an ugly frown comes over his face when he sees certain cabalistic marks in a masculine hand, in the margin of your favorite poet; curious that he will not let you name your youngest boy Harry, unless you tell him your confidential reasons; curious he is always most gracious to the most uninteresting men who visit the house; and very curious, and decidedly disagreeable, that whenever you ask him for money, he is so busy reading the newspaper that he can’t hear you.

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THE ADVANTAGES OF A HOUSE IN A FASHIONABLE SQUARE.

“Whom did you say wished to see me, Bridget?”

The broad-faced Irish girl handed her mistress a card.

“ ‘Mrs. John Hunter!’ was there ever anything so unfortunate? had she called on any other day in the week, I should have been prepared to receive her, but of a ‘washing day,’ when nothing but a calico wrapper stands Master George’s clawings and climbings; when the nursery maid is in the kitchen, and the baby on my hands for the day; when my ‘Honiton collar’ is in soak, the parlor window curtains in the wash-tub, and the dimensions of the whole family, big and little, are flapping on the clothes-line, displaying their rents and patches in full view of the parlor windows! Was there ever anything so unfortunate? What could induce Mrs. John Hunter to call on a washing day?”

But what was “washing day” to Mrs. John Hunter, who lived in St. John’s Square, kept four servants, and patronized a laundry? What did she know of Mondays’ picked up dinners and littered parlors, cluttered china closet, and untidied nurseries? Mrs. John Hunter, who came down to breakfast every

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morning in a fawn-colored silk morning dress, trimmed with cherry, over an elaborately embroidered white skirt; in a cobweb lace cap, silk stockings, and the daintiest of Parisian toilette slippers; how could she see the necessity of going down cellar, after breakfast, to see if the pork was under brine, the pickle jar covered, and the preserves unfermented? What did she know about washing up breakfast-cups, polishing the silver sugar bowl, filling the astral lamp, counting up the silver forks and spoons, or mending that little threadbare place in the carpet, that would soon widen into an ugly rent, if neglected? What did she know about washing children’s faces for school, or finding their missing mittens, or seeing that Webster’s spelling book and a big apple were safely stowed away in their satchels? How did she (whose family broadcloth the tailor mended) know that Monday was always the day when husbands threw their coats into wives’ lap “for just one stitch,” (which translated, means new sleeve-linings, new facings for the flaps, a new set of buttons down the front, and a general resuscitation of dilapidated button-holes.) How did she know that the baby always got up a fit of colic on washing days, and made it a point to dispense with its usual forenoon nap?—that all the collectors for benevolent societies, and bores in general, preferred it to any other day in the calendar?—that school teachers always selected it to ferule children for sneezing without permission—that milkmen never could spare you, on that day, your usual share of milk by two quarts—that the coal, potatoes, starch, soap, molasses, and vinegar always gave out on Monday—that “the minister” always selected it for his

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annual call, and country cousins for a “protracted meeting?” Why should the patrician, Mrs. John Hunter, know all that?

There she sat in the parlor taking notes, after the usual fashion of lady callers, while Mrs. John Smith hurriedly tied on her bonnet, to hide her disheveled tresses, threw on a shawl, and made her appearance in the parlor as if “just returned from a walk.”

How their tongues ran! how fashions and gossip were discussed; how Mrs. Smith admired Mrs. Hunter’s new dress hat; how the latter lady advised Mrs. Smith to “insist on her husband’s moving from such an undesirable neighborhood into a more aristocratic locality;” and how Mrs. Smith wondered that the idea had never struck her before; and how Mrs. Hunter told her that of course Mr. Smith would refuse at first, but that she must either worry him into it, or seize upon some moment of conjugal weakness to extort a binding promise from him to that effect; and how the little wife blushed to find herself conniving at this feminine piece of diabolism.

Mrs. John Smith’s husband commenced life in a provision store. He was well acquainted with cleavers, white aprons, and spare-ribs—was on hand early and late to attend to business—trusted nobody—lived within his income, and consequently made money.

Miss Mary Wood kept a dressmaker’s establishment just over the way. Very industriously she sat through the long summer days, drooping her pretty golden ringlets over that never-ending succession of dresses. Patiently she “took in,” and “let out,” bias-ed, flounced, tucked, gathered and plaited,

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at the weathercock option of her customers. Uneasily she leaned her head against her little window at sundown, and earnestly Mr. John Smith wished he could reprieve forever from such drudgery those taper little fingers. Very tempting was the little basket of early strawberries, covered with fresh green leaves, that went across the way to her one bright summer morning—and as red as the strawberries, and quite as tempting, looked Miss Mary’s cheek to Mr. John Smith, as she sat at the window, reading the little billet-doux which he slily tucked into one corner.

The milkman wondered why Mr. Smith had grown so particular about the flowers in the bouquets his little grand-daughter plucked for sale, and why there must always be “a rose-bud in it.” Miss Rosa Violet could n’t imagine what ailed her dressmaker, Miss Wood, (who was always so scrupulous in executing orders,) to make her boddice round, when she told her so particularly to make it pointed. The little sewing girls employed in Miss Wood’s shop were “afraid she was getting crazy,” she smiled so often to herself, broke so many needles, and made so many mistakes in settling up their accounts on pay day; and very great was their astonishment one day, after finishing a pretty bridal dress, to find that Miss Wood was to wear it herself to church the very next Sunday!

One bright June morning found the little dressmaker in a nice, two story brick house, furnished with every comfort, and some luxuries; for the warm-hearted John thought nothing half good enough for his little golden-haired bride. As time passed on, other little luxuries were added; including two nice, fat dim-

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pled babies; and within the last year John had bought the house they lived in, and at Mary’s suggestion introduced gas, to lighten the labors of the servant, and also added a little bathing-room to the nursery. His table was well provided—the mother’s and children’s wardrobes ample, and not a husband in Yankee land was prouder or happier than John Smith, when on a sunshiny Sunday, he walked to church with his pretty wife, whose golden curls still gleamed from beneath her little blue bonnet, followed by Katy and Georgey with their shining rosy faces, and pretty Sunday dresses.

It was quite time the honeymoon should wane, but still it showed no signs of decrease. Little bouquets still perfumed Mary’s room. John still sprung to pick up her handkerchief, or aid her in putting on her cloak or shawl. The anniversary of their wedding day always brought her a kind little note, with some simple remembrancer. Trifles, do you call these? Ah, a wife’s happiness is made or marred by just such “trifles.”

——

“Katy will make somebody’s heart ache one of these days,[”] said John Smith to his wife. [“]Katy will be a beauty. Did you hear me, Mary?”

“Yes,” said Mary, drooping her bright ringlets till they swept John’s cheek, “and I was thinking how I hoped she would marry well, and whether it would not be better for us to move into a more genteel neighborhood, and form a new set of acquaintances.”

“My little wife getting ambitious!” said John, smoothing her

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ringlets back from her white forehead; “and where would you like to live, Mary?”

“St. John’s Square is a nice place,” said the little wife, timidly.

“Yes; but my dear Mary, rents there are enormous, and those large houses require a greater outlay of money than you have any idea of. The furniture which looks pretty and in good taste here, would be quite shabby in such an elegant establishment. The pretty de laine, which fits your little round figure so charmingly, must give place to a silk or brocade. Katy and Gregory must doff their simple dresses, for velvet and embroidery; broad-faced, red-fisted Bridget must make way for a French cook. The money which I have placed in the bank for a nest-egg for you and the children in case of my death, must be withdrawn to meet present demands. But we will talk of this another time: good-by Mary, dear; not even your dear face must tempt me away from business; good-by,” and he kissed his hand to her, as he walked rapidly out the door.

But somehow or other Mary’s words kept ringing in John’s ears. It was very true Katy must be married some day, and then he ran over the circle of their acquaintance; the Stubbses, and the Joneses, and the Jenkinses—good enough in their way, but (he confessed to himself) not just the thing for his Katy. John was ambitious too: Mary was right; they ought to consider that Katy would soon be a woman.

It is not to be supposed because John Smith never sported white kids, save on his wedding day, that he was not a man of

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taste; by no means. Not an artistic touch of Mary’s feminine fingers, from the twist of a ringlet or ribbon to the draping of a curtain, the judicious disposal of a fine engraving, or the harmonious blending of colors in a mantel bouquet, escaped him. It was his joy and pride to see her glide about his home, beautifying almost unconsciously everything she touched; and then, he remembered when she was ill, and Bridget had the oversight of the parlors—what a different air they had; how awkwardly the chairs looked plastered straight against the wall—how ugly the red cloth all awry on the centre table; what a string-y look the curtains had, after her clumsy fingers had passed over them. Yes, Mary would grace a house in St. John’s Square, and if it would make her any happier to go there (and here he glanced at his ledger)—why, go she should—for she was just the prettiest, and dearest, and most loving little Mary who ever answered to that poetical name. What would full coffers avail him, if Mary should die?—and she might die first. His health was good—his business was good. Mary and Katy should live in St. John’s Square.

Mary and Katy did live in St. John’s Square. The upholsterer crammed as many hundreds as possible into the drawing rooms, in the shape of vis-a-vis antique chairs, velvet sofas, damask curtains, mirrors, tapestry, carpets, and a thousand other nick-nacks, too numerous to mention: then the blinds and curtains shut out the glad sunlight, lest the warm beams should fade out the rich tints of the carpets and curtains, and left it as fine and as gloomy as any other fashionable drawing room. There was a very pretty prospect from Mary’s chamber win-

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dows, but she never allowed herself to enjoy it, after Mrs. John Hunter told her, that it was considered “decidedly snobbish to be seen at the front window.” The Smiths took their meals in a gloomy basement, where gas was indispensable at mid-day. Mary was constantly in fear that the servants would spoil the pictures and statues in the parlor, so she concluded to sweep and dust it herself, before there was any probability of Mrs. John Hunter’s being awake in the morning. As this was something of a tax, she and Mr. Smith and the children kept out of it, except on Sundays and when company called, burrowing under ground the residue of the time in the afore-mentioned basement.

Directly opposite Mrs. Smith lived Mrs. Vivian Grey, the leader of the aristocracy (so Mrs. Hunter informed her) in St. John’s Square. It was a great thing to be noticed by Mrs. Vivian Grey. Mrs. Hunter sincerely hoped she would patronise Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Hunter, after a minute survey, pronounced Mrs. Smith’s establishment quite comme il faut, but suggested that a real cachemire should be added as soon as possible to Mrs. Smith’s wardrobe, as Mrs. Grey considered that article quite indispensable to a woman of fashion. She also suggested that Mrs. Smith should delicately hint to her husband the propriety of his engaging a man servant, which appendage was necessary to give a certain distingué finish to the establishment; an Irishman would do, if well trained, but a black man was more fashionable, provided he was not green—and Mrs. Hunter smiled at her own wit.

The cachemire was added—so was the black servant-man.

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Katy no longer skipped and jumped, but minced in corsets and whalebone. She never ate unless at a private lunch with mamma. Mr. John Smith staid late at his counting-room, and looked anxious, and two ugly lines made their appearance on Mrs. Mary’s fair forehead. The French cook gave away provisions enough to feed an entire family of French emigrants. The black man-servant pulled up his dicky and informed Mrs. Smith that it was at the price of his reputation to live with a family who dispensed with the use of finger bowls, and the house-maid (who had the honor of being descended from the establishment of Mrs. Vivian Grey) declined remaining with a family who did n’t keep a private carriage.

Mrs. Vivian Grey was not baited by the real cachemire, and her son, little Julius Grey, a precocious youth of ten, told little George Smith that his mamma had forbidden him playing marbles with a boy whose father had kept a provision store.

A scurrilous penny paper published a burlesque of Mrs. Smith’s first grand party, on the coming out of Miss Katy, in which, among other allusions to Mrs. Smith’s former occupation, the ball-room was said to be “elegantly festooned with sausages.” This added “the last ounce to the camel’s back;” even Mrs. Hunter’s tried friendship was not proof against such a test.

A council of war was called. Mrs. Smith begged her husband, as her repentant arms encircled his dicky, to buy a place in the country. John very gladly consented to turn his plebeian back forever on the scene of their humiliation; and what with

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strawberries and cherries, peaches, pic-nics, early rising and light hearts, the Smith family have once more recovered their equanimity, and can afford to laugh when “St. John’s Square” and Mrs. John Hunter are mentioned.

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WINTER IS COMING.

Welcome his rough grip! welcome, the fleet horse with flying feet, and arching throat, neck-laced with merry bells; welcome, bright eyes, and rosy cheeks, and furred robes, and the fun-provoking sleigh-ride; welcome, the swift skater who skims, bird-like, the silvery pond; welcome, Old Santa Claus with his horn of plenty; welcome, the “Happy New-Year,” with her many-voiced echoes, and gay old Thanksgiving, with his groaning table, old friends and new babies; welcome, for the bright fireside, the closed curtains, the dear, unbroken home-circle, the light heart, the merry jest, the beaming smile, the soft “good-night,” the downy bed, and rosy slumbers.

——

WINTER IS COMING.

Alas for his rough grip! the barrel of meal is empty, and the cruse of oil fails. Sharp winds flutter thin rags ’round shivering limbs. There are pinched features, and benumbed feet, and streaming eyes, and repulsed hands, and despairing hearts; there are damp corners, and straw pallets, and hollow coughs, and hectic cheeks; there are dismantled roofs, through

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which the snow gently drops its white, icy pall over the wasted limbs of the dying; there are babes whose birthright is poverty, whose legacy is shame, whose baptism is tears, whose little life is all winter.

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“THE OTHER SEX.”

“Let cynics prattle as they may, our existence here, without the presence of the other sex, would be only a dark and cheerless void.”

Which “other sex?” Don’t be so obscure. Dr. Beecher says, “that a writer’s ideas should stand out like rabbits’ ears, so that the reader can get hold of them.” If you allude to the female sex, I don’t subscribe to it. I wish they were all “translated.” If there is anything that gives me the sensations of a landsman on his first sea voyage, it is the sight of a bonnet. Think of female friendship! Two women joining the Mutual Admiration Society; emptying their budget of love affairs; comparing bait to entrap victims; sighing over the same rose leaf; sonnetizing the same moonbeam; patronizing the same milliner, and exchanging female kisses! (Betty, hand me my fan!)

Well, let either have one bonnet or one lover more than the other—or, if they are blue stockings, let either be one round the higher on Fame’s ladder—bodkins and darning needles! what a tempest! Caps and characters in such a case are of no account at all. Oh, there never should be but one woman alive at a time. Then the fighting would be all where it belongs—in the masculine camp. What a time there’d be,

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though! Would n’t she be a belle? Bless her little soul! how she would queen it. It makes me clap my hands to think of it. The only woman in the world! If it were I, should n’t they all leave off smoking, and wearing those odious plaid continuations? Should they ever wear an outside coat, with the flaps cut off, or a Kossuth hat, or a yellow Marseilles vest?—or a mammoth bow on their neck-ties; or a turnover dickey; or a watch-chain; or a ring on the little finger?—or any other abomination or off-shoot of dandyism whatsoever? Should n’t I politely request them all to touch their hats, instead of jerking their heads, when they bowed? Would n’t I coax them to read me poetry till they had the bronchitis? Would n’t they play on the flute, and sing the soul out of me? And then if they were sick, would n’t I pet them, and tell them all sorts of comicalities, and make time fly like the mischief? Should n’t wonder!

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SOLILOQUY OF MR. BROADBRIM.

“There’s another of Miss Fiddlestick’s articles! She’s getting too conceited, that young woman! Just like all newly-fledged writers—mistakes a few obscure newspaper puffs for the voice of the crowd, and considers herself on the top round of the literary ladder. It will take me to take the wind out of her sails. I’ll dissect her, before I’m a day older, as sure as my name is Ezekiel Broadbrim. I don’t approve her style; never did. It’s astonishing to me that the editor of The Green Twig dare countenance it, when he knows a man of my influence could annihilate her with one stroke of my pen. She has talent of a certain inferior order, but nothing to speak of. She’s an unsafe model to follow; will lead her tribe of imitators into tremendous mistakes. It’s a religious duty for a conspicuous sentinel, like myself, on Zion’s walls, to sound the blast of alarm;—can’t answer it to my conscience to be silent any longer. It might be misconstrued. The welfare of the world in general, and her soul in particular, requires a very decided expression of my disapprobation. I’m sorry to annihilate her, but when Ezekiel Broadbrim makes up his mind what is the path of duty, a bright seraph could n’t stop him. Perhaps I may pour a drop of the balm of consolation after-

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wards, but it depends altogether upon whether I succeed in bringing her into a penitential frame of mind. It’s my private opinion she is an incorrigible sinner. Hand me my pen, John. Every stroke of it will tell.”

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WILLY GREY.

A stern, unyielding, line-and-plummet, May-flower descendant, was old Farmer Grey, of Allantown, Connecticut. Many a crop had he planted, many a harvest had he garnered in, since he first became owner of Glen Farm. During that time, that respected individual, “the oldest inhabitant,” could not remember ever to have seen him smile. The village children shied close to the stone wall, and gave him a wide berth, when he passed. Even the cats and dogs laid their ears back, and crept circumspectly by him, with one eye on his whip-lash.

Farmer Grey considered it acceptable to the God who painted the rainbow, and expanded the lily, and tinted the rose, to walk the bright earth with his head bowed like a bulrush, and his soul clad in sackcloth. No mercy fell from the lips of his imaginary Saviour; no compassion breathed in His voice; no love beamed in His eye; His sword of justice was never sheathed.

The old farmer’s wife was a gentle, dependent creature, a delicate vine, springing up in a sterile soil, reaching forth its tendrils vainly, for some object to cling to. God, in his mercy, twined them lovingly around a human blossom. Little Willy partook of his mother’s sensitive, poetical nature. A yearning

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spirit looked out from the fathomless depths of his earnest eyes. Only eight short summers the gentle mother soothed her boy’s childish pains, and watched his childish slumbers. While he grew in strength and beauty, her eye waxed dim, and her step grew slow and feeble.

And so sweet memories were only left to little Willy,—dear, loving eyes, whose glance ever met his on waking; a fair, caressing hand, that wiped away his April tears; a low, gentle voice, sweet to his childish ear as a seraph’s hymning.

Willy’s father told him that “his mother had gone to Heaven,” John, the plough-boy, said “she was lying in the churchyard.” Willy could not understand this. He only knew that the house had grown dark and empty, and that his heart ached when he stayed there; and so he wandered out in the little garden, (his mother’s garden;) but the flowers looked dreary, too; and her pretty rose-vine lay trailing its broken buds and blighted blossoms in the dust.

Then Willy crept up to his father’s side, and looked up in his face, but there was something there that made him afraid to lay his little hand upon his knee, or climb into his lap, or in any way unburden his little heart; so he turned away, more sorrowful than before, and wandered into his mother’s chamber, and climbed up in her chair, and opened her drawer, to look at her comb and hair brush; and then he went to the closet, and passed his little hand, caressingly, over her empty dresses, and leaning his little curly head against them, sobbed himself to sleep.

By and by, as years passed on, and the child grew older, he

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learned to wander out in the woods and fields, and unbosom his little yearning heart to Nature. Reposing on her breast, listening to the music of her thousand voices, his unquiet spirit was soothed as with a mother’s lullaby. With kindling eye, he watched the vivid lightnings play; or, saw the murky east flush, like a timid bride, into rosy day; or, beheld the shining folds of western clouds fade softly into twilight; or, gazed at the Queen of Night, as she cut her shining path through the cloudy sky; or, questioned, with earnest eyes, the glittering stars.

All this but ill pleased the old farmer. He looked upon the earth only with an eye to tillage; upon the sloping hill, with its pine-crowned summit, only with an eye to timber; upon the changeful skies, only as reservoirs for moistening and warming his crops; upon the silver streams, that laced the emerald meadows, only as channels for irrigation; upon the climbing vine, as an insidious foe to joists, and beams, and timbers; and upon flowers, only as perfumed aristocrats, crowding and over-topping the free-soil democracy of cabbage, onions, and potatoes.

In vain poor Will tried to get up, “to order,” an enthusiasm for self-acting hay-cutters, patent plows, rakes, hoes, and harrows. In vain, when Sunday came, and he was put “on the limits,” did the old farmer, with a face ten-fold more ascetic than the cowled monk, strive to throw a pall of gloom over that free, glad spirit, by rehearsing, in his ear, a creed which would forever close the gate of heaven on every dissenter, or inculcate doctrines, which, if believed, would fill our lunatic asylums with the frantic wailings of despair.

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Restlessly did Will, with cramped limbs and fettered spirit, sit out the tedious hours of that holy day, which should be the “most blessed of all the seven,” and watch, with impatient eye, the last golden beam of the Sabbath sun sink slowly down behind the western hills.

Oh, well-meaning, but mistaken, parent! let but one loving smile play over those frigid lips: let but one tear of sympathy flood that stony eye: let but one drop from that overflowing fountain of love, that wells up in the bosom of the Infinite, moisten the parched soil of the youthful heart! Open those arms but once, and clasp him to the paternal heart; for even now, his chafed spirit, like a caged bird, flutters against its prison bars; even now, the boy’s unquiet ear catches the far-off hum of the busy world: even now, his craving heart beats wildly for the voice of human love!

——

Weary feet, houseless nights, the scant meal, and the oft-repulsed request: what are they to the strong nerve, and bounding pulse, and hopeful heart of the young adventurer? Laurel wreaths, dizzy places on Ambition’s heights, have not its aspirants reached them by just rugged steps?

“Will” is in the city. Will sits upon the steps of the New York City Hall, reading a penny paper: he has begged it from a good-natured newsboy, who has also shared with him a huge slice of gingerbread. As Will’s eye glances over the sheet, it falls upon the following paragraph:

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“PROSPECTUS OF THE WEEKLY CHRONICLE.”

“The Weekly Chronicle is a paper founded on the demands of the age for a first-class journal. It soars above all sectional and personal considerations, and fearlessly proffers its feeble aid, in developing the natural resources of the country, fostering the genius of the people, rewarding meritorious effort in every department of art, exalting virtue, however humble, and confounding vice, however powerful. The editor and proprietor of the Chronicle is Mr. Philanthropas Howard; office, No. 199 Cloud-street.

“Boy wanted immediately at the above office: one from the country would be preferred.”

Will threw down the paper, and started to his feet: “199 Cloud-street?” He asked orange-women; he asked image-boys; he asked merchants; he asked clerks; he asked lawyers; he asked clients; he investigated cellars; he explored attics; he traveled through parks, and through alleys; till finally, he coaxed a graceless bare-footed urchin to shew him the way.

Mr. John Howard, editor and proprietor of the Weekly Chronicle, went upon the principle of paying nothing where nothing would pay, and paying as little as possible where he could get something for next to nothing. It was a fixed principle and confirmed practice with him, never to pay anything for contributions to the Chronicle. He considered that the great advantage that would accrue to an author from having his or her

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articles in his paper, would be ample remuneration. At the moment Will’s eye first fell upon him, he was reposing in a huge leathern arm chair, in the corner of his sanctum. His proportions very much resembled an apoplectic bag of flour, surmounted by an apple. His head was ornamented with sparse spires of fiery red hair; on his cheeks, a pair of cream-colored whiskers were feebly struggling into life; and sundry tufts of the same color, under his chin, shadowed forth his editorial sympathy with the recent “Beard Movement.” Before him was a table, of a doubtful hue and architecture, laden with manuscripts, accepted, rejected, and under consideration; letters of all sizes, opened and unopened, prepaid and unpaid, saucy and silly, defiant and deprecatory. There was also an inkstand, crusted with dirt and cobwebs; a broken paper weight, pinning down some bad money, paid by distant subscribers; a camphene lamp, with a broken pedestal, propped up by a Directory on one side, and Walker’s Dictionary on the other; sundry stumps of cigars; a half-eaten apple; a rind of an orange; a lady’s glove, and a box of bilious pills.

Will stepped before him, and made known his errand. Mr. John Howard looked at him, with a portentous scowl, inspected him very much as he would a keg of doubtful mackerel, and then referred him to the foreman of the office, Mr. Jack Punch. Jack had been victimized, in the way of office boys, for an indefinite period, with precocious city urchins, who smoked long nines, talked politics, discussed theatricals, and knew more of city haunts than the police themselves. Of course he lost no time in securing a boy to whose verdant feet the plow-soil was

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still clinging. Will’s business was to open the office at half past six in the morning, sweep it out, make the fires, go to the post-office for letters and exchanges, wrap up papers for new subscribers, carry them to the post, and see that the mail was properly “got off.” To all these requirements, Will immediately subscribed.

On Will’s daily tramps to and from the office, he was obliged to pass Lithe & Co.’s magnificent shop window, where the choicest pictures and engravings were constantly exposed for sale. There he might be seen loitering, entranced and spellbound, quite oblivious of the Chronicle, hour after hour, weaving bright visions—building air castles, with which his overseer, Mr. Jack Punch, had little sympathy. Yes; Will had at length found out what he was made for. He knew now why he had lain under the trees, of a bright summer day, watching the fleecy clouds go sailing by, in such a dreamy rapture; why the whispering leaves, and waving fields of grain, and drooping branches of graceful trees, and the mirror-like beauty of the placid lake, reflecting a mimic heaven; why the undulating hills, and mist-wreathed valleys, with their wealth of leaf, and buds and blossom, filled his eyes with tears and his soul with untold joy, and why, when slumber sealed each weary lid under the cottage eaves, he stood alone, hushing his very breath, awe-struck, beneath the holy stars.

Poor Will, his occupation became so distasteful! Poor Will, winged for a “bird of paradise,” and forced to be a mole, burrowing under the earth, when he would fain try his new-found pinions! To Jack’s intense disgust, he soon detected Will in

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drawing rude sketches on bits of paper, stray wrappers, and backs of letters; even the walls were “done in crayons,” by the same mischievous fingers. His vision was so filled “with the curved line of beauty,” that he was constantly committing the most egregious blunders. He misplaced the bundles of newspapers which he carried to the post-office; placing the “north” packages on the “south” table, the east on the north, the south on the east, &c.; mixing them up generally and indescribably and inextricably, so that the subscribers to the “Weekly Chronicle” did not receive their papers with that precision and regularity which is acknowledged to be desirable, particularly in small country places, where the black-smith’s shop, the engine house, and “the newspaper” form a trio not to be despised by the simple-hearted, primitive farmers.

Jack, whose private opinion it was that he should have been christened Job, being obliged to shoulder all the short-comings of his assistants, and being worked up to a pitch of frenzy by letters from incensed subscribers, which Mr. Howard constantly thrust in his face, very unceremoniously ejected Will from the premises, one morning, by a vigorous application of the toe of his boot.

The world was again a closed oyster to Will. How to open it? that was the question. Our hero thought the best place to consider the matter was at Lithe & Co.’s shop-window. Just as he reached it, a gentleman passed out of the shop, followed by a lad bearing a small framed landscape. Perhaps the gentleman was an artist! Perhaps he could employ him in some way! Will resolved to follow him.

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Up one street and down another, round corners and through squares—the gentleman’s long legs seemed to be shod with the famed seven-leagued boots. At length he stopped before the door of an unpretending looking building, and handing the lad who accompanied him a bit of money, he took from him the picture, and was just springing up the steps, when he lost his balance, and the picture was jerked violently from his hand, but only to be caught by the watchful Will, who restored it to its owner uninjured.

“Thank you, my boy,” said the gentleman, “you have done me a greater service than you think for;” at the same time offering him some money.

“No, I thank you,” said Will, proudly. “I do not wish to be paid for it.”

“As you please, Master Independence,” replied the gentleman, laughing; “but is there no other way I can serve you?”

“Are you an artist?” asked Will.

The gentleman raised his eyebrows, with a comical air, and replied, “Well, sometimes I think I am, and then, again, I don’t know; but what if I were?”

“I should so like to be an artist,” said Will, the quick flush mounting to his temples.

“You!” exclaimed the gentleman, taking a minute survey of Will’s nondescript toute ensemble, “Do you ever draw?”

“Sometimes,” replied Will, “when I can get a bit of charcoal, and a white wall. I was just kicked out of the Chronicle office for doing it.”

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“Follow me,” said the gentleman, tapping him familiarly on the cheek.

Will needed no second invitation. Climbing one flight of stairs he found himself in a small studio, lined on all sides by pictures; some finished and framed, others in various stages of progression. Pallets, brushes, and crayons, lay scattered round an easel; while in one corner was an artist’s lay figure, which, in the dim light of the apartment, Will mistook for the artist’s wife, whose presence he respectfully acknowledged by a profound bow, to the infinite amusement of his patron.

Mr. Lester was delighted with Will’s naive criticisms on his pictures, and his profound reverence for art. A few days found him quite domesticated in his new quarters; and months passed by swift as a weaver’s shuttle, and found him as happy as a crowned prince; whether grinding colors for the artist, or watching the progress of his pencil, or picking up stray crumbs of knowledge from the lips of connoisseurs, who daily frequented the studio; and many a rough sketch did Will make in his little corner, that would have made them open their critical eyes wide with wonder.

——

“What a foolish match!” Was an engagement ever announced that did not call forth this remark, from some dissenting lip? Perhaps it was a “foolish match.” Meta had no dower but her beauty, and Will had no capital but his pallet and easel. The gossips said she “might have done much better.” There was old Mr. Hill, whose head was snow white,

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but whose gold was as yellow and as plenty as Meta’s bright ringlets; and Mr. Vesey, whose father made a clergyman of him, because he did n’t know enough to be a merchant; and Lawyer Givens, with his carrotty head and turn-up nose, and chin that might have been beat; and Falstaff-ian Captain Reef, who brought home such pretty china shawls and grass cloth dresses, and who had as many wives as a Grand Turk. Meta might have had any one of these by hoisting her little finger. Foolish Meta! money and misery in one scale, poverty and love in the other. Miserable little Meta! And yet she does not look so very miserable, as she leans over her husband’s shoulder, and sees the landscape brighten on the canvass, or presses her rosy lips to his forehead, or arranges the fold of a curtain for the desired light and shade, or grinds his colors with her own dainty little fingers; no, she looks anything but miserable with those soft eyes so full of light, and that elastic step, and voice of music, that are inspiration to her artist husband. No; she thinks the “old masters” were fools to her young master, and she already sees the day when his studio will be crowded with connoisseurs and patrons, and his pictures bring him both fame and fortune; and then, they will travel in foreign countries, and sleep under Italia’s soft blue skies, and see the Swiss glaciers, and the rose-wreathed homes of England, and the grim old chateaux of France, and perhaps beard old Haynau in his den. Who knows? Yes; and Will should feast his eyes on beauty, and they’d be as happy, as if care and sorrow had never dimmed a bright eye with tears, since the seraph stood, with a flaming sword, to guard the gate of Eden.

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Hopeful, happy, trusting Meta! the bird’s carol is not sweeter than yours;—and yet the archer takes his aim, and with broken wing it flutters to the ground.

Yes: Meta was an angel. Will said it a thousand times a day, and his eyes repeated it when his tongue was silent. Meta’s brow, and cheek, and lips, and tresses were multiplied indefinitely, in all his female heads. Her dimpled hand, her round arm, her plump shoulder, her slender foot, all served him for faultless models.

Life was so beautiful to him now! his employment so congenial, his heart so satisfied. It must be that he should succeed. The very thought of failure—“but then, he should not fail!” Poor Will! he had yet to learn that garrets are as often the graves as the nurseries of genius, and that native talent goes unrecognized until stamped with foreign approbation. Happily—hopefully—heroically he toiled on; morning’s earliest beam, and day’s last lingering ray finding him busy at his easel. But, alas! as time passed, though patrons came not, creditors did; and one year after their marriage, Meta might have been seen stealthily conveying little parcels back and forth to a small shop in the neighborhood, where employment was furnished for needy fingers. It required all her feminine tact and diplomacy to conceal from Will her little secret, or to hide the tell-tale blush, when he noticed the disappearance of her wedding ring, which now lay glittering in a neighboring pawn-broker’s window; yet never for an instant, since the little wife first slept on Will’s heart, had she one misgiving that she had placed her happiness unalterably in his keeping.

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Oh, inscrutable womanhood! Pitiful as the heart of God, when the dark cloud of misfortune, or shame, bows the strong frame of manhood; merciless—vindictive—implacable as the Prince of Darkness, towards they tempted, forsaken and sorrowing sisters!

——

The quick eye of affection was not long in discovering Meta’s secret; and now every glance of love, every caress, every endearing tone of Meta’s, gave Will’s heart a sorrow pang.

Meta! who had turned a deaf ear to richer lovers, to share his heart and home; Meta! whose beauty might grace a court, whose life should be all sunshine: that Meta’s bright eyes should dim, her cheek pale, her step grow prematurely slow and faltering, for him!—the thought was torture.

——

“To-morrow, Will—you said to-morrow,” said Meta, hiding her tears on her husband’s shoulder; “the land of gold is also the land of graves,” and she gazed mournfully into his face.

“Dear Meta,” said her husband, “do not unman me with your tears; our parting will be brief, and I shall return to you with gold—gold! Meta; and you shall yet have a home worthy of you. Bear up, dear Meta—the sun will surely break through the cloud rift. God bless and keep my darling wife.”

Poor little Meta! for hours she sat stupefied with sorrow, in the same spot where Will had left her. The sun shone

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cheerfully in at the little window of her new home, but its beams brought no warmth to Meta’s heart. The clinging clasp of Will’s arms was still about her neck: Will’s kiss was still warm upon her lips, and yet—she was alone.

She thought, with a shudder, of the treacherous sea; of the pestilence that walketh in darkness; of a sick-bed, on a foreign shore; of the added bitterness of the death pang, when the eye looks vainly for the one loved face; and bowing her face in her hands, she wept convulsively.

——

“Dear heart! Goodness alive!” said Meta’s landlady, peeping in at the door. “Do n’t take on so; bless me, how long have you been married? you’re nothing better than a child now. Why did n’t you go to Californy with your husband? Where’s your folks?—whose picter is that? Ah! I see now, it is meant for you. But why did n’t you have on a gown, dear, instead of being wrapped up in them clouds? It makes you look like a sperit. Come now, don’t sit moping here; come down stairs and see me work; it will amuse you like. I’m going to make some brown bread. I dare say you never made a bit of brown bread in your life. I put a power of Ingin in mine. I learned that in the country. I was brought up in the country. I hate city folks; they’ve no more heart than a sexton; much as ever they can stop frolicking long enough to bury one another. They’ll sleep, too, like so many tops, while the very next street is all of a blaze, and their poor destitute fellow-creatures are turned naked into the streets. They’ll plow

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right through a burying ground, if they take a notion, harrowing up dead folks, and live ones, too, I guess. And as to Sunday—what with Jews, and Frenchmen, and down Easters, and other foreigners, smoking and driving through the streets, ’tis n’t any Sunday at all. Well, I never knew what Sodom meant till I came to the city. Why Lot’s wife turned round to take a second look at it, is beyond me. Well, if you won’t come down stairs I must leave you, for I smell my bread burning; but do cheer up—you look as lonesome as a pigeon on a spout of a rainy day.”

A letter from the best beloved! How our eye lingers on the well-known characters. How we torture the words to extract hidden meanings. How tenderly we place it near the heart, and under the pillow. How lingeringly comes the day light, when our waiting eyes would re-peruse what is already indelibly written on the heart!

Will’s voyage had been prosperous—his health was good—his hope and courage unabated. Meta’s eye sparkled, and her cheek flushed like a rose, as she pressed the letter again and again to her lips; but, after all, it was only a letter, and time dragged so heavily. Meta was weary of sewing, weary of reading, weary of watching endless pedestrians pass and repass beneath her window, and when twilight came, with its deepening shadows—that hour so sweet to the happy, so fraught with gloom to the wretched—and Meta’s eye fell upon the little house opposite, and saw the little parlor lamp gleam like a beacon light for the absent husband, while the happy wife glided about with busy hands, and lightsome step, and when, at

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last, he came, and the broken circle was complete, poor Meta turned away to weep.

Joy, Meta, joy! dry your tears! Will has been successful. Will is coming home. Even now the Sea-Gull plows the waves, with its precious living freight. Lucky Will! he has “found gold,” but it was dug from “the mine” of the artist’s brain. Magical Will! the liquid eyes and graceful limbs of Senor Alvarez’s only daughter are reproduced on canvas, in all their glowing beauty, by your magic touch! The Senor is rich—the Senor is liberal—the Senor’s taste is as unimpeachable as his credit—the Senor has pronounced Will “a genius.” Other Senors hear it; other Senors have gold in plenty, and dark-eyed, graceful daughters, whose charms Will perpetuates, and yet fails to see, for a sweeter face which comes between.

Dry your tears, little Meta—smooth the neglected ringlets—don his favorite robe, and listen with a flushed cheek, a beating heart and a love-lit eye, for the long absent but well remembered footstep.

Ah! Meta, there are meetings that o’erpay the pain of parting. But, dear Reader, you and I are de trop.

——

You should have seen how like a little brigand Will looked, with his bronzed face and fierce beard and mustache—so fierce that Meta was half afraid to jump into his arms; you should have seen Meta’s new home to know what a pretty little nest love and taste may weave for a cherished bird; you

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should have seen with what a Midas touch Will’s gold suddenly opened the eyes of people to his wonderful merit, as an artist; how “patrons” flocked in, now that he lived in a handsome house in Belgrave Square; how Mr. Jack Punch repented with crocodile tears, that he had ever kicked him out of “the Chronicle office,” and how Will immortalized him on canvas, in the very act; not forgetting to give due prominence, in the foreground, to the figure of his philanthropic employer, Mr. John Howard, who, in the touching language of his Prospectus, always made it a point to “exalt virtue, however humble!”

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TABITHA TOMPKINS’ SOLILOQUY.

Have I, Tabitha Tompkins, a right to my share of fresh air uncontaminated? or have I not? I ask the question with my arms akimbo. I might as well say what I’ve got to say, pop-gun fashion, as to tiptoe round my subject, mincing and curtseying when I’m all ablaze with indignation.

I ask again: Have I a right to my share of fresh air uncontaminated? or have I not?

Do I go out for a walk? Every man I meet is a locomotive chimney. Smoke—smoke—smoke—smoke:—great, long tails of it following in their wake, while I dodge, and twist, and choke, trying to escape the coils of the stifling anaconda, till I’m black in the face. I, Tabitha Tompkins, whose grandfather was one of the “signers” of the Declaration of Independence! I feel seventy-six-y! I have borne it about as long as I can without damage to hooks and eyes.

If I try to escape it, by getting into an omnibus, there it is again! If it does not originate inside, some “gentleman” on the box or top, wafts it into the windows. If I take refuge in a ferry boat, I find “gentlemen requested not to smoke,” (as usual) a dead letter,—no more regarded than is the law against gaming, or the Sunday liquor traffic. Do I go to a concert at

-----

“Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above bill at his earliest convenience.”

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Castle Garden, and step out on the balcony between the performances for a breath of fresh air?—myriads of lighted Havannas send me dizzy and staggering back into the concert room. Does a gentleman call to see me of an evening?—the instant he shakes his “ambrosial curls,” and gives “a nod,” I have to run for my vinaigrette.

Do I advertise for lodgings; and after much inspection of rooms, and wear and tear of patience and gaiter boots, make a final selection? Do I emigrate with big trunk, and little trunk, and a whole nest of bandboxes? Do I get my rocking-chair, and work-table, and writing-desk, and pretty little lamp, all safely transported and longitudinized to my fancy? Do I, in a paradisaical state of mind, (attendant upon said successful emigration,) go to my closet, some fine morning, and take down a pet dress?—asafœtida and onions, what an odor! All the “patchouli” and “new mown hay” in New York would n’t sweeten it. Six young men the other side of that closet, and all smokers!!! Betty, you may have that dress;—I would n’t touch it with a pair of tongs.

Do I lend a masculine friend my copy of Alexander Smith’s Poems?—can I ever touch it again till it has been through quarantine? Does he, by mistake, carry home my tippet in his pocket after a concert?—can I compute the hours it must hang dangling on the clothes line, before it can be allowed to resume its place round my neck?

Do I go to church on Sunday, with a devout desire to attend to the sermon?—my next neighbor is a young man, apparently seated on a nettle cushion: he groans and fidgets, and fidgets

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and groans; crosses his feet and uncrosses them; kicks over the cricket; knocks down his cane; drops the hymn-book, and finally draws from his coat pocket a little case; takes out one segar after another, transposes them, applies them to the end of his nose, and pats them affectionately; then he examines his watch; then frowns at the pulpit; then, glancing at the door, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, or bust off a vest button.

With a dolorous whine, this same young man deplores (in public) his inability to indulge in the luxury of a wife, “owing to the extravagant habits of the young ladies of the present day.” I take this occasion to submit to public inspection a little bit of paper found in the vest pocket of this fumigated, cork-screwed, pantalooned humbug, by his washerwoman:

NEW YORK, October 1st, 1853.

MR. THADDEUS THEOPHILUS STUBBS,

TO JUAN FUMIGO,     Dr.
To Segars for Sept., 1853.
Sept. 1—To 20 Trabucos, at 5c. - - - - - - $1 00
Sept. 1—To 12 Riohondas, at 6d. - - - - - - 75
Sept. 3—To 12 Los Tres Castillos, at 6d. - - - - - - 75
Sept. 3—To 12 La Nicotiana, at 6d. - - - - - - 75
Sept. 4—(Sunday—for Segars for a party) 10 Palmettoes, 10 Esculapios, 12 La Sultanos, 12 El Crusados, 20 Norrigos, 16 L’Alhambros, at 4c. - - - - - - 3 00
Sept. 6—To 50 L’Ambrosias, at 4c. - - - - - - 2 00
Sept. 10—To 30 Cubanos, at 8c. - - - - - - 2 40
Sept. 12—To 50 Londres, at 4c. - - - - - - 2 00
Sept. 15—To 30 Jenny Linds, (for concert party), at 8c. - - - - - - 2 40
Sept. 24—To 50 Figaros, (for party to see Uncle Tom, at the National,) at 8c. - - - - - - 4 00
Sept. 26—To 100 Mencegaros, (for party of country relations and friends,) at 2c. - - - - - - 2 00
Sept. 30—To 40 Imperial Regalias, at 1s. - - - - - -  5 00
$26 25

Received Payment,

(Mr. Stubbs is earnestly requested to call and settle the above at his earliest convenience. J. F.)

Consistent Stubbs! But, then, his segar bill is not receipted!

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SOLILOQUY OF A HOUSEMAID.

Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress ever thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times, within half an hour, I have trotted up stairs, to hand her things, that were only four feet from her rocking-chair. Then, there’s her son, Mrs. George,—it does seem to me, that a great able-bodied man like him, need n’t call a poor tired woman up four pair of stairs to ask “what’s the time of day?” Heigho!—it[’]s “Sally do this,” and “Sally do that,” till I wish I never had been baptized at all; and I might as well go farther back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.

Now, instead of ordering me round so like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling-like, now and then; or ask me how my “rheumatiz” did; or say good morning, Sally; or show some sort of interest in a fellow-cretur, I could pluck up a bit of heart to work for them. A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and would n’t cost them anything, either.

Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can’t get a minute to sew on a string or button, except at night; and then I’m so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find the way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now

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and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup. Well, well; one would n’t think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing-room. Master’s span of horses, and Miss Clara’s diamond ear-rings, and mistresses [sic] rich dresses. I try to think it is all right, but it is no use.

To-morrow is Sunday—“day of rest,” I believe they call it. H-u-m-p-h!—more cooking to be done—more company—more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I have not heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for that, if I lose it? It is a question in my mind. Land of Goshen! I aint sure I’ve got a mind—there’s the bell again!

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CRITICS.

“Bilious wretches, who abuse you because you write better than they.”

Slander and detraction! Even I, Fanny, know better than that. I never knew an editor to nib his pen with a knife as sharp as his temper, and write a scathing criticism on a book, because the authoress had declined contributing to his paper. I never knew a man who had fitted himself to a promiscuous coat, cut out in merry mood by taper fingers, to seize his porcupine quill, under the agony of too tight a self-inflicted fit, to annihilate the offender. I never saw the bottled-up hatred of years, concentrated in a single venomous paragraph. I never heard of an unsuccessful masculine author, whose books were drugs in the literary market, speak with a sneer of successful literary feminity, and insinuate that it was by accident, not genius, that they hit the popular favor!

By the memory of “seventy-six,” No! Do you suppose a man’s opinions are in the market—to be bought and sold to the highest bidder? Do you suppose he would land a vapid book, because the fashionable authoress once laved his toadying temples with the baptism of upper-tendon? or, do you suppose he’d lash a poor, but self-reliant wretch, who had presumed

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to climb to the topmost round of Fame’s ladder, without his royal permission or assistance, and in despite of his repeated attempts to discourage her? No—no—bless your simple soul; a man never stoops to a meanness. There never was a criticism yet, born of envy, or malice, or repulsed love, or disappointed ambition. No—no. Thank the gods, I have a more exalted opinion of masculinity.

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FORGETFUL HUSBANDS.

“There is a man out west, so forgetful, that his wife has to put a wafer on the end of her nose, that he may distinguish her from the other ladies; but this does not prevent him from making occasional mistakes.”

Take the wafer off your nose, my dear, and put it on your lips! Keep silence and let Mr. Johnson go on “making his mistakes;”—you cannot stop him, if you try; and if he has made up his mind to be near-sighted, all the guide-boards that you can set up, will only drive him home the longest way round!

So trot your babies, smooth your ringlets, digest your dinner, and—agree to differ! Do n’t call Mr. Johnson “my dear,” or he will have good reason to think you are going to quarrel with him! Look as pretty as a poppet; put on the dress he used to like—and help him to his favorite bit at table, with your accustomed grace; taking care not (?) to touch him, accidentally, with your little fat hand, when you are passing it. Ten to one he is on the marrow bones of his soul to you, in less than a week, though tortures could n’t wring a confession out of him. Then, if he’s worth the trouble, you are to take advantage of his silent penitence, and go every step of the way to meet him, for he will not approximate to you, the width of a straw! If he has not frittered away all your

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love for him, this is easily done, my dear, and for one whole day after it, he will feel grateful to you for sparing him the humiliation (?) of making an acknowledgment. How many times, my dear “Barkis,” you will be “willing” to go through all this, depends upon several little circumstances in your history with which I am unacquainted.

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SUMMER FRIENDS.

“If every pain and care we feel

Could burn upon our brow,

How many hearts would move to heal,

That strive to crush us now.”

Don’t you believe it? They would run from you, as if you had the plague. “Write your brow” with anything else but your “troubles,” if you do not wish to be left solus. You have no idea how “good people” will pity you when you tell your doleful ditty! They will “pray for you,” give you advice by the bushel, “feel for you”—everywhere but in their pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to “trust in Providence;” to all of which you feel very much like replying as the old lady did when she found herself spinning down hill in a wagon, “I trusted in Providence till the tackling broke!”

Now, listen to me;—just go to work and hew out a path for yourself; get your head above water, and then snap your fingers in their pharisaical faces! Never ask a favor until you are drawing your last breath; and never forget one. “Write your troubles on your brow?” That man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I suppose he calls himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it’s high time the city authorities took away his “license.”

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HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED: or WHAT PRINTER’S INK WILL DO.

“Is n’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always be dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don’t you and I, and all the world know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he never has a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Is n’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?”

“Not at all—not at all—my dear,” said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the ashes from his Havana; “to an editor all things are possible;” and he unfolded the damp sheets of the Family Gazette, of which Mr. Simpkins was editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:

“We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway. We pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness, beauty, and durability, to be unrivaled; it is aptly designated the ‘Count D’Orsay hat.’ The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the establishment, are unwearied in their endeavors to please the public. There is a je ne sais quoi about their hearts, which can be found nowhere else in the city.”

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“Well, I don’t see,” said Mrs. Stubbs, “I—”

“Sh—! sh—! Mrs. Stubbs; don’t interrupt the court—here’s another.”

“Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut & Co., Tailors, 59 Prince Albert street. There is science wagging in the very tails of Mr. Willcut’s coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only tailor in the city, who is a thorough artist. His pantaloons are the knee-plus-ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made the anatomy of masculinity a study—hence the admirable result. The most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a faux pas on broadcloth.

“Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:

“The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider the number of acres it covers, the splendor of its marble exterior, the sumptuousness of its drawing rooms, or the more than Oriental luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in manners, and a Lucullis in taste; while those white-armed Houris, the female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium.”

Mr. Stubbs lifted his spectacles to his forehead, crossed his legs, and nodded knowingly to Mrs. Stubbs.

“That’s the way it’s done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his six months’ hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars, and other little editorial perquisites. Do you want to

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know,” said Stubbs, (resuming the paper,) “how he gets his carriages repaired and his horses shod for nothing in the village where his country seat is locate? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil’s Cave, in which he says, ‘MY FRIEND, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,’ &c., (bah!) Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the other page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner’s) ‘magnificent opening at —— street.’ (Of course she made his wife a present of a new Paris bonnet.”)

“Well, I never—” said the simple Mrs. Stubbs. “Goodness knows, if I had known all this before, I would have married an editor myself. Stubbs, why don’t you set up a newspaper?”

“M-r-s. S-t-u-b-b-s!” said her husband, in an oracular tone, “to conduct a newspaper requires a degree of tact, enterprise and ability to which Jotham Stubbs unfortunately is a stranger. The Family Gazette or its founder is by no means a fair sample of our honorable newspapers, and their upright, intelligent, and respected editors. Great Cæsar!—no!” said Stubbs, rising from his chair, and bringing his hand down emphatically on his corduroys, “no more than you are a fair sample of feminine beauty, Mrs. Stubbs!”

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WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN?

“Fanny Fern says, ‘If there were but one woman in the world, the men would have a terrible time.’ Fanny is right; but we would ask her what kind of a time the women would have if there were but one man in existence?”

What kind of a time would they have? Why, of course no grass would grow under their slippers! The “Wars of the Roses,” the battles of Waterloo and bunker Hill would be a farce to it. Black eyes would be the rage, and both caps and characters would be torn to tatters. I imagine it would not be much of a millennium, either, to the moving cause of the disturbance. He would be as crazy as a fly in a drum, or as dizzy as a bee in a ten-acre lot of honeysuckles, uncertain where to alight. He’d roll his bewildered eyes from one exquisite organization to another, and frantically and diplomatically exclaim—“How happy could I be with either, were t’other dear charmer away!”

“What kind of a time would the women have, were there only one man in the world?”

What kind of a time would they have? What is that to me? They might “take their own time,” every “Miss Lucy” of them, for all I should care; and so might the said man himself; for with me, the limited supply would not increase the value of the article.

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p. 96

“ONLY A COUSIN.”

How the rain patters against the windows of your office! How sombre, and gloomy, and cheerless, it looks there! Your little office-boy looks more like an imp of darkness than anything else, as he sits crouched in the corner, with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

You button your overcoat tight to your chin, (cut possible clients,) and run over to see your cousin Kitty. Ah! that is worth while! A bright, blazing fire; sofa wheeled up to it, and Kitty sitting there, looking so charming in her pretty neglige. She looks up sweetly and tranquilly, and says: “Now that’s a good Harry; sit down by me, and be agreeable.”

Well, you “sit down,” (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all the down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming your whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the propriety and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of coaxing out a moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling spools most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice bits of poetry that women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then you both go into the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little luncheon; and you grow suddenly merry, and have a

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contest which shall make the worst pun; you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged, in self-defence, to imprison the offending hand; your aunt comes in; let her come! are not you and Kitty cousins?

There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank —— is announced. You say, “Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is very oblivious, and would n’t mind it if you occasionally lost the thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling; you privately determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable.

It seems as though Mr. Frank —— never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame ——’s concert with him. You look serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, “Jealous, hey?” You turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good-morning,” and for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentlemen friends tell you how “divine” your little cousin looked at the concert.

You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative—newspapers either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute

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you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand—“Want to make up, Harry?”

There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp, anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to be to you, some bright morning.

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THE CALM OF DEATH.

“The moon looks calmly down when a man is dying,

The earth still holds her sway;

Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing;

Naught seems of pause or stay.”

Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast—they’ve no more work to do; close the weary eyes—they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp locks—there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper.

Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come—all too late—then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze—no scorn curls the chiselled lip—no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-veined temples.

God forgive you! for your feet, too, must shrink appalled from death’s cold river—your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be death?”—your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth—your clammy hand yield its last faint pressure—your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter.

Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless

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keeping! What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal bosom?

Silent all!

Oh, if these broken links were never gathered up! If beyond Death’s swelling flood there were no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of piece! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise!

Alas for Love, if this be all,

And naught beyond—oh earth!

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“Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired!”

“Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired!”

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p. 101

MRS. ADOLPHUS SMITH SPORTING THE “BLUE STOCKING.”

Well, I think I’ll finish that story for the editor of the “Dutchman.” Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just gilding with his last ray—“Ma, I want some bread and molasses”—(yes, dear,) gilding with his last ray the church spire—“Wife, where’s my Sunday pants?” (Under the bed, dear,) The church spire of Inverness, when a—“There’s nothing under the bed, dear, but your lace cap”—(Perhaps they are in the coal hod in the closet,) when a horseman was seen approaching— “Ma’am, the pertators is out; not one for dinner”—(Take some turnips,) approaching, covered with dust, and—“Wife! the baby has swallowed a button”—(Reverse him, dear—take him by the heels,) and waving in his hand a banner, on which was written—“Ma! I’ve torn my pantaloons”—liberty or death! The inhabitants rushed en masse—“Wife! WILL you leave off scribbling? (Don’t be disagreeable, Smith, I’m just getting inspired,) to the public square, where De Begnis, who had been secretly—“Butcher wants to see you, ma’am”—secretly informed of the traitors’—“Forgot which you said, ma’am, sausages or mutton chop”—movements, gave orders to fire; not less than twenty

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—“My gracious! Smith, you have n’t been reversing that child all this time; he’s as black as your coat; and that boy of YOURS has torn up the first sheet of my manuscript. There! it’s no use for a married woman to cultivate her intellect.—Smith, hand me those twins.

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p. 103

CECILE VRAY.

“Died, in ——, Cecile, wife of Mortimer Vray, artist. This lady died in great destitution, among strangers, and was frequently heard to say, “ ‘I wish I were dead!’ ”

A brief paragraph, to chronicle a broken heart! Poor Cecile! We little thought of this, when conning our French tasks, your long raven ringlets twining lovingly with mine; or, when released from school drudgery, we sauntered through the fragrant woods, weaving rosy dreams of a bright future, which neither you nor I were to see.

I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek—the clasp of your clinging arms about my neck; and the whispered “Don’t forget me, Fanny,” from that most musical of voices.

Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between: then came a rumor of an “artist lover”—then a “bridal”—now the sad sequel!

Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed forever; that listening ear, tortured by strange footsteps—that fluttering sigh, breathed out on a strange bosom. Poor Cecile!

And he (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it under foot, basks under Italy’s sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters, of a foreign syren’s weaving[]

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God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth never pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne’er welcomed a sweeter spirit.

——

On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as thy last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, “Would I were dead!”

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p. 105

SAM SMITH’S SOLILOQUY.

By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval color of that ewer and washbasin.

Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows: how dirge-like the wind moans: how like a great, white pall the snow covers the ground. Five times I’ve rung that bell for coal, for this rickety old grate, but I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of Paradise.

And speaking of Paradise—Sam Smith, you must be married: you have n’t a button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either.

Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder if they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day, to keep the peace? Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they always take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any way of finding out, but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic looking fellow: if you can’t manage a woman, who can?

How I shall pet the little clipper. I’ll marry a blue-eyed

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woman: they are the most affectionate. She must not be too tall: a man’s wife should n’t look down upon him. She must not know too much: the Furies take your pert, catamount-y, scribbling women, with a repartee always rolled up under their tongues. She must n’t be over seventeen: but how to find that out, Sam, is the question: it is about as easy as to make an editor tell you the truth about his subscription list. She must be handsome—no she must n’t either. I should be as jealous as Blue Beard. All the corkscrew, pantalooned, perfumed popinjays would be ogling her. But then, again, there’s three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and three times a day I must sit opposite that connubial face, at the table. What’s to be done? Yes; she must be handsome: that is as certain as that Louis Napoleon has Jewish horror of Ham.

Wonder if wives are expensive articles? Wonder if their “little hands were ever made to scratch out husbands’ eyes?” Wonder if Caudle lectures are “all in your eye,” or—occasionally in your ear? Wonder if babies invariably prefer the night-time to cry?

To marry or not to marry, Sam? Whether ’t is better to go buttonless, and to shiver, or marry and be always in hot water?

There’s Tom Hillot. Tom’s married. I was his groomsman. I would have given a small fortune to have been in his white satin vest—what with the music, and the roses, and the pretty little bridesmaid! Did n’t the bride look bewitching, with the rose-flush on her cheek and the tear on her eyelash? And how provokingly happy Tom looked, when he whirled off

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with her in the carriage to their new home; and what a pretty little home it was, to be sure. It is just a year to-day since they were married. I dined there yesterday. It strikes me that Tom don’t joke as much as he used in his bachelor days; and then he has a way, too, of leaving his sentences unfinished. And I noticed that his wife often touched his foot with her slipper under the table. What do you suppose she did that for? Just as I was buttoning up my coat to come away, I asked Tom if he would go to up Tammany Hall with me. He looked at his wife, and she said, “Oh—go by all means, Mr. Hillot;” when Tom immediately declined. I don’t understand matrimonial tactics; but it seems to me he ought to have obliged her.

Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that,—“Jones!”) Well they are another happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor eyes turn green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow, when she married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes precious good care of John. Before he goes to the office in the morning, she pops her head out the window to see if the weathercock indicates a surtout, spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point settled, she follows him to the door, and calls him back to close his thorax button “for fear of quinsy.” Does a shower come up in the forenoon? She sends him clogs, India-rubbers, an extra flannel shirt, and an oilcloth overall, and prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea to administer on his arrival, to prevent the damp from “striking in.” If he helps himself to a second bit of turkey, she immediately removes it from his plate, and

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applying a pocket handkerchief to her eyes, asks him “if he has the heart to make her for the fifth time a widow?” You can see, with half an eye, that John must be the happiest dog alive. I’d like to see the miscreant who dares to say he is not!

Certainly—matrimony is an invention of—. Well, no matter who invented it. I’m going to try it. Where’s my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don’t offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. “Pardiggle!” Phoebus! what a name for such a rose-bud. I’ll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She’ll have me, of course. She wants a husband—I want a wife: there’s one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments. Say what you’ve got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do I look as if I were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The bearded Lady could n’t hold a candle to them, (though I wonder she don’t to her own.) Afraid? h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so: there—that’ll do: that’s quite an inspiration. Brummel himself could n’t go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I’m immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit claim. I’ll make her as happy as a little

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robin. Do you think I’d bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I’d sit after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I’d leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? No. Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautified in their nuptial-bower, than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.

——

Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there’s one comfort: nobody’ll ever believe it. She is not so very pretty after all: her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:—not so very ready either, confound the gipsy. What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares?

“If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?”

Ten to one, she’d have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2nd? I am glad she did n’t have me. I mean—I’m glad I did n’t have her!

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LOVE AND DUTY.

The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay sleeping on her little couch, that fair summer night. So thought her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night blessing. The bright flush of youth, and hope was on her cheek. Her long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders; a smile played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct murmur. She starts, at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlid, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself, “How could I have been so blind? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child!) But he! oh, no; the wine-cup will be my child’s rival; it must not be.” Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be cautiously dealt with; but she knew, also, that no mother need despair, who possesses the affection of her child.

Effie’s violet eyes opened to greet the first ray of the morning sun, as he peeped into her room. She stood at the little mirror, gathering up, with those small hands, the rich tresses

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so impatient of confinement. How could she fail to know that she was fair?—she read it in every face she met; but there was one (and she was hastening to meet him) whose eye had noted, with a lover’s pride, every shining ringlet, and azure vein, and flitting blush; his words were soft and low, and skillfully chosen, and sweeter than music to her ear; and so she tied, with a careless grace, the little straw hat under her dimpled chin; and fresh, and sweet, and guileless, as the daisy that bent beneath her foot, she tripped lightly on to the old trysting place by the willows.

Stay! a hand is laid lightly upon her arm, and the pleading voice of a mother arrests that springing step.

“Effie dear, sit down with me on this old garden seat; give up your walk for this morning; I slept but indifferently last night, and morning finds me languid and depressed.”

A shadow passed over Effie’s face; the little cherry lips pouted, and a rebellious feeling was busy at her heart; but one look in her mother’s pale face decided her, and, untying the strings of her hat, she leaned her head caressingly upon her mother’s shoulder.

“You are ill, dear mother; you are troubled;” and she looked inquiringly up into her face.

“Listen to me, Effie, I have a story to tell you of myself: When I was about your age, I formed an acquaintance with a young man, by the name of Adolph. He had been but a short time in the village, but long enough to win the hearts of half the young girls, from their rustic admirers. Handsome, frank and social, he found himself everywhere a favorite. He would sit

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by me for hours, reading our favorite authors; and side by side, we rambled through all the lovely paths with which our village abounded. My parents knew nothing to his disadvantage, and were equally charmed as myself with his cultivated refinement of manner, and the indefinable interest with which he invested every topic, grave or gay, which it suited his mood to discuss. Before I knew it, my heart was no longer in my own keeping. One afternoon, he called to accompany me upon a little excursion, we had planned together. As he came up the gravel walk, I noticed that his fine hair was in disorder: a pang, keen as death, shot through my heart, when he approached me, with reeling, unsteady step, and stammering tongue. I could not speak. The chill of death gathered round my heart. I fainted. When I recovered, he was gone, and my mother’s face was bending over me, moist with tears. Her woman’s heart knew all that was passing in mine. She pressed her lips to my forehead, and only said, ‘God strengthen you to choose the right, my child.’

“I could not look upon her sorrowful eyes, or the pleading face of my gray-haired father, and trust myself again to the witchery of that voice and smile. A letter came to me; I dared not read it. (Alas! my heart pleased too eloquently, even then, for his return.) I returned it unopened; my father and mother devoted themselves to lighten the load that lay upon my heart; but the perfume of a flower, a remembered strain of music, a struggling moonbeam, would bring back old memories, with a crushing bitterness that swept all before it for the moment. But my father’s aged hand lingered on my head

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with a blessing, and my mother’s voice had the sweetness of an angel’s as it fell upon my ear!

“Time passed on, and I had conquered myself. Your father saw me, and proposed for my hand; my parents left me free to choose, and Effie dear are we not happy?”

“Oh, mother,” said Effie, (then looking sorrowfully in her face,) “did you never see Adolph again?”

“Do you remember, my child, the summer evening we sat upon the piazza, when a dusty, travel-stained man came up the steps, and begged for ‘a supper?’ Do you recollect his bloated, disfigured face? Effie, that was Adolph!”

“Not that wreck of a man, mother?” said Effie, (covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut him out from her sight.)

“Yes; that was all that remained of that glorious intellect, and that form made after God’s own image. I looked around upon my happy home, then upon your noble father—then—upon him, and,” (taking Effie’s little hand and pointing to the ring that encircled it,) “in your ear, my daughter, I now breathe my mother’s prayer for me— ‘God help you to choose the right!”

The bright head of Effie sank upon her mother’s breast, and with a gush of tears she drew the golden circlet from her finger, and placed it in her mother’s hand.

“God bless you, my child,” said the happy mother, as she led her back to their quiet home.

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A FALSE PROVERB.

I wonder who but the “father of lies,” originated this proverb, “Help yourself and then everybody else will help you.” Is it not as true as the book of Job that it’s just driving the nails into your own coffin, to let anybody know you want help? Is not a “seedy” hat, a threadbare coat, or patched dress, an effectual shower-bath on old friendships? Have not people a mortal horror of a sad face and a pitiful story? Don’t they on hearing it, instinctively poke their purses into the farthest, most remote corner of their pockets? Don’t they rap their warm garments round their well-fed persons, and advise you, in a saintly tone, “to trust in Providence?” Are they not always “engaged” ever after, when you call to see them? Are they not near-sighted when you meet them in the street?—and don’t they turn short corners to get out of your way? “Help yourself,”—of course you will, (if you have any spirit;)—but when sickness comes, or dark days, and your wits and nerves are both exhausted, don’t place any dependence on this lying proverb!—or you will find yourself decidedly humbugged. And then, when your heart is so soft that anybody could knock you down with a feather, get into the darkest hole you can find, and cry it out! Then crawl out, bathe your eyes till they shine

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again, and if you have one nice garment left, out with it, put it on! turn your shawl on the brightest side; put your best and pettiest foot foremost; tie on your go-to-meetin’ bonnet, and smile under it, if it half kills you; and see how complaisant the world will be when—you ask nothing of it!

But if (as there are exceptions to all rules,) you should chance to stumble upon a true friend (when you can only render thanks as an equivalent for kindness) “make a note on’t,” as “Captain Cuttle” says, for it don’t happen but once in a life-time!

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A MODEL HUSBAND.

“Mrs. Perry, a young Bloomer, has eloped from Monson, Massachusetts, with Levins Clough. When her husband found she was determined to go, he gave her one hundred dollars to start with.”

Magnanimous Perry! Had I been your spouse, I should have handed that “one hundred dollar bill” to Mr. Levins Clough, as a healing plaster for his disappointed affections—encircled your neck with my repentant arms, and returned to your home. Then, I’d mend every rip in your coat, gloves, vest, pants, and stockings, from that remorseful hour, till the millennial day. I’d hand you your cigar-case and slippers, put away your cane, hang up your coat and hat, trim your beard and whiskers, and wink at your sherry cobblers, whisky punches, and mint juleps. I’d help you get a “ten strike” at ninepins. I’d give you a “night key,” and be perfectly oblivious what time in the small hours you tumbled into the front entry. I’d pet all your stupid relatives, and help your country friends to “beat down” the city shopkeepers. I’d frown at all offers of “pin money.” I’d let you “smoke” in my face till I was as brown as a herring, and my eyes looked as if they were bound with pink tape; and I’d invite that pretty widow Delilah Wil-

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kins to dinner, and run out to do some shopping, and stay away till tea-time. Why! there’s nothing I would n’t do for you—you might have knocked me down with a feather, after such a piece of magnanimity. That “Levins Clough” could stand no more chance than a woodpecker tapping at an iceberg.

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HOW IS IT?

“Well, Susan, what do you think of married ladies being happy?” “Why I think there are more AIN’T than IS, than IS that AIN’T.”

Susan, I shall apply to the Legislature to have your name changed to “Sapphira.” You are an unprincipled female.

Just imagine yourself MRS. Snip. It is a little prefix not to be sneezed at. It is only the privileged few, who can secure a pair of corduroys to mend, and trot by the side of; or a pair of coat-flaps alternately to darn, and hang on to, amid the vicissitudes of this patchwork existence.

Think of the high price of fuel, Susan, and the quantity it takes to warm a low-spirited, single woman; and then think of having all that found for you by your husband, and no extra charge for “gas.” Think how pleasant to go to the closet and find a great boot-jack on your best bonnet; or “to work your passage” to the looking-glass, every morning, through a sea of dickeys, vests, coats, continuations, and neckties; think of your nicely-polished toilette table spotted all over with shaving suds; think of your “Guide to Young Women,” used for a razor strap. Think of Mrs. Snip’s lips being hermetically sealed, day after day, except to ask you “if the coal was

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out, or if his coat was mended.” Think of coming up from the kitchen, in a gasping state of exhaustion, after making a batch of his favorite pies, and finding five or six great dropsical bags disemboweled on your chamber floor, from the contents of which Mr. Snip had selected the “pieces” of your best silk gown, for “rags” to clean his gun with. Think of his taking a watch-guard you made him out of YOUR HAIR, for a dog-collar! Think of your promenading the floor, night after night, with your fretful, ailing baby hushed up to your warm cheek, lest it should disturb your husband’s slumbers; and think of his coming home the next day, and telling you, when you were exhausted with your vigils, “that he had just met his old love, Lilly Grey, looking as fresh as a daisy, and that it was unaccountable how much older you looked than she, although you were both the same age.[”]

Think of all that, Susan.

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A MORNING RAMBLE.

What a lovely morning! It is a luxury to breathe. How blue the sky; how soft the air; how fragrant the fresh spring grass and budding trees; and with what a gush of melody that little bird eases his joy-burdened heart.

“This world is very lovely. Oh my God,

I thank Thee, that I live.”

Clouds there are; but, oh, how much of sunshine! Sorrow there is; but, in every cup is mingled a drop of balm. Over our threshold the destroying angel passeth; yet, ere the rush of his dark wing sweepeth past, cometh the Healer.

—Here is a poor, blind man basking in the sunshine, silently appealing, with outstretched palm, to the passer-by. Through his thin, gray locks the wind plays lovingly. A smile beams on his withered face; for, though his eyes are rayless, he can feel that chill Winter has gone; and he knows that the flowers are blossoming,—for the sweet West wind cometh, God-commissioned, to waft him their fragrance. Some pedestrians gaze curiously at him: others, like the Levite, “pass by on the other side.” A woman approaches. She is plainly clad, and bears a basket on her arm. She has a good, kind, motherly

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face, as if she were hastening back to some humble home, made brighter and happier by her presence. Life is sweet to her. She catches sight of the poor old man; her eye falls upon the label affixed to his breast: “I am blind!” Oh, what if the brightness and beauty of this glad sunshine were all night, to her vailed lids? What if the dear home faces were for ever shrouded from her yearning sight? What if she might never walk the sunny earth, without a guiding hand? She places her basket upon the sidewalk, and wipes away a tear: now she explores her time-worn pocket; finds the hardly-earned coin, and placing it in the palm of the old man, presses his hand lovingly, and is gone!

Poor Bartimeus! He may never see the honest face that bent so tenderly over him; but, to his heart’s core, he felt that kindly pressure, and the sunshine is all the brighter, and the breeze sweeter and fresher for that friendly grasp, and life is again bright to the poor blind man.

“Oh God! I thank Thee, that I live!”

——

How swiftly the ferry boat plows through the wave! How gleefully that little child claps its tiny hands, as the snowy foam parts on either side, then dashes away like a thing of life. Here are weary business men, going back to their quiet homes; and pleasure-loving belles, returning from the city. Pacing up and down the deck, is a worn and weary woman, bearing

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in her arms a child, so emaciated, so attenuated, that but for the restless glance of its dark, sunken eyes, one would think it a little corpse. The mother has left her unhealthy garret in the noisome lane of the teeming city, and paid her last penny to the ferryman, that the health-laden sea breeze may fan the sick child’s temple. Now, she lays its little cheek to hers; now, she kisses the little slender fingers; but still the baby moans. the boat touches the pier. All are leaving, but the mother and child; the ferryman tells her to “go too.” She says timidly, “I want to return again—I live the other side—I came on board for the baby,” (pointing to the dying child.) Poor woman, she did not know that she could not go back without another fee, and she has not a penny. Loathsome as is her distant home, she must go back to it; but how?

One passenger beside herself still lingers listening. Dainty fingers drop a coin into the gruff ferryman’s hand,—then a handful into the weary, troubled mother’s. The sickly babe looks up and smiles at the chinking coin—the mother smiles, because the baby has smiled again—and then weeps because she knows not how to thank the lovely donor.

“Homeward bound.”

Over the blue waters, the golden sunset gleams; tinting the snowy, billowy foam with a thousand iris hues; while at the boat’s prow, stands the happy mother, wooing the cool sunset breeze, which kisses soothingly the sick infant’s temples.

“This world is very lovely. Oh my God,

I thank Thee, that I live.”

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HOUR-GLASS THOUGHTS.

The bride stands waiting at the altar; the corpse lies waiting for burial.

Love vainly implores of Death a reprieve; Despair vainly invokes his coming.

The starving wretch, who purloins a crust, trembles in the hall of Justice; liveried sin, unpunished, riots in high places.

Brothers, clad “in purple and fine linen, fare sumptuously every day;” Sisters, in linsey-woolsey, toil in garrets and shrink, trembling, from insults that no fraternal arm avenges.

The Village Squire sows, reaps and garners golden harvests; the Parish Clergyman sighs, as his casting vote cuts down his already meager salary.

The unpaid sempstress be-gems with tears the fairy festal robe; proud beauty floats in it through the ball-room, like a thing of air.

Church spires point, with tapering fingers, to the rich man’s heaven; Penitence, in rags, tearful and altarless, meekly stays its timid foot at the threshold.

Sneaking Vice, wrapped in the labeled cloak of Piety, finds “open sesame;” shrinking Conscientiousness, jostled rudely aside, weeps in secret its fancied unworthiness.

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The Editor grows plethoric on the applause of the public and mammoth subscription lists; the unrecognized journalist, who, behind the scenes, mixes so deftly the newspaperial salad, lives on the smallest possible stipend, and looks like an undertaker’s walking advertisement.

The Wife, pure, patient, loving, trustful, sits singing, by the evening fire, repairing, with the busy fingers of economy, the time-worn garment; the Husband, favored by darkness, seeks, with stealthy steps and costly gifts, the syren of the hour, squandering hundreds to win a smile which is ever in the market for the highest bidder.

The polluted libertine, with foul lips, hackneyed heart, but polished manners, finds smiling welcome at the beauteous lips of Virtue; while, from the brow on which that libertine has ineffaceably written “Magdalen,” “beauteous Virtue” turns scornfully away.

Wives rant of their “Woman’s Rights,” in public; Husbands eat bad dinners and tend crying babies, at home.

Mothers toil in kitchens; Daughters lounge in parlors.

Fathers drive the Plough; Sons drive tandem.

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BOARDING HOUSE EXPERIENCE.

Mr. Ralph Renoux lived by his wits: i. e., he kept a boarding-house; taking in any number of ladies and gentlemen, who, in the philanthropic language of his advertisement, “pined for the comforts and elegancies of a home.”

Mr. Renoux’s house was at the court-end of the city; his drawing-room was unexceptionably furnished, and himself, when “made up,” after ten o’clock in the morning, quite comme il faut. Mrs. Renoux never appeared; being, in the pathetic words of Mr. Renoux, “in a drooping, invalid state:” nevertheless, she might be seen, by the imitated, haunting the back stairs and entries, and with flying cap-strings, superintending kitchen-cabinet affairs.

Mrs. Renoux was the unhappy mother of three unmarried daughters, with red hair, and tempers to match; who languished over Byron, in elegant negligées, of a morning, till after the last masculine had departed; then, in curl-papers and calico long-shorts, performed, for the absentees, the duty of chamber-maids; peeping into valises, trunks, bureaus, cigar boxes and coat pockets, and replenishing their perfumed bottles, from the

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gentlemen’s toilet stands, with the most perfect nonchalance. At dinner, they emerged from their chrysalis state, into the most butterfly gorgeousness, and exchanged the cracked treble, with which they had been ordering round the over-tasked maid-of-all-work, as they affectionately addressed “Papa.”

——

At the commencement of my story, Renoux was as happy as a kitten with its first mouse—having entrapped, with the bait of his alluring advertisement, a widow lady with one child. “The comforts and elegancies of a home;”—it was just what the lady was seeking:—how very fortunate!

“Certainly, Madam,” said Renoux, doubling himself into the form of the letter C. “I will serve your meals in your own room, if you prefer; but, really, Madam, I trust you will sometimes grace the drawing-room with your presence, as we have a very select little family of boarders. Do you choose to breakfast at eight, nine, or ten, Madam? Do you incline to Mocha? or prefer the leaves of the Celestial city? Are you fond of eggs, Madam? Would you prefer to dine at four, or five? Do you wish six courses, or more? There is the bell-rope, Madam. I trust you will use it unsparingly, should any thing be omitted or neglected. I am just on my way down town, and if you will favor me by saying what you would fancy for your dinner to-day, (the market is full of every thing—fish, flesh, fowl and game of all sorts,) you have only to express a wish, Madam, and the thing is here; I should be miserable, indeed, were the request of a lady to be disregarded in

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my house, and that lady deprived of her natural protector. Which is it, Madam, fish? flesh? or fowl? Any letters to send to the post-office, Madam? Any commands any where? I shall be too happy to be of service;”—and bending to the tips of his patent leather toes, Mr. Renoux, facing the lady, bowed obsequiously and Terpsichore-ally out of the apartment.

The dinner hour came. An Irish servant-girl came with it; and drawing out a table at an Irish angle upon the floor, tossed over it a tumbled table-cloth; placed upon it a castor, minus one leg, some cracked salt-cellars and tumblers; then laid some knives, left-handed, about the table; then, withdrew, to reappear with the result of Mr. Renoux’s laborious research “in the market filled with every thing,” viz: a consumptive looking mackerel, whose skin clung tenaciously to its back bone, and a Peter Schemel looking chicken, which, in its life-time, must have had a vivid recollection of Noah and the forty days’ shower. This was followed by a dessert of stale baker’s tarts, compounded of lard and dried apples; and twenty-four purple grapes.

——

The next morning, Mr. Renoux tip-toed in, smirking and bowing, as if the bill of fare had been the most sumptuous in the world, and expressed the greatest astonishment and indignation, that “the stupid servant had neglected bringing up the other courses which he had provided;” then he inquired “how the lady had rested;” and when she preferred a request for another pillow, (there being only six feathers in the one she

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had,) he assured her that it should be in her apartment in less than one hour. A fortnight after, he expressed the most intense disgust, that “the rascally upholsterer” had not yet sent what he had never ordered. Each morning, Mr. Renoux presented himself, at a certain hour, behind a very stiff dickey, and offered the lady the morning papers. Seating himself on the sofa, he would remark that—it was a very fine day, and that affairs in France appeared to be in statu quo; or, that the Czar had ordered his generals to occupy the principalities; that Gorchakoff was preparing to cross the Danube; that the Sultan had dispatched Omar Pasha to the frontiers; that the latter gentleman had presented his card to Gorchakoff, on the point of a yataghan, which courtesy would probably lead to—something else!

During one of these agreeable calls, the lady took occasion slightly to object to Betty’s nibbling the tarts, as she brought them up for dinner; whereupon, Mr. Renoux declared, upon the honor of a Frenchman, that “she should be pitched out of the door immediately, if not sooner; and an efficient servant engaged to take her place.”

The next day, the “efficient servant” came in, broom in hand, whistling “Oh, Susanna,” and passing into the little dressing room, to “put it to rights,” amused herself by tying on the widow’s best bonnet, and polishing her teeth and combing her hair with that lady’s immaculate and individual head-brush and tooth-brush. You will not be surprised to learn, that their injured and long-suffering owner, took a frantic and “French leave” the following morning, in company with her big and

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little band-boxes; taking refuge under the sheltering roof of Madame Filfillan.

——

Madam Finfillan was a California widow; petite, plump and pretty—who bore her cruel bereavement with feminine philosophy, and slid round the world’s rough angles with a most eel-like dexterity. In short, she was a Renoux in petticoats. Madame welcomed the widow with great pleasure, because, as she said, she “wished to fill her house only with first-class boarders;” and the widow might be assured that she had the apartments fresh from the diplomatic hands of the Spanish Consul, who would on no account have given them up, had not his failing health demanded a trip to the Continent. Madame also assured the widow, that, (although she said it [h]erself,) every part of her house would bear the closest inspection; that those vulgar horrors, cooking butter, and diluted tea, were never seen on her Epicurean table; that they breakfasted at ten, lunched at two, dined at six, and enjoyed themselves in the interim; that her daughter, Miss Clara, was perfectly well qualified to superintend, when business called her mother away. And that nobody knew, (wringing her little white hands,) how much business she had to do, what with trotting round to those odious markets, trading for wood and coal, and such like uninteresting things; or what would become of her, had she not some of the best friends in the world to look after her, in the absence of Mons. Finfillan.

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—Madame then caught up the widow’s little boy, and, half smothering him with kisses, declared that there was nothing on earth she loved so well as children; that there were half a dozen of them in the house, who loved her better than their own fathers and mothers, and that their devotion to her was at times quite touching—(and here she drew out an embroidered pocket-handkerchief, and indulged in an interesting little sniffle behind its cambric folds.) Recovering herself, she went on to say, that the manner in which some boarding-house keepers treated children, was perfectly inhuman: that she had a second table for them, to be sure, but it was loaded with delicacies, and that she always put them up a little school lunch herself; on which occasion there was always an amicable little quarrel among them, as to which should receive from her the greatest number of kisses; also, that it was her frequent practice to get up little parties and tableaux, for their amusement. “But here is my daughter, Miss Clara,” said she, introducing a fair-haired young damsel, buttoned up in a black velvet jacket, over a flounced skirt.

“Just sixteen yesterday,” said Madame: “naughty little blossom, budding out so fast, and pushing her poor mamma off the stage;” (and here Madame paused for a compliment, and looking in the opposite mirror, smoothed her jetty ringlets complacently.) “Yes, every morning little blossom’s mamma looks in the glass, expecting to find a horror of a gray hair. But what makes my little pet so pensive to-day?—thinking of her little lover, hey? Has the naughty little thing a thought she does not share with mamma? But, dear me!”—and

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Madame drew out a little dwarf watch; “I had quite forgotten it is the hour Mons. Guigen gives me my guitar lesson. Adieu, dinner at six, remember;”—and Madame tripped, coquettishly, out of the room.

Yes; “dinner at six.” Gold salt-cellars, black waiters, and finger-bowls; satin chairs in the parlor, and pastille burning on the side-table; but the sheets on the beds all torn to ribbons; the boarders allowed but one towel a week; every bell-rope divorced from its bell; the locks all out of order on the chamber doors; the “dear children’s” bill of fare at the “second table”—sour bread, watery soup, and cold buck-wheat cakes;—and “dinner at six,” only an invention of the enemy, to save the expense of one meal a day—the good, cozy, old-fashioned tea.

Well, the boarders were all “trusteed” by Madame’s butcher, baker and milkman; Miss Clara eloped with the widow’s diamond ring and Mons. Peneke; and Madame, who had heard that Mons. Finfillan was “among the things that were,” was just about running off with Mons. Guigen, when her liege lord suddenly returned from California, with damaged constitution and morals, a dilapidated wardrobe and empty coffers.

Moral. Beware of boarding-houses: in the words of Shakspeare,

Let those keep house who ne’er kept house before
And those who have kept house, keep house the more.

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A GRUMBLE FROM THE (H)ALTAR.

This is the second day I’ve come home to dinner, without that yard of pink ribbon for Mrs. Pendennis. Now, we shall have a broil, not down in the bill of fare. Julius Cæsar; if she only knew how much I have to do; but it would make no difference if she did. I used to think a fool was easily managed. Mrs. Pendennis has convinced me that that was a mistake. If I try to reason with her, she talks round and round in a circle, like a kitten chasing its tail. If I set my arms a-kimbo, and look threatening, she settles into a fit of the sulks, to which a November drizzle of a fortnight’s duration is a millennium. If I try to get round her by petting, she is as impudent as the ——. Yes, just about. Jerusalem! what a thing it is to be married! And yet, if an inscrutable Providence should bereave me of Mrs. Pendennis, I am not at all sure—good gracious here she comes! Do you know I’d rather face one of Colt’s revolvers this minute, than that four feet of womanhood? Is n’t it astonishing, the way they do it?

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A WICK-ED PARAGRAPH.

CONNUBIAL.—Mr. Albert Wicks, of Coventry, under date of December 28th, advertised his wife as having left his bed and board; and now, under date of March 26th, he appends to his former notice, the following:

“Mrs. Wicks, if you ever intend to come back and live with me any more, you must come now or not at all.

“I love you as I do my life, and if you will come now, I will forgive you for all you have done and threatened to do, which I can prove by three good witnesses: and if not, I shall attend to your case without delay, and soon, too.”

There, now, Mrs. Wicks, what is to be done? “Three good witnesses!” think of that! What the mischief have you been about? Whatever it is, Mr. Wicks is ready to “love you like his life.” Consistent Mr. Wicks!

Now take a little advice, my dear innocent, and don’t allow yourself to be badgered or frightened into anything. None but a coward ever threatens a woman. Put that in your memorandum book. It’s all bluster and braggadocio. Thread your darning-needle, and tell him you are ready for him—ready for anything except his “loving you like his life;” that you could not possibly survive that infliction, without having your “wick” snuffed entirely out.

Sew away, just as if there were not a domestic earthquake brewing under your connubial feet. If it sends you up in the air, it sends him, too—there’s a pair of you! Put that in

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his Wick-ed ear! Of course he will sputter away, as if he had swallowed a “Roman candle,” and you can take a nap till her gets through, and then offer him your smelling-bottle to quiet his nerves.

That’s the way to quench him!

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MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY.

“Don’t moralize to a man who is on his back. Help him up, set him firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means.”

There’s an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited for the enlightened age we live in! Fished up, probably, from some musty old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that inconvenient appendage, called a heart! Don’t pay any attention to it. If a poor wretch (male or female) comes to you for charity, whether allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most stoical, “get thee behind me” expression you can muster. Listen to him with the air of a man who “thanks God he is not as other men are.” If the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in hand, button your coat up tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a piece of—good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life, and bring that up as a reason why you can’t give him anything more substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes! Ask him more questions than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism, about his private history, and when you ’ve pumped him high and

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dry, try to teach him (on an empty stomach,) the “duty of submission.” If the tear of wounded sensibility begin to flood the eye, and a hopeless look of discouragement settle down upon the face, “wish him well,” and turn your back upon him as quick as possible.

Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity, and make up your mind to bestow some worn out, old garment that will hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you’ve bought him, body and soul; of course you are entitled to the gratitude of a life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you after that, he’s an “ungrateful wretch,” and “ought to suffer.” As to the “golden rule,” that was made in old times; everything is changed now; ’t aint suited to our meridian.

People should n’t get poor; if they do, you don’t want to be bothered with it. It’s disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You’d rather see Dives than Lazarus; and it’s my opinion your taste will be gratified in that particular, (in the other world, if it is not in this!)

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INSIGNIFICANT LOVE.

“You, young, loving creature, who dream of your lover by night and by day—you fancy that he does the same of you? One hour, perhaps, your presence has captivated him, subdued him even to weakness; the next, he will be in the world, working his way as a man among men, forgetting, for the time being, your very existence. Possibly, if you saw him, his outer self, so hard and stern, so different from the self you know, would strike you with pain. Or else his finer and diviner self, higher than you dream of, would turn coldly from your insignificant love.”

“Insignificant love!!” I like that. More especially when out of ten couples you meet, nine of the wives are as far above their husband’s, in point of mind, as the stars are above the earth. For the credit of the men I should be sorry to say how many of them would be minus coats, hats, pantaloons, cigars, &c., were it not for their wives’ earnings; or how many smart speeches and able sermons have been concocted by their better halves, (while rocking the cradle,) to be delivered to the public at the proper time, parrot fashion, by the lords of creation. Wisdom will die with the men, there’s no gainsaying that!

Catch a smart, talented, energetic woman, and it will puzzle you to find a man that will compare with her for goaheadativeness. The more obstacles she encounters, the harder she struggles, and the more you try to put her down, the more you won’t do it. Children are obliged to write under their

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crude drawings, “this is a dog,” or, “this is a horse.” If it were not for coats and pants, we should be obliged to label, “this is a man,” in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred!

“Insignificant love!” why does a man offer himself a dozen times to the same woman? Pity to take so much pains for such a trifle! “Insignificant love!” Who gets you on your feet again, when you fail in business, by advancing the nice little sum settled on herself by her anxious pa? Who cheers you up, when her nerves are all in a double-and-twisted knot, and you come home with your face long as the moral law? Who wears her old bonnet three winters, while you smoke, and drive, and go to the opera? Who sits up till the small hours, to help you find the way up your own staircase? Who darns your old coat, next morning, just as if you were a man, instead of a brute? And who scratches any woman’s eyes out, who dares insinuate that her husband is superior to you!

“Insignificant love!” I wish I knew the man who wrote that article! I’d appoint his funeral to-morrow, and it should come off, too!!

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A MODEL MARRIED MAN.

Cobbett says that for two years after his marriage, he retained his disposition to flirt with pretty women; but at last his wife—probably having lost all hope of his reforming himself—gently tapped him upon the arm, and remarked—

“Don’t do that. I do not like it.”

Cobbett says:—“That was quite enough. I had never thought on the subject before; one hair of her head was more dear to me than all other women in the world; and this I knew that she knew; but now I saw that this was not all that she had a right to from me. I saw that she had the further claim upon me that I should abstain from everything that might induce others to believe that there was any other woman for whom, even if I were at liberty, I had any affection.”

Now I suppose most women, on reading that, would roll up their eyes and think unutterable things of Mr. Cobbet[t]! But, had I borne his musical name, and had that fine speech been addressed to me, I should immediately have dismissed the—house-maid!

It is not in any masculine to get on his knees that way, without a motive! I tell you, that man was a humbug! overshot the mark entirely; promised ten times as much as a sinful masculine could ever perform. If he’d said about a quarter part of that, you might have believed him. His affection for Mrs. Cobbett was skin-deep. He would have flirted with every one of you, the minute her back was turned, to the end of the electrical chapter!

A man who is magnetized as he ought to be, don’t waste his precious time making such long-winded, sentimental speeches.

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You never need concern yourself, when such a glib tongue makes love to you. Go on with your knitting; he’s convalescent! getting better of his complaint fast. Now mind what I tell you; that Cobbett was a humbug!

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MEDITATIONS OF PAUL PRY, JUN.

Not a blessed bit of gossip have I heard for a whole week! Nobody’s run off with anybody’s wife; not a single case of “Swartwouting;” no minister’s been to the theatre; and my friend Tom, editor of the “Sky Rocket,” (who never cares whether a rumor be true or false, or where it hits, so that it makes a paragraph,) is quite in despair. He’s really afraid the world is growing virtuous—says it would be a hundred dollars in his pocket, to get hold of a bit of scandal in such a dearth of news; and if the accused party gets obstreperous, he’d just as lief publish one side as the other! The more fuss the better; all he’s afraid of is, they won’t think it worth noticing!

Ah! we’ve some new neighbors in that house; pretty woman there, at the window; glad of that! In the first place, it rests my eyes to look at them; in the next place, where there’s a pretty woman, you may be morally certain there’ll be mischief, sooner or later, i. e. if they don’t have somebody like me to look after them; therefore I shall keep my eye on hr. That’s her husband in the room, I’m certain of it, (for all the while she is talking to him, she’s looking out the window!) there he goes down street to his business—a regular hum-

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drum, henpecked, “ledger” looking Lilliputian. Was not cut out for her, that’s certain! Well, my lady’s wide awake enough! Look at her eye! No use in pursing up that pretty mouth!—that eye tells the story! Nice little plump figure; coquettish turn of the head, and a spring to her step. Well, well, I’ll keep my eyes open.

Just as I expected! there’s a young man ringing at the door; “patent leather,” “kid gloves,” white hand, ring on the little finger—hope she won’t shut the blinds now. There! she has taken her seat on the sofa at the back part of the room. She don’t escape me that way, while I own a spy-glass! Jupiter! if he is not twisting her curls round his fingers! Wonder how old “Ledger” would like that!

Tuesday.—Boy at the door with a bouquet. Can’t ring the bell; I’ll just step out and offer to do it for him, and learn who sent it! “Has orders not to tell;” umph! I’ve no orders “not to tell;” so here goes a note to Ledger about it; that little gipsy is stepping RATHER too high.

Wednesday.—Here I am tied up for a month at least; scarcely a whole bone in my body, to say nothing of the way my feelings are hurt. How did I know that young man was “her brother?” Why could n’t Ledger correct my mistake in a gentlemanly way, without daguerreotyping it on my back with a horsewhip? It’s true I am not always correct in my suspicions, but he ought to have looked at my motives! Suppose it had n’t been her brother, now! It’s astonishing, the ingratitude of people. It’s enough to discourage all my attempts at moral reform!

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Well, it’s no use attacking that hornet’s nest again; but I’ve no doubt some of the commandments are broken somewhere; and with the help of some “opodeldoc” I’ll get out and find where it is!

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SUNSHINE AND YOUNG MOTHERS.

FOLLY. For girls to expect to be happy without marriage. Every woman was made for a mother, consequently, babies are as necessary to their “peace of mind,” as health. If you wish to look at melancholy and indigestion, look at an old maid. If you would take a peep at sunshine, look in the face of a young mother.

“Young mothers and sunshine”! They are worn to fiddle strings before they are twenty-five! When an old lover turns up, he thinks he sees his grandmother, instead of the dear little Mary who used to make him feel as if he should crawl out of the toes of his boots! Yes! my mind is quite made up about matrimony; it’s a one-sided partnership.

“Husband” gets up in the morning, and pays his devoirs to the looking-glass; curls his find head of hair; puts on an immaculate shirt bosom; ties and excruciating cravat; sprinkles his handkerchief with cologne; stows away a French roll, an egg, and a cup of coffee; gets into the omnibus, looks at the pretty girls, and makes love between the pauses of business during the forenoon generally. Wife must “hermetically seal” the windows and exclude all the fresh air, (because the baby had “the snuffles” in the night;) and sits gasping down to the table more dead than alive, to finish her breakfast. Tommy turns a cup of hot coffee down his bosom; Juliana has torn off the strings of her school bonnet; James “wants his geography covered;” Eliza can’t find her satchel; the butcher wants to

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know if she’d like a joint of mutton; the milkman would like his money; the iceman wants to speak to her “just a minute;” the baby swallows a bean; husband sends the boy home from the store to say his partner will dine with him; the cook leaves “all flying,” to go to her “sister’s dead baby’s wake,” and husband’s thin coat must be ironed before noon.

“Sunshine and young mothers!” Where’s my smelling bottle?

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UNCLE BEN’S ATTACK OF SPRING FEVER, AND HOW HE GOT CURED.

“It is not possible that you have been insane enough to go to housekeeping in the country, for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my experience,” and Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead, at the very thought.

Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife: got rabid with the dog days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green grass. There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement in her life, and did n’t know the difference between a cheese and a grindstone.

Well, we ripped up our carpets, and tore down our curtains, and packed up our crockery, and nailed down our pictures, and eat dust for a week, and then we emigrated to Daisy Ville.

Could I throw up a window or fasten back a blind in that house, without sacrificing my suspenders and waistband button? No, sir! Were not the walls full of Red Rovers? Did n’t the door fly open at every wind gust? Did n’t the roof leak like the mischief? Was not the chimney leased to a pack of swallows? Was not the well a half a mile from the house?

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Oh, you need n’t laugh. Instead of the comfortable naps to which I had been accustomed, I had to sleep with one eye open all night, lest I should n’t get into the city in time. I had to be all night, lest I should n’t get into the city in time. I had to be shaving in the morning before a rooster in the barn-yard had stirred a feather; swallowed my coffee and toast by steam, and then, still masticating, made for the front door. There stood Peter with my horse and gig,—for I detest your cars and omnibuses. On the floor of the chaise was a huge basket in which to bring home material for the next day’s dinner; on the seat was a dress of my wife’s to be left “without fail” at Miss Sewing Silk’s, to have the forty-seventh hook moved one-sixth of a degree higher up on the back. Then there was a package of shawls from Tom Fools & Co., to be returned, and a pair of shoes to carry to Lapstone, who was to select another pair for me to bring out at night; and a demijohn to be filled with Sherry. Well, I whipped up Bucephalus, left my sleeping wife and babies, and started for town; cogitating over an intricate business snarl, which bade defiance to any straightening process. I had n’t gone half a mile before an old maid (I hate old maids) stopped me to know if I was going into town, and if I was, if I would n’t take her in, as the omnibusses made her sick. She said she was niece to Squire Dandelion, and “had a few chores to do a shopping.” So I took her in, or rather, she took me in, (but she did n’t do it but once—for I bought a sulkey next day!) Well, it came night, and I was hungry as a Hottentot, for I never could dine, as your married widowers pro tem do, at eating-houses, where one gravy answers for flesh, fish and fowl, and the pudding-sauce is as black as the

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cook’s complexion. So I went round on an empty stomach, hunting up my expressman parcels, and wending my way to the stable with arms and pockets running over. When I got home, found my wife in despair, no tacks in the house to nail down carpets, and not one to be had at the store in the village; the cook had deserted because she could n’t do without “her city privileges,” (meaning Jonathan Jones, the “dry dirt” man); and the chambermaid, a buxom country girl with fire red hair, was spinning round the crockery (a la Blitz) because she “could n’t eat with the family.”

Then Charley was taken with the croup in the night, and in my fright I put my feet into my coat sleeves, and my arms into my pants, and put on one of my wife’s ruffles instead of a dicky, and rode three miles in a pelting rain, for some “goose grease” for his throat.

Then we never found out till cherries, and strawberries, and peaches were ripe, how many friends (?) we had. There was a horse hitched at every rail in the fence, so long as there was anything left to eat on a tree in the farm; but if my wife went in town shopping, and called on any of them, they were “out, or engaged;”—or if at home, had “just done dinner, and were going to ride.”

Then there was no school in the neighborhood for the children, and they were out in the barn-yard feeding the pigs with lump sugar, and chasing the hens off the nest to see what was the prospect for eggs, and making little boats of their shoes, and sailing them in the pond, and milking the cow in the middle of the day, &c.

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Then if I dressed in the morning in linen coat, thin pants, and straw hat, I’d be sure to find the wind “dead east” when I got into the city; or if I put on broadcloth and fixins to match, it would be hotter than Shadrach’s furnace, all day—while the dense morning fog would extract the starch from my dicky and shirt-bosom, till they looked very like a collapsed flapjack.

Then our meeting-house was a good two miles distant, and we had to walk, or stay at home; because my factotum (Peter) would n’t stay on the farm without he could have the horse Sundays to go to Mill Village to see his affianced Nancy. Then the old farmers leaned on my stone wall, and laughed till the tears came into their eyes, to see “the city gentleman’s” experiments in horticulture, as they passed by “to meetin’.”

Well, sir, before summer was over, my wife and I looked as jaded as omnibus horses—she with chance “help” and floods of city company, and I with my arduous duties as express man for my own family in particular, and the neighbors in general.

And now here we are—“No. 9 Kossuth square.” Can reach anything we want, by putting our hands out the front windows. If, as the poet says, “man made the town,” all I’ve got to say is—he understood his business!

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THE AGED MINISTER VOTED A DISMISSION.

Your minister is “superannuated,” is he? Well, call a parish meeting, and vote him a dismission; hint that his usefulness is gone; that he is given to repetition; that he puts his hearers to sleep. Turn him adrift, like a blind horse, or a lame house dog. Never mind that he has grown gray in your thankless service—that he has smiled upon your infants at the baptismal font, given them lovingly away in marriage to their heart’s chosen, and wept with you when Death’s shadow darkened your door. Never mind that he has laid aside his pen, and listened many a time, and oft, with courteous grace to your tedious, prosy conversations, when his moments were like gold dust; never mind that he has patiently and uncomplainingly accepted at your hands, the smallest pittance that would sustain life, because “the Master” whispered in his ear, “Tarry here till I come.” Never mind that the wife of his youth, whom he won from a home of luxury, is broken down with privation and fatigue, and your thousand unnecessary demands upon her strength, patience, and time. Never mind that his children, at an early age, were exiled from the parsonage roof, because there was not “bread enough and to spare,” in their father’s

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“Your minister is getting ‘superannuated,’ is he? Well, call a parish meeting and vote him a dismission.”

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house. Never mind that his library consists only of a Bible, a Concordance, and a Dictionary; and that to the luxury of a religious newspaper, he has been long years a stranger. Never mind that his wardrobe would be spurned by many a mechanic in our cities; never mind that he has “risen early and sat up late,” and tilled the ground with weary limbs, for earthly “manna,” while his glorious intellect lay in fetters—for you. Never mind all that; call a parish meeting, and vote him “superannuated.” Don’t spare him the starting tear of sensibility, or the flush of wounded pride, by delicately offering to settle a colleague, that your aged pastor may rest on his staff in grateful, gray-haired independence. No! turn the old patriarch out; give him time to go to the moss-grown church-yard, and say farewell to his unconscious dead, and then give “the right hand of fellowship’ to some beardless, pedantic, noisy college boy, who will save your sexton the trouble of pounding the pulpit cushions; and who will tell you and the Almighty, in his prayers, all the political news of the week.

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THE FATAL MARRIAGE.

A very pretty girl was Lucy Lee. Don’t ask me to describe her; stars, and gems, and flowers, have long since been exhausted in depicting heroines. Suffice it to say, Lucy was as pretty a little fairy as ever stepped foot in a slipper or twisted a ringlet.

Of course, Lucy knew she was pretty; else why did the gentlemen stare at her so? Why did Harry Graham send her so many bouquets? Why did Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones try to sit each other out in an evening call? Why were picnics and fairs postponed, if she were engaged or ill? Why did so many young men request an introduction? Why did all the serenaders come beneath her window? Why was a pew or omnibus never full when she appeared at the door? And last, though not least, why did all the women imitate and hate her so?

We will do Miss Lucy the justice to say, that she bore her blushing honors very meekly. She never flaunted her conquest in the faces of less attractive feminines; no, Lucy was the farthest remove from a coquette; but kind words and bright smiles were as natural to her as fragrance to flowers, or music to birds. She never tried to win hearts; and between you and me, I think that’s the way she did it.

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Grave discussions were often held about Lucy’s future husband; the old maids scornfully asserting that “beauties generally pick up a crooked stick at last,” while the younger ones cared very little whom she married, if she only were married and out of their way. Meanwhile, Lucy smiled at her own happy thoughts, and sat at her little window on pleasant, summer evenings, watching for Harry, (poor Harry,) who, when he came, was at a loss to know if she had ever given her little heart one flutter, so merrily did she laugh and chat with him. Skillful little Lucy, it was very right you should n’t let him peep into your heart till he had opened a window in his own.

Lucy’s papa did n’t approve of late hours or lovers; moonlight he considered but another name for rheumatism; at nine o’clock, precisely, he rung the bell each evening for family prayers; and when the Bible came in lovers were expected to go out: in case they were obtuse,—chairs set back against the wall, or an extra lamp blown out, or the fire taken apart, were hints sufficiently broad to be understood; and they generally answered the purpose. Miss Lucy’s little lamp, glowing immediately after from her bed-room window, gave the finale to the “Mede and Persian” order of Mr. Lee’s family arrangements.

Still, Lee house was not a hermitage, by any means. More white cravats and black coats passed over “Deacon” Lee’s threshold, than into any hotel in Yankeedom. Little Lucy’s mother, too, was a modern Samaritan, never weary of experimenting on their dyspeptic and bronchial affections; while Lucy herself (bless her kind heart) knew full well that two-thirds of

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them had large families, empty purses, and more Judases and Paul Prys than “Aarons and Hurs” in their congregations.

Among the habitués of Lee house, none were so acceptable to Lucy’s father, as Mr. Ezekiel Clark, a bachelor of fifty, an ex-minister, and now an agent for some “Benevolent Society.” Ezekiel had an immensely solemn face; and behind this convenient mask he was enabled to carry out, undetected, various little plans, ostensibly for the “society’s” benefit, but privately—for his own personal aggrandizement. When Ezekiel’s opinion was asked, he crossed his hands and feet, and fastened his eyes upon the wall, in an attitude of the deepest abstraction, while his questioner stood on one leg, awaiting, with the most intense anxiety, the decision of such an oracular Solomon. Well, not to weary you, the long and short of it was, that Solomon was a stupid fool, who spent his time trying to humbug the religious public in general, and Deacon Lee in particular, into the belief that had he been consulted before this world was made, he could have suggested great and manifold improvements. As to Deacon Lee, no cat ever tossed a poor mouse more dexterously than he played with the deacon’s free will; all the while very demurely pocketing the spoils in the shape of “donations” to the “society,” with which he appeased his washerwoman and tailor, and transported himself across the country, on trips to Newport, Saratoga, &c., &c.

His favorite plan was yet to be carried out; which was no more or less than a modest request for the deacon’s pretty daughter, Lucy, in marriage. Mr. Lee rubbed his chin, and said, “Lucy was nothing but a foolish little girl” but Ezekiel

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overruled it, by remarking that that was so much the more reason she should have a husband some years her senior, with some knowledge of the world, qualified to check and advise her; to all of which, after an extra pinch of snuff, and another look into Ezekiel’s oracular face, Deacon Lee assented.

Poor little Lucy! Ezekiel knew very well that her father’s word was law, and when Mr. Lee announced him as her future husband, she knew she was just as much Mrs. Ezekiel Clark, as if the bridal ring had been already slipped on her fairy finger. She sighed heavily, to be sure, and patted her little foot nervously, and when she handed him his tea, thought he looked older than ever; while Ezekiel swallowed one cup after another, till his eyes snapped and glowed like a panther’s in ambush. That night poor Lucy pressed her lips to a faded rose, the gift of Harry Graham; then, cried herself to sleep!

Unbounded was the indignation of Lucy’s admirers, when the sanctimonious Ezekiel was announced as the expectant bridegroom. Harry Graham took the first steamer for Europe, railling at “woman’s fickleness.” (Consistent Harry! when never a word of love had passed his moustached lip.)

Shall I tell you how Ezekiel was transformed into the most ridiculous of lovers? how his self-conceit translated Lucy’s indifference into maiden coyness? how he looked often in the glass and thought he was not so very old after all? how he advised Lucy to tuck away all her bright curls, because they “looked so childish?” how he named to her papa an “early marriage day,”—not that he felt nervous about losing his prize—

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oh, no (?)—but because “the society’s business required his undivided attention.”

Well; Lucy, in obedience to her father’s orders, stood up in her snow-white robe, and vowed “to love and cherish” a man just her father’s age, with whom she had not the slightest congeniality of taste or feeling. But papa had said it was an excellent match, and Lucy never gainsayed papa; still, her long lashes drooped heavily over her blue eyes, and her hand trembled, and her cheek grew deathly pale, as Ezekiel handed her to the carriage that whirled them rapidly away.

Shall I tell you how long months and years dragged wearily on? how Lucy saw through her husband’s mask of hypocrisy and self-conceit? how to indifference succeeded disgust? how Harry Graham returned from Europe, with a fair young English bride? how Lucy grew nervous and hysterical? how Ezekiel soon wearied of his sick wife, and left her in one of those tombs for the wretched, an insane hospital? and how she wasted, day by day—then died, with only a hired nurse to close those weary blue eyes?

In a quiet corner of the old churchyard where Lucy sleeps, a silver-haired old man, each night a dew-fall, paces to and fro, with remorseless tread, as if by that weary vigil he would fain atone to the unconscious sleeper, for turning her sweet young life to bitterness.

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FRANCES SARGEANT OSGOOD.

“I’m passing through the eternal gates,

Ere June’s sweet roses blow.”

So sang the dying poetess. The “eternal gates” have closed upon her. Those dark, soul-lit eyes beam upon us no more. “June” has come again, with its “sweet roses,” its birds, its zephyrs, its flowers and fragrance. It is such a day as her passionate heart would have reveled in—a day of Eden-like freshness and beauty. I will gather some fair, sweet flowers, and visit her grave.

“Show me Mrs. Fanny Osgood’s monument, please,” said I to the rough gardener, who was spading the turf in Mount Auburn.

“In Orange Avenue, Ma’am,” he replied, respectfully indicating, with a wave of the hand, the path I was to pursue.

Tears started to my eyes, as I trod reverently down the quiet path. The little birds she loved so well, were skimming confidingly and joyously along before me, and singing as merrily as if my heart echoed back their gleeful songs.

I approached the enclosure, as the gardener had directed me. There were five graves. In which slept the poetess? for there was not even a headstone! The flush of indignant feeling

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mounted to my temples; the warm tears started from my eyes. She was forgotten! Sweet, gifted Fanny! in her own family burial place she was forgotten! The stranger from a distance, who had worshiped her genius, might in vain make a pilgrimage to do her honor. I, who had personally known and loved her, had not even the poor consolation of decking the bosom of her grave with the flowers I had gathered; I could not kiss the turf beneath which she is reposing; I could not drop a tear on the sod, ’neath which her remains are mouldering back to their native dust. I could not tell, (though I so longed to know,) in which of the little graves—for there were several—slept her “dear May,” her “pure Ellen;” the little, timid, household doves, who folded their weary wings when the parent bird was stricken down, by the aim of the unerring Archer.

Though allied by no tie of blood to the gifted creature, who, somewhere, lay sleeping there, I felt the flush of shame mount to my temples, to turn away and leave her dust so unhonored. Oh, God! to be so soon forgotten by all the world!—How can even earth look so glad, when such a warm, passionate heart lies cold and pulseless? Poor, gifted, forgotten Fanny! She “still lives” in my heart; and, Reader, glance your eyes over these touching lines, “written during her last illness,” and tell me, Shall she not also live in thine?

——

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A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.

BY MRS. OSGOOD.

Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves

Fold their white wings in Heaven safe on thy breast,

Ere I am called away! I dare not leave

Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts!

Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills

Comes sweeping down life’s vista, as I gaze?

My May! my careless, ardent-tempered May;

My frank and frolic child! in whose blue eyes

Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise;

Whose cheek, the morning in her soul illumes;

Whose little, loving heart, a word, a glance,

Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,

And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms

Each moment, for a kiss, and softly asks,

With her clear, flute-like voice, “Do you love me?”

Ah! let me stay! Ah! let me still be by,

To answer her, and meet her warm caress!

For, I away, how oft, in this rough world,

That earnest question will be asked in vain!

How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart

Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn, at length,

The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!

Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast,

In which each shade that dims her darling face

Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects

The clouds that cross yon smiling Heaven[]

And thou,

My modest Ellen! tender, thoughtful, true,

Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies;

My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts

Of genius, grace and loveliness half-hidden

’Neath the soft vail of innate modesty:

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How will the world’s wild discord reach thy heart,

To startle and appal! Thy generous scorn

Of all things base and mean—thy quick, keen taste,

Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear

Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,

Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,

All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child.

And oh! if ever their grace and goodness meet

Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all

The latent evil yet undisciplined

In their young, timid soul forgiveness find?

Forgiveness and forbearance, and soft chidings,

Which I, their mother, learn’d of love, to give.

Ah! let me stay! albeit my heart is weary,

Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,

That finds no echo in this busy world

Which cannot pause to answer—tired, alike,

Of joy and sorrow—of the day and night!

Ah! take them FIRST, my Father! and then me;

And for their sakes—for their sweet sakes, my Father!

Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.

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BEST THINGS.

I have a horror of “best” things, come they in the shape of shoes, garments, bonnets or rooms. In such a harness my soul peers restlessly out, asking “if I be I.” I’m puzzled to find myself. I become stiff and formal and artificial as my surroundings.

But of all the best things, spare me the infliction of a “best room.” Out upon a carpet too fine to tread upon, books too dainty to handle, sofas that but mock your weary limbs, and curtains that dare not face a ray of sunlight!

Had I a house, there should be no “best room” in it. No upholsterer should exorcise comfort, or children, from my door-sill. The free, fresh air should be welcome to play through it; the bright, glad sunshine to lighten and warm it; while fresh mantel-flowers should woo us visits from humming-bird and drowsy bee.

For pictures, I’d look from out my windows, upon a landscape painted by the Great Master—ever fresh, ever varied, and never marred by envious “cross lights;” now, wreathed in morning’s silvery mist; now, basking in noon’s broad beam; now, flushed with sunset’s golden glow; now, sleeping in dreamy moonlight.

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For statuary, fill my house with children—rosy, dimpled, laughing children; now, tossing their sunny ringlets from open brows; now, vailing their merry eyes in slumberous dreams, ’neath snow-white lids; now, sweetly grave, on bended knee, with clasped hands, and lisped words of holy prayer.

Did I say I’d have nothing “best?” Pardon me. Sunday should be the best day of all the seven—not ushered in with ascetic form, or lengthened face, or stiff and rigid manners. Sweetly upon the still Sabbath air should float the matin hymn of happy childhood; blending with early song of birds, and wafted upward, with flowers’ incense, to Him whose very name is Love. It should be no day for puzzling the half-developed faith that prompts the innocent lips to say, “Our Father.” It should be no day to sit upright on stiff-backed chairs, till the golden sun should set. No; the birds should not be more welcome to warble, the flowers to drink in the air and sunlight, or the trees to toss their lithe limbs, free and fetterless.

“I’m so sorry that to-morrow is Sunday!” From whence does this sad lament issue? From under your roof, oh mistaken but well-meaning Christian parents—from the lips of your child, whom you compel to listen to two or three unintelligible sermons, sandwiched between Sunday schools, and finished off at nightfall by tedious repetitions of creeds and catechisms, till sleep releases your weary victim! No wonder your child shudders, when the minister tells him that “Heaven is one eternal Sabbath.”

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Oh, mistaken parent! relax the over-strained bow—prevent the fearful rebound, and make the Sabbath what God designed it, not a weariness, but the “best” and happiest day of all the seven.

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THE VESTRY MEETING.

The clock had just struck seven. The sharp-nosed old sexton of the Steeple-Street Church had arranged the lights to his mind, determined the proper latitude and longitude of Bibles and hymn-books, peeped curiously into the little black stove in the corner, and was now admonishing every person who passed in, of the propriety of depositing the “free soil” on his boots upon the entry door-mat.

In they crept, one after another—pale-faced seamstresses, glad of a reprieve; servant girls, who had turned their backs upon unwashed dishes; mothers, whose “crying babies” were astounding the neighbors; old maids, who had nowhere to spend their long evenings; widowers, who felt an especial solicitude lest any of the sisters should be left to return home unprotected; girls and boys, who came because they were bid, and who had no very clear idea of the performances; and last, though not least, “Ma’am Spy, who thought it her duty to see that none of the church-members were missing, and to inquire every Tuesday night, of her friend Miss Prim, if she did n’t consider Mrs. Violet a proper subject for church discipline, because she always had money enough to pay her board bills, although her husband had deserted her.

Then there were the four Misses Nipper, who crawled in as if

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the vestry floor were paved with live kittens, and who had never been known, for four years, to vary one minute in their attendance, or to keep awake from the first prayer to the doxology.

Then, there was Mrs. John Emmons, who sang the loudest, and prayed the longest, and wore the most expensive bonnets, of any female member in the church—whose name was on every committee, who instituted the select praying circle for the more aristocratic portion of the parish, and whose pertinacious determination to sit next to her husband at the Tuesday night meeting, was regarded by the uninitiated as a beautiful proof of conjugal devotion; but which, after patient investigation, (between you and me, dear reader,) was found to be for the purpose of arresting his coat-flaps when he popped up to make mental shipwreck of himself by making a speech.

Then, there was Mr. Nobbs, whose remarks were a re-hash of the different religious periodicals of the day, diversified with misapplied texts of Scripture, and delivered with an intonation and gesticulation that would have given Demosthenes fits.

Then, there was Zebedee Falstaff, who accomplished more for the amelioration of the human race (according to his own account) than any man of his aldermanic proportions in the nation, and who delivered (on a hearty supper) a sleepy exhortation on the duties of self-denial and charity, much to the edification of one of his needy relatives, to whose tearful story he had that very day turned a deaf ear.

Then, there was Brother Higgins, who was always “just going” to make a speech, “if brother Thomas had n’t so exactly anticipated his sentiments a minute before.”

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Then, there was Mrs. Addison Theophilus Shakspeare Milton, full of poetical and religious inspiration, who soared so high in the realms of fancy, that his hearers lost sight of him.

Then, there were some sincere, good-hearted Christians—respectable citizens—worthy heads of families; but whose lips had never been “touched with a live coal from off the altar.”

Where was the pastor? Oh, he was there—a slight, fragile, scholar-like looking man, with a fine intellectual face, exquisitely refined tastes and sensibilities, and the meek spirit of “the Master.” Had those slender shoulders no cross to bear? When chance sent some fastidious worldling through that vestry door, did it cost him nothing to watch the smile of contempt curl the stranger’s lip, as some uneducated, but well-meaning layman, presented with stammering tongue, in ungrammatical phrase, distorted, one-sided, bigoted views of great truths which his eloquent tongue might have made as clear as the noon-day, and as cheering and welcome as heaven’s own blessed light, to the yearning, dissatisfied spirit? Oh, is there nothing in religion, when it can so subdue the pride of intellect as to enable its professor to disregard the stammering tongue, and sit meekly at the feet of the ignorant disciple because he is a disciple?

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A BROADWAY SHOP REVERIE.

Forty dollars for a pocket-handkerchief! My dear woman! you need a straight-jacket, even though you may be the fortunate owner of a dropsical purse.

I won’t allude to the legitimate use of a pocket-handkerchief, I won’t speak of the sad hearts that “forty dollars,” in the hands of some philanthropist, might lighten; I won’t speak of the “crows’ feet” that will be penciled on your fair face, when your laundress carelessly sticks the point of her remorseless smoothing iron through the flimsy fabric, or the constant espionage you must keep over your treasure, in omnibuses, or when promenading; but I will ask you how many of the lords of creation, for whose especial benefit you array yourself, will know whether that cobweb rag fluttering in your hand cost forty dollars, or forty cents?

Pout if you like, and toss your head, and say that you “don’t dress to please the gentlemen.” I don’t hesitate to tell you (at this distance from your finger nails) that is a downright—mistake! and that the enormous sums most women expend for articles, the cost of which few, save shop-keepers and butterfly feminines, know, is both astounding and ridiculous.

True, you have the sublime gratification of flourishing your

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forty-dollar handkerchief, of sporting your twenty-dollar “Hoiton collar,” or of flaunting your thousand-dollar shawl, before the envious and admiring eyes of some weak sister, who has made the possible possession of the article in question a profound and lifetime study; you may pass, too, along the crowded paveé, laboring under the hallucination, that every passer-by appreciates your dry-goods value. Not a bit of it! Yonder is a group of gentlemen. You pass them in your promenade; they glance carelessly at your tout-ensemble, but their eyes rest admiring on a figure close behind you. It will chagrin you to learn that this locomotive loadstone has on a seventy-five cent hat of simple straw—a dress of lawn, one shilling per yard—a twenty-five cent collar, and a shawl of the most unpretending price and fabric.

All these items you take in at a glance, as you turn upon her your aristocratic eye of feminine criticism to extract, if possible, the talismanic secret of her magnetism. What is it? Let me tell you. Nature, willful dame, has an aristocracy of her own, and in one of her independent freaks has so daintily fashioned your rival’s limbs, that the meanest garb could not mar a grace, nor the costliest fabric add one. Compassionating her slender purse, nature has also added an artistic eye, which accepts or rejects fabrics and colors with unerring taste; hence her apparel is always well chosen and harmonious, producing the effect of a rich toilet at the cost of “a mere song;” and as she sweeps majestically past, one understands why Dr. Johnson pronounced a woman to be “perfectly dressed when one could never remember what she wore.”

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Now, I grant you, it is very provoking to be eclipsed by a star without a name—moving out of the sphere of “upper-ten”-dom—a woman who never wore a “camel’s hair shawl,” or owned a diamond in her life; after the expense you have incurred, too, and the fees you have paid to Madame Pompadour and Stewart for the first choice of their Parisian fooleries. It is harrowing to the sensibilities. I appreciate the awkwardness of your position; still, my compassion jogs my invention vainly for a remedy—unless, indeed, you consent to crush such democratic presumption, by labelling the astounding price of the dry-goods upon your aristocratic back.

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“THE OLD WOMAN.”

Look into yonder window! What do you see? Nothing new, surely; nothing but what the angels have looked smilingly down upon since the morning stars first sang together; nothing but a loving mother hushing upon her faithful breast a wailing babe, whose little life hangs by a slender thread. Mortal lips have said, “The boy must die!”

A mother’s hope never dies. She clasps him closer to her breast, and gazed upward;—food and sleep and rest are forgotten, so that that little flickering taper die not out. Gently upon her soft, warm breast she wooes for it baby slumbers; long, weary nights, up and down the cottage floor she paces, soothing its restless moaning. Suns rise and set—stars pale—seasons come and go;—she heeds them not, so that those languid eyes but beam brightness. Down the meadow—by the brook—on the hill-side—she seeks with him the health-restoring breeze.

God be praised!—health comes at last! What joy to see the rosy flush mantle on the pallid cheek!—what joy to see the shrunken limbs grow round with health!—what joy to see the damp, thin locks grow crisp and glossy!

What matter though the knitting lie neglected, or the spin-

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ning-wheel be dumb, so that the soaring kite or bouncing ball but please his boyish fancy, and prompt the gleeful shout? What matter that the coarser fare be hers, so that the daintier morsel pass his rosy lip? What matter that her robe be threadbare, so that his graceful limbs be clad in Joseph’s rainbow coat? What matter that her couch be hard, so that his sunny head rest nightly on a downy pillow? What matter that he slender purse be empty, so that his childish heart may never know denial?

——

Years roll on. That loving mother’s eye grows dim; her glossy locks are silvered; her limbs are sharp and shrunken; her footsteps slow and tottering. And the boy?—the cherished Joseph?—he of the bold, bright eye, and sinewy limb, and bounding step? Surely from his kind hand shall flowers be strewn on the dim, downward path to the dark valley; surely will her son’s strong arm be hers to lean on; his voice of music sweeter to her dull ear than seraphs’ singing.

No, no!—the hum of busy life has struck upon his ear, drowning the voice of love. He has become a MAN! refined, fastidious!—and to his forgetful, unfilial heart, (God forgive him,) the mother who bore him is only—“the old woman!”

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SUNDAY MORNING AT THE DIBDINS.

“Jane,” (suddenly exclaims Mrs. Dibdin,) “do you know it is nearly time for your Sabbath School to commence? I hope you have committed your hymns and commandments to memory. Put on your little jet bracelet, and your ruffled pantalettes. Now, say the third commandment, while I fix your curls. It does seem to me as if your hair never curls half as well on Sundays as on week days. Mind, you ask Letty Brown where her mother bought that cunning little straw hat of hers,—not in Sabbath School, of course—that would be very wicked—but after it is over, as you walk along to church.

“Jane, what’s the chief end of man? Don’t know? Well, it’s the most astonishing thing that that Assembly’s Catechism don’t stay in your head any better! It seems to go into one ear and out of the other. Now pay particular attention while I tell you what the chief end of man is. The chief end of man is—is—well—I—why don’t you hold still?—you are always putting a body out! You had better run up stairs and get your book. Here, stop a minute, and let me tie your sash straight. Pink is very becoming to you, Jane; you inherit your mother’s blonde beauty. Come away from that glass, Jane, this minute; don’t

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you know it is wicked to look in the glass on Sunday? See if you can say your ‘creed’ that your Episcopal teacher wants you to learn. Come; ‘I believe’—(In less than one week your toes will be through those drab gaiters, Jane.) Goodness, if there is n’t the bell! Why did n’t you get your lesson Saturday evening? Oh! I recollect; you were at dancing school. Well—you need n’t say anything about that to your teacher; because—because there’s ‘a time to dance,’ and a time to go to meeting, and now it is meeting time; so, come here, and let me roll that refractory ringlet over my finger once more, and then, do you walk solemnly along to church, as a baptised child should.

“Here! stop a bit!—you may wear this coral bracelet of mine, if you won’t lose it. There; now you look most as pretty as your mother did, when she was your age. Don’t toss your head so, Jane; people will call you vain; and you know I have always told you that it makes very little difference how a little girl looks, if she is only a little Christian. There, good-bye;—repeat your catechism, going along; and don’t let the wind blow your hair out of curl.”

——

SUNDAY NOON AT THE DIBDINS.

(Mr. Dibdin reading a pile of business letters, fresh from the post-office; Mrs. Dibdin, in a pearl-colored brocade and lace ruffles, devouring “Bleak House.”)

Mrs. Dibdin.—“Jane, is it possible I see you on the holy Sabbath day, with Mother Goose’s Melodies? Put it away,

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this minute, and get your Bible. There’s the pretty story of Joseph building the ark, and Noah in the lion’s den, and Isaac killing his brother Cain, and all that.”

Jane.—“Well, but, mamma, you know I can’t spell the big words. Won’t you read it to me?”

Mrs. Dibdin.—“I am busy reading now, my dear; go and ask your papa.”

Jane.—“Please, papa, will you read to me in my little Bible? mamma is busy.”

Mrs. Dibdin.—“My dear, will you be kind enough to pull that bell for Jane’s nursery maid?—she is getting troublesome.”

* * * * * * * *

Exit Miss Jane to the nursery, to listen to Katy’s and her friend Bridget’s account of their successful flirtation with John O’Calligan and Michael O’Donahue.

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ITEMS OF TRAVEL.

“All the world and his wife” are traveling; and a nice day it is to commence a journey. How neat and tasteful those ladies look in their drab travelling dresses; how self-satisfied their cavaliers, freshly shaved and shampooed, in their brown linen over-alls. What apoplectic looking carpet-bags; full of newspapers, and oranges, and bon-bons, and novels, and night-caps! Saratoga, Newport, Niagara, White Hills, Mammoth Cave—of these, the ladies chatter.

Well, here come the cars. Band-boxes, trunks, baskets, and bundles are counted, and checks taken; a grave discussion is solemnly held, as to which side of the cars the sun shines on; seats are chosen with due deliberation, and the locomotive does its own “puffing” to the bystanders, and darts off.

It is noon! How intense the heat; how annoying the dust; how crowded the cars; how incessant the cries of that poor tired baby! The ladies’ bonnets are getting awry, their foreheads flushed, and their smooth tresses unbecomingly frowsed, (see Fern Dictionary.) Now their little chattering tongues have a reprieve, for Slumber has laid her leaden finger on each drooping eyelid: even Alexander Smith’s new poem has slidden from between taper fingers. Dream not lovingly of the author,

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fair sleeper: poets and butterflies lose their brilliancy when caught.

How intensely ugly men look asleep! doubled up like so many jack-knives—sorry looking “blades”—with their mouths wide open, and their limbs twisted into all sorts of Protean shapes. Stay; there’s one in yonder corner who is an exception. That man knows it is becoming to him to go to sleep. He has laid his head against the window and taken off his hat, that the wind might lift those black curls from his broad white brow;—he knows that his eye-lashes are long and dark, and that his finely chiselled lips need no defect-concealing moustache;—he knows that he can afford to turn towards us his fine profile, with its classical outline;—he knows that his cravat is well tied, and that the hand upon which he supports his cheek is both well-formed and daintily white. Wonder if he knows anything else?

We halt suddenly. “Back! back!” says the conductor. The sleepers start to their feet; the old maid in the corner gives a little hysterical shriek; brakemen, conductor, and engineer jump off, push back their hats, and gaze nervously down the road. “What’s the matter?” echo scores of anxious voices. “What’s the matter?” Oh, nothing; only a mother made childless: only a little form—five minutes ago bounding with happy life—lying a mangled corpse upon the track. The engineer says, with an oath, that “the child was a fool not to get out of the way,” and sends one of the hands back to pick up the dismembered limbs and carry them to its mother, who forbade even the winds of heaven to blow too roughly on

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her boy; then he gives the “iron horse” a fresh impetus, and we dash on; imagination paints a scene in yonder house which many a frantic parent will recognize; and from which (even in thought) we turn shuddering away—while the weary mother in the corner covers her fretful babe with kisses, and thanks God, through her tears, that her loving arms are still its sheltering fold.

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NEWSPAPER-DOM.

It is beyond my comprehension how Methusaleh lived nine hundred and sixty-nine years without a newspaper; or, what the mischief Noah did, during that “forty days” shower, when he had exhausted the study of Natural History. It makes me yawn to think of it. Or what later generations did, the famished half-hour before meals; or, when traveling, when the old stage-coach crept up a steep hill, some dusty hot summer noon. Shade of Franklin! how they must have ennuyéd!

How did they ever know when flour had “riz”—or what was the market price of pork, small tooth combs, cotton, wool, and molasses? How did they know whether Queen Victoria had “made her brother an uncle or an aunt?” What christianized gouty old men and snappish old ladies? What kept the old maids from making mince-meat of pretty young girls? What did love-sick damsels do for “sweet bits of poetry” and “touching continued stories?” Where did their papas find a solace when the coffee was muddy, the toast smoked, and the beef-stead raw, or done to leather? What did cab-drivers do, while waiting for a tardy patron? What did draymen do, when there was “a great calm” at the dry-

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goods store of Go Ahead & Co.? What screen did husbands dodge behind, when their wives asked them for money?

Some people define happiness to be one thing, and some another. I define it to be a room “carpeted and furnished” with “exchanges,” with a place cleared in the middle for two arm-chairs—one for a clever editor, and one for yourself. I say it is to take up those papers, one by one, and laugh over the funny things and skip the stupid ones,—to admire the ingenuity of would-be literary lights, who pilfer one half their original (?) ideas, and steal the remainder. I say it is to shudder a thanksgiving that you are not in the marriage list, and to try, for the hundredth time, to solve the riddle: how can each paper that passes through your hands be “the best and cheapest periodical in the known world?”

I say it is to look round an editorial sanctum, inwardly chuckling at the forlorn appearance it makes without feminine fingers to keep it tidy: to see the looking-glass veiled with cobwebs; the dust o the desk thick enough to write your name in; the wash-bowl and towel mulatto color; the soap liquified to a jelly, (editors like soft soap!); the table covered with a heterogeneous mass of manuscripts, and paper folders, and wafers, and stamps, and blotting-paper, and envelopes, and tailors’ bills, and letters complimentary, belligerent and pacific.

I say it is to hear the editor complain, with a frown, of the heat and his headache; to conceal a smile, while you suggest the probability of relief if a window should be opened; to see him start at your superior profundity; to hear him say, with a groan, how much “proof” he has to read, before he can leave

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for home; to take off your gloves and help him correct it;—to hear him say, there is a book for review, which he has not time to look over; to take a folder and cut the leaves, and affix guide-boards for notice at all the fine passages; to see him kick over an innocent chair, because he cannot get hold of the right word for an editorial; to feel (while you help him to it) very much like the mouse who gnawed the lion out of the net, and then to take up his paper some days after, and find a paragraph endorsed by him, “deploring the intellectual inferiority of women.”

That’s what I call happiness!

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HAVE WE ANY MEN AMONG US?

Walking along the street the other day, my eye fell upon this placard,—

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MEN WANTED.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well; they have been “wanted” for some time; but the article is not in the market, although there are plenty of spurious imitations. Time was, when a lady could decline writing for a newspaper without subjecting herself to paragraphic attacks from the editor, invading the sanctity of her private life. Time was, when she could decline writing without the editor’s revenging himself, by asserting falsely that “he had often refused her offered contributions?” Time was, when if an editor heard a vague rumor affecting a lady’s reputation, he did not endorse it by republication, and then meanly screen himself from responsibility by adding, “we presume, however, that this is only an on dit!” Time was, when a lady could be a successful authoress, without being obliged to give an account to the dear public of the manner in which she appropriated the proceeds of her honest labors. Time was, when whiskered braggadocios in railroad cars and steamboats did not assert,

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(in blissful ignorance that they were looking the lady authoress straight in the face!) that they were “on the most intimate terms of friendship with her!” Time was, when milk-and-water husbands and relatives did not force a defamed woman to unsex herself in the manner stated in the following paragraph:

“ Man Shot by a Young Woman.—One day last week, a young lady of good character, daughter of Col. ——, having been calumniated by a young man, called upon him, armed with a revolver. The slanderer could not, or did not deny his allegations; whereupon she fired, inflicting a dangerous if not a fatal wound in his throat.”

Yes; it is very true that there are “Men wanted.” Wonder how many 1854 will furnish?

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HOW TO CURE THE BLUES.

And so you have “the blues,” hey! Well, I pity you! No I don’t either; there’s no need of it. If one friend proves a Judas, never mind! plenty of warm, generous, nice hearts left for the winning. If you are poor, and have to sell you free agency for a sixpence a week to some penurious relative, or be everlastingly thankful for the gift of an old garment that won’t hang together till you get it home! go to work like ten thousand evil spirits, and make yourself independent! and see with what a different pair of spectacles you’ll get looked at! Nothing like it! You can have everything on earth you want, when you don’t need anything.

Don’t the Bible say, “To him that hath shall be given?” No mistake, you see. When the wheel turns round with you on the top, (saints and angels!) you can do anything you like—play any sort of a prank—pout or smile, be grave or gay, saucy or courteous, it will pass muster! You never need trouble yourself,—can’t do anything wrong if you try. At the most, it will only be an “eccentricity!” But you never need be such a fool as to expect that anybody will find out you are a diamond till you get a showy setting! You’ll get knocked and cuffed around, and roughly handled, with paste and tinsel, and rubbish,

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till that auspicious moment arrives. Then! won’t all the sheaves bow down to your sheaf?—not one rebellious straggler left in the field! But stay a little.

In your adversity, found you one faithful heart that stood firmly by your side and shared your tears, when skies were dark, and your pathway thorny and steep, and summer friends fell off like autumn leaves? By all that’s noble in a woman’s heart, give that one the first place in it now. Let the world see one heart proof against the sunshine of prosperity. You can’t repay such a friend—all the mines of Golconda could n’t do it. But in a thousand delicate ways, prompted by a woman’s unerring tact, let your heart come forth gratefully, generously, lovingly. Pray heaven he be on the shady side of fortune—that your heart and hand may have a wider field for gratitude to show itself. Extract every thorn from his pathway, chase away ever cloud of sorrow, brighten his lonely hours, smooth the pillow of sickness, and press lovingly his hand in death.

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RAIN IN THE CITY.

Patter, patter, patter! down comes the city shower, on dusty and heated pavements; gleefully the willow trees shake out their long green tresses, and make their toilette in the little mirror pools beneath. The little child runs out, with outspread palm, to cath the cool and pearly drops. The weary laborer, drawing a long, grateful breath, bares the flushed brow of toil; boyhood, with bare and adventurous foot, wades through gutter rivers, forgetful of birch, and bread and butter. Ladies skutter tiptoe, with uplifted skirts, to the shelter of some friendly omnibus; gentlemen, in the independent consciousness of corduroys, take their time and umbrellas, while the poor jaded horses shake their sleek sides, but do not say neigh to their impromptu shower-bath.

The little sparrows twitter their thanks from the dripping eaves, circling the piazza, then laving their speckled breasts at the little lakelets in the spout. Old Towser lies with his nose to the door-mat, sniffing “the cool,” with the philosophy of Diogenes. Petrarch sits in the parlor with his Laura, too happy when some vivid lightning flash gives him an excuse for closer quarters. Grandpapa puts on his spectacles, walks to the window, and taking a look at the surrounding clouds, says, “How

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this rain will make the corn grow.” The old maid opposite sets out a single geranium, scraggy as herself, invoking some double blossoms. Forlorn experimenter! even a spinster’s affections must centre somewhere.

See that little pinafore mariner stealing out, with one eye on the nursery window, to navigate his pasteboard boat in the street pools. There’s a flash of sunshine! What a glorious rainbow! The little fellow tosses his arms aloft, and gazes at it. Ten to one, the little Yankee, instead of admiring its gorgeous splendor, is wishing he could invert it for a swing, and seizing it at both ends, sweep through the stars with it. Well, it is nothing new for a child to like “the milky way.”

“Fair weather again! piles of heavy clouds are drifting by, leaving the clear blue sky as serene as when “the morning stars first sang together.” Natures gems sparkle lavishly on glossy leaf and swaying branch, on bursting bud and flower; while the bow of peace melts gently and imperceptibly away, like the dying saint into the light of Heaven.

Oh, earth is gloriously fair! Alas! that the trail of the serpent should be over it all!

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MRS. WEASEL’S HUSBAND.

“A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree,

The more they are beaten the better they be.”

“Any man who believes that, had better step into my shoes,” said little Mr. Weasel. “I suppose I’m what you call ‘the head of the family,’ but I should n’t know it if somebody did n’t tell me of it. Heigho! who’d have thought it five and twenty years ago? Did n’t I stifle a tremendous strong penchant for Diana Dix, (never smoked, I remember, for four hours after it,) because I had my private suspicions she’d hold the reins in spite of my teeth, and so I offered myself to little Susey Snow, (mistake in her name, by the way.) You might have spanned her round the waist, or lifted her with one hand. She never looked anybody in the face when they spoke to her, and her voice was as soft as—my brains! I declare, it’s unaccountable how deceitful female nature is! Never was so taken in in my life; she’s a regular Vesuvius crater! Her will? (don’t mention it!) Try to pry up the Alps with a cambric needle! If she’d only fly into a passion, I think I could venture to pluck up a little spirit; but that cool, determined, never-say-die look would turn Cayenne pepper to oil. It wilts me right down, like a cabbage leaf. I’d as lief face a loaded cannon! I wish I could go out evenings; but she won’t let me. Tom Jones

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asked me yesterday why I was n’t at Faneuil Hall the night before. It told him I had the bronchitis. He saw through it! Sent me a pair of reins the next day,—‘said to be a certain cure!’ Ah! it’s very well for him to laugh, but it’s no joke to me. I suppose it’s time to feed that baby; Mrs. Weasel will be home pretty soon, from the ‘Woman’s Rights Convention.’ No, I won’t, either; I’ll give it some paregoric, and run up garret and smoke one cigar. I feel as though I could n’t look a humming-bird in the eye! Nice cigar!—very nice! What a fool I am to be ordered round by a little blue-eyed woman, three feet high! I’m a very good looking fellow, and I won’t stand it! Isn’t that little Weasel as much her baby as it is mine? Certainly.”

“M-r. W-e-a-s-e-l!”

“Hem,—my—dear—(oh! that eye of hers!)—you see, my dear, (there, I won’t do it again, Mrs. Weasel.) How’s ‘the Convention,’ dear? Carried the day, I hope?—made one of your smart speeches, hey? ’Tis n’t every man owns such a chain-lightning wife;—look out for your rights, dear; (deuce knows I dare not!”)

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COUNTRY SUNDAY VS. CITY SUNDAY.

’Tis Sunday in the city.

The sun glares murkily down, through the smoky and stench-laden atmosphere, upon the dirty pavements; newsboys, with clamorous cries, are vending their wares; milkmen rattle over the pavements, and startle drowsy sleepers by their shrill whoopings; housemaids are polishing door knobs, washing sidewalks, and receiving suspicious looking baskets and parcels from contiguous groceries and bakeshops.

The sun rolls on his course; purifying the air and benignly smiling upon all the dwellers in the city, as though he would gently win them from unholy purposes to heavenly meditations and pursuits.

—And now the streets are filled with a motley show of silks, satins, velvets, feathers and jewels—while carriages and vehicles of every description roll past, freighted with counter-freed youths and their Dulcineas, bent upon a holiday. Hundreds of “drinking saloons” belch forth their pestiferous breath, upon which is borne, to the ear of the passer-by, (perhaps a lady or tender child,) the profane curse and obscene gibe; and from their portals reel intoxicated brutes, who once were men. Military companies march to and fro; now, at slow and

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solemn pace, to the mournful strains of a dead-march; now, (having rid themselves of the corpse of their dead comrade,) they gaily “step out,” blithe and merry, to the cheering strains of an enlivening quickstep, based on an Ethiopian melody; the frivolous tones blending discordantly with the chimes of the Sabbath bells. And stable-keepers, oyster and ice-cream venders, liquor sellers, et id omne genus, are reaping a golden harvest, upon which the “Lord of the Sabbath” shall, sooner or later, send “a blight and a mildew.”

——

’Tis Sunday in the country.

Serene and majestic, in the distance, lie the blue, cloud-capped hills; while, at their base, the silver stream winds gracefully, sparkling in the glad sunlight. Now the fragrant branches stir with feathered life; and one clear, thrilling carol lifts the finger from the dumb lip of Nature, heralding a full orchestra of untaught choristers, which plume their wings, and soaring, seem to say, Praise Him! praise Him!

Obedient to the sweet summons, the silver-haired old man and rosy child, along grassy, winding paths, hie to the little village church. On the gentle maiden’s kindly arm leans the bending form of “four score years and ten,” gazing, with dimmed but grateful eye, on leafy stem, and bursting bud, and full-blown flower; or, listening to the wind dallying with the tall tree-tops, or kissing the fields of golden grain, which wave their graceful recognition, as it sweeps by on its fragrant path

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And now, slowly the Sabbath sun sinks beneath the western hills in gold and purple glory. Gently the dew of peace descends on closed eyes and flowers; while holy stars creep softly out, to keep; their tireless watch o’er happy hearts and Sabbath-loving homes.

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SOBER HUSBANDS.

“If your husband looks grave, let him alone; don’t disturb or annoy him.”

Oh, pshaw! were I married, the soberer my husband looked, the more fun I’d rattle about his ears. Do n’t disturb him! I guess so! I’d salt his coffee—and pepper his tea—and sugar his beef-steak—and tread on his toes—and hide his newspaper—and sew up his pockets—and put pins in his slippers—and dip his cigars in water,—and I would n’t stop for the great Mogul, till I had shortened his long face to my liking. Certainly, he’d “get vexed;” there would n’t be any fun in teasing him if he did n’t; and that would give his melancholy blood a good, healthful start; and his eyes would snap and sparkle, and he’d say, “Fanny, WILL you be quiet or not?” and I should laugh, and pull his whiskers, and say decidedly, “Not!” and then I should tell him he had n’t the slightest idea how handsome he looked when he was vexed, and then he would pretend not to hear the compliment—but would pull up his dickey, and take a sly peep in the glass (for all that!) and then he’d begin to grow amiable, and get off his stilts, and be just as agreeable all the rest of the evening as if he was n’t my husband; and all because I did n’t follow that stupid bit of advice “to let him alone.” Just as if I did n’t know! Just

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imagine ME, Fanny, sitting down on a cricket in the corner with my forefinger in my mouth, looking out the sides of my eyes, and waiting till that man got ready to speak to me! You can see at once it would be—be—. Well, the amount of it is, I should n’t do it!

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OUR STREET.

Sing away, little bird! only you, the trees, and myself, are stirring, but you have an appreciative audience. Your sweet carol and the graceful waving of yonder tree, as the soft wind turns up its silver-lined leaves in the sunlight, fill my heart with a quiet gladness.

Whom have we here? with ragged skirt, bare mud-begrimm’d feet and ankles, tattered shawl, and tangled masses of hair fluttering round a face ploughed deep with time and trouble. See—she stoops, and, stretching her skeleton fingers towards the gutter, grasps some refuse rags and paper, and thrusts them greedily into the dirty sack she bears upon her shoulders. Good heavens! that dirty mass of rags a woman? How wearily she leans against yonder tree, gazing upward into its branches! Perhaps that little bird’s matin song has swept some chord for long years untouched in that callous heart; telling her of the shelter of a happy home, where Plenty sat at the board and Love kept guard at the threshold. Oh! who can tell? One more song, my little bird, ere she goes; not so mockingly joyous, but sweet, and soft, and low—a requiem for blighted youth and blasted hopes; for know that the blue sky to whose arch you soar, bends over misery enough to make the bright seraphs weep.

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street musicians entertain children
Our Street.

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Bless me! what yell is that? “Yeei—ho—oe—yeei—ho.” It is only a milkman, and that horrid cry simply means, “Milk for sale.” What a picture of laziness is the vender! Jump off your cart, man, thump on the kitchen door with your milk-dipper, and rouse that sleepy cook who is keeping you waiting her pleasure; that’s the way to do business: pshaw! your manliness must have been diluted with your milk. One by one they emerge, the dead-and-alive looking housemaids, dragging their brooms after them lazily and helplessly, and bandy words with the vexed milkman, and gossip with each other, as they rest their chins on their broom-handles, on “kitchen cabinet” affairs.

Here comes an Italian, balancing a shelf-load of plaster Cupids and Venuses, and dove-circled vases. How mournfully his dark eyes look out from beneath his tasseled cap, as he lifts his burden from his head for a momentary reprieve. They tell of weary feet, a heavy heart, and a light purse. They tell, with a silent reproach, that our hearts are as cold as our clime. Oh! not all, good Pietro! For your sake, I’ll make myself mistress of that sleeping child; though, truth to say, the sculptor who moulded it has most wofully libelled Nature. Would I could see the sunny skies upon which your dark eyes first opened, and all the glorious forms that beauty wears in your vine-clad home beyond the seas.

How the pedestrians hurry along!—merchants to their cares and their counting-rooms, and shop-girls and seamstresses to their prisoners. Here comes a group of pale-faced city children, on their way to school. God bless the little unfortunates!

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Their little feet should be crushing the strawberries, ripe and sweet, on some sunny hill-slope, where breath of new-mown hay and clover blossoms would give roses to their cheeks and strength and grace to their cramped and half-developed limbs. Poor little creatures! they never saw a patch of blue sky bigger than their satchels, or a blade of grass that dared to grow without permission from the mayor, aldermen and common council. Poor little skeletons! tricked out like the fashion-prints, and fed on diluted skim-milk and big dictionaries. I pity you.

A hand-organ! ground by a modern Peter Schemmel, and accompanied by a woman whose periphery it would be vain to compute by inches, singing,

“I’d be a butterfly.”

Ye gods and graces! if ye heed her prayer, grant that she alight not on my two-lips! Now she is warbling,

“Home! sweet home,”

as if she was n’t making it for me, this minute, a perfect place of torment! Avaunt! thou libel upon feminity!—creep into corduroys and apply for the office of town crier.

A funeral! That is nothing uncommon in a densely populated city; so, nobody turns to look, as it winds along, slowly, as will the sad future to that young husband—that father of an hour. Sad legacy to him, those piles of tiny robes, and dainty little garments, whose elaborate and delicate embroidery was purchased at such a fearful price. Nature will have her revenge for a reckless disregard of her laws; so, there she lies,

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the young mother, with the long-looked-for babe upon her girlish breast. Sad comment upon a foolish vanity.

What have we here?—A carriage at the door? Ah! I recollect; there was a wedding at that house last night—lights flashing, music swelling—white arms gleaming through tissue textures, and merry voices breaking in upon my slumbers late in the small hours.

Ah yes—and this is the bride’s leave-taking. How proud and important that young husband looks, as he stands on the steps, with the bride’s traveling shawl upon his arm, giving his orders to the coachman! Now he casts an impatient glance back through the open door into the hall, half jealous of the tear sparkling in the young wife’s eye, as the mother presses her tenderly to her breast, as the father lays the hand of blessing on her sunny head, and brothers and sisters, half glad, half sad, offer their lips for a good-bye kiss.

Hurry her not away! Not even the heart she has singled out from all the world to lean upon, can love so fondly, so truly, as those she leaves behind. Dark days may come, when love’s sunshine shall be o’erclouded by cares and sickness, from which young manhood, impatient, shrinks. Let her linger: so shall your faith in her young wifely love be strengthened by such strong filial yearning for these, her cradle watchers. Let her linger: silver hairs mingle in the mother’s tresses; the father’s dark eye grows dim with age, and insatiate Death heeds nor prayer, nor tear, nor lifted eye of supplication. Let her linger.

New-York! New-York! who but thyself would have tol-

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erated for twelve mortal hours, with the thermometer at 90 degrees, that barrel of refuse fish and potatoes, sour bread and damaged meat, questionable vegetables and antique puddings, steaming on that sunny sidewalk, in the forlorn hope that some pig’s patron might be tempted, by the odoriferous hash, to venture on its transportation. Know, then, O pestiferous Gotham, that half a score of these gentry, after having sounded it with a long pole to the bottom, for the benefit of my olfactories, have voted it a nuisance to which even a pig might make a gutter-al remonstrance. Oh! Marshal Tukey, if California yet holds you, in the name of the Asiatic cholera, and my “American constitution,” recross the Isthmus and exorcise that barrel!

Look on yonder door-step. See that poor, worn creature seated there, with a puling infant at her breast, from whence it draws no sustenance: on either side are two little creatures, apparently asleep, with their heads in her lap. Their faces are very pallid, and their little limbs have nothing of childhood’s rounded symmetry and beauty. “Perhaps she is an impostor,” says Prudence, seizing my purse-strings, “getting up that tableau for just such impressible dupes as yourself.” “Perhaps she is not,” says Feeling; “perhaps at this moment despair whispers in her tempted ear ‘curse God and die!’ Oh! then, how sad to have ‘passed her by, on the other side!’ ” Let me be “duped,” rather than that wan face should come between my soul and Heaven.

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WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY.

“When you are angry, take three breaths before you speak.”

I could n’t do it, said Mrs. Penlimmon. Long before that time I should be as placid as an oyster. “Three breaths!” I could double Cape Horn in that time. I’m telegraphic,—if I had to stop to reflect, I should never be saucy. I can’t hold anger any more than an April sky can retain showers; the first think I know, the sun is shining. You may laugh, but that’s better than one of your foggy dispositions, drizzling drops of discomfort a month on a stretch; no computing whether you’ll have anything but gray clouds overhead the rest of your life. No: a good heavy clap of thunder for me—a lightning flash; then a bright blue sky and a clear atmosphere, and I am ready for the first flower that springs up in my path.

“Three breaths!” how absurd! as if people, when they get excited, ever have any breath, or if they have, are conscious of it. I should like to see the Solomon who got off that sage maxim. I should like better still to give him an opportunity to test his own theory! It’s very refreshing to see how good people can be, when they have no temptation to sin; how they can sit down and make a code of laws for the world in general and sinners in particular.

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“Three breaths!” I would n’t give a three-cent piece for anybody who is that long about anything. The days of stage coaches have gone by. Nothing passes muster now but comets, locomotives and telegraph wires. Our forefathers and foremothers would have to hold the hair on their heads if they should wake up in 1854. They ’d be as crazy as a cat in a shower-bath, at all our whizzing and rushing. Nice old snails! It’s a question with me whether I should have crept on at their pace, had I been a contemporary. Christopher Columbus would have discovered the New World much quicker than he did, had I been at his elbow.

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LITTLE BESSIE;
OR, MISS PRIM’S MODEL SCHOOL.

School is out! What stretching of limbs; what unfettering of tongue and heels; what tossing-up of pinafores and primers; what visions of marbles, and hoops, and dolls, and apples, and candy, and gingerbread! How welcome the fresh air; how bright the sunshine; how tempting the grassy play-ground! Ah, there’s a drop of rain—there’s another; there’s a thunder clap! “Just as school is out—how provoking!” echo a score of voices; and the pouting little prisoners huddle together in the school-house porch, and console themselves by swapping jack-knives and humming tops, and telling marvellous stories of gypsies and giants; while Miss Prim, the dyspeptic teacher, shakes her head and the ferule, and declares that the former will “fly into fifty pieces;” upon which some of the boys steal out of doors and amuse themselves by sounding the puddles with their shoes, while others slyly whittle the desks, or draw caricatures on their slates, of Miss Prim’s long nose.

Drip, drip—spatter, spatter! How the rain comes down, as if it could n’t help it; no prospect of “holding up.”

Here come messengers from anxious mothers, with India

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rubbers, extra tippets, and umbrellas; and there’s a chaise at the door, for Squire Lenox’s little rosy daughter; and a wagon for the two Prince girls; and a stout Irish girl, with a blanket shawl, to carry home little lame Minnie May, who is as fragile as a lily, and just as sweet. And there’s a servant man for Master Simpkins, the fat dunce with the embroidered jacket, whose father owns “the big Hotel, and wishes his son to have a seat all by himself.”

And now they are all gone;—all save little Bessie Bell, the new scholar,—a little four-year-older, who is doing penance over in the corner for “a misdemeanor.”

Bessie’s mother is a widow. She has known such bright, sunny days, in the shelter of a happy home, with a dear arm to lean upon! Now, her sweet face is sad and care-worn, and when she speaks, her voice has a heart-quiver in it: but, somehow, when she talks to you, you do not notice that her dress is faded, or her bonnet shabby and rusty. You instinctively touch your hat to her, and treat her very courteously, as if she were a fine lady.

As I said before, this is little Bessie’s first day at school; for, she is light and warmth and sunshine to her broken-hearted mother. But, little Bessie must have bread to eat. A shop woman offered her mother a small pittance to come and help her a part of every day; but she is not to bring her child; so, Bessie must go to school, to be out of harm’s way, and her mother tells Miss Prim, as she seats her on the hard bench, that “she is very timid and tender-hearted;” and then she kisses Bessie’s little quivering lip, and leaves her with a heavy heart.

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Bessie dare not look up for a few minutes;—it is all very odd and strange, and if she were not so frightened she would cry aloud. By-and-by she gains a little courage, and peeps out from beneath her drooping eye-lashes. Her little pinafore neighbor gives her a sweet smile—it makes her little heart so happy, that she throws her little dimpled arms about her neck and says, (out loud) “I love you!”

Poor, affectionate little Bessie! she did n’t know that that was a “misdemeanor;” nor had she ever seen that bug-bear, a “School Committe[e].” Miss Prim had;—and Miss Prim never wasted her lungs talking; so, she leisurely untied her black silk apron from her virgin waist, and proceeded to make an African of little Bessie, by pinning it tightly over her face and head—an invention which herself and “the Committee” considered the ne plus ultra of discipline. Bessie struggled, and said she “never would kiss anybody again—never—never;” but Miss Prim was inexorable, and, as her victim continued to utter smothered cries, Miss Prim told her “that she would keep her after the other children had gone home.”

One class after another recited; Bessie’s sobs became less loud and frequent, and Miss Prim flattered herself, now that they had ceased altogether, that she was quite subdued, and congratulated herself complacently upon her extraordinary talent for “breaking in new beginners.”

And now, school being done, the children gone, her bonnet and India rubbers being put on, and all her spinster “fixings” settled to her mind, visions of hot tea and buttered toast began

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to float temptingly through her brain, and suggest the propriety of Bessie’s release.

“Bessie!”—no answer. “Bessie!”—no reply. Miss Prim laid the ferule across the little fat shoulders. Bessie did n’t wince. Mis Prim unpinned the apron to confront the face that was bold enough to defy her and “the Committee.” Little Bessie was dead!

Well; there was a pauper funeral, and a report about that a child had been “frightened to death at school;” but Bessie’s mother was a poor woman, consequently the righteous Committee “did n’t feel called upon to interfere with such idle reports.”

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THE DELIGHTS OF VISITING.

What is it to go away on a visit? Well, it is to take leave of the little velvet rocking-chair, which adjusts itself so nicely to your shoulders and spinal column; to cram, jam, squeeze, and otherwise compress your personal effects into an infinitessimal compass; to be shook, jolted, and tossed, by turns, in carriage, railroad and steamboat; to be deafened with the stentorian lungs of cab-drivers, draymen and porters; to clutch your baggage as if every face you saw was a highwayman; (or to find yourself transported with rage, at finding it transported by steam to Greenland or Cape Horn.) It is to reach your friends’; house, travel-stained, cold and weary, with an unbecoming crook in your bonnet; to be utterly unable to get the frost out of your tongue, or “the beam into your eye,” and to have the felicity of hearing some strange guest remark to your friend, as you say an early good-night, “Is it possible THAT is your friend, Miss Grey?”

It is to be ushered into the “best chamber,” (always a north one) of a cold January night; to unhook your dress with stiffened digits; to find every thing in your trunk but your night-cap; to creep between polished linen sheets, on a congealed mattress, and listen to the chattering of your own teeth until

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It is to talk at a mark twelve hours on the stretch; to eat and drink all sorts of things which disagree with you; to get up sham fits of enthusiasm at trifles; to learn to yawn circumspectly behind your finger-tips; to avoid all allusion to topics unsuited to your pro tem. latitude; to have somebody forever at your nervous elbow, trying to make you “enjoy yourself;” to laugh when you want to cry; to be loquacious when you had rather be taciturn; to have mind and body in unyielding harness, for lingering consecutive weeks; and then to invite your friends, with a hypocritical smile, to play the same farce over with you, “whenever business or pleasure calls them” to Frog town!

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HELEN HAVEN’S “HAPPY NEW YEAR.”

“I’m miserable; there’s no denying it,” said Helen. “There’s nothing in this endless fashionable routine of dressing, dancing and visiting, that can satisfy me. Hearts enough are laid at my feet, but I owe them all to the accidents of wealth and position. The world seems all emptiness to me. There must be something beyond this, else why this ceaseless reaching of the soul for some unseen good? Why do the silent voices of nature so thrill me? Why do the holy stars with their burning eyes utter such silent reproaches? Have I nothing to do but amuse myself with toys like a child? Shall I live only for myself? Does not the sun that rises upon my luxury, shine also upon the tear-stained face of sorrow? Are there not slender feet stumbling wearily in rugged, lonely paths? Why is mine flower-bestrewn? How am I better? Whose sorrowful heart have I lightened? What word of comfort has fallen from my lips on the ear of the grief-stricken? What am I here for? What is my mission?”

——

“And you have only this wretched place to nurse that sick child in?” said Helen; “and five lesser ones to care for? Will you trust that sick child with me?”

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She is not long for this world, my lady; and I love her as well as though I had but one. Sometimes I’ve thought the more care I have for her, the closer my heart clings to her. She is very patient and sweet.”

“Yes, I know,” said Helen; “but I have it in my power to make her so much more comfortable. It may preserve, at least lengthen her life.”

When little Mary opened her eyes the next morning, she half believed herself in fairy-land. Soft fleecy curtains were looped about her head, her little emaciated hand rested upon a silken coverlid, a gilded table stood by her bed-side, the little cup from which her lips were moistened was of bright silver, and a sweet face was bending over her, shaded by a cloud of golden hair, that fell like a glory from her head.

“Where am I?” said the child, crossing her little hand across her bewildered brain.

Helen smiled. “You are my little bird now, dear. How do you like your cage?”

“It is very, very pretty,” said Mary, with childish delight; “but won’t you get tired of waiting upon a poor little sick girl? Mamma was used to it. You don’t look as if you could work.”

“Don’t I?” said Helen, with a slight blush; “for all that, You’ll see how nicely I can take care of you, little one. I’ll sing to you; I’ll read to you; I’ll tell you pretty stories; and when you are weary of your couch, I’ll fold you in my arms, and rock you so gently to sleep. And when you get better and stronger, you shall have so many nice toys to play with,

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and I’ll crown your little bright head with pretty flowers, and make you nice little dresses; and now I’m going to read to you. Betty has been out, and bought you a little fairy story about a wonderful puss; and here’s ‘Little Timothy Pip;’ which will you have?”

“Mamma used to read to me out of the Bible,” said little Mary, as her long lashes swept her cheek.

Helen started; a bright crimson flush passed over her face, and bending low, she kissed the child’s forehead reverentially.

“About the crucifixion, please,” said Mary, as Helen seated herself by her side.

That Holy Book! Helen felt as if her hands were “unclean.” She began to read; perhaps the print might not have been clear; but she stopped often, and drew her small hand across her eyes. Her voice grew tremulous. Years of worldliness had come between her and that sad, touching story. It came upon her now with startling force and freshness. Earth, with its puerile cares and pleasures, dwindling to a point. Oh, what “cross” had her shoulders borne? What “crown of thorns” had pierced her brows? How had her careless feet turned aside from the footsteps of Calvary’s meek sufferer!

“Thank you,” said little Mary, rousing Helen from her reverie; “mamma used to pray to God to make me patient, and take me to Heaven.”

“Tears started to Helen’s eyes. How could she tell that sinless little one she knew not how to pray? Ah! she was the pupil, Mary the teacher! Laying her cheek to hers, she said in a soft whisper, “Pray for us both, dear Mary.”

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With sweet, touching, simple eloquence that little silvery voice floated on the air! The little emaciated hand upon which Helen’s face was pressed, was wet with tears—happy tears! Oh, this was what that resting soul had craved! Here at “the cross,” that world-fettered spirit should plume itself for an angel’s ceaseless flight. Aye, and a little child had led “her” there!

——

Adolph Grey wandered listlessly through that brilliant ball-room. There were sweet voices, and sweeter faces, and graceful, floating forms; but his eye rested on none of them.

“Pray, where is Lady Helen?” said he, wandering up to his gay hostess, with a slight shade of embarrassment.

“Ah, you may well ask that! I’m so vexed at her! Every man in the room is as savage as a New Zealander. She has turned Methodist, that’s all. Just imagine; our peerless Helen thumbing greasy hymn-books at vestry meetings, listening to whining preachers, and hunting up poor dirty beggar children! I declare, I thought she had too much good sense. Well, there it is; and you may as well hang your harp on the willows. She’ll have nothing to say to you now; for you know you are a sinner, Grey.”

“Very true,” said Grey, as he went into the ante-room to cloak himself for a call upon Helen; “I am a sinner; but if any woman can make a saint of me, it is Lady Helen. I have looked upon women only as toys to pass away the time; but under that gay exterior of Helen’s there was always something

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to which my better nature bowed in reverence. ‘A Methodist,’ is she? Well, be it so. She has a soul above yonder frivolity, and I respect her for it.”

——

If in after years the great moral questions of the day had more interest for Adolph Grey than the pleasures of the turf, the billiard room, or the wine party, who shall say that Lady Helen’s influence was not a blessed one?

Oh, if woman’s beauty, and power, and witchery were oftener used for a high and holy purpose, how many who now bend a careless knee at her shrine, would hush the light laugh and irreverent jest, and almost feel, as she passed, that an angel’s wing had rustled by!

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DOLLARS AND DIMES.

“Dollars and dimes, dollars and dimes,

An empty pocket is the worst of crimes.[”]

Yes; and don’t you presume to show yourself anywhere, until you get it filled. “Not among good people?” No, my dear Simplicity, not among “good people.” They will receive you with a galvanic ghost of a smile, scared up by an indistinct recollection of the “ten commandments,” but it will be as short-lived as their stay with you. You are not welcome—that’s the amount of it. They are all in a perspiration lest you should be delivered of a request for their assistance, before they can get rid of you. They are “very busy,” and what’s more, they always will be busy when you call, until you get to the top of fortune’s letter.

Climb, man! climb! Get to the top of the ladder, though adverse circumstances and false friends break every round in it! and see what a glorious and extensive prospect of human nature you’ll get when you arrive at the summit! Your gloves will be worn out shaking hands with the very people who did n’t recognize your existence two months ago. “You must come and make me a long visit;” “you must stop in at any time;” “you’ll always be welcome;” it is such a long

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time since they had the pleasure of a visit from you, that they begin to fear you never intended to come; and they’ll cap the climax by inquiring with an injured air, “if you are nearsighted, or why you have so often passed them in the street without speaking.”

Of course, you will feel very much like laughing in their faces, and so you can. You can’t do anything wrong, now that your “pocket is full.” At the most, it will only be “an eccentricity.” You can use anybody’s neck for a footstool, bridle anybody’s mouth with a silver bit, and have as many “golden opinions” as you like. You won’t see a frown again between this and your tombstone!

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OUR NELLY.

“Who is she?” “Why, that is our Nelly, to be sure. Nobody ever passed Nelly without asking, ‘Who is she?’ One can’t forget the glance of that blue eye; nor the waving of those golden locks; nor the breezy grace of that lithe figure; nor those scarlet lips; nor the bright, glad sparkle of the whole face; and then, she is not a bit proud, although she steps so like a queen; she would shake hands just as quick with a horny palm as with a kid glove. The world can’t spoil ‘our Nelly;’ her heart is in the right place.

“You should have seen her thank an old farmer, the other day, for clearing the road that she might pass. He shaded his eyes with his hand when she swept by, as if he had been dazzled by a sudden flash of sunlight, and muttered to himself, as he looked after her—‘Won’t she make somebody’s heart ache?’ Well, she has; but it is because from among all her lovers she could marry but one, and (God save us!) that her choice should have fallen upon Walter May. If he don’t quench out the love-light in those blue eyes, my name is not John Morrison. I’ve seen his eyes flash when things did n’t suit him; I’ve seen him nurse his wrath to keep it warm till the smouldering embers were ready for a conflagration. He’s as vindictive as an

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Indian. I’d as soon mate a dove with a tiger, as give him ‘our Nelly.’ There’s a dozen noble fellows, this hour, ready to lay down their lives for her, and yet out of the whole crowd she must choose Walter May! Oh, I have no patience to think of it. Well-a-day! mark my words, he will break her heart before a twelvemonth! He’s a pocket edition of Napoleon.”

——

A year had passed by, and amid the hurry of business and the din of the great city, I had quite forgotten Glenburn and its fairy queen. It was a time to recall her to mind, that lovely June morning—with its soft fleecy clouds, its glad sunlight, its song of birds, and its breath of roses; and so I threw the reins on Romeo’s neck, that he might choose his own pace down the sweet-briar path, to John Morrison’s cottage. And there sat John, in the doorway, smoking his pipe, with Towser crouched at his feet, in the same old spot, just as if the sun had never gone down behind the hills since I parted with him.

“And ‘our Nelly?’ ” said I, taking up the threat of his year-old narrative as though it had never been broken—“and ‘our Nelly?’ ”

“Under the sod,” said the old man, with a dark frown; “under the sod. He broke her heart, just as I told you he would. Such a bridal as it was! I’d as lief have gone to a funeral. And then Walter carried her off to the city, where she was as much out of her element as a humming-bird in a meeting-house;

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and tried to make a fine lady of her, with stiff, city airs, and stiff, city manners. It was like trying to fetter the soft west wind, which comes and goes at its own sweet will; and Nelly—who was only another name for Nature—pined and drooped like a bird in a darkened cage.

“One by one her old friends dropped off, wearied with repeated and rude repulses from her moody husband, till he was left, as he desired, master of the field. It was astonishing the ascendancy he gained over his sweet wife, contemptible as he was. She made no objection to his most absurd requirements; but her step lost its spring, her eye its sparkle; and one might listen long for her merry-ringing laugh. Slowly, sadly to Nelly came that terrible conviction from which a wife has no appeal.

[“]Ah! here is no law to protect woman from negative abuse!—no mention made in the statue book (which men frame for themselves), of the constant dropping of daily discomforts which wear the loving heart away—no allusion to looks or words that are like poisoned arrows to the sinking spirit. No! if she can show no mark of brutal fingers on her delicate flesh, he has fulfilled his legal promise to the letter—to love, honor and cherish her. Out on such a mockery of justice!

“Well, sir; Nelly fluttered back to Glenburn, with the broken wing of hope, to die! So wasted! so lovely! The lips that blessed her, could not choose but curse him. She leaned on a broken reed,” said her old gray-haired father, as he closed her blue eyes forever. “ ‘May God forgive him, for I

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never can,’ said an old lover, whose heart was buried in her grave.

“Nelly May, aged 18.’

“You’ll read it in the village churchyard, Sir. Eighteen! Brief years, Sir, to drain all of happiness Life’s cup could offer!”

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“STUDY MEN, NOT BOOKS.”

Oh, but books are such safe company! They keep your secrets well; they never boast that they made your eyes glisten, or your cheek flush, or your heart throb. You may take up your favorite author, and love him at a distance just as warmly as you like, for all the sweet fancies and glowing thoughts that have winged your lonely hours so fleetly and so sweetly. Then you may close the book, and lean your cheek against the cover, as if it were the face of a dear friend; shut your eyes and soliloquise to your heart’s content, without fear of misconstruction, even though you should exclaim in the fullness of your enthusiasm, “What an adorable soul that man has!” You may put the volume under your pillow, and let your eye and the first ray of morning light fall on it together, and no Argus eyes shall rob you of that delicious pleasure, no carping old maid, or strait-laced Pharisee shall cry out, “it is n’t proper!” You may have a thousand petty, provoking, irritating annoyances through the day, and you shall come back again to your dear old book, and forget them all in dream land. It shall be a friend that shall be always at hand; that shall never try you by caprice, or pain you by forgetfulness, or wound you by distrust.

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[“]Study men!”

Well, try it! I don’t believe there’s any neutral territory where that interesting study can be pursued as it should be. Before you get to the end of the first chapter, they ’ll be making love to you from the mere force of habit—and because silks, and calicoes, and de laines, naturally suggest it. It’s just as natural to them as it is to sneeze when a ray of sunshine flashes suddenly in their faces. “Study men!” That’s a game, my dear, that two can play at. Do you suppose they are going to sit quietly down and let you dissect their hearts, without returning the compliment? No, indeed! that’s where they differ slightly from “books!”—they always expect an equivalent.

Men are a curious study! Sometimes it pays to read to “the end of the volume,” and then again, it don’t—mostly the latter!

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“MURDER OF THE INNOCENTS;”
OR, HOME THE PLACE FOR MARRIED FOLKS

Happy Mrs. Emily! Freed from the thraldom of housekeeping, and duly installed mistress of a fine suite of rooms at —— Hotel. No more refractory servants to oversee, no more silver or porcelain to guard, no more cupboards, or closets, of canisters to explore; no more pickles or preserves to make; no more bills of fare to invent,—and over and above all, mistress of a bell-wire which was not “tabooed” on washing and ironing days.

Time to lounge on the sofa, and devour “yellow-covered literature;” time to embroider caps, and collars, and chemisettes; time to contemplate the pretty face where housekeeping might have planted “crows feet,” had she not fortunately foreseen the symptoms, and turned her back on dull Care and all his croaking crew.

Happy Mrs. Emily! No bird let loose from a cage was ever more joyous; not even her own little children—for she had two of them, and pretty creatures they were too, with their cherry lips, and dimpled limbs, and flaxen ringlets; and very weary they grew, of their gloomy nursery, with its one window, commanding a view of a dingy shed and a tall

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spectral-looking distilhouse chimney, emitting clouds of smoke and suffocating vapor. Nannie, the nurse, did n’t fancy it, either, so she spent her time in the lobbies and entries, challenging compliments from white-jacketed waiters, while the children peeped curiously into the half-open doors, taking drafts of cold air on their bare necks and shoulders. Sometimes they balanced themselves alarmingly on the spiral ballustrade, gazing down into the dizzy Babel below, inhaling clouds of cigar-smoke, and listening, with round-eyed wonder, to strange conversations, which memory’s cud should chew, for riper years to digest.

“No children allowed at the table d’hôte”—so the “hotel regulations” pompously set forth—the landlord’s tablecloths, gentlemen’s broadcloth, and ladies’ silk dresses being sworn goes to little Paul Pry fingers. Poor little exiles! they took their sorrowful meals in the servants’ hall, with their respective nurses, the bill of fare consisting of a rehash of yesterday’s French dishes, (spiced for the digestion of an ostrich.) This was followed by a dessert of stale pastry and ancient raisins, each nurse at the outset propitiating her infant charge with a huge bunch, that she might regale herself with the substantials!—mamma, meanwhile, blissfully ignoring the whole affair, absorbed in the sublime occupation of making German worsted dogs.

Papa, too, had his male millennium. No more marketing to do; no more coal, or wood, or kindling to buy; no cistern, or pump, or gaspipe to keep in repair. Such a luxury as it was to have a free pass to the “smoking room,” (alias bar-room,) where the atmosphere was so dense that he could n’t tell the

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latitude of his nose, and surrounded by “hale fellows well met.” His eldest boy accompanied him, listening, on his knee, to questionable jokes, which he repeated at bed-time to pert Nannie, the nurse, who understood their significance much better than his innocent little lordship.

Papa, to be sure, had some drawbacks, but they were VERY trifling;—for instance, his shirts were quite buttonless, his dickeys stringless, and his stockings had ventilator toes;—but then, how could mamma be seen patching and mending in such an aristocratic atmosphere?—she might lose caste; and as to Nannie, her hands were full, what with babies and billet-doux.

You should have seen Mrs. Emily in the evening; with sparkling eyes and bracelets, flounced robe and daintily-shod feet, twisting her Chinese fan, listening to moustached idlers, and recollecting, with a shudder, the long Caudle evenings, formerly divided between her husband, his newspaper, and her darning-needle.

Then the petite soupers at ten o’clock in the evening, where the ladies were enchanting, the gentlemen quite entirely irresistible; where wit and champagne corks flew with equal celerity; and headaches, and dyspepsia, and nightmare, lay perdu amid fried oysters, venison steaks, chicken salad, and India-rubber, anti-temperance jellies.

Then followed the midnight reunion in the drawing-room, where promiscuous polkaing and waltzing, (seen through champagne fumes,) seemed not only proper, but delightful.

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It was midnight. There was hurrying to and fro in the entry halls and lobbies; a quick, sharp cry for medical help; the sobs and tears of an agonized mother, and the low moan of a dying child; for nature had rebelled at last, at impure air, unwholesome food, and alternate heats and chills.

“No hope,” the doctor said; “no hope,” papa mechanically repeated; “no hope!” echoed inexorable Death, as he laid his icy finger on the quivering little lips.

It was a dearly bought lesson. The Lady Emily never forgot it. Over her remaining bud of promise she tearfully bends, finding her quiet happiness in the beautiful, sacred and safe retreat of the home fireside.

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AMERICAN LADIES.

“The American ladies, when promenading, cross their arms in front, and look like trussed turkeys.”

Well, you ought to pity us, for we have no such escape-valves for our awkwardness as you have—no dickeys to pull up—no vests to pull down—no breast pockets, side pockets, flap pockets to explore—no cigars between our teeth—no switch canes in our hands—no beavers to twitch, when we meet an acquaintance. Don’t you yourselves oblige us to reef in our rigging, and hold it down tight with our little paws over our belts, under penalty of being dragged half a mile by one of your buttons, when you tear past us like so many comets.

Is it any joke to us to stand vis-a-vis, with a strange man, before a crowd of grinning spectators, while you are disentangling the “Gordian knot,” instead of whipping out your pen-knife and sacrificing your offending button, as you ought to do?

Is it any joke to see papa scowl, when we ask her for the “needful,” to restore the lace or fringe you tore off our shawl or mantilla?

Do you suppose we can stop to walk gracefully, when our minds have to be in a prepared state to have our pretty little toes crushed, or our bonnets knocked off, or our skirts torn

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from our belts, or ourselves and our gaiter boots jostled into a mud-puddle?

Do you ever “keep to the right, as the law directs?” Don’t you always go with your heads hindside before, and then fetch up against us as if we were made of cast-iron? Don’t you put your great lazy hands in your pockets, and tramp along with a cane half a mile long sticking out from under your armpits, to the imminent danger of our optics? “Trussed turkeys,” indeed! No wonder, when we are run a-fowl of every other minute.

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THE STRAY SHEEP.

“He’s going the wrong way—straying from the true fold; going off the track,” said old Deacon Green, shaking his head ominously, as he saw young Neff enter a church to hear an infidel preacher. “Can’t understand it; he was taught his catechism and ten commandments as soon as he could speak; he knows the right way as well as our parson; I can’t understand it.”

Harry Neff had never seen a day pass since his earliest childhood, that was not ushered in and closed with a family prayer. He had not partaken of a repast upon which the divine blessing was not invoked; the whole atmosphere of the old homestead was decidedly orthodox. Novels, plays and Byronic poetry were all vetoed. Operas, theatres and the like most decidedly frowned upon; and no lighter literature was allowed upon the table, than missionary reports and theological treatises.

Most of his father’s guests being clergymen, Harry was early made acquainted with every crook and turn of orthodoxy. He had laid up many a clerical conversation, and pondered it in his heart, when they imagined his thoughts on anything but the subject in debate. At his father’s request, they had each

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and all taken him by the button, for the purpose of long, private conversations—the old gentleman generally prefacing his request by the remark that “his heart was as hard as a flint.”

Harry listened to them all with respectful attention, manifesting no sign of impatience, no nervous shrinking from the probing process, and they left him, impressed with a sense of his mental superiority, but totally unable to affect his feelings in the remotest degree.

Such a pity! they all said, that he should be so impenetrable; such wonderful argumentative powers as he had; such felicity of expression; such an engaging exterior. Such a pity! that on all these brilliant natural gifts should not have been written, “Holiness to the Lord.”

Yes, dear reader, it was a pity. Pity, when our pulpits are so often filled with those, whose only recommendation for their office is a good heart and a black coat. It was a pity that graceful gesticulation, that rare felicity of expression, that keen circumstances and individuals, should not have been effective weapons in the gospel armory. Pity, that voice of music should not have been employed, to chain the worldling’s fastidious ear to listen to Calvary’s story.

Yet it was a pity that glorious intellect had been laid at an unholy shrine; pity “he had strayed from the true fold.” How was it?

Ah! the solution is simple. “Line upon line, precept upon precept,” is well—but practice is better! Religion must not be all lip-service; the “fruits of love, meekness, gentleness, for-

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bearance, long-suffering” must follow. Harry was a keen observer. He had often heard the harsh and angry word from lips upon which the Saviour’s name had just lingered. He had felt the unjust, quick, passionate blow from the hand which a moment before had been raised in supplication to Heaven. He had seen the purse-strings relax at the bidding of worldliness, and tighten at the call of charity. He had seen principle sacrificed to policy, and duty to interest. He had himself been missappreciated. The shrinking sensitiveness which drew a vail over his most sacred feelings, had been harshly construed into hard-heartedness and indifference. Every duty to which his attention was called, was prefaced with the supposition that he was averse to its performance. He was cut off from the gay pleasures which buoyant spirits and fresh young life so eloquently plead for; and in their stead no innocent enjoyment was substituted. He saw Heaven’s gate shut most unceremoniously, upon all who did not subscribe to the parental creed, outraging both his own good sense and the teachings of the Bible; and so religion, (which should have been rendered so lovely,) put on to him an ascetic form. Oh, what marvel that the flowers in the broad road were so passing fair to see? that the forbidden fruit of the “tree of knowledge” was so tempting to the youthful touch?

Oh, Christian parent! be consistent, be judicious, be cheerful. If, as historians inform us, “no smile ever played” on the lips of Jesus of Nazareth, surely no frown marred the beauty of that holy brow.

Dear reader, true religion is not gloomy. “Her ways are

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ways of pleasantness, her paths are peace.” No man, no woman, has chart or compass, or guiding star, without it.

Religion is not a fable. Else why, when our household gods are shivered, do our tearful eyes seek only Heaven?

Why, when disease lays its iron grasp on bounding life, does the startled soul so earnestly, so tearfully, so imploringly, call on its forgotten Saviour?

Ah! the house “built upon the sand” may do for sunny weather; but when the billows roll, and tempests blow, and lightnings flash, and thunders roar, we need the “Rock of Ages.”

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THE FASHIONABLE PREACHER.

Do you call this a church? Well, I heard a prima-donna here a few nights ago: and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to moving fans; and opera glasses and ogling, and fashion and folly reigned for the nonce triumphant. I can’t forget it; I can’t get up any devotion here, under these latticed balconies, with their fashionable freight. If it were a good old country church, with a cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should feel all right; but my soul is in fetters here; it won’t soar—its wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine! Nobody can come in at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut. The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean on his staff, in the porch, a long while, before he’d dare venture in, to pick up his crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank God, the unspoken prayer of penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, though our mocking church spires point only with aristocratic fingers to the rich man’s heaven.

—That hymn was beautifully read; there’s poetry in the preacher’s soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk;

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now he crosses the platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered. What right has he to know there is a woman in the house? ’Tis n’t clerical! Let the bonnets find their own hymns.

Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in church. I heard a great many original, a great many startling things said. I see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox sentiments which I nursed in with my mother’s milk, and which (please God) I’ll cling to till I die. I see the polished blade of satire glittering in the air, followed by curious, eager, youthful eyes, which gladly see the searching “Sword of the Spirit” parried. Meaning glances, smothered smiles and approving nods follow the witty clerical sally. The orator pauses to mark the effect, and his face says, That stroke tells! and so it did, for “the Athenians” are not all dead, who “love to see and hear some new thing.” But he has another arrow in his quiver. Now his features soften—his voice is low and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He speaks of human love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart vibrates; and stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles are chased away.

Oh, there’s intellect there—there’s poetry there—there’s genius there; but I remember Gethsemane—I forget not Calvary! I know the “rocks are rent,” and the “heavens darkened,” and “the stone rolled away;” and a cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear “Jesus of Nazareth” lightly mentioned.

Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish voice they cry, “Away with Him!”

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With “Mary,” let me “bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with the hairs of my head.”

And so, I “went away sorrowful,” that his human preacher, with such great intellectual possessions, should yet “lack the one thing needful.”

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“CASH.” *

Don’t think I’m going to perpetrate a monetary article. No fancy that way! I ignore anything approaching to a stock! I refer now to that omnipresent, omniscient, ubiquitous, express-train little victim, so baptized in the dry-goods stores, who hears nothing but the everlasting word cash dinned in his juvenile ears from matin to vespers; whose dangerous duty it is to rush through a crowd of expectant and impatient feminines, without suffering his jacket-buttons to become too intimately acquainted with the fringes of their shawls, or the laces of their mantillas! and to dodge so dexterously as not to knock down, crush under foot, or otherwise damage the string of juveniles that said women are bound to place as obstructions in said “Cash’s” way!

See him double, and turn, and twist, like a rabbit in a wood, while that word of command flies from one clerk’s lip to another. Poor, demented little Cash! Where is your anxious maternal? Who finds you in patience and shoe leather? Does your pillow ever suggest anything to your weary brain but pillarless quarters, and crossed sixpences, and faded bank bills? When do you find time, you poor little victim, to comb your hair, digest your victuals, and say your catechise?

* The boy employed in stores to fetch and carry change.

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Do you ever look back with a sigh to the days of peppermints, peanuts and pinafores? Or forward, in the dim distance, to a vision of a long-tailed coat, a high-standing dickey, and no more “Cash,” save in your pantaloons’ pocket? Don’t you ever catch yourself wishing that a certain rib of Adam’s had never been subtracted from his paradisiacal side?

Poor, miserable little Cash! you have my everlasting sympathy! I should go shopping twenty times, where I now go once, did n’t it harrow up my feelings to see you driven on so, like a locomotive! “Here’s hoping” you may soon be made sensible of more than one meaning to the word CHANGE!

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ONLY A CHILD.

“Who is to be buried here?” said I to the sexton. “Only a child, ma’am.”

Only a child! Oh! had you ever been a mother—had you nightly pillowed that little golden head—had you slept the sweeter for that little velvet hand upon your breast—had you waited for the first intelligent glance from those blue eyes—had you watched its cradle slumbers, tracing the features of him who stole your girlish heart away—had you wept a widow’s tears over its unconscious head—had your desolate, timid heart gained courage from that little piping voice, to wrestle with the jostling crowd for daily bread—had its loving smiles and prattling words been sweet recompense for such sad exposure—had the lonely future been brightened by the hope of that young arm to lean upon, that bright eye for your guiding star—had you never framed a plan, or known a hope or fear, of which that child was not a part;—if there was naught else on earth left for you to love—if disease came, and its eye grew dim; and food, and rest, and sleep were forgotten in your anxious fears—if you paced the floor, hour by hour, with that fragile burden, when your very touch seemed to give comfort and healing to that little quivering frame—had the star of hope set at last—had you hung over its dying pillow, when

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the strong breast you should have wept on was in the grave, where your child was hastening—had you caught alone its last faint cry for the “help” you could not give—had its last fluttering sigh been breathed out on your breast—Oh! could you have said—“ ’Tis only a child?”

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MR. PIPKIN’S IDEAS OF FAMILY RETRENCHMENT.

Mrs. Pipkin, I am under the disagreeable necessity of informing you, that our family expenses are getting to be enormous. I see that carpet woman charged you a dollar for one day’s work. Why, that is positively a man’s wages;—such presumption is intolerable. Pity you did not make it yourself, Mrs. Pipkin; wives ought to lift their end of the yoke; that’s my creed.

Little Tom Pipkin.—Papa, may I have this bit of paper on the floor? it is your tailor’s bill—says, “$400 for your last year’s clothes.”

Mr. Pipkin.—Tom, go to bed, and learn never to interrupt your father when he is talking. Yes, as I was saying, Mrs. Pipkin, wives should hold up their end of the yoke; and it is high time there was a little retrenchment here; superfluities must be dispensed with.

Bridget.—Please, sir, there are three baskets of champagne just come for you, and four boxes of cigars.

Mr. Pipkin.—Will you please lock that door, Mrs. Pipkin, till I can get a chance to say what I have to say to you on this subject. I was thinking to-day, that you might dispense with your nursery maid, and take care of baby yourself.

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He don’t cry much, except nights; and since I’ve slept alone up stairs, I don’t hear the little tempest at all. It is really quite a relief—that child’s voice is a perfect ear-splitter.

I think I shall get you, too, to take charge of the marketing and providing, (on a stipulated allowance from me, of course,) it will give me so much more time to—attend to business, Mrs. Pipkin. I shall take my own dinners down town at the —— House. I hear Stevens is an excellent “caterer;” (though that’s nothing to me, of course, as my only object in going is to meet business acquaintances from different parts of the Union, to drive a bargain, &c., &c.)

Well—it will cost you and the children little or nothing for your dinners. There’s nothing so disgusting to a man of refinement, like myself, as to see a woman fond of eating; and as to children, any fool knows they ought not to be allowed to stuff their skins, like little anacondas. Yes, our family expenses are enormous. My partner sighed like a pair of bellows at that last baby you had, Mrs. Pipkin; oh, it’s quite ruinous—but I can’t stop to talk now, I’m going to try a splendid horse which is offered me at a bargain—(too frisky for you to ride, my dear, but just the thing for me.)

You had better dismiss your nursery girl this afternoon; that will begin to look like retrenchment. Good-bye; if I am not home till late, don’t sit up for me, as I have ordered a supper at —— House for my old friend, Tom Hillar, of New Orleans. We’ll drink this toast, my dear: “Here’s hoping the last little Pipkin may never have his nose put out of joint.”

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A CHAPTER FOR NICE OLD FARMERS.

Can anybody tell why country people so universally and pertinaciously persist in living in the rear of the house? Can anybody tell why the front door and windows are never opened, save on Fourth of July and at Thanksgiving time? Why Zedekiah, and Timothy, and Jonathan, and the old farmer himself, must go round the house in order to get into it? Why the whole family (oblivious of six empty rooms,) take their “vapor bath,” and their meals, simultaneously, in the vicinity of a red hot cooking range, in the dog-days? Why the village artist need paint the roof, and spout, and window frames bright crimson, and the doors the color of a mermaid’s tresses? Why the detestable sunflower (which I can never forgive “Tom Moore” for noticing) must always flaunt in the garden? Why the ungraceful prim poplar, fit emblem of a stiff old bachelor, is preferred to the swaying elm, or drooping willow, or majestic horse-chestnut.

I should like to pull down the green paper window-curtains, and hang up some of snowy muslin. I should like to throw wide open the hall door, and let the south wind play through. [I] should like to go out into the woods, and collect fresh, sweet wild-flowers to arrange in a vase, in place of those defunct dried

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grasses, and old-maid “everlastings.” I should like to show Zedekiah how to nail together some bits of board, for an embryo lounge; I should like to stuff it with cotton, and cover it with a neat “patch.” I should like to cushion the chairs after the same fashion. Then I should like, when the white-haired old farmer came panting up the road at twelve o’clock, with his scythe hanging over his arm, to usher him into that cool, comfortable room, set his bowl of bread and milk before him, and after he had discussed it, coax him (instead of tilting back on the hind legs of a hard chair,) to take a ten-minute nap on my “model” sofa, while I kept my eye on the clouds, to see that no thunder shower played the mischief with his hay.

I should like to place a few common-sense, practical books on the table, with some of our fine daily and weekly papers. You may smile; but these inducements, and the comfortable and pleasant air of the apartment, would bring the family oftener together afer the day’s toil, and by degrees they would lift the covers of the books, and turn over the newspapers. Constant interchange of thought, feeling and opinion, with discussions of the important and engrossing questions of the day, would of course necessarily follow.

The village tavern-keeper would probably frown upon it; but I will venture to predict for the inmates of the farm-house a growing love for “home,” and an added air of intelligence and refinement, of which they themselves might possibly be unconscious.

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MADAME ROUILLON’S “MOURNING SALOON.”

“You need n’t make that dress ‘deep mourning,’ Hetty; the lady who ordered it said it was only her sister for whom she was to ‘mourn.’ A three-quarter’s length vail will answer; and I should introduce a few jet bugles round the bonnet trimmings. And, by the way, Hetty, Mrs. La Gague’s husband has been dead now nearly two months, so that new dress of hers will admit of a little alleviation in the style of trimming—a few knots of love-ribbon on the boddice will have a softening effect; and you must hem a thin net vail for her bonnet;—it’s almost time for her to be ‘out of mourning.’

—“And, Hetty, run down to Stewart’s, right away, and see if he has any more of those grief-bordered pocket-handkerchiefs. Mr. Grey’s servant said the border must be full an inch deep, as his master wished it for his wife’s funeral, and it is the eighth time within eight years that the poor afflicted man has suffered a similar calamity. Remember, Hetty,—an inch deep, with a tomb-stone and a weeping-willow embroidered on the corner, with this motto: ‘Hope never dies;’—and, Hetty, be sure you ask him what is the latest style for ‘half-mourning’ for grandmothers, mothers-in-law, country cousins, and poor

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relations. Dépèchezvous,, Hetty, for you have six ‘weepers[’] (weeds) to take off the six Mr. Smiths’ hats. Yes, I know you ‘only put them on last week;’ but they are going to Philadelphia, where nobody knows them, and, of course, it is n’t necessary to ‘mourn’ for their mother there.

—“What are you staring at, child? You are as primitive as your fore-mother Eve. This ‘mourning’ is probably an invention of Satan to divert people’s minds from solemn subjects, but that’s nothing to me, you know; so long as it fills my pocket, I’m in league with his Majesty.”

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FASHION IN FUNERALS.

“It has become unfashionable in New-York for ladies to attend funerals to the grave. Even the mother may not accompany the little lifeless form of her beloved child beyond the threshold without violating the dread laws of Fashion.”

Are there such mothers? Lives there one who, at Fashion’s bidding, stands back, nor presses her lips to the little marble form that once lay warm and quivering beneath her heart-strings?—who with undimmed eye recalls the trusting clasp of that tiny hand, the loving glance of that vailed eye, the music of that merry laugh—its low, pained moan, or its last fluttering heart-quiver?—who would not (rather than strange hands should touch the babe,) herself robe its dainty limbs for burial?—who shrinks not, starts not, when the careless, business hand would remove the little darling from its cradle-bed, where loving eyes so oft have watched its rosy slumbers, to its last, cold, dreamless pillow?—who lingers not, when all have gone, and vainly strives, with straining eye, to pierce below that little fresh laid mound?—who, when a merry group go dancing by, stops not, with sudden thrill, to touch some sunny head, or gaze into some soft blue eye, that has oped afresh the fount of her tears, and sent to the troubled lips the murmuring heart-plaint, “Would to God I had died for thee, my child—my child?”—who, when the wintry blast comes eddying by,

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sleeps not, because she cannot fold to her warm breast the little lonely sleeper in the cold churchyard? And oh! is there one, who, with such “treasure laid up in Heaven,” clings not the less to earth, strives not the more to keep her spirit undefiled, fears not the less the dim, dark valley, cheered by a cherub voice, inaudible save to the dying mother? Oh, stony-eyed, stony-hearted, relentless Fashion! turn for us day into night, if thou wilt; deform our women; half clothe, with flimsy fabric, our victim children; wring the last penny from the sighing, overtasked, toiling husband; banish to the backwoods thy country cousin, Comfort; reign supreme in the banquet hall; revel undisputed at the dance;—but when that grim guest, whom none invite—whom none dare deny—strides, with defiant front, across our threshold, stand back, thou heartless harlequin, and leave us alone with our dead: so shall we list the lessons those voiceless lips should teach us—

“All is vanity.”

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HOUSEHOLD TYRANTS.

“A HUSBAND may kill a wife gradually, and be no more questioned than the grand seignor who drowns a slave at midnight.”—Thackeray, on Household Tyrants.

Oh! Mr. Thackeray! I ought to have known from experience, that beauty and brains never travel in company—but I was disenchanted when I first saw your nose, and I did say that you were too stout to look intellectual. But I forgive you in consideration of the above paragraph, which, for truth and candor, ought to be appended to the four Gospels.

I’m on the marrow bones of my soul to you, Mr. Thackeray. I honor you for “turning State’s evidence” against your own culprit-sex. If there’s any little favor I can do for you, such as getting you naturalized, (for you are a sight too cute and clever for an Englishman,) I’ll fly round and get the documents made out for you to-morrow.

I tell you, Mr. Thackeray, the laws over here allow husbands to break their wives’ hearts as much as they like, so long as they don’t break their heads. So the only way we can get along, is to allow them to scratch our faces, and then run to the police court, and shew “his Honor” that Mr. Caudle can “make his mark.”

Why—if we were not cunning, we should get circumvented all the time by these domestic Napoleons. Yes, in-

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deed; we sleep with one eye open, and “get up early in the morning,” and keep our arms a-kimbo.

—By-the-way, Mr. Thackeray, what do you think of us, as a people?—talking us “by and large,” as our honest farmers say. P-r-e-t-t-y tall nation for a growing one; don’t you think so? Smart men—smarter women—good broad streets—no smoking or spitting allowed in ’em—houses all built with an eye to architectural beauty—newspapers don’t tell how many buttons you wear on your waistcoat—Jonathan never stares at you, as if you were an imported hyena, or stirs you up with the long pole of criticism, to see your size and hear your roar. Our politicians never whip each other on the floor of Congress, and grow black in the face because their choler chokes them! No mushroom aristocracy over here—no “coats of arms” or liveried servants: nothing of that sham sort, in our “great and glorious country,” as you have probably noticed. If you are “round takin’ notes,” I’ll jog your English elbow now and then. Ferns have eyes—and they are not green, either.

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WOMEN AND MONEY.

“A wife should n’t ask her husband for money at meal-times.”—Exchange.

By no manner of means; nor at any other time; because, it is to be hoped, he will be gentlemanly enough to spare her that humiliating necessity. Let him hand her his porte-monnaie every morning, with carte-blanche to help herself. The consequence would be, she would lose all desire for the contents, and hand it back, half the time without abstracting a single sou.

It’s astonishing men have no more diplomacy about such matters. I should like to be a husband! There are wives whom I verily believe might be trusted to make way with a ten dollar bill without risk to the connubial donor! I’m not speaking of those doll-baby libels upon womanhood, whose chief ambition is to be walking advertisements for the dressmaker; but a rational, refined, sensible woman, who knows how to look like a lady upon small means; who would both love and respect a man less for requiring an account of every copper; but who, at the same time, would willingly wear a hat or garment that is “out of date,” rather than involve a noble, generous-hearted husband in unnecessary expenditures.

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I repeat it—“It is n’t every man who has a call to be a husband.” Half the married men should have their “licenses” taken away, and the same number of judicious bachelors put in their places. I think the attention of the representatives should be called to this. They can’t expect to come down to town and peep under all the ladies’ bonnets the way they do, and have all the newspapers free gratis, and two dollars a day besides, without “paying their way![”]

It’s none of my business, but I question whether their wives, whom they left at home, stringing dried apples, know how spruce they look in their new hats and coats, or how facetious they grow with their landlady’s daughter; or how many of them pass themselves off for bachelors, to verdant spinsters[.] Nothing truer than that little couplet of Shakspeare’s—

“When the cat’s away

The mice will play.”

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THE SICK BACHELOR.

Here I am, a doomed man—booked for a fever, in this gloomy room, up four flights of stairs; nothing to look at but one table, two chairs, and a cobweb; pulse racing like a locomotive; head throbbing as if it were hooped with iron; mouth as parched as Ishmael’s in the desert; not a bell-rope within reach; sun pouring in through those uncurtained windows, hot enough to singe off my eye-lashes; all my confidential letters lying loose on the table, and I could n’t get up to them if you held one of Colt’s revolvers to my head. All my masculine friends (?) are parading Broadway, I suppose; peeping under the pretty girls’ bonnets, or drinking “sherry cobblers.” A sherry cobbler! Bacchus! what a luxury! I believe Satan suggested the thought to me.

Heigh-ho! I suppose the Doctor (whom they have sent for) will come before long; some great, pompous Æsculapius, with an owl phiz, a gold-headed cane, an oracular voice, and callous heart and hands; who will first manipulate my wrist, and then take the latitude and longitude of my tongue; then, he will punch me in my ribs, and torment me with more questions than there are in the Assembly’s Catechism; then, he’ll bother me for writing materials, to scratch off a hieroglyphic humbug

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prescription, ordering five times as much medicine as I need; then, I shall have to pay for it; then, ten to one, the apothecary’s boy will put up poison, by mistake! Cæsar! how my head spins round; Hippodrome racing is nothing to it.

Hist! there’s the Doctor. No! it is that little unregenerate cub, my landlady’s pet boy, with a bran new drum (as I’m a sinner), upon which he is beating a crucifying tattoo. If I only had a boot-jack to throw at him. No! that won’t do: his mother would n’t make my gruel. I’ll bribe him with a sixpence, to keep the peace. The little embryo Jew! he says he won’t do it under a quarter! Twitted by a little pinafore! I, Tom Haliday, six feet in my stockings! I shall go frantic.

“Doctor is coming!” Well, let him come. I’m as savage as if I’d just dined off a cold missionary. I’ll pretend to be asleep, and let old Pill-box experiment.

How gently he treads: how soft his hand is: how cool and delicious his touch! How tenderly he parts my hair over my throbbing temples! His magnetic touch thrills every drop of blood in my veins: its is marvellous how soothing it is. I feel as happy as a humming-bird in a lily cup, drowsy with honey-dew. Now he’s moved away. I hear him writing a prescription. I’ll just take a peep and see what he looks like. Cæsar Aggripina! if it is n’t a Female Physician! dainty as a Peri—and my beard three days old! What a bust! (Wonder how my hair looks?) What a foot and ankle! What shoulders; what a little round waist. Fever? I’ve got twenty fevers, and the heart-complaint besides. What the mischief

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sent that little witch here? She will either kill or cure me, pretty quick.

Wonder if she has any more masculine patients? Wonder if they are handsome? Wonder if she lays that little dimpled hand on their foreheads, as she did on mine? Now she has done writing, I’ll shut my eyes and groan, and then, may be, she will pet me some more; bless her little soul!

She says, “poor fellow!” as she holds my wrist, “his pulse is too quick.” In the name of Cupid, what does she expect? She says, as she pats my forehead with her little plump fingers, “ ’Sh—’sh! Keep cool.” Lava and brimstone! does she take me for an iceberg?

Oh, Cupid! of all your devices, this feminine doctoring for a bachelor, is the ne plus ultra of witchcraft. If I don’t have a prolonged “run of fever,” my name is n’t Tom Haliday!

She’s gone! and—I’m gone, too!

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A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE.

“And so you sail to-morrow, Will? I shall miss you.”

“Yes; I’m bound to see the world. I’ve been beating my wings in desperation against the wires of my cage these three years. I know every stick, and stone, and stump in this odious village by heart, as well as I do those stereotyped sermons of Parson Grey’s. They say he calls me ‘a scapegrace’—pity I should have the name without the game,” said he, bitterly. “I have n’t room here to run the length of my chain. I’ll show him what I can do in a wider field of action.”

“But how did you bring your father over?”

“Oh, he’s very glad to be rid of me; quite disgusted because I’ve no fancy for seeing corn and oats grow. The truth is, every father knows at once too much and too little about his own son; the old gentleman never understood me; he soured my temper, which is originally none of the best, roused all the worst feelings in my nature, and is constantly driving me from instead of to the point he would have me reach.”

“And your mother?”

“Well, there you have me; that’s the only humanized portion of my heart—the only soft spot in it. She came to my bed-side last night, after she thought I was asleep, gently kissed

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my forehead, and then knelt by my bed-side. Harry, I’ve been wandering round the fields all the morning, to try to get rid of that prayer. Old Parson Grey might preach at me till the millennium, and he would n’t move me any more than that stone. It makes all the difference in the world when you know a person feels what they are praying about. I’m wild and reckless and wicked, I suppose; but I shall never be an infidel while I can remember my mother. You should see the way she bears my father’s impetuous temper; that’s grace, not nature, Harry; but don’t let us talk about it—I only wish my parting with her was well over. Good-bye; God bless you, Harry; you’ll hear from me, if the fishes don’t make a supper of me;” and Will left his friend and entered the cottage.

Will’s mother was moving nervously and restlessly about, tying up all sorts of mysterious little parcels that only mothers think of, “in case he should be sick,” or in case he should be this, that, or the other, interrupted occasionally by exclamations like this from the old farmer: “Fudge—stuff—great overgrown baby—making a fool of him—never be out of leading strings;” and then turning short about and facing Will as he entered, he said,

“Well, sir, look in your sea-chest, and you’ll find ginger-bread and physic, darning-needles and tracts, ‘bitters’ and Bibles, peppermint and old linen rags, and opodeldoc. Pshaw! I was more of a man than you are when I was nine years old. Your mother always made a fool of you, and that was entirely unnecessary, too, for you were always short of what is called common sense. You need n’t tell the captain you went to sea

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because you did n’t know enough to be a landsman; or that you never did any thing right in your life, except by accident. You are as like that ne’er do well Jack Halpine, as two peas. If there is anything in you, I hope the salt water will fetch it out. Come, your mother has your supper ready, I see.”

Mrs. Low’s hand trembled as she passed her boy’s cup. It was his last meal under that roof for many a long day. She did not trust herself to speak—her heart was too full. She heard all his father so injudiciously said to him, and she knew too well from former experience the effect it would have upon his impetuous, fiery spirit. She had only to oppose to it a mother’s prayers, and tears, and all-enduring love. She never condemned in Will’s hearing, any of his father’s philippics; always excusing him with the general remark that he did n’t understand him. Alone, she mourned over it; and when with her husband, tried to place matters on a better footing for both parties.

Will noted his mother’s swollen eyelids; he saw his favorite little tea-cakes that she busied herself in preparing for him, and he ate and drank what she gave him, without tasting a morsel he swallowed, listening for the hundredth time to his father’s account of “what he did when he was a young man.”

“Just half an hour, Will,” said his father, “before you start; run up and see if you have forgotten any of your duds.”

It was the little room he had always called his own. How many nights he had lain there listening to the rain pattering on the low roof; how many mornings awakened by the chirp of the robin in the apple-tree under the window. There was the

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little bed with the snowy covering, and the thousand and one little comforts prepared by his mother’s hand. He turned his head—she was at his side, her arms about his neck. “God keep my boy!” was all she could utter. He knelt at her feet as in the days of childhood, and from those wayward lips came this tearful prayer, “Oh God, spare my mother, that I may look upon her face again in this world!”

Oh, in after days, when that voice had died out from under the parental roof, how sacred was that spot to her who gave him birth! There was hope for the boy! he had recognized his mother’s God. By that invisible silken cord she still held the wanderer, though broad seas roll between.

Letters came to Moss Glen—at stated intervals, then more irregularly, picturing only the bright spots in his sailor life (for Will was proud, and they were to be scanned by his father’s eye.) The usual temptations of a sailor’s life when in port were not unknown to him. Of every cup the syren Pleasure held to his lips, he drank to the dregs; but there were moments in his maddest revels, when that angel whisper, “God keep my boy,” palsied his daring hand, and arrested the half-uttered oath. Disgusted with himself, he would turn aside for an instant, but only to drown again more recklessly “that still small torturing voice.”

——

“You’re a stranger in these parts,” said a rough farmer to a sun-burnt traveller. “Look as though you’d been in foreign parts.”

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“Do I?” said Will, slouching his hat over his eyes. “Who lives in that little cottage under the hill?”

“Old Farmer low—and a tough customer he is, too; it’s a word and a blow with him. The old lady has had a hard time of it, good as she is, to put up with all his kinds and quirks. She bore it very well till the lad went away; and then she began to droop like a willow in a storm, and lose all heart, like. Doctor’s stuff did n’t do any good, as long as she got no news of the boy. She’s to be buried this afternoon, sir.”

Poor Will staid to hear no more, but tottered in the direction of the cottage. He asked no leave to enter, but passed over the threshold into the little “best parlor,” and found himself alone with the dead. It was too true! Dumb were the lips that should have welcomed him; and the arms that should have enfolded him were crossed peacefully over the heart that beat true to him till the last.

Conscience did its office. Long years of mad folly passed in swift review before him; and over that insensible form a vow was made, and registered in Heaven.

——

“Your mother should have lived to see this day, Will,” said a gray-haired old man, as he leaned on the arm of the clergyman, and passed into the village church.

“Bless God, my dear father, there is ‘joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth;’ and of all the angel band, there is one seraph hand that sweeps more rapturously its harp to-day for ‘the lost that is found.’”

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MR. PUNCH MISTAKEN.

“A man will own that he is in the wrong—a woman, never; she is only mistaken.”—Punch.

Mr. Punch, did you ever see an enraged American female? She is the expressed essence of wild-cats. Perhaps you did n’t know it, when you penned that incendiary paragraph; or, perhaps you thought that in crossing the “big pond,” salt water might neutralize it; or, perhaps you flattered yourself we should not see it, over here; but here it is, in my clutches, in good strong English: I am not even “mistaken.”

“Now, if you will bring me a live specimen of the genus homo, who was ever known “to own that he was in the wrong,” I will draw in my horns and claws, and sneak ingloriously back into my American shell. But you can’t do it, Mr. Punch! You never saw that curiosity, either in John Bull’s skin or Brother Jonathan’s. ’Tis an animal which has never yet been discovered, much less captured.

A man own he was in the wrong! I guess so! You might tear him in pieces with red-hot pincers, and he would keep on singing out “I did n’t do it; I did n’t do it.” No, Mr. Punch, a man never “owns up” when he is in the wrong; especially if the matter in question be one which he considers of no im-

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portance; for instance, the non-delivery of a letter, which may have been entombed in his pocket for six weeks.

No sir; he just settles himself down behind his dickey, folds his belligerent hands across his stubborn diaphragm, plants his antagonistic feet down on terra-firma as if there were a stratum of loadstone beneath him, and thunders out,

“Come one, come all; this rock shall fly

From its firm base, as soon as I.”

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FERN MUSINGS.

I never was on an August school committee, but, if I was, I’d make a sine-qua-non that no school-marm should be inaugurated who had not been a married mother; I do n’t believe in old maids; they all know very well that they have n’t fulfilled their female destiny, and I would n’t have then wreaking their bilious vengeance on my urchins, (if I had any.) No woman gets the acid effectually out of her temper, till she has taken matrimony “the natural way.”

No; I do n’t believe in spinster educational teaching any more than I do in putting dried up old bachelors on the school committee. What bowels of mercies have either, I’d like to know, for the poor little restless victims of narrow benches and short recesses? The children are to “hold up their hands” (are they?) if they have a request to make? What good does that do, if the teacher won’t take any notice of the Free Mason sign? “They are not to enter complaints.” So some poor timid little girl must be pinched black and blue by a little Napoleon in jacket and trowsers, till she is forced to shriek out with pain, when she is punished by being kept half an hour after school for “making a disturbance!” They are “not to eat in school,” are they? Perhaps they have made an indifferent breakfast; (perhaps they are poor, and have had none at all,

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and, A, B, C, D, does n’t digest well on an empty stomach;) but the spinster teacher can hear them recite with a tempting bunch of grapes in her hand, which she leisurely devours before their longing eyes.

They “must not smile in school,” must they? Not when “Tom Hood” in a pinafore, cuts up some sly prank that brings “down the house;” yes—and the ferule too, on everybody’s hand but his own; (for he has a way of drawing on his “deacon face,” to order.)

They may go out in recess, but they must speak in a whisper out doors, as if they all had the bronchitis! No matter if Queen Victoria should ride by, no little brimless hat must go up in the air till “the committee had set on it!”

Oh fudge! I should like to keep school myself. I’d make “rag babies” for the little girls, and “soldier caps” for the boys; and I do n’t think I would make a rule that they should not sneeze till school was dismissed; and when their little cheeks began to flush, and their little heads droop wearily on their plump shoulders, I’d hop up and play, “hunt the slipper;” or, if we were in the country, we’d race over the meadow, and catch butterflies, or frogs, or toads, or snakes, or anything on earth except a “school committee.”

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THE TIME TO CHOOSE.

“The best time to choose a wife is early in the morning. If a young lady is at all inclined to sulks and slatternness, it is just before breakfast. As a general thing, a woman don’t get on her temper, till after 10 A. M.”—Young Man’s Guide.

Men never look slovenly before breakfast; no, indeed. They never run round in their stocking feet, vestless, with dressing-gown inside out; soiled handkerchief hanging out of the pocket by one corner. Minus dicky—minus neck-tie; pantaloon straps flying; suspenders streaming from their waist[b]and; chin shaved on one side, and lathered on the other; hair like porcupine quills; face all in a snarl of wrinkles because the fire wont kindle, and because it snows, and because the office boy do n’t come for the keys, and because the newspaper has n’t arrived, and because they lost a bet the night before, and because there’s an omelet instead of a broiled chicken, for breakfast, and because they are out of sorts and shaving soap, out of cigars and credit, and because they can’t “get their temper on” till they get some money and a mint julep.

Any time “before ten o’clock,” is the time to choose a husband—perhaps!

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SPRING IS COMING.

Tiny blades of grass are struggling between the city’s pavements. Fathers, and husbands, sighing, look at the tempting shop windows, dolefully counting the cost of a “spring outfit.” Muffs, and boas, and tippets, are among the things that were; and shawls, and “Talmas,” and mantles, and “little loves of bonnets,” reign supreme, though maiden aunts, and sage mammas, still mutter—“East winds, east winds,” and choose the sunnier sidewalk.

Housekeepers are making a horrible but necessary Babel, stripping up carpets, and disembowelling old closets, chests, and cupboards. Advertisements already appear in the newspapers, setting forth the superior advantages of this or that dog-day retreat. Mrs. Jones drives Mr. Jones distracted, at a regular hour every evening, hammering about “change of scene, and air,” and the “health of the dear children;” which, translated, means a quantity of new bonnets and dresses, and a trip to Saratoga, for herself and intimate friend, Miss Hob-Nob; while Jones takes his meals at a restaurant—sleeps in the deserted house, sews on his missing buttons and dickey strings, and spends his leisure time where Mrs. Jones don’t visit.

Spring is coming!

Handsome carriages roll past, freighted with lovely women,

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(residents of other cities, for an afternoon ride.) Dash on, ladies! You will scarcely find the environs of Boston surpassed, where-ever you may drive. A thousand pleasant surprises await you; lovely winding paths and pretty cottages, and more ambitious houses with groups of statuary hidden amid the foliage. But forget not to visit our sweet Mount Auburn. Hush the light laugh and merry jest as the gray-haired porter throws wide the gate for your prancing horses to tread the hallowed ground. The dark old pines throw out their protecting arms above you, and in their dense shade sleep eyes as bright, forms as lovely, as your own—while “the mourners go about the streets.” Rifle not, with sacrilegious hand, the flowers which bloom at the headstone—tread lightly over the beloved dust! Each tenanted grave entombs bleeding, living hearts; each has its history, which eternity alone shall reveal.

Spring is coming!

The city belle looks fresh as a new-blown rose—tossing her bright curls in triumph, at her faultless costume and beautiful face. Her lover’s name is Legion—for she hath also golden charms! Poor little butterfly! bright, but ephemeral! You were made for something better. Shake the dust from your earth-stained wings and—soar!

Spring is coming!

From the noisome lanes and alleys of the teeming city, swarm little children, creeping forth like insects to bask in God’s sunshine—so free to all. Squalid, forsaken, neglected; they are yet of those to whom the Sinless said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” The disputed crust, the savage curse, the

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brutal blow, their only patrimony! One’s heart aches to call THIS childhood! No “spring!” no summer, to them! Noisome sights, noisome sounds, noisome odors! and the leprosy of sin following them like a curse! One longs to fold to the warm heart those little forsaken ones; to smooth those matted ringlets; to throw between them and sin the shield of virtue—to teach their little lisping lips to say “Our Father!”

Spring is coming!

Yes, its blue skies are over us—its soft breezes shall fan us—the fragrance of its myriad flowers be wafted to us. Its mossy carpet shall be spread for our careless feet—our languid limbs shall be laved at its cool fountains. Its luscious fruits shall send health through our leaping veins—while from mountain top, and wooded hill, and flower-wreathed valley, shall float one glad anthem of praise from tiniest feathered throats!

Dear reader! From that human heart of thine shall no burst of grateful thanks arise to Him who giveth all? While nature adores—shall man be dumb? God forbid!

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STEAMBOAT SIGHTS AND REFLECTIONS.

I am looking, from the steamer’s deck, upon as fair a sunrise as ever poet sang or painter sketched, or the earth ever saw. Oh, this broad, blue, rushing river! sentineled by these grand old hills, amid which the silvery mist wreaths playfully; half shrouding the little eyrie homes, where love wings the uncounted hours; while looming up in the hazy distance, is the Babel city, with glittering spires and burnished panes—one vast illumination. My greedy eye with miserly eagerness devours it all, and hangs it up in Memory’s cabinet, a fadeless picture; upon which dame Fortune (the jilt) shall never have a mortgage.

Do you see yonder figure leaning over the railing of the boat, gazing on all this outspread wealth of beauty? One longs to hear his lips give utterance to the burning thoughts which cause his eye to kindle and his face to glow. A wiry sister, (whose name should be “Martha,” so careful, so troubled looks her spinstership,) breaks the charmed spell by asking him, in a cracked treble, “if them porters on the pier can be safely trusted with her bandbox and umberil.” My stranger eyes meet his, and we both laugh involuntarily—(pardon us, oh ye prim ones)—without an introduction!

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Close at my elbow sits a rough countryman, with so much “free soil” adhering to his brogans they might have been used for beet-beds, and a beard rivaled only by Nebuchadnezzar’s when he experimented on a grass diet. He has only one word to express his overpowering emotions at the glowing panorama before us, and that is “pooty,”—houses, trees, sky, rafts, railroad cars and river, all are “pooty;” and when, in the fulness of a soul craving sympathy, he turned to his dairy-fed Eve to endorse it, that matter-of-fact feminine shower-bath-ed his enthusiasm, by snarling out “pooty enough, I ’spose, but where’s my breakfast?”

Ah! here we are at the pier, at last. And now they emerge, our night-travelers, from state-room and cabin into the fresh cool air of the morning. Venus and Apollo! what a crew. Solemn as a hearse, surly as an Englishman, blue as an indigo-bag! There’s a poor shivering babe, twitched from a warm bed by an ignorant young mother, to encounter the chill air of morning, with only a flimsy covering of lace and embroidery;—there’s a languid southern belle, creeping out, a´ la tortoise, and turning up her little aristocratic nose as if she sniffed a pestilence;—there’s an Irish bride (green as Erin) in a pearl-colored silk dress surmounted by a coarse blanket shall;—there’s a locomotive hour-glass, (alias a dandy,) a blue-eyed, cravat-choked, pantaloon be-striped, vest-garnished, disgusting “institution!” (give him and his quizzing glass plenty of sea-room);—and there’s a clergyman, God bless his care-worn face, with a valise full of salted-down sermons and the long-coveted “leave of absence;”—there’s an editor, kicking a

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newsboy for bringing “coals to Newcastle” in the shape of “extras;”—and there’s a good-natured, sunshiny “family man,” carrying the baby, and the carpet-bag, and the traveling shawl, lest his pretty little wife should get weary;—and there’s a poor bonnetless emigrant, stunned by the Babel sounds, inquiring, despairingly, the name of some person whom nobody knows or cares for;—and last, but not least, there’s the wiry old maid “Martha,” asking “thim porters on the pier,” with tears in her faded green eyes, to be “keerful of her bandbox and umberil.”

On they go. Oh, how much of joy—how much of sorrow, in each heart’s unwritten history.

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GOTHAM REVERIE.

Babel, what a place!—what a dust—what a racket—what a whiz-buzz! What a throng of human beings. “Jew and Gentile, bond and free;” every nation the sun ever shone upon, here represented. What pampered luxury—what squalid misery, on the same paveé. What unwritten histories these myriad hearts might unfold. How much of joy, how much of sorrow, how much of crime. Now, queenly beauty sweeps past, in sin’s gay livery. Cursed he who first sent her forth, to walk the earth, with her woman’s brow shame-branded. Fair mother—pure wife—frown scornfully at her if you can; my heart aches for her. I see one who once slept, sweet and fair, on a mother’s loving breast. I see one whose bitterest tear may never wash her stain away. I see one on whom mercy’s gate is forever shut, by her own unrelenting, unforgiving sex. I see one who was young, beautiful, poor and friendless. They who make long prayers, and wrap themselves up in self-righteousness, as with a garment, turned a deaf ear, as she plead for the bread of honest toil. Earth looks cold, and dark, and dreary; feeble feet stumbled wearily on life’s rugged, thorny road. Oh, judge her not harshly, pure but frigid censor; who shall say that with her desolation—her temptation—your name too might not have been written “Magdalen.”

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SICKNESS COMES TO YOU IN THE CITY.

How unmercifully the heavy cart wheels rattle over the stony pavements; how unceasing the tramp of busy, restless feet; how loud and shrill the cries of mirth and traffic. You turn heavily to your heated pillow, murmuring, “Would God it were night!” The pulse of the great city is stilled at last; and balmy sleep, so coveted, seems about to bless you—when hark! a watchman’s rattle is sprung beneath your window, evoking a score of stentorian voices, followed by a clanging bell, and a rushing engine, announcing a conflagration. Again you turn to your sleepless pillow; your quivering nerves and throbbing temples sending to your pale lips this prayer, “Would to God it were morning!”

Death comes, and releases you. You are scarcely missed. Your next-door neighbor, who has lived within three feet of you for three years, may possibly recollect having seen the doctor’s chaise before your door, for some weeks past; then, that the front blinds were closed; then, that a coffin was carried in; and he remarks to his wife, as he takes up the evening paper, over a comfortable dish of tea, that “he should n’t wonder if neighbor Grey were dead,” and then they read your

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name and age in the bill of mortality, and wonder “what disease you died of;” and then the servant removes the tea-tray, and they play a game of whist, and never think of you again, till they see the auctioneer’s flag floating before your door.

The house is sold; and your neighbor sees your widow and little ones pass out over the threshold in tears and sables (grim poverty keeping them silent company); but what of that? The world is full of widows and orphans; one can’t always be thinking of a charnel-house; and so he returns to his stocks and dividends, and counting-room, and ledger, in a philosophical state of serenity.

Some time after, he is walking with a friend; and meets a lady in rusty mourning, carrying a huge bundle, from which “slop work” is seen protruding, (a little child accompanies her, with its feet out at the toes.) She has a look of hopeless misery on her fine but sad features. She is a lady still (spite of her dilapidated wardrobe and her bundle.) Your neighbor’s companion touches his arm, and says, “Good God! is n’t that Grey’s widow?” He glances at her carelessly, and answers, “Should n’t wonder;” and invites him home to dine on trout, cooked in claret, and hot-house peaches, at half a dollar a-piece.

——

SICKNESS COMES TO YOU IN THE COUNTRY.

On the fragrant breeze, through your latticed window, comes the twitter of the happy swallow, the chirp of the robin, and

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the drowsy hum of the bee. From your pillow you can watch the shadows come and go, over the clover meadow, as the clouds go drifting by. Rustic neighbors lean on their spades at sunset at your door, and with sympathising voices “hope you are better.” The impatient hoof of the prancing horse is checked by the hand of pity; and the merry shout of the sunburnt child (musical though it be,) dies on the cherry lip, at the uplifted finger of compassion. A shower of rose-leaves drifts in over your pillow, on the soft sunset zephyr. Oh, earth is passing fair; but Heaven is fairer!

Its portals unclose to you! Kind, neighborly hands wipe the death-damp from your brow; speak words of comfort to your weeping wife, caress your unconscious children. Your fading eye takes it all in, but your tongue is powerless to speak its thanks. They close your drooping lids, they straighten your manly limbs, they lay your weary head on its grassy pillow, they bedew it with sympathetic tears; they pray God, that night, in their cottage homes, to send His kind angel down, to whisper words of peace to the broken hearts you have left behind.

They do something besides pray. From unknown hands, the widow’s “cruse of oil,” and “barrel of meal,” are oft replenished. On your little orphans’ heads, many a rough palm is laid, with tearful blessing. Many a dainty peach, or pear, or apple is tossed them, on their way to school. Many a ride they get “to mill,” or “hay-field,” or “village,” while their mother shades her moistened eyes in the door-way, quite unable to speak. The old farmer sees it; and knowing better how to be-

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stow a kindness than to bear such expressive thanks, cuts Dobbin in the flanks, then starting tragically at the premeditated rear, asks her, with an hysterical laugh, “if she ever saw such an uneasy beast!”

Wide open fly their cottage doors and hearts, at “Christmas” and “Thanksgiving,” for your stricken household. There may be little city etiquette at the feast, there may be ungrammatical words and unfelicitous expressions,—but, thank God, unchilled by selfishness, unshrivelled by avarice, human hearts throb warmly there—loving—pitiful—Christ-like!

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HUNGRY HUSBANDS.

“The hand that can make a pie is a continual feast to the husband that marries its owner.”

Well, it is a humiliating reflection, that the straightest road to a man’s heart is through his palate. He is never so amiable as when he has discussed a roast turkey. Then’s your time, “Esther,” for “half his kingdom,” in the shape of a new bonnet, cap, shawl, or dress. He’s too complacent to dispute the matter. Strike while the iron is hot; petition for a trip to Niagara, Saratoga, the Mammoth Cave, the White Mountains, or to London, Rome, or Paris. Should he demur about it, the next day cook him another turkey, and pack your trunk while he is eating it.

There’s nothing on earth so savage—except a bear robbed of her cubs—as a hungry husband. It is as much as your life is worth to sneeze, till dinner is on the table, and his knife and fork are in vigorous play. Tommy will get his ears boxed, the ottoman will be kicked into the corner, your work-box be turned bottom upwards, and the poker and tongs will beat a tattoo on that grate that will be a caution to dilatory cooks.

After the first six mouthfuls you may venture to say your soul is your own; his eyes will lose their ferocity; his brow its

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furrows, and he will very likely recollect to help you to a cold potato! Never mind—eat it. You might have to swallow a worse pill—for instance, should he offer to kiss you!

Well, learn a lesson from it—keep him well fed and languid—live yourself on a low diet, and cultivate your thinking powers; and you’ll be as spry as a cricket, and hop over all the objections and remonstrances that his dead-and-alive energies can muster. Yes, feed him well, and he will stay contentedly in his cage, like a gorged anaconda. If he were my husband, would n’t I make him heaps of pison things! Bless me! I’ve made a mistake in the spelling; it should have been pies and things!

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LIGHT AND SHADOW;
OR, WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

It was a simple dress of snowy muslin, innocent of the magic touch of a French modiste. There was not an inch of lace upon it, nor a rosette, nor a flower; it was pure, and simple, and unpretending as its destined wearer. A pair of white kid gloves, of fairy-like proportions, lay beside it, also a tiny pair of satin slippers. There was no bridal trousseau; no—Meta had no rich uncles, or aunts, or cousins,—no consistent god-parents who, promising at her baptism that she should “renounce the pomp and vanities of the world,” redeemed their promise by showering at her bridal feet, diamonds enough to brighten many a starving fellow-creature’s pathway to the tomb.

Did I say there was no bridal trousseau? There was one gift, a little clasp Bible, with “Meta Grey” written on the flyleaf, in the bridegroom’s bold, handsome hand. Perchance some gay beauty, who reads this, may curl her rosy lip scornfully; but well Meta knew how to value such a gift. Through long dreary years of orphanage “God’s Word” had been to her what the star in the East was to Bethlehem’s watching shepherds. Her lonely days of toil were over now. There was a true heart, whose every pulsation was love for her—a brave arm to defend her helplessness, and a quiet, sunny home

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where Peace, like a brooding dove, should fold his wings, while the happy hours flew uncounted by.

Yes; Meta was looked for, every hour. She was to leave the group of laughing hoidens, (before whom she had forbidden her lover to claim her,) and thereafter confine her teachings to one pupil, whose “reward of merit” should be the love-light in her soft, dark eyes. Still, it was weary waiting for her; her last letter was taken, for the hundredth time, from its hiding-place, and read and refolded, and read again, although he could say it all, with his eyes shut, in the darkest corner in Christendom. But you know all about it, dear reader, if you own a heart, and if you don’t, the sooner you drop my story the better.

Well; he paced the room up and down, looked out the window, and down the street: then he sat down in the little rocking-chair he had provided for her, and tried to imagine it was tenanted by two; then, delicious tears sprang to his eyes, that such a sweet fount of happiness was opened to him—that the golden morn, and busy noon, and hushed and starry night, should find them ever side by side. Care?—he did n’t know it! Trouble?—what trouble could he have, when all his heart craved on earth was bounded by his clasping arms? And then, Meta was an orphan—he was scarcely sorry—there would be none for her heart to go out to now but himself; he must be brother, sister, father, mother—all to her; and his heart gave a full and joyful response to each and every claim.

—But what a little loiterer! He was half vexed; he paced the room in his impatience, handled the little slippers affection-

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ately, and caressed the little gloves as if they were filled by the plump hand of Meta, instead of his imagination. Why did n’t she fly to him? Such an angel should have wings—he was sure of that.

—Wings? God help you, widowed bridegroom! Who shall have the heart to read you this sad paragraph?

“One of the Norwalk Victims.—The body of a young lady, endowed with extraordinary personal beauty, remains yet unrecognized. On her countenance reposes an expression of pleasure, in striking and painful contrast to the terrible scene amid which she breathed her last. She was evidently about twenty years old, doubtless the glory of some circle of admiring friends, who little dream where she is, and of her shocking condition.”

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MATRIMONIAL REVERIE.

“The love of a spirited woman is better worth having than that of any other female individual you can start.”

I wish I had known that before! I’d have plucked up a little spirit, and not gone trembling through creation, like a plucked chicken, afraid of every animal I ran a-fowl of. I have not dared to say my soul was my own since the day I was married, and every time Mr. Jones comes into the entry and sets down that great cane of his, with a thump, you might hear my teeth chatter, down cellar! I always keep one eye on him, in company, to see if I am saying the right thing; and the middle of a sentence is the place for me to stop, (I can tell you,) if his black eyes snap! It’s so aggravated to find out my mistake at this time o’day. I ought to have carried a stiff upper lip, long ago. Wonder if little women can look dignified? Wonder how it would do to turn straight about now? I’ll try it!

Harry will come home presently and thunder out, as usual, “Mary, why the deuce is n’t dinner ready?” I’ll just set my teeth together, put my arms akimbo, and look him right straight—oh, mercy! I can’t! I should dissolve! Bless your soul, he’s a six-footer; such whiskers—none of your sham settlements! Such eyes! and such a nice mouth. Come to think of it, I really believe I love him! Guess I’ll go along the old way!

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WHAT LOVE WILL ACCOMPLISH.

“This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty; “how I came to be such a simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and more of an astonisher to me. I can learn, and I will! There’s Bridget told me yesterday there was n’t time to make a pudding before dinner. I had my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I did n’t know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I’m no more mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it, too; and, there’s Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!) could n’t find an eatable thing on the dinner table yesterday. He loves me too well to say anything, but he had such an ugly frown on his face when he lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is:

“One must eat in matrimony,

And love is neither bread nor honey,

And so, you understand.”

——

“What on earth sent yo[u] over here in this dismal rain?” said Kitty’s neighbor, Mrs. Green. “Just look at your gaiters.”

“Oh, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying her “rigo-

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lette,” and throwing herself on the sofa. “I don’t know any more about cooking than a six-weeks’ kitten; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect Irish nonchalance; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the days grow short, the bills grow long, and I’m the most miserable little Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, baking, and roasting; take me into your kitchen now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as if I could roast Chanticleer and all his hen-harem!”

“You don’t expect to take your degree in one forenoon?” said Mrs. Green, laughing immoderately.

“Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don’t whirl off its axle. I’ve locked up my guitar and my French and Italian books, and that irresistible ‘Festus,’ and nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down that embroidery, there’s a good Samaritan, and descend with me into the lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower-bath,” and she rolled up her sleeves from her round white arms, took off her rings, and tucked her curls behind her ears.

Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her resolution; each day added a little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavor her first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? What if she did “baste” a turkey with saleratus instead of salt? What if she did season the stuffing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper? Rome was n’t built in a day;—cooks can’t be manufactured in a minute.

——

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Kitty’s husband had been gone just a month. He was expected home that very day. All the morning the little wife had been getting up a congratulatory dinner, in honor of the occasion. What with sati[s]faction and the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid’s. How her eyes sparkled, and what a pretty little triumphant toss she gave her head, when that big trunk was dumped down in the entry! It is n’t a bad thing, sometimes, to have a secret even from one’s own husband.

“On my word, Kitty,” said Harry, holding her off at arm’s length, “you look most provokingly ‘well-to-do’ for a widow ‘pro tem.’ I don’t believe you have mourned for me the breath of a sigh. What have you been about? who has been here? and what mine of fun is to be prophesied from the merry twinkle in the corner of your eye? Anybody hid in the closet or cupboard? Have you drawn a prize in the lottery?”

“Not since I married you,” said Mrs. Kitty; “and you are quite welcome to that sugar-plum to sweeten your dinner.”

“How Bridget has improved,” said Harry, as he plied his knife and fork industriously; “I never saw these woodcock outdone, even at our bachelor club-rooms at —— House. She shall have a present of a pewter cross, as sure as her name is McFlanigan, besides absolution for all the detestable messes she used to concoct with her Catholic finger.”

“Let me out! let me out!” said a stifled voice from the closet; “you can’t expect a woman to keep a secret forever.”

“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green?” said Harry, gaily shaking her hand.

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“Why, you see, ‘Bridge has improved;’ i. e. to say, little Mrs. Kitty there received from my hands yesterday a diploma, certifying her Mistress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having spent every morning of your absence in perfecting herself as a housekeeper. There now, don’t drop on your knees to her till I have gone. I know very well when three is a crowd, or, to speak more fashionably, when I am ‘de trop,’ and I’m only going to stop long enough to remind you that there are some wives left in the world, and that Kitty is one of ’em.”

And now, dear reader, if you doubt whether Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for all her trouble, you’d better take a peep into that parlor, and while you are looking, let me whisper a secret in your ear confidentially. You may be as beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame de Stael, but you never’ll reign supreme in your liege lord’s affections, till you can roast a turkey.

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MRS. GRUMBLE’S SOLILOQUY.

“There’s no calculating the difference between men and women boarders. Here’s Mr. Jones, been in my house these six months, and no more trouble to me than my gray kitten. If his bed is shook up once a week, and his coats, cravats, love-letters, cigars and patent-leather boots left undisturbed in the middle of the floor, he is as contented as a pedagogue in vacation time.

“Take a woman to board, and (if it is perfectly convenient) she would like drapery instead of drop-curtains; she’d like the windows altered to open at the top, and a wardrobe for her flounced dresses, and a few more nails and another shelf in her closet, and a cricket to put her feet on, and a little rocking-chair, and a big looking-glass, and a pea-green shade for her gas-burner.

“She would like breakfast about ten minutes later than your usual hour; tea ten minutes earlier, and the gong, which shocks her nerves so, altogether dispensed with.

“She can’t drink coffee, because it is exhilirating; broma is too insipid, and chocolate too heavy. She don’t fancy cocoa. ‘English breakfast tea’ is the only beverage which agrees with her delicate spinster organization.

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“She can’t digest a roast or a fried dish; she might possibly peck at an egg, if it were boiled with one eye on the watch. Pastry she never eats, unless she knows from what dairy the butter came, which enters into its composition. Every article of food prepared with butter, salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar or oil; or bread that is made with yeast, soda, milk or saleratus, she decidedly rejects.

“She is constantly washing out little duds of laces, collars, handkerchiefs, chemisettes and stockings, which she festoons up to the front windows, to dry; giving passers-by the impression that your house is occupied by a blanchesseuse;—then jerks the bell-wire for an hour or more, for relays of hot smoothing irons, to put the finishing stroke to her operations.

“She is often afflicted with interesting little colds and influenzas, requiring the immediate consolation of a dose of hot lemonade or ginger tea; choosing her time for these complaints when the kitchen fire has gone out and the servants are on a furlough. Oh! nobody knows, but those who ’ve tried, how immensely troublesome women are! I’d rather have a whole regiment of men boarders. All you have to do is, to wind them up in the morning with a powerful cup of coffee, give them carte-blanche to smoke, and a nigh-key, and your work is done.”

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HENRY WARD BEECHER.

What a warm Sunday! and what a large church! I wonder if it will be half-filled! Empty pews are a sorry welcome to a pastor. Ah! no fear; here comes the congregation in troops and families; now the capacious galleries are filled; every pew is crowded, and seats are being placed in the aisles.

The preacher rises. What a young “David!” Still, the “stone and sling” will do their execution. How simple, how child-like that prayer; and yet how eloquent, how fervent. How eagerly, as he names the text, the eye of each is riveted upon the preacher, as if to secure his individual portion of the heavenly manna.

Let us look around, upon the audience. Do you see yonder gray-haired business man? Six days in the week, for many years, he has been Mammon’s most devoted worshipper. According to time-honored custom, he has slept comfortably in his own pew each Sunday, lulled by the soft voice of the shepherd who “prophesieth smooth things.” One pleasant Sabbath, chance, (I would rather say an overruling Providence,) led him here. He settles himself in his accustomed Sunday attitude, but sleep comes not at his bidding. He looks disturbed. The preacher is dwelling upon the permitted but

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fraudulent tricks of business men, and exposing plainly their turpitude in the sight of that God who holds “evenly the scales of justice.” As he proceeds, Conscience whispers to this aged listener, “Thou art the man!” He moves uneasily on his seat; an angry flush mounts to his temples: What right has that boy-preacher to question the integrity of men of such unblemished mercantile standing in the community as himself? He is not accustomed to such a spiritual probing knife. His spiritual physician has always “healed the hurt of his people slightly.” He don’t like such plain talking, and sits the service out only from compulsion. But when he passes the church porch, he does not leave the sermon there, as usual. No. He goes home perplexed and thoughtful. Conscience sides with the preacher; self-interest tries to stifle its voice with the sneering whisper of “priest-craft.” Monday comes, and again he plunges into the maelstrom of business, and tries to tell the permitted lie with his usual nonchalance to some ignorant customer, but his tongue falters and performs its duty but awkwardly; a slight blush is perceptible upon his countenance; and the remainder of the week chronicles similar and repeated failures.

Again it is Sunday. He is not a church-member: he can stay at home, therefore, without fear of a canonical committee of Paul Prys to investigate the matter: he can look over his debt and credit list if he likes, without excommunication: he certainly will not put himself again in the way of that plain-spoken, stripling priest. The bell peals out, in musical tones, seemingly this summons: “Come up with us, and we

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will do you good.” By an irresistible impulse, he finds himself again a listener. “Not that he believes what that boy says:” Oh no: but, somehow, he likes to listen to him, even though he attack that impregnable pride in which he has wrapped himself up as in a garment.

Now, why is this? Why is this church filled with such wayside listeners?

Why, but that all men—even the most worldly and unscrupulous—pay involuntary homage to earnestness, sincerity, independence and Christian boldness, in the “man of God?”

Why? Because they see that he stands in that sacred desk, not that his lips may be tamed and held in, with a silver bit and silken bridle: not because preaching is his “trade,” and his hearers must receive their quid pro quo once a week—no, they all see and feel that his heart is in the work—that he loves it—that he comes to them fresh from his closet, his face shining with the light of “the Mount,” as did Moses’.

The preacher is remarkable for fertility of imagination, for rare felicity of expression, for his keen perception of the complicated and mysterious workings of the human heart, and for the uncompromising boldness with which he utters his convictions. His earnestness of manner, vehemence of gesture and rapidity of utterance, are, at times, electrifying; impressing his hearers with the idea that language is too poor and meager a medium for the rushing tide of his thoughts.

Upon the lavish beauty of earth, sea, and sky, he was evidently gazed with the poet’s eye of rapture. He walks the green earth in no monk’s cowl or cassock. The tiniest blade

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of grass with its “drap o’ dew,” has thrilled him with strange delight. “God is love,” is written for him in brilliant letters, on the arch of the rainbow. Beneath that black coat, his heart leaps like a happy child’s to the song of the birds and the tripping of the silver-footed stream, and goes up, in the dim old woods, with the fragrance of their myriad flowers, in grateful incense of praise, to Heaven.

God be thanked, that upon all these rich and rare natural gifts, “Holiness to the Lord” has been written. Would that the number of such gospel soldiers was “legion,” and that they might stand in the forefront of the hottest battle, wielding thus skillfully and unflinchingly the “Sword of the Spirit.”

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AN OLD MAID’S DECISION.

“I can bear misfortune and poverty, and all the other ills of life, but to be an old maid—to droop and wither, and wilt and die, like a single pink—I can’t endure it; and what’s more, I won’t!”

Now there’s an appeal that ought to touch some bachelor’s heart. There she is, a poor, lone spinster, in a nicely furnished room—sofa big enough for two; two arm chairs, two bureaus, two looking-glasses—everything hunting in couples except herself! I don’t wonder she’s frantic! She read in her childhood that “matches were made in Heaven,” and although she’s well aware there are some Lucifer matches, yet she has never had a chance to try either sort. She has heard that there “never was a soul crated, but its twin was made somewhere,” and she’s a melancholy proof that ’t is a mocking lie. She gets tired sewing—she can’t knit forever on that eternal stocking—(besides, that has a fellow to it, and is only an aggravation to her feelings.) She has read till her eyes are half blind,—there’s nobody to agree with her if she likes the book, or argue the point with her if she don’t. If she goes out to walk, every woman she meets has her husband’s arm. To be sure, they are half of them ready to scratch each other’s eyes out; but that’s a little business matter between themselves. Suppose she feels devo-

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tional, and goes to evening lectures, some ruffianly coward is sure to scare her to death on the way. If she takes a journey, she gets hustled and boxed round among cab-drivers, and porters, and baggage-masters; her bandbox gets knocked in, her trunk gets knocked off, and she’s landed at the wrong stopping place. If she wants a load of wood, she has to pay twice as much as a man would, and then she gets cheated by the man that saws and splits it. She has to put her own money into the bank and get it out, hire her own pew, and wait upon herself into it. People tell her “husbands are often great plagues,” but she knows there are times when they are indispensable. She is very good looking, black hair and eyes, fine figure, sings and plays beautifully, but she “can’t be an old maid, and what’s more—SHE WON’T.”

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A PUNCH AT “PUNCH.”

“What is the height of a woman’s ambition? Diamonds.”—
[Punch.

Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more “diamonds” a woman owns, the more precious she becomes in the eyes of your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a “crow’s foot,” grey hair, or wrinkle, in company with a genuine diamond? Don’t you go down on your marrow-bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look (connubially) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only diamonds were “in her eye?” Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch. The race of men is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a specimen; but I’m sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient energy to earn their own cigars and “Macassar,” preferring to dangle at the heels of a diamond wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as her mamma’s prudence and her own inclinations may suggest.

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FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR’S PREACHER.

You have never heard Father Taylor, the Boston Seaman’s preacher? Well—you should go down to his church some Sunday. It is not at the court-end of the town. The urchins of the neighborhood are guiltless of shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a sprinkling of “Police” at the corners. Green Erin, too, is well represented: with a dash of Africa—checked off with “dough faces.”

Let us go into the church: there are no stained-glass windows—no richly draperied pulpit—no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to your sleepy conscience. No odor of patchouli, or nonpareil, or bouquet de violet will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your satin and broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in the synagogue,—they being property reserved for the “old salts.”

Here they come! one after another, with horny palms and bronzed faces. It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to see them. The seas they have crossed! the surging billows they have breasted! the lonely, dismal, weary nights they have kept watch!—the harpies in port who have assailed

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their generous sympathies! the sullen plash of the sheeted dead, in its vast ocean sepulchre!—what stirring thoughts and emotions to their weather-beaten faces call into play! God bless the sailor!—Here they come; sure of a welcome—conscious that they are no intruders on aristocratic landsmen’s soil—sure that each added face will send a thrill of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, as one family, to his patriarchal bosom.

There he is! How reverently he drops on his knee, and utters that silent prayer. Now he is on his feet. With a quick notion he adjusts his spectacles, and says to the tardy tar doubtful of a berth, “Room here, brother!” pointing to a seat in the pulpit. Jack don’t know about that! He can climb the rigging when Boreas whistles his fiercest blast; he can swing into the long boat with a stout heart, when creaking timbers are parting beneath him: but to mount the pulpit!—Jack doubts his qualifications, and blushes through his mask of bronze. “Room enough, brother!” again reassures him; and, with a lit[t]le extra fumbling at his tarpaulin, and hitching at his waistband, he is soon as much at home as though he were on his vessel’s deck.

The hymn is read with a heart-tone. There is no mistaking either the poet’s meaning or the reader’s devotion. And now, if you have a “scientific musical ear,” (which, thank heaven, I have not,) you may criticise the singing, while I am not ashamed of the tears that steal down my face, as I mark the effect of good Old Hundred (minus trills and flourishes) on Neptune’s honest, hearty, whole-souled sons.

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—The text is announced. There follows no arrangement of dickys, or bracelets, or eye-glasses. You forget your ledger and the fashions, the last prima donna, and that your neighbor is not one f the “upper ten,” as you fix your eye on that good old man, and are swept away from worldly moorings by the flowing tide of his simple, earnest eloquence. You marvel that these uttered truths of his, never struck your thoughtless mind before. My pen fails to convey to you the play of expression on that earnest face—those emphatic gestures—the starting ear or the thrilling voice;—but they all tell on “Jack.”

And now an infant is presented for baptism. The pastor takes it on one arm. O, surely he is himself a father, else it would not be poised so gently. Now he holds it up, that all may view its dimpled beauty, and says: “Is there one here who doubts, should this child die to-day, its right among the blessed?” One murmured, spontaneous No! bursts from Jack[’s] lips, as the baptismal drops lave its sinless temples. Lovingly the little lamb is folded, with a kiss and a blessing, to the heart of the earthly shepherd, ere the maternal arms receive it.

Jack looks on and weeps! And how can he help weeping? He was once as pure as that blessed innocent! His mother—the sod now covers her—often invoked heaven’s blessing on her son; and well he remembers the touch of her gentle hand and the sound of her loving voice, as she murmured the imploring prayer for him: and how has her sailor boy redeemed his youthful promise? He dashes away his scalding tears, with

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his horny palm; but, please God, that Sabbath—that scene—shall be a talisman upon which memory shall ineffaceably inscribe,

“Go, and sin no more.”

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SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

E-q-u-i—equi, d-o-m-e—dome, “Equidome.” Betty, hand me my dictionary.

Well, now, who would have believed that I, Fanny Fern, would have tripped over a “stable?” That all comes of being “raised” where people persist in calling things by their right names. I’m very certain that it is useless for me to try to circumnavigate the globe on stilts. There’s the “Hippodrome!” I had but just digested that humbug: my tongue kinked all up trying to pronounce it; and then I could n’t find out the meaning of it; for Webster did n’t inform me that it was a place where vicious horses broke the necks of vicious young girls for the amusement of vicious spectators.

—“Jim Brown!” What a relief. I can understand that. I never saw Jim, but I’m positively certain that he’s a mono-syllable on legs—crisp as a cucumber. Ah! here are some more suggestive signs.

“Robert Link—Bird Fancier.” I suggest that it be changed to Bob-o’Link; in which opinion I shall probably be backed up by all musical people.

Here we are in Broadway junior, alias the “Bowery.” I don’t see but the silks, and satins, and dry goods generally, are

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quite equal to those in Broadway; but, of course, Fashion turns her back upon them, for they are only half the price.

What have we here, in this shop window? What are all those silks, and delaines, and calicoes, ticketed up that way for?—“Superbe,” “Tasty,” “Beautiful,” “Desirable,” “Cheap for 1s.,” “Modest,” “Unique,” “Genteel,” “Grand,” “Gay!” It is very evident that Mr. Yardstick takes all women for fools, or else he has had a narrow escape from being one himself.

There’s a poor, distracted gentleman in a milliner’s shop, trying to select a bonnet for his spouse. What a non compos! See him poise the airy nothings on his great clumsy hands! He is about as good a judge of bonnets as I am of patent ploughs. See him turn, in despairing bewilderment, from blue to pink, from pink to green, from green to crimson, from crimson to yellow. The little witch of a milliner sees his indecision, and resolves to make a coup d’état; so, perching one of the bonnets (blue as her eyes) on her rosy little face, she walks up sufficiently near to give him a magnetic shiver, and holding the strings coquettishly under her pretty little chin, says:

“Now, I’m sure, you can’t say that is n’t pretty!”

Of course he can’t!

So, the bonnet is bought and band-boxed, and Jonathan (who is sold with the bonnet) takes it home to his wife, whose black face looks in it like an overcharged thunder-cloud set in a silver lining.

Saturday evening is a busy time in the Bowery. So many little things wanted at the close of the week. A pair of new shoes for Robert, a tippet for Sally, a pair of gloves for Johnny,

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and a stick of candy to bribe the baby to keep the peace while mamma goes to “meetin” on Sunday. What a heap of people! What a job it must be to take the census in New York. Servant girls and their beaux, country folks and city folks, big boys and little boys, ladies and women, puppies and men! There’s a poor laboring man with his market basket on one arm, and his wife on the other. He knows that he can get his Sunday dinner cheaper by purchasing it late on Saturday night, when the butchers are not quite sure that their stock will “keep” till Monday. And then it is quite a treat for his wife, when little Johnny is asleep, to get out to catch a bit of fresh air, and a sight of the pretty things in the shop windows, even if she cannot have them; but the little feminine diplomatist knows that husbands always feel clever of a Saturday night, and that then’s the time “just to stop and look” at a new ribbon or collar.

See that party of country folks, going to the “National” to see “Uncle Tom.” Those pests, the bouquet sellers, are offering them their stereotyped, cabbage-looking bunches of flowers with,

“Please by one for your lady, sir.”

Jonathan don’t understand dodging such appeals; beside, he would scorn to begrudge a “quarter” for his lady! So he buys the nuisance, and scraping out his hind foot, presents it, with a bow, to Araminta, who “walks on thrones” the remainder of the evening.

There’s a hand organ, and, a poor, tired little girl, sleepily playing the tambourine. All the little ragged urchins in the

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neighborhood are grouped on that door step, listening. The connoisseur might criticise the performance, but no Cathedral Te Deum could be grander to that unsophisticated little audience. There is one little girl, who spite of her rags, is beautiful enough for a seraph. Poor and beautiful! God help her!

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WHOM DOES IT CONCERN?

“Stitch—stitch—stitch! Will this never end?” said a young girl, leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small hands hopelessly in her lap. “Stitch—stitch—stitch! from dawn till dark, and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;” and she drew her thin shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders.

Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and luxury, too; for the rich, satin curtains were looped gracefully away from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there are statues and vases and pictures there: now, two young girls trip lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, and jeweled bracelets glistening, and quivering, and sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, and are whirled rapidly away.

That little seamstress is as fair as they: her eyes are as soft and blue; her limbs as lithe and graceful; her rich, brown hair folds as softly away over as fair a brow; her heart leaps, like theirs, to all that is bright and joyous; it craves love and sympathy, and companionship as much, and yet she must stitch

-----

a large man looks down his nose at a young girl

“Tut, tut, young woman! don’t quarrel with your bread and butter!”

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—stitch—stitch—and droop under summer’s heat, and shiver under winter’s cold, and walk the earth with the skeleton starvation ever at her side, that costly pictures, and velvet carpets, and massive chandeliers, and gay tapestry, and gold and silver vessels may fill the house of her employer—that his flaunting equipage may roll admired along the highway, and India’s fairest fabrics deck his purse-proud wife and daughters.

——

It is a busy scene, the ware-room of Simon Skinflint & Co. Garments of every hue, size and pattern, were there exposed for sale. Piles of coarse clothing lay upon the counter, ready to be given out to the destitute, brow-beaten applicant who would make them for the smallest possible remuneration; piles of garments lay there, which such victims had already toiled into the long night to finish, ticketed to bring enormous profits into the pocket of their employer: groups of dapper clerks stood behind the counter, discussing, in a whisper, the pedestals of the last new danseuse—ogling the half-starved young girls who were crowding in for employment, and raising a blush on the cheek of humble innocence by the coarse joke and free, libidinous gaze; while their master, Mr. Simon Skinflint sat, rosy and rotund, before a bright Lehigh fire, rubbing his fat hands, building imaginary houses, and felicitating himself generally, on his far-reaching financial foresight.

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“If you could but allow me a trifle more for my labor,” murmured a low voice at his side; “I have toiled hard all the week, and yet—”

“Young woman,” said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair several feet back, elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest down over his aldermanic proportions—“young woman, do you observe that crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not aware that we turn away scores of them every day; perhaps you do n’t know that the farmers’ daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less than we pay you? But you feminine operatives do n’t seem to have the least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see,” said Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. “Tut—tut—young woman! do n’t quarrel with your bread and butter; however, it is a thing that do n’t concern me at all; if you won’t work, there are plenty who will,”—and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, and glanced at the door.

A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl’s face, as she turned slowly away in the direction of home. Home did I say? The word was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a mother’s loving breast was her pillow, and a father’s good-night blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. I was past

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now. They were all gone—father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little church-yard, where her infant footsteps strayed. Rank grass had o’ergrown the cottage gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary’s household gods had not been shivered.

Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced from the windows! How like fairies glided the young girls over the softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, with their gay visitors[!] Life was such a rosy dream to them—such a brooding nightmare to her! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. Must she always drink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her heart-strings? She could not weep—nay, worse—she could not pray. Dark shadows came between her soul and heaven.

——

The little room is empty now. Mary toils there no longer. You will find her in the great house opposite: her dainty limbs clad in flowing silk; her slender fingers and dimpled arms glit-

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tering with gems: and among all that merry group, Mary’s laugh rings out the merriest. Surely—surely, this is better than to toil, weeping, through the long weary days in the little darkened room.

Is it, Mary?

——

There is a ring at the door of the great house. A woman glides modestly in; by her dress, she is a widow. She has opened a small school in the neighborhood, and in the search for scholars has wandered in here. She looks about her. Her quick, womanly instinct sounds the alarm. She is not among the good and pure of her sex. But she does not scorn them. No; she looks upon their blighted beauty, with a Christ-like pity; she says to herself, haply some word of mine may touch their hearts. So, she says, gently, “Pardon me, ladies, but I had hoped to find scholars here; you will forgive the intrusion, I know; for though you are not mothers, you have all had mothers.”

Why is Mary’s lip so ashen white? Why does she tremble from head to foot, as if smitten by the hand of God? Why do the hot tears stream through her jeweled fingers? Ah! Mary. That little dark room, with its toil, its gloom, its innocence, were Heaven’s own brightness now, to your tortured spirit.

——

Pitilessly the slant rain rattled against the window panes: awnings creaked and flapped, and the street lamps flickered in

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the strong blast: full-freighted omnibuses rolled over the muddy pavements: stray pedestrians turned up their coat-collars, grasped their umbrellas more tightly, and made for the nearest port. A woman, half-blinded by the long hair which the fury of the wind had driven across her face, drenched to the skin with the pouring rain—shoeless, bonnetless, homeless, leans unsteadily against a lamp-post, and in the maudlin accents of intoxication curses the passers-by. A policeman’s strong grasp is laid upon her arm, and she is hurried, struggling, through the dripping streets, and pushed into the nearest “station house.” Morning dawns upon the wretched, forsaken outcast. She sees it not. Upon those weary eyes only the resurrection morn shall dawn.

No more shall the stony-hearted shut, in her imploring face, the door of hope; no more shall gilded sin, with Judas smile, say, “Eat, drink, and be merry;” no more shall the professed followers of Him who said, “Neither do I condemn thee,” say to the guilt-stricken one, “Stand aside—for I am holier than thou.” No, none may tempt, none may scorn, none may taunt her more. A pauper’s grave shall hide poor Mary and her shame.

God speed the day when the Juggernaut wheels of Avarice shall no longer roll over woman’s dearest hopes; when thousands of doors, now closed, shall be opened for starving Virtue to earn her honest bread; when he who would coin her tears and groans to rear his palaces, shall become a hissing and a by-word, wherever the sacred name of Mother shall be honored.

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WHO LOVES A RAINY DAY?

The bored editor; who, for one millennial day, in slippered feet, controls his arm chair, exchanges, stoves, and inkstand; who has time to hunt up delinquent subscribers; time to decipher hieroglyphical manuscripts; time to make a bonfire of bad poetry; time to kick out lozenge boys and image venders; time to settle the long-standing quarrel between Nancy, the type-setter, and Bill, the foreman, and time to write complimentary letters to himself for publication in his own paper, and to get up a new humbug prospectus for the dear, confiding public.

Who loves a rainy day?

The little child of active limb, reprieved from bench, and nook, and ferule; between whom and the wire-drawn phiz of grim propriety, those friendly drops have drawn a misty vail; who is now free to laugh, and jump, and shout, and ask the puzzling question—free to bask in the sunny smile of her, to whom no sorrow can be trivial that brings a cloud over that sunny face, or dims the brightness of that merry eye.

Who loves a rainy day?

The crazed clergyman, who can face a sheet of paper, uninterrupted by dyspeptic Deacon Jones, or fault-finding brother

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Grimes; or cautious Mr. Smith; or the afflicted Miss Zelia Zephyr, who, for several long years, has been “unable to find out the path of duty;” or the zealous old lady Bunce, who hopes her pastor will throw light on the precise locality fixed upon in the future state for idiots, and those heathen who have never seen a missionary.

Who loves a rainy day?

The disgusted clerk, who, lost in the pages of some care-beguiling volume, forgets the petticoat destiny which relentlessly forces him to unfurl endless yards of tinsel lace and ribbon, for lounging dames, with empty brains and purses, whose “chief end” it seems to be to put him through an endless catechism.

Who loves a rainy day?

The tidy little housewife, who, in neat little breakfast-cap and dressing-gown, overlooks the short-comings of careless cook and house-maid; explores cupboards, cellars, pantries, and closets; disembowels old bags, old boxes, old barrels, old kegs, old firkins; who, with her own dainty hand, prepares the favorite morsel for the dear, absent, toiling husband, or, by the cheerful nursery fire, sews on the missing string or button, or sings to soothing slumbers a pair of violet eyes, whose witching counterpart once stole her girlish heart away.

Who loves a rainy day?

I do! Let the rain fall; let the wind moan; let the leafless trees reach out their long attenuated fingers and tap against my casement: pile on the coal; wheel up the arm-chair; all hail loose ringlets and loose dressing-robe. Not a blessed son or daughter of Adam can get here to-day! Unlock the old wri-

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ting desk; overlook the old letters. There is a bunch tied with a ribbon blue as the eyes of the writer. Matrimony quenched their brightness long time ago.

Irish help(?) and crying babies,

I grieve to say, are ’mong the may-be’s!

And here is a package written by a despairing Cœlebs—once intensely interested in the price of hemp and prussic acid; now the rotund and jolly owner of a princely house, a queenly wife, and six rollicksome responsibilities. Query: whether the faculty ever dissected a man who had died of a “broken heart?”

Here is another package. Let the fire purify them; never say you know your friend till his tombstone is over him.

What Solomon says “handwriting is an index of character?” Give him the cap and bells, and show him those bold penmarks. They were traced by no Di Vernon! Let me sketch the writer:—A blushing, smiling, timid, loving little fairy, as ever nestled near a true heart; with a step like the fall of a snow-flake, and a voice like the murmur of a brook in June. Poor little Katie! she lays her cheek now to a little cradle sleeper’s, and starts at the distant footstep, and trembles at the muttered curse, and reels under the brutal blow, and, woman-like—loves on!

And what have we here? A sixpence with a ribbon in it! Oh, those Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, with their hoarded store of nuts and candy—the broad, green meadow, with its fine old trees—the crazy old swing, and the fragrant

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tumble in the grass—the wreath of oak leaves, the bunch of wild violets, the fairy story book, the little blue jacket, the snowy shirt-collar, the curly, black head, with its soft, blue eyes. Oh, first love, sugar-candy, torn aprons, and kisses! where have ye flown?

What is this? only a pressed flower; but it tells me of a shadowy wood—of a rippling brook—of a bird’s song—of a mossy seat—of whispered leaf-music—of dark, soul-lit eyes—of a voice sweet, and low, and thrilling—of a vow never broken till death chilled the lips that made it. Little need to look at the pictured face that lies beside me. It haunts me sleeping or waking. I shall see it again—life’s trials passed.

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A CONSCIENTIOUS YOUNG MAN.

“There is no object in nature so beautiful as a conscientious young man.”—

[Exchange.

Well; I’ve seen the “Sea-Dog,” and Thackeray; and Tom Thumb and Kossuth; the “Bearded Lady” and Father Matthew; the whistling Canary, and Camille Urso; the “white negro,” and Mrs. Stowe; “Chang and Eng,” and Jenny Lind; and Miss Bremer, and Madame Sontag. I have been to the top of the State House, made the tour of the “Public Garden,” and crossed the “Frog Pond.” I’ve seen Theodore Parker, and a locomotive. I’ve ridden in an omnibus, heard a Fourth-of-July oration, and I once saw the sun rise; but I never, never never saw “a conscientious young man.”

If there is such an “organization” on the periphery of this globe, I should like to see him. If he is, where is he? Who owns him? Where did they raise him? What does he feed on? For whom does he vote? On what political platform do his conscientious toes rest? Does he know the difference between a Whig and a Democrat? between a “Hunker” and a “Barnburner?” between a “hard-shell” and a “soft-shell?” between a “uniform national currency” and a “sound consti-

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tutional currency?” Does he have chills, or a fever, when he sees a bonnet[?] Does he look at it out of the sides of his eyes, like a bashful, barn-yard bantam, or dare he not look at all? Does he show the “white feather,” or crow defiance? Does he “go to roost” at sun-down? and does he rest on an aristocratic perch? I’m all alive to see the specimen. My opera-glass is poised. Will he be at the World’s Fair? Might I be permitted to shake hands with, and congratulate him! I pause for a reply.

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CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER ONE.

“Each to his taste,” somebody says: so say I: so says Gotham. Look at that splendid house, with its massive doorway, its mammoth plate-glass windows, its tasteful conservatory, where the snowy Orange blossom, and clustering Rose, and crimson Cactus, and regal Passion-flower, and fragrant Heliotrope breath[e] out their little day of sweetness. See that Gothic stable, with its faultless span of horses, and liveried coachman, and anti-republican carriage, whose coat of arms makes our National Eagle droop his fearless pinions. Then cast your eye on that tumble-down, wooden grocery adjoining, sending up its reeking fumes of rum, onions, and salt fish, into patrician nostrils! Go where you will in New York, you see the same strong contrasts. Feast your eyes on beauty, and a skeleton startles you at its side. Lazarus sitteth ever at the Gate of Dives.

Here is a primary school: what a host of little ragged urchins are crowding in! Suppose I step in quietly among them. Now, they take their places in seats terraced off one above another, so that each little face is distinctly visible. What a pretty sight! and how Nature loves to compensate! sending beauty to the hovel, deformity to the hall. There’s a boy,

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now, in that ragged jacket, who is a study for an artist. See his broad, ample forehead; mark how his dark eyes glow: and that little girl at his side, whose chestnut curls droop so gracefully over her soft-fringed eyes and dimpled shoulders. And that dream-child in yonder corner, with blue-veined, transparent temples, whose spiritual eyes even now can see that fadeless shore to which bright angels beckon him. Deal gently with him—he is passing away!

Here comes the teacher, brisk, angular, and sharp-voiced. Heaven pity the children! She’s a human icicle—pasteboard-y and proper! I already experience a mental shiver. Now she comes up and says, (apologetically to my new satin cloak,) “You see, madam, these are only poor children.” The toadying creature! Lucky for her that I’m not “a committee.” Can’t her dull eyes recognize God’s image in linsey-woolsey? Can she see no genius written on yonder broad forehead? No poetry slumbering in yonder sweet eyes? Did Franklin, Clay, and Webster study their alphabet in silk and velvet? She ought to be promoted to the dignity of toe-nail polisher to Queen Victoria. Now she hands me a book, in which visitors’ names are inscribed, and requests me to write mine. Certainly. “Mrs. John Smith:” there it is. Hope she likes it as well as I do.

—Speaking of names, I read on a sign yesterday, that “Richard Haas:” to-day I saw, down street, that “John Haas.” I’m sure I’m glad of it. I congratulate both those enterprising gentlemen. There goes a baker’s cart, with “Earnest Flog-er” painted on the side. It is my impression that if you do it,

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Ernest, “your cake will be dough;” 1853 being considered the millen[n]ium of “strong-minded women.” Here we are, most to the Battery. “Fanfernot & Dulac:” that must be a chain-lightning firm. Wonder if “Fanfernot” is the silent partner?

Here’s a man distributing tracts. Now, if he hands me one, I’ll throw it down. See how meekly he picks it up, and hands me another. “That’s right, friend Colporteur, I only wanted to see if you were in earnest: glad to see you so well employed.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, much relived, “sinners here in New York need waking up”—which sentiment I endorse, and advise him to call at the N. Y. Tribune office.

Down comes the rain: had I taken my umbrella, not a drop would have fallen. “I ’spect” I was born on a Friday; but as that can’t be helped now, I’ll step into that book-store till the shower is over. The owner politely gives me a chair, and then hands me, for my edification, the last fashion prints! F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! can it be possible that you look so frivolous? Tracts and fashion prints, both offered you in one forenoon! Wonder if there’s a second-hand drab Quaker bonnet anywhere, that will subdue your “style?”

See that little minstrel in front of the store, staggering under the weight of a hand-organ. What a crowd of little beggar-boys surround him, petitioning “for just one tune.” Now, I wonder if the rough school that boy has been in, has hardened his heart? Has he grown prematurely worldly-wise and selfish? Will he turn gruffly away from that penniless, Tom Thumb audience, or will he give them a gratuitous

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tune? God be thanked, his childish heart yet beats warm and true under that tattered jacket. He smiles sweetly on the eager group, and strikes up “Lang Syne.” Other than mortal ears are listening! That deed, unnoticed by the hurrying Broadway throng, is noted by the Recording Angel. “Inas much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.”

Sunshine again! dripping awnings and sloppy pavements. There’s a man preaching an out-door temperance sermon: what a bungling piece of work he makes of it! If he would lend me that pro tem barrel-pulpit I’d astonish him, and take the feather out of “Miss Lucy Stone’s” bonnet.

Let us cross the Park. There’s an Irishman seated on the withered grass, with his spade beside him, leaning wearily against that leafless tree. I wonder is he ill? I must walk that way and speak to him. What a sudden change comes over his rough face! it looks quite beautiful. Why do his eyes kindle? Ah, I see: a woman approaches from yonder path; now she seats herself beside him, on the grass, and drawing the cover from a small tin kettle, she bends over the steaming contents, and says, with a smile, that is a perfect heart-warmer, “Dear Dennis!” Oh, what a wealth of love in those two simple words; what music in that voice! Who says human nature is all depravity? Who says this earth is but a charnel-house of withered hopes? Who says the “Heart’s Ease” springs never from the rock cleft? Who says it is only on patrician soil the finer feelings struggle into leaf and bud and blossom? No—no—that humble, faithful creature has trav-

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eled weary miles with needful food, that “Dennis” may waste no unnecessary time from labor. And there they sit, side by side, happy and blessed in each other, deaf to the ceaseless tide of business and pleasure flowing past, blind to the supercilious gaze of the pompous millionaire, the curious stare of pampered beauty, the derisive laugh of “Young America,” and the little romance they have set my brain a-weaving! What a pretty episode amid all this Babel din! What a delicious little bit of nature midst this fossil hearted Gotham!

How true—how beautiful the words of Holy Writ! “Better is a dinner of herbs, where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred herewith.”

——

What an immensely tall man! he looks like a barber’s pole in those serpentine pants. Why does he make those gyrations? Why does he beckon that short man to his side? Well, I declare! everything comical comes to my net! He has taken out a slip of paper, and using the short man’s head for a writing-desk, is scribbling off some directions for a porter in waiting! The lamb-like non-resistance of the short man is only equalled by the cool impudence of the scribe! What a picture for Hogarth!

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CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER TWO.

The fashionables are yet yawning on their pillows. Nobody is abroad but the workies. So much the better. Omnibus drivers begin to pick up their early-breakfast customers. The dear little children, trustful and rosy, are hurrying by to school. Apple women are arranging their stalls, and slyly polishing their fruit with an old stocking. The shopkeepers are placing their goods in the most tempting light, in the store windows; and bouquet venders, with their delicious burthens, have already taken their stand on the saloon and hotel steps.

Here come that de-socialized class, the New York business men, with their hands thrust moodily into their coat pockets, their eyes buttoned fixedly down to the sidewalk, and “the all-mighty dollar” written legibly all over them. If the automatons would but show some sign of life; were it only by a whistle. I’m very sure the tune would be

“I know a—Bank!”

See that pretty little couple yonder, crouched upon the sidewalk? What have you there, little ones? Five little, fat, roly-poly puppies, as I live, all heads and tails, curled up in that

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comical old basket! And you expect to get “a dollar apiece” for them? Bless your dear little souls, Broadway is ful of “puppies,” who never “bring” anything but odious cigar smoke, that ever I could find out. Puppies are at a discount, my darlings. Peanuts are a safer investment.

Here we are at Trinity Church. I doubt if human lips within those walls ever preached as eloquently as those century grave-stones. How the sight of them involuntarily arrests the bounding footstep, and the half-developed plan of the scheming brain, and wakes up the slumbering immortal in our nature. How the eye turns a questioning glance from those moss-grown graves, inward—then upward to the soft, blue heavens above us. How for a brief moment the callous heart grows kindly, and we forget the mote in our brother’s eye, and cease to repulse the outspread palm of charity, and recognise the claims of a common brotherhood; and then how the sweeping tide comes rolling over us, and the clink of dollars and cents drowns “the still small voice,” and Eternity recedes, and Earth only seems tangible, and Mammon, and Avarice, and Folly rule the never returning hours.

Now glance over the church-yard yonder into the street below. Cholera and pestilence, what a sight! flanked on one side by the charnel-house, on the other by houses whose basements are groggeries and markets, and at whose every pane of glass may be seen a score of dirty faces: the middle of the street a quagmire of jelly-mud, four inches deep, on which are strewn, ad-infinitum, decayed potatoes and cabbage stumps, old bones and bonnets, mouldy bread, salt fish and dead kittens.

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That pussy-cat New York corporation should be put on a diet of peppered thunder and gunpowder tea, and harnessed to a comet for six months. I doubt if even then the old poppies would wake up.

Do you see that piece of antiquity playing the bagpipe? He is as much a fixture as your country cousin. There he sits, through heat and cold, squeezing out those horrible sounds with his skinny elbow, and keeping time with his nervous eye-winkers. He gets up his own programme, and is his own orchestra, door-keeper and audience: nobody stops to listen, nobody fees him, nobody seems to enjoy it so hugely as himself.

Who talks about wooden nutmegs in the hearing of Gotham? Does a shower come up? Men start up as if by magic, with all-sized India rubbers for sale, and ragged little boys nudge your elbows to purchase “cheap cotton umbrellas.” Does the wind veer round south? A stack of palm-leaf fans takes the place of the umbrellas. Have you the misfortune to trip upon the sidewalk? a box of Russia salve is immediately unlidded under your nose. Do you stop to arrange your gaiter boot? whole strings of boot-lacings are dangled before your astonished eyes. Do your loosened waistbands remind you of the diner hour? before your door stands a man brandishing “patent carving knives,” warranted to dissever the toughest old rooster that ever crowed over a hen harem.

Speaking of hens—see that menagerie, in one of the handsomest parts of Broadway, defaced by that blood and murder daub of a picture, representing every animal that ever flew or trotted into Noah’s ark, beside a few that the good old gentle-

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man never undertook to perpetuate. See them lashing their tails, bristling their manes, ploughing the air and tossing high above their incensed horns, that distracted gory biped, whose every individual hair is made to stand on end with horror, and his coat-tail astonishingly to perpendicularize. Countrymen stand agape while pickpockets lighten them of their purses; innocent little children, with saucer eyes, shy to the further edge of the sidewalk, and hurry home with an embryo nightmare in their frightened craniums. “Jonathan” pays his “quarter,” and is astonished to find upon entering, a very tame collection of innocent beasts and beastesses, guiltless of any intention to growl, unless poked by the long pole of curiosity. Dissatisfied, he descends to the cellar, to see the elephant, who holds a sleepy levee, for all who feel inclined to pack his trunk with the apples and cake, which a shrewd stall-keeping Yankee in the corner disinterestedly advises them to buy, “just to see how the critter eats.”

Well; two-headed calves, one-eyed buffaloes, skeleton ostriches, and miles of serpents, are every day matters; but yonder is an announcement that “Two Wild Men from Borneo” may be seen within. Now that interests me. “They have the faculty of speech, but are deficient in memory.” Bless me, you don’t mean to say that those little Hop o’ my Thumbs have the temerity to call themselves “Men?” little humbug, pocket editions. But what pretty little limbs they have, and how they shiver in this cold climate, spite of the silk and India-rubber dress they wear under those little tights. “The youngest weighs only twenty-seven, the oldest thirty-four pounds;” so the keeper

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says, who, forming a circle, lays one hand on the head of each, and commences his stereotyped, menagerie exordium, oblivious of commas, colons, semi-colons, periods or breath; adding at the close, that the Wild Men will now shake hands with any child who may be present, but will always bite an adult.” Nothing like a barrier to make femininity leap over. I’m bent upon having the first “adult” shake. The keeper says, “Better not, Ma’am,” (showing a scar on his finger,) “they bit that een-a-most to the bone.” Of course, snapping at masculinity, is no proof to me of their unsusceptibility to feminine evangelization; on the contrary. So, taking a cautious patrol around the interesting little savages, I hold out my hand. Allah be praised! they take it, and my five digits still remain at the service of printers and publishers!

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CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER THREE.

What a never-ceasing bell-jingling, what a stampede of servants, what a continuous dumping down of big trunks; what transits, what exits, what a miniature world is a hotel! Panorama-like the scene shifts each hour; your vis-a-vis at breakfast, supping, ten to one, in the Rocky Mountains. How delightful your unconsciousness of what you are foreordained to eat for dinner; how nonchalantly in the morning you handle tooth-brush and head-brush, certain of a cup of hot coffee whenever you see fit to make your advent. How scientifically your fire is made, without any unnecessary tattooing of shovel, tongs and poker. What a chain-lightning answer to your bell summons; how oblivious is “No. 14” of your existence; how indifferent is “No. 25” whether you sneeze six or seven times a day; how convenient are the newspapers and letter-stamps, obtainable at the clerk’s office; how digestible your food; how comfortable your bed, and how never-to-be-sufficiently-enjoyed the general let-alone-ativeness.

Avaunt, ye lynx-eyed “private boarding-houses,” with your two slip-shod Irish servants; your leaden bread, leather pies,

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ancient fowls, bad gravies, omnium gatherum bread puddings, and salt fish, and cabbage perfumed entries; your washing-day “hashes,” your ironing-day “stews,” and all your other “comforts of a home” (?) not explicitly set forth in your advertisements.

Rat-tat, rat-tat-tat! what a fury that old gentleman seems to be in. Whoever occupies No. 40, must either be deaf or without nerves. Rat-tat! what an obstinate human! there he goes again! ah, now the door opens, and a harmless-looking clergyman glides past him, down the stairs. Too late—too late, papa—the knot is tied; no use in making a fuss. Just see that pretty little bride, blushing, crying, and clinging to her boy husband. Just remember the time, sir, when the “auld wife” at home made you thrill to the toes of your boots; remember how perfectly oblivious you were of guide-boards or mile-stones, when you went to see her; how you used to hug and kiss her little brother Jim, though he was the ugliest, mischievous-est little snipe in Christendom; how you used to read books for hours upside down, and how you wondered what people meant by calling the moon “cold;” how you wound up your watch half-a-dozen times a day, and had n’t the slightest idea whether you were eating geese or grindstones for dinner; how affectionately you nodded to Mr. Brown, of whom her father bought his groceries; how complacently you sat out the minister’s seventh-lie by her side at church; how wolfy you felt if any other piece of broadcloth approached her; how devoutly you wished you were that little bit of blue ribbon round her throat; and how, one moonlight night, when she laid her head

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against your vest-pattern, you—did n’t care a mint-julep whether the tailor ever got paid for it or not! Now, just imagine her papa, stepping in and deliberately turning all that cream to vinegar; would n’t you have effervesced? Certainly.

See that little army of boots in the entry outside the doors. May I need a pair of spectacles, if one of their owners has a decent foot! No. 20 turns his toes in, No. 30 treads over at the side; No. 40 has a pedestal like an elephant. Stay!—there’s a pair now—Jupiter! what a high instep! what a temper that man has! wonder if those are married boots? Heaven help Mrs. Boots, when her husband finds a button missing! It strikes me that I should like to mis-mate all those boots, and view, at a respectful distance, the young tornado in the entry, when the gong sounds!

Oh, you cunning little curly-headed, fairy-footed, dimple-limbed pet! Who is blessed enough to own you? Did you know, you little human blossom, that I was aunt to all the children in creation? Your eyes are as blue as the violets, and your little pouting lip might tempt a bee from a rose. Did mamma make you that dainty little kirtle? and papa find you that horsewhip?

“Papa is dead, and mamma is dead, too. Mamma can’t see Charley any more.”

God bless your sweet helplessness! creep into my arms, Charley. My darling, you are never alone!—mamma’s sweet, tender eyes look lovingly on Charley out of Heaven; mamma’s bright angel wings ever overshadow little Charley’s head; mamma and the holy stars keep watch over Charley’s slum-

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bers. Mamma sings a sweeter song when little Charley says a prayer. Going?—well, then, one kiss; for sure I am, the angels will want you before long.

What is that? A sick gentleman, borne in on a litter, from shipboard. Poor fellow! how sunken are his great dark eyes! how emaciated his limbs! What can ail him? Nobody knows; not a word of English can he speak; and the captain is already off, too happy to rid himself of all responsibility. Lucky for the poor invalid that our gallant host has a heart warm and true. How tenderly he lifts the invalid to his room; how expeditiously he dispatches his orders for a Spanish doctor and nurse; how imploringly the sufferer’s speaking eyes are fastened upon his face. Ah! Death glided in at yonder door with the sick man; his grasp is already on his heart; the doctor stands aside and folds his hands—there’s no work for him to do; dark shadows gather round the dying stranger’s eyes; he presses feebly the hand of his humane host, and gasps out the last fluttering breath on that manly heart. Strange hands are busy closing his eyes; strange hands straighten his limbs; a strange priest comes all too late to shrive the sick man’s soul; strange eyes gaze carelessly upon the features, one glimpse of which were worth Golconda’s mines to far-off kindred. Now the undertaker comes with the coffin. Touch him gently, man of business; lay those dark locks tenderly on the satin pillow; hear you not a far-off wail from sunny Spain, as the merry song at the vintage feast dies upon the lip of the stricken-hearted?

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CITY SCENES AND CITY LIFE.

NUMBER FOUR.
BARNUM’S POULTRY SHOW.

Defend my ears! Do you suppose Noah had to put up with such a cackling and crowing as this, in his ark? I trust ear-trumpets are cheap, for I stand a chance of becoming as deaf as a husband, when his wife asks him for money.

I have always hated a rooster; whether from his perch, before daylight, he shrilly, spitefully, and unnecessarily, recalled me from rosy dreams to stupid realities; or when strolling at the head of his hang-dog looking seraglio of hens, he stood poised on one foot, gazing back at the meek procession with an air that said, as plain as towering crests and tail feathers could say it—“Stir a foot if you dare, till I give you the signal!”—at which demonstration, I looked instinctively about, for a big stone, to take the nonsense out of him!

Save us, what a crowd! There are more onions here than patchouli, more worsted wrappers than Brummel neck-ties, and more brogans than patent leather. Most of the visitors gaze at the perches, through barn-yard spectacles. For myself, I don’t care an egg-shell, whether that old “Shanghai” knew who

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her grandfather was or not, or whether those “Dorkings” were ever imprudent enough to let their young affections rove from their native roost. Yankee eyes were made to be used, and the first observation mine take, is, that those gentlemen fowls seems to have reversed the order of things here in New York, being very superior in point of beauty to the feminines. Of course they know it. See them strut! There never was a masculine yet whom you could enlighten on such a point.

Now, were I a hen, (which, thank the parish register, I am not,) I would cross my claws, succumb to that tall Polander with his crested helmet of black and white feathers, and share his demonstrative perch.

Oh, you pretty little “carrier doves!” I could find a use for you. Do you ever tap-tap at the wrong window, you little snow-flakes? Have you learned the secret of soaring above the heads of your enemies? Are you impregnable to bribes, in the shape of feed?

There’s an Eagle, fierce as a Hospodar. Bird of Jove! that you should stay caged in the tantalizing vicinity of those fat little bantams! Try the strength of your pinions, grim old fellow; call no man jailer; turn your back on Barnum, and stare the sun out of countenance!

Observe with what aristocratic nonchalance those salmon-colored pigeons sit their perch! See that ruffle of feathers about their dignified Elizabethan throats. I am not at all sure that I should have intruded into their regal presence, without being heralded by a court page.

Do you call those two moving bales of wool, sheep? Hur-

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rah for “Ayrshire” farming! Fleece six inches deep, and the animals not half grown. Comfortable looking January-defiers, may your shearing be mercifully postponed till the dog days.

Pigs, too? petite, white and frisky; two hundred dollars a pair! P-h-e-w! and such pretty little gaiter boots to be had in Broadway! Disgusting little porkers, don’t wink your pink eyes at my Jewish resolution.

Puppies for sale? long-eared and short-eared, shaggy and shaven, bobtailed—curtailed—and to be re-tailed! Spaniel terrier and embryo Newfoundland. Ho! ye unappropriated spinsters, with a superfluity of long evenings—ye forlorn bachelors, weary of solitude and boot-jacks, listen to these yelping applicants for your yearning affections, and “down with the dust.”

“Nelly for sale, at twenty dollars.” Poor little antelope! The gods send your soft, dark eyes an appreciative purchaser. I look into their human-like depths, and invoke for you the velvety, flower-bestrewn lawn, the silver lake, in which your graceful limbs are mirrored as you stoop to drink, the leafy shade of fret-work leaves in the panting noon-tide heat, and the watchful eye and caressing hand of some bright young creature, to whom the earth is one glad anthem, and whose sweet young life (like yours) is innocent and pure.

Avaunt, pretentious peacocks, flaunting your gaudy plumage before our sated eyes. See that beautiful “Golden Pheasant,” on whose plump little body, clad in royal crimson, the sunlight lingers so lovingly. See the silky fall of those flossy, golden

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feathers about his arching neck. Glorious pheasant! do you know that “a thing of beauty is a joy forever?” Make your home with me, and feast my pen-weary eyes: flit before me when the sunlight of happiness is clouded in, and the gray, leaden clouds of sorrow overcast my sky; perch upon my finger; lay your soft neck to my cheek; bring me visions of a happier shore, where love is written on the rainbow’s arch, heard in the silver-tripping stream, seen in the blossom-laden bough and bended blade, quivering under the weight of dewy gems, and hymned by the quiet stars, whose ever-moving harmony is unmarred by the discord of envy, hate, or soul-blasting uncharitableness. Beautiful pheasant! come, bring thoughts for beauty and peace to me!

—Loving Jenny Lind smiles upon us from yonder canvass. Would that we might hear her little Swedish chicken peep! Not a semi-quaver careth the mother-bird for the homage of the Old World or New. The artless clapping of little Otto’s joyous hands, drowns all the ringing plaudits, wafted across the ocean. A Dead Sea apple is fame, dear Jenny, to a true woman’s heart. Happy to have hung thy laurel wreath on Otto’s little cradle.

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TWO PICTURES.

You will always see Mrs. Judkins in her place at the sunrise prayer-meeting. She is secretary to the “Moral Reform,” “Abolition,” “Branch Colporteur and Foreign Mission” Societies. She is tract distributor, manager of an “Infant School,” cuts out all the work for the Brown Steeple Sewing Circle; belongs to the “Select Female Prayer Meeting;” goes to the Friday night church meeting, Tuesday evening lecture, and Saturday night Bible Class, and attends three services on Sunday. Every body says, “What an eminent Christian is Mrs. Judkins!”

Mrs. Judkins’ house and servants take care of themselves. Her little boys run through the neighborhood, peeping into grocery and provision stores, loitering at the street corners, and throwing stones at the passers-by. Her husband comes home to a disorderly house, eats indigestible dinners, and returns to his gloomy counting-room, sighing that his hard earnings are wasted, and his children neglected; and sneering at the religion which brings forth such questionable fruits.

——

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Mrs. Brown is a church member. Mrs. Judkins has called upon her, and brought the tears into her mild blue eyes, by telling her that she in particular, and the church in general, have been pained to notice Mrs. Brown’s absence from the various religious gatherings and societies above mentioned; that it is a matter of great grief to them, that she is so lukewarm, and does not enjoy religion as much as they do.

Mrs. Brown has a sickly infant; her husband (owing to sad reverses) is in but indifferent circumstances; they have but one inexperienced servant. All the household goings and incomings, must be carefully watched, and looked after. The little wailing infant is never out of the maternal arms, save when its short slumbers give her a momentary reprieve. Still, the little house is in perfect order. The table tasteful and tempting, although the bill of fare is unostentatious; the children are obedient, respectful, happy and well cared for. Morning and evening, amid her varied and pressing cares, she bends the knee in secret, to Him whom her maternal heart recognizes as “My Lord and my God.” No mantle of dust shrouds the “Holy Book.” The sacred household altar flame never dies out. Little dimpled hands are reverently folded; little lips lisping say, “Our Father.” Half a day on each returning Sabbath, finds the patient mother in her accustomed place in the sanctuary. At her hearth and by her board, the holy men of God hath smiling welcome. “Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her;” while on high, the recording angel hath written, “She hath done what she could.”

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FEMININE WAITERS AT HOTELS.

“Some of our leading hotel-keepers are considering the policy of employing female waiters.”

Good news for you, poor pale-faced sempstresses! Throw your thimbles at the heads of your penurious employers; put on your neatest and plainest dress; see that your feet and fingers are immaculate, and then rush en masse for the situation, ousting every white jacket in Yankeedom. Stipulate with your employers, for leave to carry in the pocket of your French apron, a pistol loaded with cranberry sauce, to plaster up the mouth of the first coxcomb who considers it necessary to preface his request for an omelette, with “My dear.” It is my opinion that one such hint will be sufficient; if not, you can vary the order of exercises, by anointing him with a “HASTY plate of soup” at dinner.

Always make a moustache wait twice as long as you do a man who wears a clean, presentable lip. Should he undertake to expedite your slippers by “a fee,” tell him that hotel bills are generally settled at the clerk’s office, except by very verdant travelers.

Should you see a woman at the table, digging down to the bottom of the salt cellar, as if the top stratum were too plebe-

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ian; or ordering ninety-nine messes (turning aside from each with affected airs of disgust,) or rolling up the whites of her eyes, declaring that she never sat down to a dinner-table before minus “finger glasses,” you may be sure that her aristocratic blood is nourished, at home, on herrings and brown bread. When a masculine comes in with a white vest, flashy neck-tie, extraordinary looking plaid trousers, several yards of gold chain festooned over his vest, and a mammoth seal ring on his little finger, you may be sure that his tailor and his laundress are both on the anxious seat; and whenever you see travelers of either sex peregrinating the country in their “best bib and tucker,” you can set them down for unmitigated “snobs,” for high-bred people can’t afford to be so extravagant!

I dare say you’ll get sick of so much pretension and humbug. Never mind; it is better than to be stitching yourselves into a consumption over six-penny shirts; you’ll have your fun out of it. This would be a horridly stupid word, if every body were sensible. I thank my stars every day, for the share of fools a kind Providence sends in my way.

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LETTER TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIA.

A Paris Letter says:—Lady Montijo has left Paris for Spain. She was extremely desirous of remaining and living in the reflection of her daughter’s grandeur, but Louis Napoleon, who shares in the general prejudice against step-mothers, gave her plainly to understand, that because he had married Eugenia, she must not suppose he had married her whole family. She was allowed to linger six weeks, to have the entree of the Tuileries, and to see her movements chronicled in the Pays. She has at last left us, and the telegraph mentions her arrival at Orleans, on her way to the Peninsula.

There Teba! did I not say you would need all those two-thousand-franc pocket-handkerchiefs before your orange wreath had begun to give signs of wilting? Why did you let your mamma go, you little simpleton? Before Nappy secured your neck in the matrimonial noose, you should have had it put down, in black and white, that Madame Montijo was to live with you till—the next revolution, if you chose to have her. Now you have struck your colors, of course everything will “go by the board.” I tell you Teba, that a fool is the most unmanageable of all beings. He is as dogged and perverse as a broken-down donkey. You can neither goad nor coax[e] him into doing anything he should do, or prevent his doing what he should not do. You will have to leave Nappy and come over here;—and then everybody will nudge somebody’s elbow and

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say, “That is Mrs. Teba Napoleon, who does not live with her husband.” And some will say it is your fault; and others will say ’tis his; and all will tell you a world more about it, than you can tell them.

Then, Mrs. Samuel Snip (who has the next room to yours, who murders the king’s English most ruthlessly, and is not quite certain whether Barnum or Christopher Columbus discovered America,) will have her Paul Pry ear to the keyhole of your door about every another minute, (except when her husband is on duty,) to find out if you are properly employed;—and no matter what Mrs. Snip learns, or even if she does not learn anything, she will be pretty certain to report, that, in her opinion, you are “no better than you should be.” If you dress well (with your splendid form and carriage you could not bu seem well-dressed) she will “wonder how you got the mans to do it”; prefacing her remark with the self-evident truth that, “to be sure, it is none of her business.”

If you let your little Napoleon get out of your sight a minute, somebody will have him by the pinafore and put him through a catechism about his mamma’s mode of living and how she spends her time. If you go to church, it will be “to show yourself;” if you stay at home, “you are a publican and a sinner.” Do what you will, it will all be wrong: if you do nothing, it will be still worse. Our gentlemen (so called) knowing that you are defenceless and taking it for granted that your name is “Barkis,” will all stare at you; and the women will dislike and abuse you just in proportion as the opposite

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sex admire you. Of course you will sweep past them all, with that magnificent figure of yours, and your regal chin up in the air, quietly attending to your own business, and entirely unconscious of their pigmy existence.

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MUSIC IN THE NATURAL WAY.

How often, when wedged in a heated concert room, annoyed by the creaking of myriad fans, and tortured optically, by the glare of gas-light, have I, with a gipsey longing, wished that the four walls might be razed, leaving only the blue sky over my head, that the tide of music might unfettered flow over my soul.

How often, when dumb with delight, in the midst of some scene of surpassing natural beauty, have I silently echoed the poet’s words:

“Give me music, or I die.”

My dream was all realized at a promenade concert at Castle Garden, last night. Shall I ever forget it? That glorious expanse of sea, glittering in the moonbeams; the little boats gliding smoothly over its polished surface; the cool, evening zephyr, fanning the brow wooingly; the music—soothing—thrilling—then quickening the pulse and stirring the blood, like the sound of a trumpet; then, that rare boon, a companion, who had the good taste to be dumb, and not disturb my trance.

There was one drawback. After the doxology, I noticed

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some matter-of-fact wretches devouring ice creams. May no priest be found to give them their absolution. I include, also, in this anathema, those ever-to-be-avoided masculines, who, then and there, puffed cigar smoke in my face, and the moon’s.

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FOR LADIES THAT “GO SHOPPING.”

Matrimony and the toothache may be survived, but of all the evils feminity is heir to, defend me from a shopping excursion. But, alas! bonnets, shoes and hose will wear out, and shop-keepers will chuckle over the sad necessity that places the unhappy owners within their dry-goods clutches. Felicitous Mrs. Figleaf! why taste that Paradisaical apple?

Some victimised females frequent the stores where soiled and damaged goods are skillfully announced as selling at an “immense sacrifice,” by their public-spirited and disinterested owners. Some courageously venture into more elegant establishments, where the claim of the applicant to notice, is measured by the costliness of her apparel, and where the clerks poise their eye-glass at any plebeian shopperess bold enough to inquire for silk under six dollars a yard. Others, still, are tortured at the counter of some fussy old bachelor, who always ties up, with distressing deliberation, every parcel he takes down for inspection, before he can open another, and moves round to execute your orders as if Mt. Atlas were fastened to his heels; or perhaps get petrified at the store of some snap-dragon old maid, whose victims serve as escape-valves for long years of bile, engendered by Cupid’s oversights. Meanwhile, the vexed ques-

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tion is still unsolved, Where can the penance of shopping be performed with the least possible wear and tear of patience and prunella? The answer seems to me to be contained in six letters—“Stewart’s.”

“Stewarts!” I think I hear some old lady exclaim, dropping her knitting and peering over her spectacles; ‘Stewart’s! yes, if you have the mines of California to back you.” Now I have a profound respect for old ladies, as I stand self-pledged to join that respectable body on the advent of my very first gray hair; still, with due deference to their catnip and penny-royal experience, I conscientiously repeat—“Stewart’s.”

You may stroll through his rooms free to gaze and admire, without being annoyed by an impertinent clerk dogging your footsteps; you can take up a fabric, and examine it, without being bored by a statement of its immense superiority over every article of the kind in the market, or without being deafened by a detailed account of the enormous sums that the mushroom aristocracy have considered themselves but too happy to expend, in order to secure a dress from that very desirable, and altogether unsurpassed, and unsurpassable, piece of goods!

You can independently say that an article does not exactly suit you, though your husband may not stand by you with a drawn sword. You will encounter no ogling, no impertinent cross-questioning, no tittering whispers, from the quiet, well-bred clerks, who attend to their own business and allow you to attend to yours.

It is true that you may see at Stewart’s, cobweb laces an inch

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or two wide, for fifty or one hundred dollars a yard, which many a brainless butterfly of fashion is supremely happy in sporting: but at the very next counter you may suit yourself, or your country cousin, to a sixpenny calico, or a shilling de laine; and, what is better, be quite as sure that her verdant queries will be as respectfully answered as if liveried Pompey stood waiting at the door to hand her to her carriage.

You can go into the silk department, where, by a soft descending light, you will see dinner dresses that remind you of a shivered rainbow, for passeé married ladies who long since ceased to celebrate their birth-days, and who keep their budding daughters carefully immured in the nursery: or, at the same counter, you can select a modest silk for your minister’s wife, at six shillings a yard, that will cause no heart-burnings in the most Argus-eyed of Paul Pry parishes.

Then if you patronise those ever-to-be-abominated and always-to-be-shunned nuisances called parties, where fools of both sexes gather to criticise their host and hostess, and cut up characters and confectionary, you can step into that little room from which day-light is excluded, and select an evening dress, by gas-light, upon the effect of which you can, of course, depend, and to which artistic arrangement many a New York belle has probably owed that much prized possession—her “last conquest.”

Now, if you please, you can go into the upholstery-room and furnish your nursery windows with a cheap set of plain linen curtains; or you can expend a small fortune in regal crimson, or soft-blue damask drapery, for your drawing-room; and

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without troubling yourself to thread the never-ending streets of Gotham for an upholsteress, can have them made by competent persons in the upper loft of the building, who will also drape them faultlessly about your windows, should you so desire.

Now you can peep into the cloak room, and bear away on your graceful shoulders a six, twenty, thirty, or four hundred dollar cloak, as the length of your husband’s purse, or your own fancy (which in these degenerate days amounts to pretty much the same thing) may suggest.

Then there is the wholesale department, where you will see shawls, hosiery, flannels, calicoes, and de laines, sufficient to stock all the nondescript country stores, to say nothing of city consumption.

Now, if you are not weary, you can descend (under ground) into the carpet department, from whence you can hear the incessant roll of full-freighted omnibuses, the ceaseless tramp of myriad restless feet, and all the busy train of out-door life made audible in all the dialects of Babel. Here you can see every variety of carpet, from the homespun, unpretending straw, oil cloth, and Kidderminster, to the gorgeous Brussels and tapestry, (above whose traceried buds and flowers the daintiest foot might well poise itself, loth to crush,) up the regal Axminster, of Scottish manufacture, woven without seam, and warranted, in these days of late suppers and tobacco smoking, to last a life-time.

Emerging from this subterranean region, you will ascend into daylight, and reflecting first upon all this immense outlay, and then upon the frequent and devastating conflagrations in New

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York, inquire with solicitude, Are you insured? and regret to learn that there is too much risk to effect an entire insurance, although Argus-eyed watchmen keep up a night-and-day patrol throughout the handsome building.

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MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.

“Modern improvements?” I wonder where they are? Perhaps it is the fashionable cloaks, that take leave of their shivering owners at the hips; or the long skirts, whose muddy trains every passing pedestrian pins to the sidewalk; or the Lilliputian bonnets, that never a string in shop-dom can keep within hailing distance of the head; or the flowing sleeves, through which the winter wind play around the arm-pits; or the break-neck, high-heeled boots, which some little, dumpy feminine has introduced to gratify her rising ambition, and render her tall sisters hideous; or the gas-lit, furnace-heated houses, in which the owners’ eyes are extinguished, and their skins dried to a parchment; or, perhaps, it is the churches, of such cathedral dimness, that the clergyman must have candles at noonday, and where the congregation are forbidden to express their devotion by singing, and forced to listen to the trills and quavers of some scientific stage mountebank; or perhaps ’tis the brazen irreverence with which Young America jostles aside gray-headed Wisdom: perhaps the comfortless, forsaken fireside of the “strong-minded woman:” perhaps, the manly gossip, whose repetition of some baseless rumor dims the bright eyes of defenceless innocence with tears of anguish: perhaps

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the schools, where a superficial show of brilliancy on exhibition days, is considered the ne plus ultra of teaching: perhaps it is the time-serving clergyman, whose tongue is fettered by a monied clique: perhaps, the lawyers who lie—under a mistake!—perhaps it is the doctor, whom I saw yesterday at Aunt Jerusha’s sick-room, a little thing with bits of feet, and mincing voice, and lily-white hands, and perfumes moustache. I wanted to inquire what ailed Jerusha, so I waited to see him. I wanted to ask him how long it would take him to cure her, and if he preferred pills to powders, blisters to plasters, oat-meal to barley-gruel, wine-whey to posset, arrow-root to farina, and a few such little things, you know. He stared at me over his dicky, as if I had been an unevangelized kangaroo; then he sidled up to Jerusha, pryed open her mouth, and said “humph”—in Latin. Then he crossed his legs, and rolled up the whites of his eyes at the ceiling, as if he expected some Esculapian hand-writing on the wall to enlighten him as to the seat of Aunt Jerusha’s complaint. Then, he drew from his pocket a box with a whole army of tiny bottles; and uncorking two of them he nipped out a little white speck from each, which he dissolved in four quarts of water, and told Jerusha “to take a drop of the water once in eight hours.” Tom Thumb and Lilliput! he might as well have tried to salt the Atlantic Ocean with a widower’s tear! He should be laid gently on a lily leaf, and consigned to the first stray zephyr.

Ah, you should have seen our good, old-fashioned Dr. Jalap; with a fist like a sledge-hammer, a tramp like a war-horse, and a laugh that would puzzle an echo. He was n’t penurious of

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his physic: he did n’t care a pin how much he put down your throat—no, nor the apothecary either. He pilled and potioned, and emetic-ed, and blistered, and plastered, till you were so transparent, that even John Mitchell (and he’s the shortest-sighed being alive) could have seen through you. And then he braced you up with Iron and Quinine, till your muscles were like whip-cords, and your hair in a bristle of kinks. He was human-like, too; he did n’t stalk in as if Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington were boiled down to make his grandfather. No; he’d just as lief sit down on a butter-firkin as on a velvet lounge. He’d pick up Aunt Esther’s knitting-needles, and talk to grandpa about Bunker Hill, and those tee-totally discomfrizzled, bragging British, and offer grandma a pinch of snuff, and trot the baby, and stroke the cat, and go to the closet and eat up the pickles and doughnuts, and make himself useful generally. He did n’t have to stupefy his patients with ether, so that they need n’t find out how clumsily he operated. No; it was quite beautiful to see him take a man’s head between his knees, and drag his double teeth out. He did n’t write a prescription for molasses and water, in High Dutch: he did n’t tell you that you were booked for the river Styx, and he was the only M. D. in creation who could annihilate the ferryman waiting to row you over. He did n’t drive through the town with his horse and gig, at break-neck speed, just as meeting was out, as if life and death were hanging on his profitless chariot wheels: he did n’t stick up over his door—“at home between nine and ten,” as if that consecrated hour were all he could bestow upon a clamorous public, when he

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was angling in vain for a patient every hour in the twenty-four; nor did he give little boys shillings to rush into church, and call him out in the middle of the service. No: Dr. Jalap was not a “modern improvement.”

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THE OLD MERCHANT WANTS A SITUATION.

“An elderly gentleman, formerly a well-known merchant, wishes a situation; he will engage in any respectable employment not too laborious.”—New York Daily Paper.

I don’t know the old man. I never saw him on ’change, in a fine suit of broadcloth, leaning on his gold-headed cane; while brokers, and insurance officers, and presidents of banks raised their hats deferentially, and the crowd respectfully made way for him. I never kept account of the enormous taxes he annually paid the city, or saw his gallant ships ploughing the blue ocean with their costly freight, to foreign ports. I never saw him in his luxurious home, taking his quiet siesta, lulled by the liquid voice of his fairy daughter. No: nor did I hear the auctioneer’s hammer in that home, nor see the red flag floating, like a signal of distress, before the door. I did n’t read the letter that recalled his only boy from college, or see the humbled family, as they passed, shrinking, over the threshold, into poor lodgings, whose landlord coarsely stipulated for “a week’s rent in advance.”

“Any occupation not too laborious.” How mournfully the old man’s words fall upon the ear! Life to commence anew, with the silver head, and bent form, and faltering step, and pal-

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sied hand of age! With the first ray of morning light, that hoary head must be lifted from an unquiet pillow, to encounter the drenching rain, and driving sleet, and piercing cold. No reprieve from that wearisome ledger, for the throbbing brow and dimmed eye. Beardless clerks make a jest of “the old boy;” superciliously repeating, in his sensitive ear, their mutual master’s orders. With them he meekly receives his weekly pittance; sighing, as he counts it over, to think of the few comforts it will bring to the drooping hearts at home. Foot-weary, he travels through the crowded streets; his thread-bare coat, and napless hat, and dejected face, all unnoticed by the thriving young merchant, whom the old man helped to his present prosperous business position. The birth-days of his delicate daughter come and go, all unmarked by the joy-bestowing gift. With trouble and exposure, sickness comes at last: then, the tardy foot, and careless, professional touch of the callous-hearted dispensary doctor: then, the poor man’s hearse stands before the door; then winds unheeded through busy streets, to the “Potter’s field,” while his former co[n]temporaries take up the daily paper, and sipping their wine, say carelessly, as if they had a quit-claim from sorrow, “Well, Old Smith, the broken-down millionaire, is dead.”

Ah, there are tragedies of which editors and printers little dream, woven in their daily advertising sheets: the office boy feeds the fire with many a tear-blotted manuscript, penned by trembling fingers, all unused to toil.

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A MOVING TALE.

The Smiths have just been moving. They always move “for the last time,” on the first of May. “Horrid custom!” exclaims Smith, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and pulling up his depressed dickey. “How my blood curdles and my bones ache, at the thought!” It was on Tuesday, the third of May, that the afflicting rite was celebrated. Cartmen—four of them—were engaged the Saturday previous, to be on hand at six o’clock on Tuesday morning, to transport the household goods from the habitation of ’52-3 to that of ’53-4. Smith was to pay them three dollars each—twelve dollars in all. They would not come for a mill less; Smith tried them thoroughly.

On Monday, Smith’s house is turned into a sort of Bedlam, minus the beds. They are tied up, ready for the next morning’s Hegira; the Smiths sleeping on the floor on Monday night. Smith can’t sleep on the floor; he grows restless; he receives constant reminders from Mrs. Smith to take his elbow out of the baby’s face; he has horrid visions and rolls about: therefore, he is not at all surprised, on waking at cock-crow, to find his head in the fire-place, and his hair powdered with soot. The occasion of his waking at that time, was a dream of an un-

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“They met, ’twas in a crowd”—

on the stairs, and Smith

“Thought that Brown would shun him,”

—But he did n’t!

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pleasant nature. He dreamed that he had rolled off the world backwards, and lodged in a thorn-bush. Of course, such a thing was slightly improbable; but how could Smith be responsible for a dream?

On Tuesday morning, the Smiths are up with the dawn. The household being mustered, it is found that the servant girl, who had often averred that, “she lived out, just for a little exercise,” had deserted her colors. The grocer on the corner politely informs Smith, (whom Mrs. S. had sent on an errand of inquiry) that, on the night previous, the servant left with him a message for her employers, to the effect that “she did n’t consider moving the genteel thing, at all; and that a proper regard for her character and position in society, had induced her to get a situation in the family of a gentleman who owned the house he lived in.”

This is severe: Smith feels it keenly; Mrs. Smith leans her head against her husband’s vest pattern, and says “She is quite crushed,” and “wonders how Smith can have the heart to whistle. But, it is always so,” she remarks. “Woman is the weaker vessel, and man delights to trample on her.” Smith indignantly denies this sweeping assertion, and says “he tramples on nothing;” when Mrs. Smith points to a bandbox containing her best bonnet, which he has just put his foot through. Smith is silent.

The cartmen were to be on the premises at six o’clock. Six o’clock comes—half-past six—seven o’clock—but no cartmen. Here is a dilemma! The successors to the Smiths are to be on the ground at eight o’clock; and being on the ground,

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they will naturally wish to get into the house; which they cannot well do, unless the Smiths are out of it.

Smith takes a survey of his furniture, with a feeling of intense disgust. He wishes his cumbrous goods were reduced to the capacity of a carpet-bag, which he could pick up and walk away with. The mirrors and pianoforte are his especial aversion. The latter is a fine instrument, with an Eolian attachment. He wishes it had a sheriff’s attachment; in fact, he would have been obliged to any officer who should, at that wretched moment, have sold out the whole establishment, at the most “ruinous sacrifice,” ever imagined by an auctioneer’s fertile “marvelousness.”

—Half-past seven, and no cartmen yet. What is to be done? Ah! here they come, at last. Smith is at a loss to know what excuse they will make. Verdant Smith! They make no excuse. They simply tell him, with an air which demands his congratulations, that they “picked up a nice job by the way, and stopped to do it. You see,” says the principal, “we goes in for all we can get, these times, and there’s no use of anybody’s grumbling. Kase, you see, if one don’t want us, another will; and it’s no favor for anybody to employ us a week either side the first of May.” The rascal grins, as he says this; and Smith, perceiving the strength of the cartman’s position, wisely makes no reply.

They begin to load. Just as they get fairly at work, the Browns (the Smiths’ successors) arrive, with an appalling display of stock. Brown is a vulgar fellow, who has suddenly become rich, and whose ideas of manliness all center in bru-

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tality. He is furious because the Smiths are not “clean gone.” He “can’t wait there, all day, in the street.” He orders his men to “carry the things into the house,” and heads the column himself with a costly rocking-chair in his arms. As Brown comes up with his rocking-chair, Smith, at the head of his men, descends, with a bureau, from the second floor.

“They met, ’t was in a crowd”—

on the stairs, and Smith

“Thought that Brown would shun him,”

—but he did n’t! The consequence was, they came in collision; or, rather, Smith’s bureau and Brown’s rocking-chair came in collision. Now, said bureau was an old-fashioned, hardwood affair, made for service, while Brown’s rocking-chair was a flimsy, showy fabric, of modern make. The meeting on the stairs occasions some squeezing, and more stumbling, and Brown suddenly finds himself and chair under the bureau, to the great injury of his person and his furniture. (Brown has since recovered, but the case of the rocking-chair is considered hopeless.) This discomfiture incenses the Browns to a high degree, and they determine to be as annoying as possible; so they persist in bringing their furniture into the house, and up stairs, as the Smiths are carrying theirs out of the house, and down stairs. Collisions are, of course, the order of the day; but the Smiths do not mind this much, as they have a great advantage, viz: their furniture is not half so good as Brown’s. After a few smashes, Brown receives light on this point, and orders his forces to remain quiet, while the foe evacuates the

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premises; so the Smiths retire in peace—and much of their furniture in pieces.

The four carts form quite a respectable procession; but there is no disguising the fact that the furniture looks very shabby (and whose furniture does not look shabby, piled on carts?); so the Smiths prudently take a back street, that no one may accuse them of owning it. Smith has to carry the baby and a large mirror, which Mrs. S. was afraid to trust to the cartmen, there being no insurance on either. It being a windy day, both the mirror and Smith’s hat veer to all points of the compass, while the baby grows very read in the face at not being able to possess himself of them. Between the wind, the mirror, his hat and the baby, Smith has an unpleasant walk of it.

About ten o’clock, they arrive at their new residence, and find, to their horror, that their predecessors have not begun to move. They inquire the reason. The feminine head of the family informs them, with tears in her eyes, that her husband, (Mrs. Jonas Jenkins,) has been sick in Washington for five weeks; that, in consequence of his affliction, may not have been able to provide a new tenement; that she is quite unwell, and that one of her children (she has six) is ill, also; that she don’t know what is to become of them, &c., &c. Smith sets his hat on the back of his head, gives a faint tug at his neck-tie and confesses himself—quenched! His furniture looks more odious every minute. He once felt much pride in it, but he feels none now: he feels only disgust. The cartmen begin to growl out that they “can’t stand here all day” and request to

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be informed “where we shall drop the big traps.” Hereupon, Smith ventures, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, to inquire of Mrs. Jenkins why she did n’t tell him, when he called, on Saturday, of her inability to procure a house? To which that lady innocently replies that [“]she did n’t wish to give him any unnecessary trouble!” which reply satisfies him as to Mrs. Jenkins’ claim to force of intellect.

At this juncture, Smith falls into a profound reverie. He thinks that, after all, Fourier is right—“that the Solidarity of the human race is an entity;” that “nobody can be happy, until everybody is happy.” He agrees with the great philosopher, that the “series distributes the harmonies.” He realizes that “society is organized (or, rather, disorganized) on a wrong basis;” that it is in an “amorphous condition,” whereas it should be “crystalized.” With our celebrated “down east” poet, Ethan Spike, Esq., he begins to think that,

“The eternal bung is loose,”

and that, unless it be soon tightened, there is danger that

“All nater will be spilt.[”]

He comes to the conclusion, finally, that “something must be done,” and that speedily, to “secure a home for every family.”

At this point, he is aroused by his tormenters, the cartmen, who inform him that they are in a “Barkis” state of mind, (willin’) to receive their twelve dollars. Smith pays the money, and turns to examine the premises. He finds that Mrs. Jenkins has packed all her things in the back basement and the second-floor sitting-room. Poor thing! she has done her best,

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after all. She is in ill health; her husband is sick, and away from home; and her children are not well. God pity the unfortunate who live in cities, especially in the “moving season.” But Smith is a kind-hearted man. With a few exceptions, the Smiths are a kind-hearted race—and that’s probably the reason they are so numerous.

Smith puts on a cheerful countenance, and busies himself in arranging his furniture. Mrs. Smith, kind soul, forgets the destruction of her bandbox and bonnet, and cares not how long or how loud Smith whistles. Suddenly the prospect brightens! Mrs. Jenkins’ brother-in-law appears, and announces that he has found rooms for her, a little higher up town. Cartmen are soon at the door, and the Jenkinses are on their “winding way” to their new residence.

—But the Smiths’ troubles are not yet over. The painters, who were to have had the house all painted the day before, have done nothing but leave their paint-pots in the hall, and a little Smithling, being of an investigating turn of mind, and hungry, withal, attempts to make a late breakfast off the contents of one of them. He succeeds in eating enough to disgust him with his bill of fare, and frighten his mamma into hysterics. A doctor is sent for: he soon arrives, and, after attending to the mother, gives the young adventurer a facetious chuck under the chin, and pronounces him perfectly safe. The parents are greatly relieved, for Willy is a pet; and they confidently believe him destined to be President of the United States, if they can only keep paint-pots out of his way.

It takes the Smiths some ten days to get “to rights.” The

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particulars of their further annoyances—how the carpets did n’t fit; how the cartmen “lost the pieces;” how the sofas could n’t be made to look natural; how the pianoforte was too large to stand behind the parlor door, and too small to stand between the front windows; how the ceiling was too low, and the book-case too high; how a bottle of indelible ink got into the bureau by mistake and “marked” all Mrs. Smith’s best dresses—I forbear to inflict on the reader. Suffice it to say, the Smiths are in “a settled state;” although their apartments give signs of the recent manifestation of a strong disturbing force—reminding one, somewhat, of a “settlement” slowly recovering from the visitation of an earthquake. Still, they are thankful for present peace, and are determined, positively, not to move again—until next May.

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THIS SIDE AND THAT.

I am weary of this hollow show and glitter—weary of fashion’s stereotyped lay-figures—weary of smirking fops and brainless belles, exchanging their small coin of flattery and their endless genuflexions: let us go out of Broadway—somewhere, anywhere. Turn round the wheel, Dame Fortune, and show up the other side.

“The Tombs!”—we never thought to be there! nevertheless, we are not to be frightened by a grated door or a stone wall, so we pass in; leaving behind the soft wind of this Indian summer day, to lift the autumn leaves as gently as does a loving nurse her drooping child.

We gaze into the narrow cells, and draw a long breath. Poor creatures, tempted and tried. How many to whom the world now pays its homage, who sit in high places, should be in their stead? God knoweth. See them, with their pale faces pressed up against the grated windows, or pacing up and down their stone floors, like chained beasts. There is a little boy not more than ten years old; what has he done?

“Stolen a pair of shoes!”

Poor child! he never heard of “Swartout.” How should he know that he was put in there not for stealing, but for doing it on so small a scale?

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Hist! Do you see that figure seated in the further corner of that cell, with his hands crossed on his knees? His whole air and dress are those of a gentleman. How came such a man as that here?

“For murder?” How sad! Ah! somewhere in the length and breadth of the land, a mother’s heart is aching because she spared the rod to spoil the child.

There is a coffin, untenanted as yet, but kept on hand; for Death laughs at bolts and fetters, and many a poor wretch is borne struggling within these gloomy walls, only to be carried to his last home, while none but God may ever know at whose fireside stands his vacant chair.

And here is a woman’s cell. There are two or three faded dresses hanging against the walls, and a bonnet, for which she has little use. Her friends have brought her some bits of carpeting, which she has spread over the stone floor, with her womanly love of order, (poor thing,) to make the place look home-like. And there is a crucifix in the corner. See, she kneels before it! May the Holy Virgin’s blessed Son, who said to the sinning one, “Neither do I condemn thee,” send into her stricken heart the balm of holy peace.

Who is that? No! it cannot be—but, yes, it is he—and what a wreck! See, he shrinks away, and a bright flush chases the marble paleness from his cheek. God bless me! That R——, should come to this! Still, Intemperance, with her thousand voices, crieth “Give! give!” and still, alas! it is the gifted, and generous, and warm-hearted, who oftenest answer the summons.

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More cells?—but there is no bed in them; only a wooden platform, raised over the stone floor. It is for gutter drunkards—too foul, too loathsome to be placed upon a bed—turned in here like swine, to wallow in the same slough. Oh, how few, who, festively sipping the rosy wine, say “my mountain stands strong,” e’er dream of such an end as this.

Look there! tread softly: angels are near us. Through the grated window the light streams faintly upon a little pallet, where, sweet as a dream of heaven, lies a sleeping babe! Over its cherub face a smile is flitting. The cell has no other occupant; angels only watch the slumbers of the prison-cradled. The place is holy. I stoop to kiss its forehead. From the crowd of women pacing up and down the guarded gallery, one glides gently to my side, saying, half proudly, half sadly, “ ’Tis my babe.”

“It is so sweet, and pure, and holy,” said I.

The mother’s lips quivered; wiping away a tear with her apron, she said, in a choking voice:

“Ah, it is little the likes of you, ma’am, know how hard it is for us to get the honest bread!”

God be thanked, thought I, that there is one who “judgeth not as man judgeth;” who holdeth evenly the scales of justice; who weigheth against our sins the whirlpool of our temptations, who forgetteth never the countless struggles for the victory, ere the desponding, weary heart shuts out the light of Heaven.

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MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH’S PHILOSOPHY.

Dear me! how expensive it is to be poor. Every time I go out, my best bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee were worth a cool million, I might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity. There was that old nabob’s wife at the lecture, the other night, in a dress that might have been made for Noah’s great grandmother. She can afford it! Now, if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten dollar hat, a forty dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go to a concert, I must take the highest price seat, and ride there and back, just to let “Tom, Dick and Harry” see that I can afford it. Then, we must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top church, and give orders to the sexton not to admit any strangers into it who look snobbish. Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria Smith, can’t go to a public school, because, you know, we should n’t have to pay anything.

Then, if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a little chap to bring them home, because it would n’t answer for me to be seen carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three servants, where one might do; and Zebedee’s coats have to be sent to the tailor when they need a button sewed on, for the look of the thing.

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Then, if I go to the sea-shore, in summer, I can’t take my comfort, as rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes and cambric sun-bonnets. No! I have to be done up by ten o’clock in a Swiss-muslin dress, and a French cap; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and Donna Maria can’t go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little pebbles cut their toes so badly through their patent kid slippers.

Then, if Zebedee goes a fishing, he dare not put on a linen coat, for the price of his reputation. No, indeed! Why, he never goes to the barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till his purse is as empty as an egg-shell. I declare, it is abominably expensive. I don’t believe rich people have the least idea how much it costs poor people to live!

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OPENING OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

Such a crowd, such a rush, such a confusion I never expect to see again. Equestrians and pedestrians; omnibuses and carriages; soldiers, civilians and uncivil-ians; carts and curricles; city exquisites, and country nondescripts; men on the run; women tiptoe-ing, with all sails spread; papas in a putter; fat men sweltering; lean men, with tempers as sharp as their bones, ruthlessly pushing through the crowd; musicians perspiring in tuneful agony; thermometer evidently on a spree; shirt-collars prostrate; dust everywhere, police nowhere; everybody in somebody’s way;—whizz—buzz—rattle—bang—crash—smash; “Oh dear! where’s Pa?”—“Sarah Maria, take care of your flounces.”—“Get out of the way, can’t you?”—“Take your cane out of my eye, will you?”—“Mr. Jones, just see the way that baby’s best bonnet is jammed!”—“Hurry!”—“I can’t hurry; somebody has trod on my skirt, and burst off the hooks; so much for not letting me wear Bloomers! What a figure I cut, to appear before the President, and no chance to apologize, Mr. Jones!”

—Well; it’s eleven o’clock, and after several abortive attempts, we succeed in arresting an omnibus, labelled “for the Hippodrome and Crystal Palace.” Away we go—dashing

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through the crowd, regardless of limbs, vehicular or human. Broadway is lined, on either side, with a dense throng of questionable looking expectants, waiting “to see the procession.” Short people are at a discount; no chance for the poor wretches, strain and tiptoe it as they will. One tall man, who evidently knew the worth of his inches, seemed to think himself too valuable to be let out all at once; so, he elevated himself, jack-screw fashion, letting out one link of his vertebral column after another, until he towered above his neighbors like a pine tree among scrub oaks. What altitude he finally reached, I am unable to say, as he was still on his way up (like Jack’s bean-stalk) when our omnibus passed him.

“Everything comes in use once in seven years,” says the old proverb. I had often wondered of what earthly use could be the tottering brick-piles, which disfigure every block in Broadway. To-day, I was enlightened; they served admirably as points of observation for the more adventurous spectators, and each pile was covered with eager gazers. The windows overlooking Broadway were all filled with neatly dressed ladies, and as the eye swept through this magnificent thoroughfare, the rushing vehicles, the swaying, motley multitudes, the gaily dressed ladies, the waving flags and banners with floated over the more public and prominent edifices, presented an ever varying panorama, that was far from being the least attractive and impressive feature of the day. I have often thought when the people come out “to see a sight,” that they themselves are far more imposing than what they came to see.

On entering the Palace, we (my companion and I) found

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that all the most eligible seats were already occupied, and that what were left were reserved for some man of straw and his wife. It was no use to show one’s ticket. “You must n’t sit here!”—“You must n’t sit there!”—“You can’t stand in that place!”—You can’t go there!”—“You can’t come here!”—and so the throng went forlornly about and around—old men and maidens—heads of families—clergymen—elegant ladies—all sorts of people—seeking places whereon they might rest, and finding none. We finally resolved on action, seized a couple of boxes of workmen’s tools, emptied the contents on the floor, and converted the boxes into comfortable seats, in the most commanding position in the eastern gallery, notwithstanding the impertinent expostulations of the rosetted officers.

Above us was the lofty stained dome, a most imposing feature;—flags of all nations waved from the latticed balconies; beneath, the jeweled arms of ladies fair gleamed and flashed in the sunlight. Directly below us was Marochetti’s equestrian statue of Washington, of colossal proportions. Years ago, dear general, you rode into my young affections on that very horse, as represented on a ninepenny printed cotton handkerchief, given me as a “reward of merit” for correctly “declining to love”—(I wish I had always declined it!) In the immediate neighborhood, our eye rested on a gigantic statue of Webster. There were his features, certainly, all correct, by line and plummet; but where’s the expression? It was soulless and corpse-like—it failed to magnetize me.

An hour has passed; our eyes are weary with gazing; still,

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no President. The singers have taken their places—the organ has emitted one or two premonitory subterranean grumbles, and the platform is beginning to fill with lesser dignitaries. The richly-cushioned Presidential chair, has been wheeled about in the most inviting locallity; a huge bouquet is placed under it by way of bait, but still the President does n’t nibble! So we bide our time with what patience we may—though the thought of a glass of ice-water, or a cake, occasionally quenches our patience and patriotism.

Another hour has passed! Even feminine curiosity cannot exist much longer on such unsubstantial aliment as pontifical robes and empty glitter. My companion is certainly a wizard! He has conjured up some ice cream and cake:—now I shall have strength to cheer the President. Here he comes, God bless him! You won’t see a sight like that out of America. The representative of a mighty nation—one of the mightiest on earth—receiving the homage of expectant thousands, standing without “star” or “order,” or insignia of power, other than that with which the Almighty has stamped him. No “body guard,” no hedging him in from the people. It is sublime!

—Now the Bishop reads an eloquent prayer; then follows an ode, sung to the time-honored tune of Old Hundred, echoing from hundreds of voices, through those deep naves, with such thrilling majesty that you feel as if wings were growing from out your shoulders, and you must soar; and suggesting the song of the redeemed, sung by thousands and tens of thousands, before the great White Throne.

Now the speeches commence—but as I see a whole army

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of reporters, down below, I shall use their ears instead of my own, and make my escape while an omnibus is to be had. Some day, when the President is not present to eclipse them, I shall return and examine all the chef de’oeuvres of art here collected.

—Stay! here’s a pretty conceit I must look at, as we pass along out—a mock garden of moss and flowers, about the size of a lady’s work table, from the center of which plays a fountain of eu de cologne, beneath whose drops any lady can perfume her kerchief en passant, a dainty invention for a boudoir. Need I say its birth-place is Paris.

There’s the statue of the Amazonian Queen, startled by the sudden spring of a tiger at her horse’s throat. Hartshorn and smelling salts, it’s alive!—no; it is lifeless bronze, but so full of vitality and expression, it makes me shiver to look at it.

Now my eye is arrested by an imposing group of Thorwalsden, “Christ and his Apostles.” It is not my Christ. It is not He who said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” It is not He who said to the weeping Magdalen, “Neither do I condemn thee.” It is not He who raised for the meek Mary, the dead Lazarus. It is not He who, dying, cried, “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” It is a form, stern, unbending, forbidding. My hearts refuses its allegiance.

But I fear I am wearying the reader; so, let me close by saying, that what astonished me more than anything else, was the appearance of four of the most consummate Knaves in the world. They occupied conspicuous positions during the public exercises, and in fact, all the time I was there. Indeed, I am

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informed that they have been in regular attendance ever since the Palace was opened, notwithstanding they are well known, not only to the police, but to the officers of the exhibition. It is even whispered that the latter named gentlemen connive at their attendance, unblushingly bestow many attentions upon them, and will, undoubtedly, permit them to be present during the entire exhibition. That the public may know and recognize them, I will give their names: they are the North Nave, the South Nave, the East Nave, and the West Nave!

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A LANCE COUCHED FOR THE CHILDREN.

You have a pretty, attractive child; she is warm-hearted and affectionate, but vivacious and full of life. With judicious management, and a firm, steady rein, she is a very lovable one. You take her with you on a visit, or to make a call. You are busy, talking with the friend you went to see. A gentleman comes in and throws himself indolently on the sofa. His eye falls upon little Kitty. He is just in the mood to be amused, and makes up his mind to banter her a little, for the sake of drawing her out. So he says—

“Jemima, dear—come here!”

The child blushes, and regards him as if uncertain whether he intended to address her. He repeats his request, with a laugh. She replies, “my name is Kitty, not Jemima,” which her tormentor contradicts. Kitty looks puzzled, (just as he intended she should,) but it is only for a moment. She sees he is quizzing her. Well, Miss Kitty likes a frolic, if that is what he wants; so she gives him a pert answer—he laughs uproariously, and rattles fun round her little ears like a hail storm; Kitty has plenty of answers ready for him, and he enjoys the sport amazingly.

By-and-by, he gets weary, and says,—“There—run away

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now, I’m going to read the newspaper;” but Kitty is wide awake, and has no idea of being cut short in that summary way; so she continues her Lilliputian attacks, till finally he gets up and beats a despairing retreat, muttering, “what a very disagreeable child.”

Mamma sees it all from a distance; she does not interfere—no—for she believes in “Children’s Rights.” Kitty was quiet, well behaved and respectful—till the visitor undertook to quiz, and tease her, for his own amusement. He wanted a frolic—and he has had it: they who play with children must take children’s play.

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A CHAPTER ON HOUSEKEEPING.

I never could see the reason why your smart housekeepers must, of necessity, be Xantippes. I once had the misfortune to be domesticated during the summer months with one of this genus.

I should like to have seen the adventurous spider that would have dared to ply his cunning trade in Mrs. Carrot’s premises! Nobody was allowed to sleep a wink after daylight, beneath her roof. Even her old rooster crowed one hour earlier than any of her neighbors’. “Go ahead,” was written on every broomstick in the establishment.

She gave her husband his breakfast, buttoned up his overcoat, and put him out of the front door, with his face in the direction of the store, in less time than I’ve taken to tell it. Then she snatched up the six little Carrots; scrubbed their faces, up and down, without regard to feelings or noses, till they shone like a row of milk pans.

“Clear the track” was her motto, washing and ironing days. She never drew a long breath till the wash-tubs were turned bottom upwards again, and every article of wearing apparel sprinkled, folded, ironed, and replaced on the backs of their respective owners. It gave me a stitch in the side to look at her!

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As to her “cleaning days,” I never had courage to witness one. I used to lie under an apple tree in the orchard, till she was through. A whole platoon of soldiers would n’t have frightened me so much as that virago and her mop.

You should have seen her in her glory on “baking days;” her sleeves rolled up to her arm-pits, and a long, check apron swathed around her bolster-like figure. The great oven glowing, blazing, and sparkling, in a manner very suggestive, to a lazy sinner, like myself. the interminable rows of greased pie-plates; the pans of rough and ready gingerbread; the pots of pork and beans, in an edifying state of progression; and the immense embryo loaves of brown and wheaten bread. To my innocent inquiry, whether she thought the latter would “rise,” she set her skinny arms akimbo, marched up within kissing distance of my face, cocked her head on one side, and asked if I thought [“]she looked like a woman to be trifled with by a loaf of bread!” The way I settled down into my slippers, without a reply, probably convinced her that I was no longer skeptical on that point.

Saturday evening she employed in winding up everything that was unwound in the house—the old entry clock included. From that time till Monday morning, she devoted to her husband and Sabbatical exercises. All I have to say is, it is to be hoped she carried some of the fervor of her secular employments into those halcyon hours.

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BARNUM’S MUSEUM.

It is possible that every stranger may suppose, as I did, on first approaching Barnum’s Museum, that the greater part of its curiosities are on the outside, and have some fears that its internal will not equal its external appearance. But, after crossing the threshold, he will soon discover his mistake. The first idea suggested will perhaps be that the view, from the windows, of the motley, moving throng in Broadway—the rattling, thundering carts, carriages and omnibuses—the confluence of the vehicular and human tides which, from so many quarters, come pouring past the museum—is, (to adopt the language of advertisements,) “worth double the price of admission.”

The visitor’s attention will unquestionably be next arrested by the “Bearded Lady of Switzerland”—one of the most curious curiosities ever presented. A card, in pleasant juxtaposition to the “lady,” conveys the gratifying intelligence that, “Visitors are allowed to touch the beard.” Not a man in the throng lifts an investigating finger! Your penetration, Madame Clofullia, does you infinite credit. You knew well enough that your permission would be as good as a handcuff to every pair of masculine wrists in the company. For my own part, I should no more meddle with your beard, than with Mons. Clo-

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fullia’s. I see no feminity in it. Its shoe-brush aspect puts me on my decorum. I am glad you raised it, however, just to show Barnum that there is something “new under the sun,” and to convince men in general that a woman can accomplish about anything she undertakes.

I have not come to New York to stifle my inquisitiveness. How did you raise that beard? Who shaves first in the morning? you, or your husband? Do you use a Woman’s Rights razor? Which of you does the strap-ping? How does your baby know you from its father? What do you think of us, smooth-faced sisters? Do you (between you and me) prefer to patronize dress-makers, or tailors? Do you sing tenor, or alto? Are you master, or mistress of your husband’s affections?—Well, at all events, it has been something in your neutral pocket to have “tarried at Jericho till your beard was grown.”

—What have we here? Canova’s Venus. She is exquisitely beautiful, standing there, in her sculptured graces; but where’s the Apollo? Ah, here’s a sleeping Cupid, which is better. Mischievous little imp! I’m off before you wake!—Come we now to a petrifaction of a horse and his rider, crushed in the prehensile embrace of a monstrous serpent, found in a cave where it must have lain for ages, and upon which one’s imagination might pleasantly dwell for hours.—Then, here are deputations from China-dom, in the shape of Mandarins, ladies of quality, servants, priests, &c., with their chalky complexions, huckleberry eyes and shaven polls. Here, also, is a Chinese criminal, packed into a barrel, with a hole in the lid, from which

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his head protrudes, and two at the sides, from whence his helpless paws depend. Poor Min Yung, you ought to reflect on the error of your ways, though, I confess, you ’ve not much chance to room-inate.

Here are snakes, insects, and reptiles of every description, corked down and pinned up, as all such gentry should be,—most of them, I perceive, labeled in the masculine gender! Then there ’s a “bear,” the thought of whose hug makes me utter an involuntary pater noster, and cling closer to the arm of my guide. I tell you what, old Bruin, as I hope to travel, I trust you ’ve left none of your cubs behind.

—Here is a group of Suliote chiefs, and in their midst Lord Byron, with his shirt upside down; and here is the veritable carriage that little Victoria used to ride in, before the crown of royalty fretted her fair, girlish temples. Poor little embryo queen! How many times since, do you suppose, she has longed to step out of those bejeweled robes, drop the burdens state imposes, and throw her weary limbs, with a child’s careless abandon, on those silken cushions, free to laugh or cry, to sing or sigh.

—Then, here’s a collection of stuffed birds, whose rainbow plumage has darted through clustering foliage, fostered in other latitudes than ours. Nearly every species of beings that crawl, or fly, or walk, or swim, is here represented. And what hideous monsters some of them are! A “pretty kettle of fish,” some of the representatives of the finny tribe would make! I once thought I would like to be buried in the ocean, but I discarded that idea before I had been in the museum an hour. I

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should n’t want such a “scaly set” of creatures swimming in the same pond with me.

—I had nearly forgotten to mention the “Happy Family.” Here are animals and birds which are the natural prey of each other, living together in such pleasant harmony as would make a quarrelsome person blush to look upon. A sleek rat, probably overcome by the oppressive weather, was gently dozing—a cat’s neck supporting his sleepy head in a most pillow-ly manner. Mutual vows of friendship had evidently been exchanged and rat-ified by these natural enemies. I have no time to mention in detail the many striking instances of fraternization among creatures which have been considered each other’s irreconcilable foes. Suffice it to say that Barnum and Noah are the only men on record who have brought about such a state of harmonic antagonisms, and that Barnum is the only man who has ever made money by the operation.

—Heigho! time fails us to explore all the natural wonders gathered here, from all climes, and lands, and seas, by the enterprise of perhaps the only man who could have compassed it. We turn away, leaving the greater portion unexamined, with an indistinct remembrance of what we have seen, but with a most distinct impression that the “getting up” of Creation was no ordinary affair, and wondering how it could ever have been done in six days.

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A FERN REVERIE.

Dear me, I must go shopping. Shopping is a nuisance: clerks are impertinent: feminity is victimized. Miserable day, too: mud plastered an inch thick on the side walk. Well, if we drop our skirts, gentlemen cry “Ugh!” and if we lift them from the mud, they level their eye-glasses at our ankles. The true definition of a gentleman (not found in incomplete Webster) is—a biped, who, of a muddy day, is perfectly oblivious of anything but the shop signs.

Vive la France! Ingenious Parisians, send us over your clever invention—a chain suspended from the girdle, at the end of which is a gold hand to clasp up the superfluous length of our promenading robes; thus releasing our human digits, and leaving them at liberty to wrestle with rude Boreas for the possession of the detestable little sham bonnets, which the milliners persist in hanging on the backs of our necks.

Well, here we are at Call & Ketchum’s dry-goods store. Now comes the tug of war: let Job’s mantle fall on my feminine shoulders.

“Have you blue silk?”

Yardstick, entirely ignorant of colors, after fifteen minutes of snail-like research, hands me down a silk that is as green as himself.

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Oh! away with these stupid masculine clerks, and give us women, who know by intuition what we want, to the immense saving of our lungs and leather.

Here’s Mr. Timothy Tape’s establishment.

“Have you lace collars, (in points,) Mr. Tape?”

Mr. Tape looks beneficent, and shows me some rounded collars. I repeat my request in the most pointed manner for pointed collars. Mr. Tape replies, with a patronizing grin:

“Points is going out, Ma’am.”

“So am I.”

Dear me, how tired my feet are! nevertheless, I must have some merino. So I open the door of Mr. Henry Humbug’s dry-goods store, which is about half a mile in length, and inquire for the desired article. Young Yardstick directs me to the counter, at the extreme end of the store. I commence my travels thitherward through a file of gaping clerks, and arrive there just ten minutes before two, by my repeater; when I am told “they are quite out of merinos; but won’t Lyonnese cloth do just as well?” pulling down a pile of the same. I rush out in a high state of frenzy, and, taking refuge in the next-door neighbor’s, inquire for some stockings. Whereupon the clerk inquires (of the wrong customer,) “What price I wish to pay?” Of course, I am not so verdant as to be caught in that trap; and, teetotally disgusted with the entire institution of shopping, I drag my weary limbs into Taylor’s new saloon, to rest.

Bless me! what a display of gilding, and girls, and gingerbread! what a heap of mirrors! There’s more than one Fanny Fern in the world. I found that out since I came in.

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“What will you be pleased to have?” J-u-l-i-u-s C-æ-s-a-r! look at that white-aproned waiter pulling out his snuff-box and taking a pinch of snuff right over that bowl of white sugar, that will be handed me in five minutes to sweeten my tea! And there’s another combing his hair with a pocket-comb, over that dish of oysters.

“What will I have?” Starve me, if I’ll have anything till I can find a cleaner place than this to eat in.

Shade of old Paul Pry Boston! what do I hear? Two—(well I declare, I am not sure whether they are ladies or women;[)] I don’t understand these New York feminities. At any rate, they wear bonnets, and are telling the waiter to bring them “a bottle of Maraschino de Zara, some sponge-cake, and some brandy drops!” See them sip the cordial in their glasses, with the gusto of an old toper. See their eyes sparkle and their cheeks flush, and just hear their emancipated little tongues go. Wonder if their husbands know that they—but of course they don’t. However, it is six of one and half a dozen of the other. They are probably turning down sherry cobblers, and eating oysters, at Florence’s; and their poor hungry children (while their parents are dainty-izing) are coming home hungry from school, to eat a fragmentary dinner, picked up at home by a lazy set of servants.

Heigho! Ladies sipping wine in a public saloon! Pilgrim rock! hide yourself under-ground! Well, it is very shocking the number of married women who pass their time ruining their health in these saloons, devouring Parisian confectionary,

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and tainting their children’s blood with an appetite for strong drink. Oh, what a mockery of a home must theirs be! Heaven pity the children reared there, left to the chance training of vicious hirelings.

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APOLLO HYACINTH.

“There is no better test of moral excellence, than the keenness of one’s sense, and the depth of one’s love, of all that is beautiful.”—Donohue.

I don’t endorse that sentiment. I am acquainted with Apollo Hyacinth. I have read his prose, and I have read his poetry; and I have cried over both, till my heart was as soft as my head, and my eyes were as red as a rabbit’s. I have listened to him in public, when he was, by turns, witty, sparkling, satirical, pathetic, till I could have added a codicil to my will, and left him all my worldly possessions; and possibly you have done the same. He has, perhaps, grasped you cordially by the hand, and, with a beaming smile, urged you, in his musical voice, to “call on him and Mrs. Hyacinth;” and you have called: but, did you ever find him “in?” You have invited him to visit you, and have received a “gratified acceptance,” in his elegant chirography; but, did he ever come? He has borrowed money of you, in the most elegant manner possible; and, as he deposited it in his beautiful purse, he has assured you, in the choicest and most happily chosen language, that he “should never forget your kindness;” but, did he ever pay?

Should you die to-morrow, Apollo would write a poetical

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obituary notice of you, which would raise the price of pocket-handkerchiefs; but should your widow call on him in the course of a month, to solicit his patronage to open a school, she would be told “he was out of town,” and that it was “quite uncertain when he would return.”

Apollo has a large circle of relatives; but his “keenness of perception, and deep love, of the beautiful” are so great, that none of them exactly meet his views. His “moral excellence,” however, does not prevent his making the most of them. He has a way of dodging them adroitly, when they call for a reciprocation, either in a business or a social way; or, if, at any time, there is a necessity for inviting them to his house, he does it when he is at his country residence, where their greenness will not be out of place.

Apollo never says an uncivil thing—never; he prides himself on that, as well as on his perfect knowledge of human nature; therefore, his sins are all sins of omission. His tastes are very exquisite, and his nature peculiarly sensitive; consequently, he cannot bear trouble. He will tell you, in his elegant way, that trouble “annoys” him, that it “bores” him; in short, that it unfits him for life—for business; so, should you hear that a friend or relative of his, even a brother or a sister, was in distress, or persecuted in any manner, you could not do Apollo a greater injury (in his estimation) than to inform him of the fact. It would so grate upon his sensitive spirit,—it would so “annoy” him; whereas, did he not hear of it until the friend, or brother, or sister, were relieved or buried, he could manage the matter with his usual urbanity and without

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the slightest draught upon his exquisitely sensitive nature, by simply writing a pathetic and elegant note, expressing the keennest regret at not having known “all about it” in time to have “flown to the assistance of his dear”—&c.

Apollo prefers friends who can stand grief and annoyance, as a rhinoceros can stand flies—friends who can bear their own troubles and all his—friends who will stand between him and everything disagreeable in life, and never ask anything in return. To such friends he clings with the most touching tenacity—as long as he can use them; but let their good name be assailed, let misfortune once overtake them, and his “moral excellence” compels him, at once, to ignore their existence, until they have been extricated from all their troubles, and it has become perfectly safe and advantageous for him to renew the acquaintance.

Apollo is keenly alive to the advantages of social position, (not having always enjoyed them;) and so, his Litany reads after this wise: From all questionable, unfashionable, unpresentable, and vulgar persons, Good Lord, deliver us!

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SPOILED LITTLE BOY.

“Boo-hoo!—I’ve eaten so—m-much bee-eef and t-turkey, that I can’t eat any p-p-plum p-p-pudding!”

Miserable little Pitcher! Take your fists out of your eyes, and know that thousands of grown-up pinafore graduates, are in the same Slough of Despond with your epicurean Lilliputian-ship. Having washed the platter clean of every crumb of “common fixins,” they are left with cloyed, but tantalizing desires, for the spectacle of some mocking “plum pudding.”

“Can’t eat your pudding!”

Why, you precious, graceless young glutton! you have the start of me, by many an ache-r. I expect to furnish an appetite for every “plum pudding” the fates are kind enough to cook for me, from this time till Teba Napoleon writes my epitaph.

Infatuated little Pitcher! come sit on my knee, and take a little advice. Don’t you know you should only take a nibble out of each dish, and be parsimonious at that; always leaving off, be the morsel ever so dainty, before your little jacket buttons begin to tighten; while from some of the dishes, you should not even lift the cover; taking aunt Fanny’s word for it, that their spicy and stimulating contents will only give you

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a pain under your apron. Bless your little soul, life’s “bill of fare” can be spun out as ingeniously as a cobweb, if you only understand it; and then you can sit in the corner, in good digestive order, and catch your flies! But if you once get a surfeit of a dainty, it takes the form of a pill to you, ever after, unless the knowing cuisinier disguise it under some novel process of sugaring; and sadder still, if you exhaust yourself in the gratification of gross appetites, you will be bereft of your faculties for enjoying the pure and heavenly delights which “Our Father” has provided as a dessert for his children.

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A “BROWN STUDY”—SUGGESTED BY BROWN VAILS.

“Why will ladies wear those ugly brown vails, which look like the burnt edge of a buckwheat cake? We vote for green ones.”—Exchange.

Mr. Critic: Why don’t you hit upon something objectionable? Such as the passion which stout ladies have for wearing immense plaids, and whole stories of flounces! Such as thin, bolster-like looking females wearing narrow stripes! Such as brunettes, gliding round like ghosts, in pale blue! Such as blondes blowing out like dandelions in bright yellow! Such as short ladies swathing up their little fat necks in voluminous folds of shawls, and shingle women, rejoicing in strips of mantles!

Then the gentlemen!

Your stout man is sure to get into a frock coat, with baggy trowsers; your May-pole, into a long-waisted body-coat, and “continuations” unnecessarily compact; your dark man looks like an “east wind” daguerreotyped, in a light blue neck-tie; while your pink-and-white man looks as though he wanted a pitcher of water in his face, in a salmon-colored or a black one.

Now allow me to suggest. Your thin man should always

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close the thorax button of his coat, and the last two at his waistband, leaving the intermediate open, to give what he needs—more breadth of chest. Your stout man, who has almost always a nice arm and hand, should have his coat sleeve a perfect fit from the elbow to the wrist, buttoning there tightly—allowing a nice strip of a white linen wristband below it.

I understand the architecture of a coat to a charm; know as quick as a flash whether ’t is all right, the minute I clap my eye on it. As to vests, I call myself a connoisseur. “Stocks” are only fit for Wall Street! Get yourself some nice silk neck-ties, and ask your wife, or somebody who knows something, to longitudinize them to your jugular. Throw your colored, embroidered, and ruffled shirt-bosoms overboard; leave your cane and cigar at home; wear a pair of neat, dark gloves; sport an immaculate pocket-handkerchief and dicky—do n’t say naughty words—give us ladies the inside of the walk—speak of every woman as you would wish your mother or your sister spoken of, and you ’ll do!

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INCIDENT AT THE FIVE POINTS HOUSE OF INDUSTRY.

To be able to appreciate Mr. Pease’s toils, and sacrifices, and self-denying labors at the Five Points House of Industry, one must visit the locality:—one must wind through those dirty streets and alleys, and see the wrecks of humanity that meet him at every step;—he must see children so dirty and squalid that they scarcely resemble human beings, playing in filthy gutters, and using language that would curdle his blood to hear from childhood’s lips;—he should see men, “made in God’s own image,” butalised beyond his power to imagine;—he should see women (girls of not more than twenty years) reeling about the pavements in a state of beastly intoxication, without a trace of feminity in their vicious faces;—he should pass the rum shops, where men and women are quarreling and fighting and swearing, while childhood listens and learns!—he should pass the second-hand clothes cellars, where hard-featured Jewish dealers swing out faded, refuse garments, (pawned by starving virtue for bread,) to sell to the needy, half-naked emigrant for his last penny;—he should see decayed fruit and vegetables which the most ravenous swine might well

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root twice over before devouring, purchased as daily food by these poor creatures;—he should see gentlemen (?) threading these streets, not to make all this misery less, God knows, but to sever the last thread of hope to which many a tempted one is despairingly clinging.

One must see all this, before he can form a just idea of the magnitude and importance of the work that Mr. Pease has single-handed and nobly undertaken; remembering that men of wealth and influence have their own reasons for using that wealth and influence to perpetuate this modern Sodom.

One should spend an hour in Mr. Pease’s house, to see the constant drafts upon his time and strength, in the shape of calls and messages, and especially the applications for relief that his slender purse alas! is often not able to answer;—he should see his unwearied patience and activity, admire the kind, sympathetic heart—unaffected by the toil or the frowns of temporizing theorists—ever warm, ever pitiful, giving not only “the crumbs from his table,” but often his own meals to the hungry—his own wardrobe to the naked;—he should see this, and go away ashamed to have lived so long and done so little to help the maimed, and sick, and lame, to Bethesda’s Pool.

I will relate an incident which occurred, some time since, at the House of Industry, and which serves as a fair sample of daily occurrences there.

One morning an aged lady, of respectable appearance, called at the Mission House and enquired for Mr. Pease. She was told that he was engaged, and asked if some one else would not

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do as well. She said, respectfully, “No; my business is with him; I will wait, if you please, till he can see me.”

Mr. Pease immediately came in, when the old lady commenced her story:

“I came, sir,” said she, “in behalf of a poor, unfortunate woman and three little children. She is living now”—and the tears dropped over her wrinkled face—“in a bad place in Willet-street, in a basement. There are rum shops all around it, and many drunken people about the neighborhood. She has made out to pay the rent, but has had no food for the poor little children, who have subsisted on what they could manage to beg in the day time. The landlord promised, when she hired the basement, to put a lock on the door, and make it comfortable, so that ‘the Croton’ need not run in; but he got his rent and then broke his promise, and they have not seen him since.”

“Is the woman respectable?” enquired Mr. Pease.

“Yes—no—not exactly,” said the poor old lady, violently agitated. “She was well brought up. She has a good heart, sir, but a bad head, and then trouble has discouraged her. Poor Mary—yes sir, it must have been the trouble—for I know her heart is good, sir. I”—tears choked the old lady’s utterance. Recovering herself, she continued:

“She had a kind husband once. He was the father of her two little girls: six years ago he died, and—the poor thing—oh, sir, you don’t know how dear she is to me!” and burying her aged face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

Mr. Pease’s kind heart interpreted the old lady’s emotion,

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without the pain of an explanation. In the weeping woman before him he saw the mother of the lost one.

Yes, she was “Mary’s” mother. Poverty could not chill her love; shame and the world’s scorn had only filled her with a God-like pity.

After a brief pause, she brushed away her tears and went on:

“Yes, sir; Mary was a good child to me once; she respected religion and religious people, and used to love to go to church, but lately, sir, God knows she has almost broke my heart. Last spring I took her home, and the three dear children; but she would not listen to me, and left without telling me where she was going. I heard that there was a poor woman living in a basement in Willet street, with three children, and my heart told me that that was my poor, lost Mary, and there I found her. But, oh, sir—oh, sir”—and she sobbed as if her heart were breaking—“such a place! My Mary, that I used to cradle in these arms to sleep, that lisped her little evening prayer at my knee—my Mary, drunk in that terrible place!”

She was getting so agitated that Mr. Pease, wishing to turn the current of her thoughts, asked her if she herself was a member of any church. She said yes, of the —— street Baptist Church. She said she was a widow, and had had one child beside Mary—a son. And her face lighted up as she said:

“Oh sir, he was such a fine lad. He did all he could to make me happy; but he thought, that if he went to California he could make money, and when he left he said ‘Cheer up, dear

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mother; I’ll come back and give my money all to you, and you shall never work any more.’

“I can see him now, sir, as he stood there, with his eye kindling. Poor lad! poor lad! He came back, but it was only to die. His last words were, ‘God will care for you, mother—I know it—when I’m gone to Heaven.’ Oh! if I could have seen my poor girl die as he did, before she became so bad. Oh, sir, won’t you take her here?— won’t you try to make her good?—can’t you make her good, sir? I can’t give Mary up. Nobody cares for Mary now but me. Won’t you try, sir?”

Mr. Pease promised that he would do all he could, and sent a person out with the old lady, to visit “Mary,” and obtain particulars: he soon returned and corroborated all the old lady’s statements. Mr. Pease then took a friend and started to see what could be done.

In Willet street is a rickety old wooden building, filled to overflowing with the very refuse of humanity. The basement is lighted with two small windows half under ground; and in this wretched hole lived Mary and her children. As Mr. Pease descended the steps into the room, he heard some one say, “Here he comes, grandmother! he’s come—he’s come!”

The door was opened. On a pile of rags in the corner lay Mary, “my Mary,” as the old lady tearfully called her.

God of mercy! what a wreck of beautiful womanhood! Her large blue eyes glared with maniac wildness, under the influence of intoxication. Long waves of auburn hair fell, in tangled masses, over a form wasted, yet beautiful in its graceful outlines.

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Poor, lost Mary!

“Such a place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table, or chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it, of any description. On the mantle-piece stood a beer-bottle with a half burnt candle in its nose. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity of filthy rags lay scattered round the floor.

The grandmother was holding by the hand a sweet child of eight years, with large, bright eyes, and auburn hair (like poor Mary’s) falling about her neck. An older girl of twelve, with a sweet, Madonna face, that seemed to light up even that wretched place with a beam of Heaven, stood near, bearing in her arms a babe of sixteen months, which was not so large as one of eight months should have been. Its little hands looked like bird’s claws, and its little bones seemed almost piercing the skin.

The old lady went up to her daughter, saying, “Mary, dear, this is the gentleman who is willing to take you to his house, if you will try to be good.”

“Get out of the room, you old hypocrite,” snarled the intoxicated woman, “or I’ll—(and she clutched a hatchet beside her)—I’ll show you! You are the worst old woman I ever knew, except the one you brought in here the other day, and she is a fiend outright. Talk to me about being good!—ha—ha”—and she laughed an idiot laugh.

“Mother,” said the eldest child, sweetly laying her little hand upon her arm,—“dear mother, do n’t, please do n’t hurt grand-

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mother. She is good and kind to us; she only wants to get you out of this bad place, where you will be treated kindly.”

“Yes, dear mother,[”] chimed in the younger sister, bending her little curly head over her, “mother, you said once you would go. Do n’t keep us here any longer, mother. We are cold and hungry. Please get up and take us away; we are afraid to stay here, mother, dear.”

“Yes, Mary,” said the old lady, handing her down a faded, ragged gown, “here is your dress; put it on, wont you!”

Mary raised herself on the pile of rags on which she was lying, and pushing the eldest girl across the room, screamed out, “Get away, you impudent little thing! you are just like your old grandmother. I tell you all,” said she, raising herself on one elbow, and tossing back her auburn hair from her broad, white forehead, “I tell you all, I never will go from here, never! I love this place. So many fine people come here, and we have such good times. There is a gentleman who takes care of me. He brought me some candles, last night, and he says that I shan’t want for anything, if I will only get rid of these troublesome children—my husband’s children.” And she hid her face in her hands and laughed convulsively.

“You may have them,” she continued, “just as soon as you like—baby and all! but I never will go from this place. I love it. A great many fine people come here to see me.”

The poor old lady wrung her hands and wept, while the children clung round their grandmother, with half-averted faces, trembling and silent.

Mr. Pease said to her, “Mary, you may either go with me,

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or I’ll send for an officer and have you carried to the station-house. Which will you do?”

Mary cursed and raved, but finally put on the dress the old lady handed her, and consented to go with them. A carriage was soon procured, and Mary helped inside—Mr. Pease lifting in the baby and the two little girls, and away they started for the Five Points House of Industry.

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger of the girls, “how very pleasant it is to ride in this nice carriage, and to get away from that dirty place; we shall be so happy now, mother; and Edith and the baby too; see, he is laughing: he likes to ride. You will love sister Edith and baby, and me, now, wont you, dear mother? and you wont frighten us with the hatchet any more, or hurt dear grandmother, will you?”

Arriving at Mr. Pease’s house, the delight of the little creatures was unbounded. They caught hold of their mother’s faded dress, saying, “Did n’t we tell you, mother, that you would have a pleasant home here? Only see that nice garden! you did n’t have a garden in Willet Street, mother!”

Reader, would you know that mother’s after history?

Another “Mary” hath “bathed the Saviour’s feet” with her tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Her name is no longer written Mary Magdalena. In the virtuous home of her aged mother, she sits clothed in her right mind, “and her children rise up and call her blessed.”

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NANCY PRY’S SOLILOQUY.

I wonder if that is the bride, over at that window? Poor thing, how I pity her! Every thing in her house so bran new and fresh and uncomfortable. Furniture smelling like a mahogany coffin; every thing set up spick and span in its place; not a picture awry; not a chair out of its orbit; not a finger mark on the window panes; not a thread on the carpet; not a curtain fold disarranged; china and porcelain set up in alphabetical order in the pantry; bureau drawers fit for a Quaker; no stockings, to mend; no strings or buttons missing; no old rag-bags to hunt over; no dresses to re-flounce, or re-tuck, or re-fashionize; not even a hook or eye absent. Sauce pans, pots, and kettles, fresh from the “furnishing house;” servants fresh; house as still as a cat-cornered mouse. Nothing stirring, nothing to do. Land of Canaan! I should think it would be a relief to her to hear the braying and roaring in Driesbach’s Menagerie.

Well, there’s one consolation; in all human probability, it is a state of things that won’t last long.

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FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

“I love God and every little child.”—Richter.

I wonder if I have any little pinafore friends among the readers of Fern Leaves? any little Nellys, or Katys, or Billys, or Johnnys, who ever think of Fanny? Do you know that I like children much better than grown-up people? I should so like to have a whole lap full of your bright eyes, and rosy cheeks, and dimpled shoulders, to kiss. I should like to have a good romp with you, this very minute. I don’t always keep this old pen of mine scratching. If a bright cloud comes sailing past my window, I throw down my pen, toss up the casement, and drink in the air, like a gipsey. I feel just as you do, when you are pent up in school, some bright summer day, when the winds are at play, and the flowers lie languidly drooping under the blue, arching sky;—when the little butterfly poises his bright wings on the rose, too full of joy even to sip its sweets;—when the birds sing, because they can’t help it, and the merry little swallow skims the ground, dips his bright wing in the lake, circles over head, and then flies, twittering, back to his cunning little brown nest, under the eaves. On such a day, I should like to be your school-mistress. I’d throw open the old school-room door, and let you all out under the trees. You should count the blades of grass for a sum in addition;

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you should take an apple from a tree, to learn subtraction; you should give me kisses, to learn multiplication. You shouldn’t go home to dinner. No: we’d all take our dinner-baskets and go into the woods; we’d hunt for violets; we’d lie on the moss under the trees, and look up at the bits of blue sky, through the leafy branches; we’d hush our breath when the little chipmunk peeped out of his hole, and watch him slily snatch the ripe nut for his winter’s store. And we’d look for the shy rabbit; and the little spotted toad, with its blinking eyes; and the gliding snake, which creeps out to sun itself on the old gray rock. We’d play hide and seek, in the hollow trunks of old trees; we’d turn away from the gaudy flowers, flaunting their showy beauty in our faces, and search, under the glossy leaves at our feet, for the pale-eyed blossoms which nestle there as lovingly as a timid little fledgling under the mother-bird’s wing; we’d go to the lake, and see the sober, staid old cows stand cooling their legs in the water, and admiring themselves in the broad, sheeted mirror beneath; we’d toss little pebbles in the lake, and see the circles they made, widen and widen toward the distant shore—like careless words, dropped and forgotten, but reaching to the far-off shore of eternity.

And then you should nestle ’round me, telling all your little griefs; for well I know that childhood has its griefs, which are all the keener because great, wise, grown-up people have often neither time nor patience, amid the bustling whirl of life, to stop and listen to them. I know what it is for a timid little child, who has never been away from its mother’s apron string, to be walked, some morning, into a great big school-room, full

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of strange faces;—to see a little urchin laugh, and feel a choking lump come in your little throat, for fear he was laughing at you;—to stand up, with trembling legs, in the middle of the floor, and be told to “find big A,” when your eyes were so full of tears that you could n’t see anything;— to keep looking at the ferule on the desk, and wondering if it would ever come down on your hand;—to have some mischievous little scholar break your nice long slate-pencil in two, to plague you, or steal your bit of gingerbread , out of your satchel, and eat it up, or trip you down on purpose, and feel how little the hard-hearted young sinners cared when you sobbed out, “I’ll tell my mother.”

I know what it is, when you have lain every night since you were born, with your hand clasped in your mother’s, and your cheek cuddled up to hers, to see a new baby come and take your place, without even asking your leave;—to see papa, and grandpa, and grandma, and uncle, and aunt, and cousins, and all the neighbors, so glad to see it, when your heart was almost broke about it. I know what it is to have a great fat nurse (whom even mamma herself had to mind) lead you, struggling, out of the room, and tell Sally to see that you did n’t come into your own manna’s room again all that day. I know what it is to have that fat old nurse sit in mamma’s place at table, and cut up your potato and meat all wrong;—to have her put squash on your plate, when you hate squash;—to have her forget (?) to give you a piece of pie, and eat two pieces herself;—to have Sally cross, and Betty cross, and everybody telling you to “get out of the way;”—to have your doll’s leg get loose, and nobody there to hitch it on for

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you;—and then, when it came night, to be put away in a chamber, all alone by yourself to sleep, and have Sally tell you that “if you wasn’t good an old black man would come and carry you off;”—and then to cuddle down under the sheet, till you were half stifled, and tremble every time the wind blew, as if you had an ague fit. Yes, and when, at last, mamma came down stairs, I know how long it took for you to like that new baby;—how every time you wanted to sit in mamma’s lap, he’d be sure to have the stomach-ache, or to want his breakfast; how he was always wanting something, so that mamma could n’t tell you pretty stores, or build little blocks of houses for you, or make you reins to play horse with; or do any of those nice little things, that she used to be always doing for you.

To be sure, my little darlings, I know all about it. I have cried tears enough to float a steamship, about all these provoking things; and now whenever I see a little child cry, I never feel like laughing at him: for I know that often his little heart is just ready to break, for somebody to pet him. So I always say a kind word, or give him a pat on the head, or a kiss; for I know that though the little insect has but one grain to carry, he often staggers under it: and I have seen the time when a kind word, or a beaming smile, would have been worth more to me, than all the broad lands of merrie England.