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Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, January, 1851

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Title: Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, January, 1851

Author: Various

Editor: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale


        
Release date: February 16, 2005 [eBook #15080]
                Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK, VOL. 42, JANUARY, 1851 ***




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Distributed Proofreading Team.






[Illustration]

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[Illustration]

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[Illustration: NEW YEAR'S DAY IN FRANCE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MODEL COTTAGE.

[Illustration: _A Cottage in the Style of Heriot's Hospital, Edinburgh_.]

The elevation is shown in fig. 1, the ground-plan in fig. 2.

_Accommodation_.--The plan shows a porch, _a_; a lobby, _b_; living room,
_c_; kitchen, _d_; back-kitchen, _e_; pantry, _f_; dairy, _g_; bed-closet,
_h_; store-closet, _i_; fuel, _k_; cow-house, _l_; pig-stye, _m_; yard,
_n_; dust-hole, _q_.

The Scotch are great admirers of this style, as belonging to one of their
favorite public buildings, which is said to have been designed by the
celebrated Inigo Jones. The style is that of the times of Queen Elizabeth,
and King James VI. of Scotland and I. of England.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1851.

       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

THE CONSTANT; OR, THE ANNIVERSARY PRESENT.

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

(_See Plate._)

It has an excellent influence on one's moral health to meet now and then in
society, or, better still, in the close communion of home life, such a
woman as Catherine Grant. She influences every one that comes within the
pure atmosphere of her friendship, and as unconsciously to them as to
herself. She never moralizes, or commands reform. There is no parade of her
individual principle in any way, but she always _acts_ rightly; and, if her
opinion is called forth, it is given promptly and quietly, but very firmly.

Yet, though even strangers say this of her now, there was a time when few
suspected the moral strength of her character. Not that principle was
wanting; but it had never been called forth. She moved in her own circle
with very little remark or comment. She was cheerful, and even sprightly in
her manner, and her large blue eyes, as well as her lips, always spoke the
truth. I do not know that she was ever called beautiful; but there was an
air of _ladyhood_ about her, from the folding of her soft brown hair to the
gloving of a somewhat large but exquisitely-shaped hand, that marked her at
once as possessing both taste and refinement.

I remember that friends spoke of her engagement with Willis Grant as a
"good match," and rather wondered that she did not seem more elated with
the prospect of being the mistress of such a pleasant little establishment
as would be hers, for she was one of a large family of daughters, and her
father's income as a professional man did not equal that of Willis, who was
at the head of one of our largest mercantile houses. But it was in her
nature to take things calmly, though she was young, and all the kindness of
his attentions, and the prospect of a new home, as much as any happy bride
could have done. It _was_ a delightful home--not so extravagantly furnished
as Willis would have chosen it to be, but tasteful, and withal including
many of those luxuries and elegancies which we of the nineteenth century
are rapidly, too rapidly, learning to need. Willis declared that no one
could be happier than they were; and, strange as it may seem, the envious
world for once prophesied no cloud in the future.

But we have nothing to do with that first eventful year of married
life--the year of attrition in mind and character, when two natures,
differing in many points, and these sharpened as it were by education, are
suddenly brought into immediate contact. There were some ideals overthrown,
no doubt--it is often so; and some good qualities discovered, which were
unsuspected before. The second anniversary of the wedding-day was also the
birth-day of a darling child, and the home was more homelike than ever.

Yet Willis Grant was seldom there. It was not that he loved his wife the
less--that her beauty had faded, or her temper changed. She was the same as
ever--gentle, affectionate, and thoughtful for his wishes; and he
appreciated all this. But before he had known her, in those wild idle days
of early manhood, when the spirit craves continual excitement, and has not
yet learned that it is the love of woman's purer nature which it needs,
Willis had chosen his associates in a circle which it was very difficult to
break from, now that their society was no longer essential to him. He was
close in his attention to business; his great, success had arisen from
industry as well as talent; but when the counting-house was closed, there
was no family circle to welcome him, and the doors of the club-house were
invitingly open.

True, it was one of the most respectable clubs of the city, mostly composed
of young business men like himself, who discussed the tariffs and their
effects upon trade over their _recherche_ dinners, and chatted of European
politics over their wine. And this reminds us of one thing that argues
much, if not more than anything else, against the club-house system, that
is so rapidly gaining favor in our cities. It accustoms the young man just
entering life to a surrounding of luxury that he cannot himself
consistently support when he begins to think of having a home of his own.
He passes his evenings in a beautiful saloon, where the light is brilliant,
yet tempered; where crimson curtains and a blazing fire speak at once of
comfort and affluence of means. There are no discomforts, such as any one
meets with more or less, inevitably, in private families--nothing to jar
upon the spirit of self-indulgence and indolence which is thus fostered.
The dinners, in cooking and service, are unexceptionable; and there are
always plenty of associates as idle and thoughtless, and as good-natured,
as himself, to make a jest of domestic life and domestic virtues. And,
by-and-by, there is a stronger stimulus wanted, and the jest becomes more
wanton over the roulette table or the keenly contested rubber; and the wine
circulates more freely as the fire of youth goes out and leaves the ashes
of mental and moral desolation. Ah no! the club-house is no conservator of
the purity of social life, and this Catherine Grant soon felt, as night
after night her husband left her to the society of her own thoughts, or her
favorite books, to meet old friends in its familiar saloons, and show them
that he at least was none the less "a good fellow" for being a married man!

It was all very well, no doubt, to be able to break away from the pleasant
parlor, and the interesting woman who was the presiding genius of his
household, and spend his evenings in the society of gay gallants who talked
of horses and Tedesco's figure, or the gray-headed votaries of the whist
table, who played the game as if the presidency depended upon "following
lead," and each trump was a diamond of inestimable worth, to be cherished
and reserved, and parted with only at the last extremity. Sometimes a
thought of comparison would arise, as he sat with elevated feet beside the
anthracite fire, and gazed steadfastly on his patent leathers. Sometimes
the idle jests and the heartless laughter would jar upon his ear; and the
cigar was suffered to die out as, in thoughts of wife and child, he forgot
to put it to his lips. But the injustice of his conduct, in thus depriving
them of his society, did not once cross his mind, until he was
involuntarily made the witness of a visit between Catherine and a lady who
had been her intimate friend before marriage.

He had returned hurriedly one morning in search of some papers left in his
own room, dignified by the name of study, though it must be confessed that
he passed but little time there. It communicated with Catherine's
apartment, which was just then occupied by the two ladies in confidential
chat.

"And so you won't go to Mrs Sawyer's to-night?" said Miss Lyons, who had
thrown herself at full length upon a couch, and was idly teazing the baby
with the tassel of her muff. "How provoking you are! You might as well be
dead as married! It's well for your husband that I'm not in your place.
Why, every one's talking about it, my child, how you are cooped up here,
and Willis at the club-house night after night. Morgan told me he was
always there, and asked me what kind of a wife he had--whether you
quarreled or flirted, that he was away from you so much."

Had the heedless speaker glanced up from her play with little Gertrude, she
would have seen her friend's face suffused with a slight flush, for the
last was a view of the case entirely new to her. But she said, quietly as
ever--

"'Everybody' might be in better business, Nell; and why is it well for
Willis that you are not in my place?"

"Why? Because I'd pay him in his own coin; he should not have the game all
in his own hands. If he went to the club, I'd flirt, that's all, and we'd
see who would hold out the longer."

"Bad principle, Nelly. 'Two wrongs,' as the old proverb says, 'never make a
right;' and yet I am sorry I said that, for so long as it gives Willis
pleasure, and he is not drawn from his business by it, it is no wrong,
though there is danger to any man in confirmed habits of 'good-fellowship,'
as it is called. No one could see that more plainly than I do, or dread it
more. Of course, when we love a person it is natural to wish to be with him
as much as possible; and I must confess I am a little lonely now and then.
But your plan would never succeed, nor would it be wise to annoy my husband
with complaints. Nothing provokes a man like an expostulation."

"And what do you do, then?"

"Nothing at all but try to make his home as pleasant as possible, and when
he is weary of his gay companions he will return to me with more interest."

"Well, well," broke in her visitor; "Morgan can make up his mind to a very
different state of things. I shall stipulate, first of all, that he must
give up that abominable club-house."

"And do you intend to lay your flirting propensities on the same altar of
mutual happiness?"

Willis did not hear the reply, for he stole softly away, annoyed, as he
thought, at having been a listener to what was not intended for his ears.
But there was a little sting of self-reproach at his selfish desertion of
home, and, more than all, that Catherine should have been blamed for
offences that any one who had known her would never have attributed to her.

"Ah, by the way, Kate," he said that evening, turning suddenly, as she
stood arranging her work-table beneath the gas light, "how about that
invitation to Mrs. Sawyer's? It was for to-night, if I recollect?"

"I sent regrets, of course, as you expressed no wish to go; and, to tell
the truth, I would much rather pass the evening quietly here with you. How
long it is since we have had one of those nice old-fashioned chats! Not
since baby has been my companion."

This was said in a cheerful tone, as a reminiscence, not as a reproach; and
yet Willis felt the morning's uncomfortable sensations return, though he
tried to dispel them by stooping to kiss her forehead. Nevertheless, he
ordered his coat, as the servant came in to remove the tea things, and took
up his gloves from the table. The very consciousness of being in the wrong
prevented an acknowledgment, even by an act so simple as giving up one
evening's engagement.

"And here she comes!" he said, as the nurse drew the cradle from an
adjoining room, so lightly that the little creature did not move or stir in
her sweet sleep. And when his wife threw back the light covering, and said,
"_Isn't she beautiful_, Willis?" as only a young mother could say it, it
must be confessed that he thought himself a very fortunate man to have two
such treasures, and he could not help saying so.

"I love to have the little thing where I can watch her myself; so, when
there is no one in, nurse spares her to me, and we sit here as cosily as
possible. I could watch her for hours. Sometimes she does not move, and
then she will smile so sweetly in her sleep--and only look at those dear
little dimpled hands, Willis!"

And yet Willis took the coat when it came, though with a guilty feeling at
heart. The greater the self-reproach, the more the pride that arose to
combat it; and he drew on his gloves resolutely.

"Don't sit up for me," he said, as he had said a hundred times before; and
in a moment the hall door shut with a clang, as he passed into the street.
Catherine echoed the sound with a half sigh. The morning's conversation
rose to her recollection, and she had hoped, she scarce knew why, that
Willis would remain with her that evening. But she checked the regretful
reverie, and took up the pretty little sock she was knitting for Gertrude,
and soon became engrossed in counting and all the after mysteries of this
truly feminine employment.

Willis was ill at ease. He met young Morgan on the steps, and returned his
bow very coldly. His usual companions were absent, and, after haunting the
saloon restlessly for an hour, he strolled down to his counting-house. He
knew that the foreign correspondence had just arrived, and, as he expected,
his confidential clerk was still at the desk. And here he found, much to
his dismay, that the presence of one of the firm was immediately necessary
in Paris, and that, as the partner who usually attended to this branch of
the business was ill, the journey would devolve on him. He was detained
until a late hour, and as he turned his steps homeward the scene that he
had left there rose vividly to his mind. He hurried up the steps, hoping to
find Catherine still there, but the room was empty, and the fire, glowing
redly through the bars of the grate, was the only thing to welcome him. He
stood a long time, leaning his elbow on the marble of the mantel, and
thought over many things that had happened within the last few years--the
many happy social evenings he had passed at that very hearth; the unvarying
love and constancy of his wife; of his late neglect, for he could call it
by no gentler name; and then came the thought that he must leave all this
domestic peace, which he had valued so little--and who knew what might
chance before he should return? He kissed his sleeping wife and child with
unwonted tenderness, as he entered their apartment, and thought that they
had never been so dear to him before.

It would be their first protracted separation, and Catherine was sad enough
when its necessity was announced to her. But all preparations were
hastened; and, at the close of the week, they were standing together in the
dining-room, the last trunk locked, and the carriage waiting at the door
that was to convey Willis to the steamer.

"And mind you do not get ill in my absence, Kate," he said, as he smoothed
back her beautiful hair, and looked down fondly in her face. "If you are
very good, as they tell children, I will send you the most charming present
you can conceive of, or that Paris can offer, for the anniversary of our
wedding-day. Too bad that we shall be separated, for the first time; but
three months will soon pass away."

And Catherine smiled through the tears that were trembling in her eyes, at
the half sad, half playful words; and a wifelike glance of trustfulness
told how very dear he was.

There is nothing very romantic nowadays in a voyage to Europe. It has
become a commonplace, everyday journey. You step to the deck of the steamer
with less fear and trembling of friends than was once bestowed on a passage
down the Hudson, and before you are fairly recovered from the first shock
of sea-sickness, you have reached the destined port. But, for all that,
longing eyes watch the rapid motion of the vessel as it lessens in the
distance, and many a prayer is wafted to its white sails by the sighing
night-wind. There are lonely hours to remind one that the broad and silent
sea is rolling between us and those we love, and we know that it is
sometimes treacherous in its tranquillity.

It is then we bless the quiet messengers that come from afar to tell us of
their well-being--when, the seal, with its loving device, is pressed to
trembling lips, and the well-known hand recalls the form of the absent one
so vividly. So, at last, the long-looked-for letters came with tidings of
the safe arrival of Mr. Grant at his destination, and the hope that his
return would be more speedy than had been anticipated. A month passed
slowly away, and little Gertrude had been her mother's best comforter in
absence. Every day some new intelligence lighted her bright eyes, and
Catherine could trace another token of resemblance to the absent one. But,
suddenly, the child grew ill, and the pain of separation was augmented as
day by day the mother watched over her alone.

It was her first experience of the illness of childhood, and it required
all her strength and all her calmness to be patient, while sitting hour
after hour with the moaning infant cradled in her arms, unable to
understand or relieve its sufferings, and tortured by the dull look of
apathy which alone answered to her fond or despairing exclamations. She had
forgotten that the birthday of the infant was so near--that first
birthday--and the anniversary which they had twice welcomed so joyfully. At
last the crisis came; the long night closed in drearily, and the physician
told her that, ere morning, there would be hope or despair. Those who have
thus watched can alone understand the agony of that midnight vigil; how
every breath was counted, and every flush marked with wild anxiety. And
Catherine sat there, forgetting that food or rest was necessary to her,
conscious only of the suffering of her child, and picturing darkly to
herself the loneliness of the future, should it be taken from her. How
could she survive the interval that would elapse before her husband's
return? and how dreary would be the meeting which she had hitherto
anticipated with so much pleasure!

She was not to be so sorely tried. The hard feverish pulse gave place to a
gentler beating; the fever flush passed away; and the regular heaving of a
quiet sleep gave token at length that all danger to the child was over.

Then, for the first time, Catherine was persuaded to seek rest for herself,
and all her anxiety was forgotten in a deep and trance-like slumber.

When she awoke there were letters and packages lying beside her bed,
directed by her husband; and after she had once more assured herself that
it was no dream the child was really safe, she opened them eagerly. The
letter announced that the business was happily adjusted, and that his
return might be looked for by the next steamer. Meantime, he said, he had
sent some things to amuse her, and more particularly the choice gift for
the anniversary of their marriage. It was the morning of that very day! She
had not thought of it before. She stooped to place a birthday kiss upon the
fair but wasted little face beside her, and then tore open the envelops.
There were many beautiful things, "such as ladies love to look upon," and
at the last she came to a small package marked, "_For our wedding day_." It
contained a little jewel case; but there was nothing on the snowy satin
cushion but a pair of daintily wrought clasps for the robe of the little
child, marked, "with a father's love;" and then, as she was replacing them,
a sealed envelop caught her eye. There was an inclosure directed to a name
she was not familiar with, and a few lines penciled for herself:--

"DEAR KATE: I have searched all over Paris, and could not find anything
that I thought would please you better than the inclosed, which is my
resignation of club membership. Will you please send it to the president,
and accept the true and earnest love of YOUR ABSENT HUSBAND."

Then he had not been unmindful of her silent regret; he still loved his
home, and the dangerous hour of his temptation was passed! Had she not
great reason for the gush of love and thankfulness that filled her heart
and renewed her strength that happy morning--her child saved, and her
husband, as it were, restored to her? Ere he came, the little one was fast
regaining her bright playfulness, and became a stronger tie between Willis
Grant and his happy home. I do not know that you and I, dear reader, would
have learned the secret of his renewed devotion to his wife, had he not
told Nelly Lyons himself that "Kate's way was the best, and she had better
try it with Morgan, if ever he showed an undue fondness for the club after
their marriage." Of course, the volatile girl could not help telling the
story, and when two know a thing, as we are all aware, it is a secret no
longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PARABLE.

BY JAMES CARRUTHERS.

"It is a marvel," remarked the youth Silas to his companion, "that, after
so many years of unremitting application, favored by the combination of
extraordinary advantages, I should yet have accomplished nothing. Scholarly
toil, indeed, is not without its meet reward. But in much wisdom is much
grief, when it serves not to advance the well-being of its possessor."

"I have remarked, as thou hast," returned the companion of Silas, "how
sorely thou hast been distanced in thy life's pursuit by those who came
after with far less ability and fewer advantages; and, if thou wilt believe
me, have read the marvel. Last noon, while in attendance on the Syrian
race, I observed that the untamed, high-mettled steed, that, in his daring
strength and almost limitless swiftness, scorned his rider's curb, though
traveling a space far more extended than the appointed course, and,
surmounting every hill, left the race to be won by the well-governed
courser that obeyed the rein, and, in the track marked out for his
progress, reached the goal."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

ERAS OF LIFE.

BY MRS. A.F. LAW

(_See Plate._)

BAPTISM

"We receive this child into the congregation of Christ's flock, and do sign
her with the sign of the cross--in token that hereafter she shall not be
ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully fight under
his banner against sin, the world, and the devil; and to continue Christ's
faithful soldier and servant, unto her life's end."--BAPTISMAL SERVICE OF
P.E.C.

  In the house of prayer we enter, through its aisles our course we wend,
  And before the sacred altar on our knees we humbly bend;
  Craving, for a young immortal, God's beneficence and grace,
  That, through Christ's unfailing succor, she may win the victor race.
  Water from _baptismal fountain_ rests on a "young soldier," sworn
  By the cross' holy signet to defend the "Virgin-born."
  May she never faint or falter in the raging war of sin,
  And, encased in Faith's tried armor, a triumphant conquest win!
  To the Triune One our darling trustingly we now commend,
  And for full and _free_ salvation, from our hearts pure thanks ascend.

       *       *       *       *

COMMUNION.

      "Hail! sacred feast, which Jesus makes--
        Rich banquet of his flesh and blood:
      Thrice happy he who here partakes
        That sacred stream, that heavenly food."

  With a bearing meekly grateful, slow approach the _sacred feast_,
  And, with penitential gladness, take, by faith, this Eucharist.
  Hark! how sweetly, o'er it stealing, come the sounds of pardoning love!
  Winning back to paths of virtue all who now in error rove.
  Here is food for all who languish, and for those who, fainting, thirst--
  Free, from Christ, the _Living Fountain_, crystal waters ceaseless burst!
  Come, ye sad and weary-hearted, bending 'neath a weight of woe--
  Here the _Comforter_ is waiting his rich blessings to bestow!
  None need linger--_all_ are bidden to this "Supper of the Lamb:"
  Come, and by this outward token, worship God, the great "I AM!"

       *       *       *       *

MARRIAGE

              "One sacred oath hath tied
      Our loves; one destiny our life shall guide;
      Nor wild nor deep our common way divide!"

  Choral voices float around us, music on the night air swells;
  Hill and dell resound with echoes of the gleeful wedding bells!
  Ushered thus, we haste to enter on a scene of radiant joy--
  List'ning vows in ardor plighted, which alone can death destroy.
  Passing fair the bride appeareth, in her robes of snowy white,
  While the veil around her streameth, like a silvery halo's light;
  And amid her hair's rich braidings rests the pearly orange bough,
  With its fragrant blossoms pressing on her pure, unclouded brow.
  Love's devotion yields the future with young Hope's resplendent beam;
  And her spirit thrills with rapture, yielding to its blissful dream!

       *       *       *       *

DEATH.

          "Death, thou art infinite!"
                  "All that live must die,
          Passing through nature to Eternity."

  Now we chant a miserere which proclaims the _end of man_--
  Telling, in prophetic language, "_Life,"_ at best, "_is but a span!"_
  Scarcely treading, slowly enter, reverently bend the knee--
  List the Spirit's inward whisper, and from _worldly thoughts_ be free.
  Here we view a weary pilgrim, cradled in a dreamless sleep;
  Human sounds no more shall reach her, for its spell is "long and deep!"
  Gaze upon the marble features! Mark how peacefully they rest!
  Anguished thought, and sorrow's heavings, all are parted from that
      breast!
  Soon on mother earth reposing, this cold form shall calmly lie,
  Till, by God's dread trump awakened, it shall mount to realms on high.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOUR SONNETS TO THE FOUR SEASONS.

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.

(_See Plate._)

SPRING.

  From mountain top, and from the deep-voiced valley,
    The snow-white mists are slowly upward wreathing:
  Now floating wide, now hovering close, to dally
    With sportive winds, around them lightly breathing,
  Till, in the quickening Spring-shine through them creeping,
    Their gloomy power dissolves in warmth and gladness;
  While swift, new tides through Nature's heart-pulse sweeping.
    Floods all her veins with a delicious madness.
  Warmed into life, a world of bright shapes thronging--
    Young, tender leaf-buds in fresh greenness swelling,
  Flower, bird, and insect, with prophetic longing,
    Pour forth their joy in tremulous hymns upwelling:
  Thus, Love's Spring sun dispels all chill and sorrow
  With joyful promise of Love's fullest morrow.

       *       *       *       *

SUMMER.

  Sweet incense from the heart of myriad flowers,
    Sweet as the breath that parts the lips of love,
  Floats softly upward through the sunny hours,
    Hiving its fragrance in the warmth above:
  Big with rich store, the teeming earth yields up
    The increase of her harvest treasury;
  While golden wine, from Nature's brimming cup,
    Quickens her pulse to love-toned melody.
  Full choiréd praise from countless glad throats break,
    More dazzling bright doth gleam night's dewy eyes;
  A newer witchery doth the great moon wake;
    More mellow languisheth the bending skies:
  Thus, through the heart Life's Summer-sun comes stealing,
  Spring's wildest promise in Love's fulness sealing.

       *       *       *       *

AUTUMN.

  Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully,
    Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast,
  With wailing voice of saddest augury,
    Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest.
  With icy finger on each yellow leaf
    Writes he the history of the dying year.
  Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf--
    Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer--
  Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread:
    While still, with semblance of the Summer brave,
  Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed;
    Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave:
  As in Earth's Autumn--so, through weeping showers,
  Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours.

       *       *       *       *

WINTER.

  Locked in a close embrace, like that of Death,
    Earth's pulseless heart reposes, mute and chill;
  Within her frozen breast, her frozen breath,
    In its forgotten fragrance, slumbereth still:
  Sapless her veins, and numb her withered arms,
    That still, outstretched, stand grim mementos drear
  Of her once gorgeous and full-leavéd charms.
    Of flower and fruit, all increase of the year:
  Voiceless the river, in ice fretwork chained;
    Hushed the sweet cadences of bird and bee;
  Dumb the last echo to soft music trained,
    And warmth and life are a past memory:
  Thus, buried deep within dull Winter's rime,
  Love dreamless sleeps through the long Winter-time.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIFE IN THE WOODS.--A SONG.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

  A merry life does the hunter lead!
    He wakes with the dawn of day;
  He whistles his dog--he mounts his steed,
    And sends to the woods away!
  The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark,
    As they troop in herds along;
  And his rifle startles the cheerful lark,
    As she carols his morning song.

  The hunter's life is the life for me!
    That is the life for a man!
  Let others sing of a home on the sea,
    But match me the woods if you can.
  Then give me a gun--I've an eye to mark
    The deer, as they bound along!
  My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark,
    To carol my morning song.

[Illustration: THE SYLPHS OF THE SEASONS]

       *       *       *       *       *

WHAT IS LIFE?

BY MARY M. CHASE.

One sunshiny afternoon, a little girl sat in a wood playing with moss and
stones. She was a pretty child; but there was a wishful, earnest look in
her eye, at times, that made people say, "She is a good little girl; but
she won't live long." But she did not think of that to-day, for a fine
western wind was shaking the branches merrily above her head, and a family
of young rabbits that lived near by kept peeping out to watch her motions.
She threw bread to the rabbits from the pockets of her apron, and laughed
to see them eat. She laughed, also, to hear the wild, boisterous wind
shouting among the leaves, and then she sang parts of a song that she had
imperfectly learned--

  "Hurrah for the oak! for the brave old oak,
    That hath ruled in the greenwood long!"

and the louder the wind roared, the louder she sang. Presently, a
light-winged seed swept by her; she reached out her pretty hand and caught
it. It was an ugly brown seed; but she said, as she looked at it--

"Mother says, if I plant a seed, may be it will grow to be a tree. So I
will see."

Then she scraped away a little of the mellow earth, and put the seed safely
down, and covered it again. She made a little paling around the spot With
dry sticks and twigs, and then a thoughtful mood came over her.

That brown seed is dead now, thought she; but it will lie there in the dark
a great while, and then green leaves will come up, and a stem will grow;
and some day it will be a great tree. Then it will live. But, if it is dead
now, how can it ever live? What a strange thing life is! What makes life?
It can't be the sunshine; for that has fallen on these stones ever so many
years, and they are dead yet: and it can't be the rain; for these broken
sticks are wet very often, and they don't grow. What is life?

The child grew very solemn at her own thoughts, and a feeling as if some
one were near troubled her. She thought the wind must be alive; for it
moved, and very swiftly, too, and it had a great many voices. If she only
could know now what they said, perhaps they would tell what life was. And
then she looked up at the aged oaks, as they reared their arms to the sky,
and she longed to ask them the question, but dared not. A small spring
leaped down from a a rock above her, and fled past with ceaseless murmurs,
and she felt sure that it lived, too, for it moved and had a voice. And a
strong feeling stirred the young soul, a sudden desire to know all things,
to hold communion with all things.

Now the day was gone, and the child turned homewards; but she seemed to
hear in sleep that night the whispered question, "What is life?" She was
yet to know.

The seed had been blown away from a pine tree, and it took root downward
and shot green spears upward, until, when a few summers had passed, it had
grown so famously that a sparrow built her nest there, among the foliage,
and never had her roof been so water-proof before. There, one day, came a
tall, fair girl, with quick step and beaming eyes, and sat down at its
root. One hand caressed lovingly the young pine, and one clasped a folded
paper. How she had grown since she put that brown seed into the earth! She
opened the paper and read; a bright color came to her cheeks, and her hand
trembled--

"He loves me!" said she. "I cannot doubt it."

Then she read aloud--

"When you are mine, I shall carry you away from those old woods where you
spend so much precious time dreaming vaguely of the future. I will teach
you what life is. That its golden hours should not be wasted in idle
visions, but made glorious by the exhaustless wealth of love. True life
consists in loving and being loved."

She closed the letter and gazed around her. Was this the teaching she had
received from those firm old oaks who had so long stood before the storms?
She had learned to know some of their voices, and now they seemed to speak
louder than ever, and their word was--"Endurance!"

The never-silent wind, that paused not, nor went back in its course, had
taught her a lesson, also, in its onward flight, its ceaseless exertion to
reach some far distant goal. And the lesson was--"Hope."

The ever-flowing spring, whose heart was never dried up either in summer or
winter, had murmured to her of--"Faith."

She laid her head at the foot of the beloved pine and said, in her heart,
"I will come back again when ten years are passed, and will here consider
whose teachings were right."

It was a cold November day. A rude north wind raved among the leafless oaks
that defied its power with their rugged, unclad arms. The heavy masses of
clouds were mirrored darkly in the spring, and the pine, grown to lofty
stature, rocked swiftly to and fro as the fierce wind struck it. Down the
hill, over the stones, and through the tempest, there came a slight and
bending form. It was the happy child who had planted the pine seed.

She threw herself on the dry leaves by the water's edge, and leaned wearily
against the strong young evergreen. How sadly her eyes roved among the
trees, and then tears commenced to fall quickly from them. She was very
pale and mournful, and drew her rich mantle closely around her to shield
her from the wind. It had been as her lover had said. She had gone out into
the world, had tasted what men call pleasure, had put aside the simple
lessons she had learned in her childhood, to follow _his_ bidding, to live
in the light of _his_ love. Ten years had dissolved the dream. The young
husband was in his grave; the child she had called after him was no more.
Weary and heart-broken, she had hurried back to the home she had left, and
the haunts she had cherished.

She embraced the young pine, tenderly, and exclaimed--

"Oh, that thy lot was mine! Thou wilt stand here, in a green youth, a
century after I am laid low. No fears perplex thee, no sorrows eat away thy
strength. Willingly would I become like thee."

At last she grew calm; and the old question which she had never found
answered to her satisfaction--"What is life?"--sprang up into her mind. All
the deeds of past days moved before her, and she felt that hers had not
been a life worthy of an immortal soul. She heard again the voices of the
trees, the wind, and the stream, and a measure of peace seemed granted to
her. "Endurance--Hope--Faith," she murmured. She rose to go.

"Farewell, beloved pine," she said. "God knows whether I shall see thee
again; but such is my desire. With his help, I will begin a new existence.
Farewell, monitors who have comforted me. I go to learn 'what is life.'"

In a distant city, there dwelt, to extreme old age, a pious woman, a Lydia
in her holiness, a Dorcas in her benevolence. Years seemed to have no power
over her cheerful spirit, though her bodily strength grew less. Great
riches had fallen to her lot; but in her dwelling luxury found no home. A
hospital--a charity school--an orphan asylum--all attested her true
appreciation of the value of riches. In her house, many a young girl found
a home, whose head had else rested on a pillow of infamy. The reclaimed
drunkard dispensed her daily bounty to the needy. The penitent thief was
her treasurer. Prisons knew the sound of her footstep. Alms-houses blessed
her coming. She had been a faithful steward of the Lord's gifts.

Eighty-and-eight years had dropped upon her head as lightly as withered
leaves; but now the Father was ready to release his servant and child. Her
numerous household was gathered around her bed to behold her last hour. On
the borders of eternity, a gentle sleep fell upon her. She seemed to stand
in a lofty wood, beside a towering pine. A spring bubbled near, and soft
breezes swept the verdant boughs. She looked upon the tree, glorious in its
strength, and smiled to think she could ever have desired to change her
crown of immortality for its senseless existence. Then the old
question--"What is life?"--resounded again in her ears, and she opened her
eyes from sleep and spoke, in a clear voice, these last words--

"He that believeth in the Son hath everlasting life. This is the true life
for which we endure the trials of the present. For this we labor and do
good works. A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he
possesseth; for to be spiritually-minded is life. I have finished my
course; my toil will be recompensed an hundredfold; and I go to Him whose
loving kindness is better than life."

       *       *       *       *       *

A POETICAL VERSION.

OF A PORTION OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF JOEL.

BY LADD SPENCER.

  In Zion blow the trumpet,
    Let it sound through every land;
  And let the wicked tremble,
    For the Lord is nigh at hand.
  Alas! a day of darkness--
    A day of clouds and gloom--
  Approaches fast, when all shall be
    As silent as the tomb!

  As the morn upon the mountains,
    There comes a mighty train,
  The like of which hath never been.
    And ne'er shall be again.
  A burning fire before them,
    And behind a raging flame--
  Alas, that beauty so should be
    Enwrapt in sin and shame!

  The earth doth quake before them,
    The sun withdraws its light;
  The heavens and earth are shrouded
    In darkest, deepest night.
  Then weep, ye evil doers,
    Let tears of anguish flow;
  Your evil deeds have brought you
    A load of endless woe!

       *       *       *       *       *

TAKING BOARDERS.

BY T.S. ARTHUR.

CHAPTER I.

A lady, past the prime of life, sat, thoughtful, as twilight fell duskily
around her, in a room furnished with great elegance. That her thoughts were
far from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expression of her countenance
too clearly testified. She was dressed in deep mourning. A faint sigh
parted her lips as she looked up, on hearing the door of the apartment in
which she was sitting open. The person who entered, a tall and beautiful
girl, also in mourning, came and sat down by her side, and leaned her head,
with a pensive, troubled air, down upon her shoulder.

"We must decide upon something, Edith, and that with as little delay as
possible," said the elder of the two ladies, soon after the younger one
entered. This was said in a tone of great despondency.

"Upon what shall we decide, mother?" and the young lady raised her head
from its reclining position, and looked earnestly into the eyes of her
parent.

"We must decide to do something by which the family can be sustained. Your
father's death has left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as you already
know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond the furniture of this house,
instead of an independence which we supposed him to possess. His death was
sad and afflictive enough--more than it seemed I could bear. But to have
this added!"

The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, and was lost in a stifled
sob.

"But what _can_ we do, mother?" asked Edith, in an earnest tone, after
pausing long enough for her mother to regain the control of her feelings.

"I have thought of but one thing that is at all respectable," replied the
mother.

"What is that?"

"Taking boarders."

"Why, mother!" ejaculated Edith, evincing great surprise, "how can you
think of such a thing?"

"Because driven to do so by the force of circumstances."

"Taking boarders! Keeping a boarding-house! Surely we have not come to
this!"

An expression of distress blended with the look of astonishment in Edith's
face.

"There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a boarding-house," returned the
mother. "A great many very respectable ladies have been compelled to resort
to it as a means of supporting their families."

"But, to think of it, mother! To think of _your_ keeping a boarding-house!
I cannot bear it."

"Is there anything else that can be done, Edith?"

"Don't ask _me_ such a question."

"If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try and think with me, my
child. Something will have to be done to create an income. In less than
twelve months, every dollar I have will be expended; and then what are we
to do? Now, Edith, is the time for us to look at the matter earnestly, and
to determine the course we will take. There is no use to look away from it.
A good house in a central situation, large enough for the purpose, can no
doubt be obtained; and I think there will be no difficulty about our
getting boarders enough to fill it. The income, or profit, from these will
enable us still to live comfortably, and keep Edward and Ellen at school."

"It is hard," was the only remark Edith made to this.

"It is hard, my daughter; very hard! I have thought and thought about it
until my whole mind has been thrown into confusion. But it will not do to
think forever. There must be action. Can I see want stealing in upon my
children, and sit and fold my hands supinely? No! And to you, Edith, my
oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand up, bravely, by my
side."

"And you are in earnest in all this?" said Edith, whose mind seemed hardly
able to realize the truth of their position. From her earliest days, all
the blessings that money could procure had been freely scattered around her
feet. As she grew up, and advanced towards womanhood, she had moved in the
most fashionable circles, and there acquired the habit of estimating people
according to their wealth and social standing, rather than by qualities of
mind. In her view, it appeared degrading in a woman to enter upon any kind
of employment for money; and with the keeper of a boarding-house,
particularly, she had always associated something low, vulgar, and
ungenteel. At the thought of her mother's engaging in such an occupation,
when the suggestion was made, her mind instantly revolted. It appeared to
her as if disgrace would be the inevitable consequence.

"And you are in earnest in all this?" was an expression, mingling her clear
conviction of the truth of what at first appeared so strange a proposition,
and her astonishment that the necessities of their situation were such as
to drive them to so humiliating a resource.

"Deeply in earnest," was the mother's reply. "We are left alone in the
world. He who cared for us, and provided for us so liberally, has been
taken away, and we have nowhere to look for aid but to the resources that
are in ourselves. These, well applied, will give us, I feel strongly
assured, all that we need. The thing to decide is, what we ought to do. If
we choose aright, all will, doubtless, come out right. To choose aright is,
therefore, of the first importance; and to do this, we must not suffer
distorting suggestions nor the appeals of a false pride to influence our
minds in the least. You are my oldest child, Edith; and, as such, I cannot
but look upon you as, to some extent, jointly, with me, the guardian of
your younger brothers and sisters. True, Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly
so; but still you are the eldest--your mind is most matured, and in your
judgment I have the most confidence. Try and forget, Edith, all but the
fact that, unless we make an exertion, one home for all cannot be retained.
Are you willing that we should be scattered like leaves in the autumn wind?
No! you would consider that one of the greatest calamities that could
befall us--an evil to prevent which we should use every effort in our
power. Do you not see this clearly?"

"I do, mother," was replied by Edith in a more rational tone of voice than
that in which she had yet spoken.

"To open a store of any kind would involve five times the exposure of a
boarding-house; and, moreover, I know nothing of business."

"Keeping a store? Oh, no! we couldn't do that. Think of the dreadful
exposure!"

"But in taking boarders we only increase our family, and all goes on as
usual. To my mind, it is the most genteel thing that we can do. Our style
of living will be the same. Our waiter and all our servants will be
retained. In fact, to the eye there will be little change, and the world
need never know how greatly reduced our circumstances have become."

This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith to taking boarders.
Something, she saw, had to be done. Opening a store was felt to be out of
the question; and as to commencing a school, the thought was repulsed at
the very first suggestion.

A few friends were consulted on the subject, and all agreed that the best
thing for the widow to do was to take boarders. Each one could point to
some lady who had commenced the business with far less ability to make
boarders comfortable, and who had yet got along very well. It was conceded
on all hands that it was a very genteel business, and that some of the
first ladies had been compelled to resort to it, without being any the less
respected. Almost every one to whom the matter was referred spoke in favor
of the thing, and but a single individual suggested difficulty; but what he
said was not permitted to have much weight. This individual was a brother
of the widow, who had always been looked upon as rather eccentric. He was a
bachelor, and without fortune, merely enjoying a moderate income as
book-keeper in the office of an insurance company.

But more of him hereafter.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Darlington, the widow we have just introduced to the reader, had five
children. Edith, the oldest daughter, was twenty-two years of age at the
time of her father's death; and Henry, the oldest son, just twenty. Next to
Henry was Miriam, eighteen years old. The ages of the two youngest
children, Ellen and Edward, were ten and eight.

Mr. Darlington, while living, was a lawyer of distinguished ability, and
his talents and reputation at the Philadelphia bar enabled him to
accumulate a handsome fortune. Upon this he had lived for some years in a
style of great elegance. About a year before his death, he had been induced
to enter into some speculation that promised great results. But he found,
when too late to retreat, that he had been greatly deceived. Heavy losses
soon followed. In a struggle to recover himself, he became still further
involved; and, ere the expiration of a twelve-month, saw everything falling
from under him. The trouble brought on by this was the real cause of his
death, which was sudden, and resulted from inflammation and congestion of
the brain.

Henry Darlington, the oldest son, was a young man of promising talents. He
remained at college until a few months before his father's death, when he
returned home, and commenced the study of law, in which he felt ambitious
to distinguish himself.

Edith, the oldest daughter, possessed a fine mind, which had been well
educated. She had some false views of life, natural to her position; but,
apart from this, was a girl of sound sense and great force of character.
Thus far in life, she had not encountered circumstances of a nature
calculated to develop what was in her. The time for that, however, was
approaching. Miriam, her sifter, was a quiet, gentle, retiring, almost
timid girl. She went into company with reluctance, and then always shrunk
as far from observation as it was possible to get. But, like most quiet,
retiring persons, there were deep places in her mind and heart. She thought
and felt more than was supposed. All who knew Miriam, loved her. Of the
younger children we need not here speak.

Mrs. Darlington knew comparatively nothing of the world beyond her own
social circle. She was, perhaps, as little calculated for doing what she
proposed to do as a woman could well be. She had no habits of economy, and
had never, in her life, been called upon to make calculations of expense in
household matters. There was a tendency to generosity rather than
selfishness in her character; and she rarely thought evil of any one. But
all that she was need not here be set forth, for it will appear as our
narrative progresses.

Mr. Hiram Ellis, the brother of Mrs. Darlington, to whom brief allusion has
been made, was not a great favorite in the family--although Mr. Darlington
understood his good qualities, and very highly respected him--because he
had not much that was prepossessing in his external appearance, and was
thought to be a little eccentric. Moreover, he was not rich--merely holding
the place of book-keeper in an insurance office, at a moderate salary. But,
as he had never married, and had only himself to support, his income
supplied amply all his wants, and left him a small annual surplus.

After the death of Mr. Darlington, he visited his sister much more
frequently than before. Of the exact condition of her affairs, he was much
better acquainted than she supposed. The anxiety which she felt, some
months after her husband's death, when the result of the settlement of his
estate became known, led her to be rather more communicative. After
determining to open a boarding-house, she said to him, on the occasion of
his visiting her one evening--

"As it is necessary for me to do something, Hiram, I have concluded to move
to a better location, and take a few boarders."

"Don't do any such thing, Margaret," her brother made answer. "Taking
boarders! It's the last thing of which a woman should think."

"Why do you say that, Hiram?" asked Mrs. Darlington, evincing no little
surprise at this unexpected reply.

"Because I think that a woman who has a living to make can hardly try a
more doubtful experiment. Not one in ten ever succeeds in doing anything."

"But why, Hiram? Why? I'm sure a great many ladies get a living in that
way."

"What you will never do, Margaret, mark my words for it. It takes a woman
of shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the world, and one thoroughly
versed in household economy, to get along in this pursuit. Even if you
possessed all these prerequisites to success, you have just the family that
ought not to come in contact with anybody and everybody that find their way
into boarding-houses."

"I must do something, Hiram," said Mrs. Darlington, evincing impatience at
the opposition of her brother.

"I perfectly agree with you in that, Margaret," replied Mr. Ellis. "The
only doubt is as to your choice of occupation. You think that your best
plan will be to take boarders; while I think you could not fail upon a
worse expedient."

[Illustration]

"Why do you think so?"

"Have I not just said?"

"What?"

"Why, that, in the first place, it takes a woman of great shrewdness,
caution, and knowledge of the world, and one thoroughly versed in household
economy, to succeed in the business."

"I'm not a fool, Hiram!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, losing her
self-command.

"Perhaps you may alter your opinion on that head some time within the next
twelve months," coolly returned Mr. Ellis, rising and beginning to button
up his coat.

"Such language to me, at this time, is cruel!" said Mrs. Darlington,
putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

"No," calmly replied her brother, "not cruel, but kind. I wish to save you
from trouble."

"What else can I do?" asked the widow, removing the handkerchief from her
face.

"Many things, I was going to say," returned Mr. Ellis. "But, in truth, the
choice of employment is not very great. Still, something with a fairer
promise than taking boarders may be found."

"If you can point me to some better way, brother," said Mrs. Darlington, "I
shall feel greatly indebted to you."

"Almost anything is better. Suppose you and Edith were to open a school.
Both of you are well--"

"Open a school!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, interrupting her brother, and
exhibiting most profound astonishment. "_I_ open a school! I didn't think
_you_ would take advantage of my grief and misfortune to offer me an
insult."

Mr. Ellis buttoned the top button of his coat nervously, as his sister said
this, and, partly turning himself towards the door, said--

"Teaching school is a far more useful, and, if you will, more respectable
employment, than keeping a boarding-house. This you ought to see at a
glance. As a teacher, you would be a minister of truth to the mind, and
have it in your power to bend from evil and lead to good the young
immortals committed to your care; while, as a boarding-house keeper, you
would merely furnish food for the natural body--a use below what you are
capable of rendering to society."

But Mrs. Darlington was in no state of mind to feel the force of such an
argument. From the thought of a school she shrunk as from something
degrading, and turned from it with displeasure.

"Don't mention such a thing to me," said she fretfully, "I will not listen
to the proposition."

"Oh, well, Margaret, as you please," replied her brother, now moving
towards the door. "When you ask my advice, I will give it according to my
best judgment, and with a sincere desire for your good. If, however, it
conflicts with your views, reject it; but, in simple justice to me, do so
in a better spirit than you manifest on the present occasion. Good
evening!"

Mrs. Darlington was too much disturbed in mind to make a reply, and Mr.
Hiram Ellis left the room without any attempt on the part of his sister to
detain him. On both sides, there had been the indulgence of rather more
impatience and intolerance than was commendable.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER III.

In due time, Mrs. Darlington removed to a house in Arch Street, the annual
rent of which was six hundred dollars, and there began her experiment. The
expense of a removal, and the cost of the additional chamber furniture
required, exhausted about two hundred dollars of the widow's slender stock
of money, and caused her to feel a little troubled when she noted the
diminution.

She began her new business with two boarders, a gentleman and his wife by
the name of Grimes, who had entered her house on the recommendation of a
friend. They were to pay her the sum of eight dollars a week. A young man
named Barling, clerk in a wholesale Market Street house, came next; and he
introduced, soon after, a friend of his, a clerk in the same store, named
Mason. They were room-mates, and paid three dollars and a half each. Three
or four weeks elapsed before any further additions were made; then an
advertisement brought several applications. One was from a gentleman who
wanted two rooms for himself and wife, a nurse and four children. He wanted
the second story front and back chambers, furnished, and was not willing to
pay over sixteen dollars, although his oldest child was twelve and his
youngest four years of age--seven good eaters and two of the best rooms in
the house for sixteen dollars!

Mrs. Darlington demurred. The man said--

"Very well, ma'am," in a tone of indifference. "I can find plenty of
accommodations quite as good as yours for the price I offer. It's all I pay
now."

Poor Mrs. Darlington sighed. She had but fifteen dollars yet in the
house--that is, boarders who paid this amount weekly--and the rent alone
amounted to twelve dollars. Sixteen dollars, she argued with herself, as
she sat with her eyes upon the floor, would make a great difference in her
income; would, in fact, meet all the expenses of the house. Two good rooms
would still remain, and all that she received for these would be so much
clear profit. Such was the hurried conclusion of Mrs. Darlington's mind.

"I suppose I will have to take you," said she, lifting her eyes to the
man's hard features. "But those rooms ought to bring me twenty-four
dollars."

"Sixteen is the utmost I will pay," replied the man. "In fact, I did think
of offering only fourteen dollars. But the rooms are fine, and I like them.
Sixteen is a liberal price. Your terms are considerably above the ordinary
range."

The widow sighed again.

If the man heard this sound, it did not touch a single chord of feeling.

"Then it is understood that I am to have your rooms at sixteen dollars?"
said he.

"Yes, sir. I will take you for that."

"Very well. My name is Scragg. We will be ready to come in on Monday next.
You can have all prepared for us?"

"Yes, sir."

Scarcely had Mr. Scragg departed, when a gentleman called to know if Mrs.
Darlington had a vacant front room in the second story.

"I had this morning; but it is taken," replied the widow.

"Ah! I'm sorry for that."

"Will not a third story front room suit you?"

"No. My wife is not in very good health, and wishes a second story room. We
pay twelve dollars a week, and would even give more, if necessary, to
obtain just the accommodations we like. The situation of your house pleases
me. I'm sorry that I happen to be too late."

"Will you look at the room?" said Mrs. Darlington, into whose mind came the
desire to break the bad bargain she had just made.

"If you please," returned the man.

And both went up to the large and beautifully furnished chambers.

"Just the thing!" said the man, as he looked around, much pleased with the
appearance of everything. "But I understood you to say that it was taken."

"Why, yes," replied Mrs. Darlington, "I did partly engage it this morning;
but, no doubt, I can arrange with the family to take the two rooms above,
which will suit them just as well."

"If you can"--

"There'll be no difficulty, I presume. You'll pay twelve dollars a week?"

"Yes."

"Only yourself and lady?"

"That's all."

"Very well, sir; you can have the room."

"It's a bargain, then. My name is Ring. Our week is up to-day where we are;
and, if it is agreeable, we will become your guests to-morrow."

"Perfectly agreeable, Mr. Ring."

The gentleman bowed politely and retired.

Now Mrs. Darlington did not feel very comfortable when she reflected on
what she had done. The rooms in the second story were positively engaged to
Mr. Scragg, and now one of them was as positively engaged to Mr. Ring. The
face of Mr. Scragg she remembered very well. It was a hard, sinister face,
just such a one as we rarely forget because of the disagreeable impression
it makes. As it came up distinctly before the eyes of her mind, she was
oppressed with a sense of coming trouble. Nor did she feel altogether
satisfied with what she had done--satisfied in her own conscience.

On the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ring came and took possession of the room
previously engaged to Mr. Scragg. They were pleasant people, and made a
good first impression.

As day after day glided past, Mrs. Darlington felt more and more uneasy
about Mr. Scragg, with whom, she had a decided presentiment, there would be
trouble. Had she known where to find him, she would have sent him a note,
saying that she had changed her mind about the rooms, and could not let him
have them. But she was ignorant of his address; and the only thing left for
her was to wait until he came on Monday, and then get over the difficulty
in the best way possible. She and Edith had talked over the matter
frequently, and had come to the determination to offer Mr. Scragg the two
chambers in the third story for fourteen dollars.

On Monday morning, Mrs. Darlington was nervous. This was the day on which
Mr. Scragg and family were to arrive, and she felt that there would be
trouble.

Mr. Ring, and the other gentlemen boarders, left soon after breakfast.
About ten o'clock, the door-bell rang. Mrs. Darlington was in her room at
the time changing her dress. Thinking that this might be the announcement
of Mr. Scragg's arrival, she hurried through her dressing in order to get
down to the parlor as quickly as possible to meet him and the difficulty
that was to be encountered; but before she was in a condition to be seen,
she heard a man's voice on the stairs saying--

"Walk up, my dear. The rooms on the second floor are ours."

Then came the noise of many feet in the passage, and the din of children's
voices. Mr. Scragg and his family had arrived.

Mrs. Ring was sitting with the morning paper in her hand, when her door was
flung widely open, and a strange man stepped boldly in, saying, as he did
so, to the lady who followed him--

"This is one of the chambers."

Mrs. Ring arose, bowed, and looked at the intruders with surprise and
embarrassment. Just then, four rude children bounded into the room,
spreading themselves around it, and making themselves perfectly at home.

"There is some mistake, I presume," said Mrs. Scragg, on perceiving a lady
in the room, whose manner said plainly enough that they were out of their
place.

"Oh no! no mistake at all," replied Scragg. "These are the two rooms I
engaged."

Just then Mrs. Darlington entered, in manifest excitement.

"Walk down into the parlor, if you please," said she.

"These are our rooms," said Scragg, showing no inclination to vacate the
premises.

"Be kind enough to walk down into the parlor," repeated Mrs. Darlington,
whose sense of propriety was outraged by the man's conduct, and who felt a
corresponding degree of indignation.

With some show of reluctance, this invitation was acceded to, and Mr.
Scragg went muttering down stairs, followed by his brood. The moment he
left the chamber, the door was shut and locked by Mrs. Ring, who was a good
deal frightened by so unexpected an intrusion.

"What am I to understand by this, madam?" said Mr. Scragg, fiercely, as
soon as they had all reached the parlor, planting his hands upon his hips
as he spoke, drawing himself up, and looking at Mrs. Darlington with a
lowering countenance.

"Take a seat, madam," said Mrs. Darlington, addressing the man's wife in a
tone of forced composure. She was struggling for self-possession.

The lady sat down.

"Will you be good enough to explain the meaning of all this, madam?"
repeated Mr. Scragg.

"The meaning is simply," replied Mrs. Darlington, "that I have let the
front room in the second story to a gentleman and his wife for twelve
dollars a-week."

"The deuce you have!" said Mr. Scragg, with a particular exhibition of
gentlemanly indignation. "And pray, madam, didn't you let both the rooms in
the second story to me for sixteen dollars?"

"I did; but"--

"Oh, very well. That's all I wish to know about it. The rooms were rented
to me, and from that day became mine. Please to inform the lady and her
husband that I am here with my family, and desire them to vacate the
chambers as quickly as possible. I'm a man that knows his rights, and,
knowing, always maintains them."

"You cannot have the rooms, sir. That is out of the question," said Mrs.
Darlington, looking both distressed and indignant.

"And I tell you that I will have them!" replied Scragg, angrily.

"Peter! Peter! Don't act so," now interposed Mrs. Scragg. "There's no use
in it."

"Ain't there, indeed! We'll see. Madam"--he addressed Mrs.
Darlington--"will you be kind enough to inform the lady and gentleman who
now occupy one of our rooms"--

"Mr. Scragg!" said Mrs. Darlington, in whose fainting heart his outrageous
conduct had awakened something of the right spirit--"Mr. Scragg, I wish you
to understand, once for all, that the front room is taken and now occupied,
and that you cannot have it."

"Madam!"

"It's no use for you to waste words, sir! What I say I mean. I have other
rooms in the house very nearly as good, and am willing to take you for
something less in consideration of this disappointment. If that will meet
your views, well; if not, let us have no more words on the subject."

There was a certain something in Mrs. Darlington's tone of voice that
Scragg understood to mean a fixed purpose. Moreover, his mind caught at the
idea of getting boarded for something less than sixteen dollars a-week.

"Where are the rooms?" he asked, gruffly.

"The third story chambers."

"Front?"

"Yes."

"I don't want to go to the third story."

"Very well. Then you can have the back chamber down stairs, and the front
chamber above."

"What will be your charge?"

"Fourteen dollars."

"That will do, Peter," said Mrs. Scragg. "Two dollars a week is
considerable abatement."

"It's something, of course. But I don't like this off and on kind of
business. When I make an agreement, I'm up to the mark, and expect the same
from everybody else. Will you let my wife see the rooms, madam?"

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Darlington, and moved towards the door. Mrs.
Scragg followed, and so did all the juvenile Scraggs--the latter springing
up the stairs with the agility of apes and the noise of a dozen rude
schoolboys just freed from the terror of rod and ferule.

The rooms suited Mrs. Scragg very well--at least such was her report to her
husband--and, after some further rudeness on the part of Mr. Scragg, and an
effort to beat Mrs. Darlington down to twelve dollars a-week, were taken,
and forthwith occupied.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Darlington was a woman of refinement herself, and had been used to the
society of refined persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked at the
coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an hour went by, in
despair at the unmannerly rudeness of the children, the oldest a stout,
vulgar-looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about the house from the
garret to the cellar. For a long time after her exciting interview with Mr.
Scragg, she sat weeping and trembling in her own room, with Edith by her
side, who sought earnestly to comfort and encourage her.

"Oh, Edith!" she sobbed, "to think that we should be humbled to this!"

"Necessity has forced us into our present unhappy position, mother,"
replied Edith. "Let us meet its difficulties with as brave hearts as
possible."

"I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man with even common
civility," said Mrs. Darlington.

"We have accepted him as our guest, mother, and it will be our duty to make
all as pleasant and comfortable as possible. We will have to bear much, I
see--much beyond what I had anticipated."

Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied--

"Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes me miserable!"

"No more of that sweet drawing together in our own dear home circle,"
remarked Edith, sadly. "Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence and
intrusion of strangers, with whom we have few or no sentiments in common.
We open our house and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and
feed them for a certain price! Does not the thought bring a feeling of
painful humiliation? What can pay for all this? Ah me! The anticipation had
in it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief experience. Except
Mr. and Mrs. Ring, there isn't a lady nor gentleman in the house. That
Mason is so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come near him. He's
making himself quite intimate with Henry already, and I don't like to see
it."

"Nor do I," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Henry's been out with him twice to
the theatre already."

"I'm afraid of his influence over Henry. He's not the kind of a companion
he ought to choose," said Edith. "And then Mr. Barling is with Miriam in
the parlor almost every evening. He asks her to sing, and she says she
doesn't like to refuse."

The mother sighed deeply. While they were conversing, a servant came to
their room to say that Mr. Ring was in the parlor, and wished to speak with
Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon of the day on which the
Scraggs had made their appearance.

With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington went down to the parlor.

"Madam," said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, speaking in a firm voice,
"I find that my wife has been grossly insulted by a fellow whose family you
have taken into your house. Now they must leave here, or we will, and that
forthwith."

"I regret extremely," replied Mrs. Darlington, "the unpleasant occurrence
to which you allude; but I do not see how it is possible for me to turn
these people out of the house."

"Very well, ma'am. Suit yourself about that. You can choose between us.
Both can't remain."

"If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another boarding-house, he would
insult me," said Mrs. Darlington.

"Strange that you would take such a fellow into your house!"

"My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill them."

"Better to have let them remain vacant. But this is neither here nor there.
If this fellow remains, we go."

And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darlington was afraid to approach Mr.
Scragg on the subject. Had she done so, she would have received nothing but
abuse.

Two weeks afterwards, the room vacated by Mr. and Mrs. Ring was taken by a
tall, fine-looking man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers and dressed
elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, and agreed to pay eight dollars.
Mrs. Darlington liked him very much. There was a certain style about him
that evidenced good breeding and a knowledge of the world. What his
business was he did not say. He was usually in the house as late as ten
o'clock in the morning, and rarely came in before twelve at night.

Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. Darlington's household, he
began to show particular attentions to Miriam, who was in her nineteenth
year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, shrinking girl. Though she
did not encourage, she would not reject the attentions of the polite and
elegant stranger, who had so much that was agreeable to say that she
insensibly acquired a kind of prepossession in his favor.

As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington was not so pleasant and
harmonious as could have been desired. Mr. Scragg had already succeeded in
making himself so disagreeable to the other boarders that they were
scarcely civil to him; and Mrs. Grimes, who was quite gracious with Mrs.
Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They had fallen out about some
trifle, quarreled, and then cut each other's acquaintance. When the
breakfast, dinner, or tea bell rang, and the boarders assembled at the
table, there was generally, at first, an embarrassing silence. Scragg
looked like a bull-dog waiting for an occasion to bark; Mrs. Scragg sat
with her lips closely compressed and her head partly turned away, so as to
keep her eyes out of the line of vision with Mrs. Grimes's face; while Mrs.
Grimes gave an occasional glance of contempt towards the lady with whom she
had had a "tiff." Barling and Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it,
were generally the first to break the reigning silence; and this was
usually done by addressing some remark to Scragg, for no other reason, it
seemed, than to hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded in drawing
him into an argument, when they would goad him until he became angry; a
species of irritation in which they never suffered themselves to indulge.
As for Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few words. When spoken to, he would
reply; but he never made conversation. The only man who really behaved like
a gentleman was Mr. Burton; and the contrast seen in him naturally
prepossessed the family in his favor.

The first three months' experience in taking boarders was enough to make
the heart of Mrs. Darlington sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From
early morning until late at night, she toiled harder than any servant in
the house; and, with all, had a mind pressed down with care and anxiety.
Three times during this period she had been obliged to change her cook,
yet, for all, scarcely a day passed that she did not set badly-cooked food
before her guests. Sometimes certain of the boarders complained, and it
generally happened that rudeness accompanied the complaint. The sense of
pain that attended this was always most acute, for it was accompanied by
deep humiliation and a feeling of helplessness. Moreover, during these
first three months, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes had left the house without paying
their board for five weeks, thus throwing her into a loss of forty dollars.

At the beginning of this experiment, after completing the furniture of her
house, Mrs. Darlington had about three hundred dollars. When the quarter's
bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred and fifty dollars left.
Thus, instead of making anything by boarders, so far, she had sunk a
hundred and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened her dreadfully. Then, the
effect upon almost every member of her family had been bad. Harry was no
longer the thoughtful, affectionate, innocent-minded young man of former
days. Mason and Barling had introduced him into gay company, and,
fascinated with a new and more exciting kind of life, he was fast forming
associations and acquiring habits of a dangerous character. It was rare
that he spent an evening at home; and, instead of being of any assistance
to his mother, was constantly making demands on her for money. The pain all
this occasioned Mrs. Darlington was of the most distressing character.
Since the children of Mr. and Mrs. Scragg came into the house, Edward and
Ellen, who had heretofore been under the constant care and instruction of
their mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associated constantly
with these children, and learned from them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some
things, even vicious. And Miriam had become apparently so much interested
in Mr. Burton, who was constantly attentive to her, that both Mrs.
Darlington and Edith became anxious on her account. Burton was an entire
stranger to them all, and there were many things about him that appeared
strange, if not wrong.

So much for the experiment of taking boarders, after the lapse of a single
quarter of a year.

(To be continued.)

       *       *       *       *       *

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN.

BY MRS. L.G. ABELL.

  Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear;
  So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near:
  Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still,
  And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill.

  Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above,
  With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love,
  Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues
      revealed--
  A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed.

  At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast,
  I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest--
  And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain;
  But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain.

  Oh, can it be that this is life!--a thing so frail as this!
  Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss--
  That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day,
  Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away?

  How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair--
  Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there;
  Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side--
  How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!

  How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been;
  Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain;
  Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear,
  Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.

  How long life looked to her; its far and distant day
  Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way;
  No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye,
  For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.

  But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here--
  And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere!
  That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay,
  Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.

  This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers;
  But yet how soon we all forget, and think them _rosy bowers_!
  We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot;
  But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!

  Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home;
  'Tis but the trial-place of life--a race that's swiftly run:--
  Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain,
  That fastens to our life above its _pleasure_ or its _pain_.

  Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here;
  He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear:
  If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting--
  Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

  JUDGE BOLTON.
  HENRY BOLTON, _son of the Judge_.
  DR. MARGRAVE, REV. PAUL GODFREY, _Classmates and friends of the Judge_.
  PROF. OLNEY, _Teacher of a Classical School_.
  FREDERICK BELCOUR, _son of Madame Belcour_.
  CAPT. PAWLETT, _friend of Fred. Belcour_.
  LANDON, _Counselor at Law_.
  SHERIFF.
  CLERK OF THE COURT.
  CRIER OF THE COURT.
  OFFICERS OF THE COURT.
  TWELVE JURYMEN.
  DENNIS O'BLARNEY, _servant of Dr. Margrave_.
  MICHAEL MAGEE, _servant of the Judge_.
  CITIZENS, MESSENGERS OF THE COURT, WATCHMEN, &c.
  MADAME BELCOUR, _a widow, cousin of the Judge, and presiding in his
      household_.
  BELINDA, _daughter of Madame Belcour_.
  LUCY, _daughter of the Judge_.
  MRS. OLNEY, _wife of Prof. Olney_.
  ISABELLE, _reputed daughter of Prof. Olney_.
  RUTH, _waiting-maid at Judge Bolton's_.

SCENE--partly in the city; partly at Rose Hill, near the city.

TIME OF ACTION, twenty-four hours, commencing at 10 o'clock, A.M., and
ending at the same hour on the following day.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A Doctor's study. Books and instruments scattered around. Table
in the centre, strewn with books and pamphlets._ DR. MARGRAVE _seated by
the table, cutting the leaves of a pamphlet_.

                  DR. MARGRAVE.
  Thus, ever on and on must be our course:
  Even as the ocean drinks a thousand streams,
  And never cries "enough!"--the human mind
  Would drain all sources of intelligence,
  Yet ne'er is filled, and never satisfied.
  And theory succeeds to theory
  As regular as tides that ebb and flow.
  This treatise will disprove the last I read.
  Shade of Hippocrates! what creeds are formed,
  What antics practiced with your "Healing Art!"
  I will not sport with fate, nor tamper thus
  With man's credulity and nature's strength.
  No: I will gently coincide with nature,
  And give her time and scope to work the cure--
  Strengthening the patient's heart with trust in God,
  And teaching him that genuine health depends
  On true obedience to the natural laws
  Ordained for man--not on the doctor's skill.

       _Enter_ DENNIS, _with a card to the Doctor_.

                  DENNIS.
  The gentleman awaits you in the hall.

        DR. MARGRAVE (_reading the card_).
  "Reverend Paul Godfrey"--my old college chum!
  Is't possible! (_To_ DENNIS.) Bring him up, instantly.
                                             [_Exit_ DENNIS.

  I have not seen him since our hands were clasped
  In Harvard Hall:--I wonder if he'll know me.
           (_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)
  Ah! welcome! welcome!--You are Godfrey still.
  The changes of--how many years have passed
  Since last we parted?

                      GODFREY.
                        Thirty years;--and you--

                      MARGRAVE.
  Are altered, you would say. I know it well.
  My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud,
  Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow.
  The image that my mirror gives me back
  I scarce believe my own--so pale and worn.
  Would you have known me had we met by chance?

                      GODFREY.
  Ay, ay--among a million--if you spoke.
  There's the old touch of kindness in your voice;
  And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out
  Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore.
  Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age
  May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.

                      MARGRAVE.
  Thank Heaven 'tis so!--But you are little changed,
  Save the maturing touch that manhood brings
  When health and strength have won the victory,
  And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!

                      GODFREY.
  My lot has been amid the wild, fresh scenes
  Of Nature's wide domain; where all is free.
  Life seems t' inhale the vigorous breath required
  To struggle with the elements around,
  And thus keeps Time at bay. Like good old Boone,
  The patriarch hunter, in the forest wilds
  I've found that God supplied, and healed, and blessed.
  Men live too fast in cities.

                      MARGRAVE.
                               Not if they
  Would give their energies a noble aim.
  The opportunities to compass good,
  And good effected--these are dates that give
  The sum of human life.

                      GODFREY.
                         True; most true.
  It is in cities where men congregate,
  And good and evil strive for mastery,
  The sternest strength of soul must needs be tested.
  But all that stirs the passions makes us old.
  'Twould wear me out--this round of ceaseless toil,
  In the same range of artificial life;
  And I must greet you with a traveler's haste,
  And back to my free forest home again.

                      MARGRAVE.
  'Tis well that every part and scene in life
  Can find its actors ready for the stage,
  And well that our wide land has scope for all.
  And yet to feel that those who raised together
  Their hope-swelled canvass when life's voyage began--
  Like ships, storm-parted, on the world's rough sea--
  Can sail no more in sweet companionship!
  'Tis a sad thought! Of all our college friends,
  But one, beside myself, is here to greet you.

                      GODFREY.
  Who is he?--There is one would glad my heart.
  When college scenes arise, yourself and Bolton--

                      MARGRAVE.
  'Tis he I mean.

                      GODFREY.
                  What, Bolton? Harry Bolton?
  I heard some fellow-travelers in the cars
  Talking of one Judge Bolton, as the man
  Who filled his orb of duty like the sun--
  Shining on all, and drawing all t' obey.
  Surely this cannot be our Harry Bolton--
  The frank, warm-hearted, but most wayward youth.
  Whose mind was like a comet--now all light.
  Anon, away where reason could not follow.
  He surely has not reached this grave estate
  Of Judge!

                      MARGRAVE.
            The same, the same--our Harry Bolton.
  And better still, a man whom all men honor.

                      GODFREY.
  I must see him. Let us go at once. I feel
  A joy like that of Joseph's when he found
  That his young brother Benjamin had come.
  Though now the order is reversed, for here
  The youngest claims the honors.


                      MARGRAVE.
                                  No, not so.
  Your order should be first in estimation,
  And always is, where men are trained for heaven
  And mine would be the second, were we wise,
  And followed Nature as you follow God.
  And Law is the third station on the mount,
  When men are placed as lights above life's path
  And Bolton is, in truth, a light and guide.


                      GODFREY.
  Where shall I find him?


                      MARGRAVE.
                           In his place, to-day,
  The seat of Justice. We'll go--it is not far
  The cause is one of special interest:
  I'll give its history as we pass along.
  Wilt go?


                      GODFREY.
           Ay, surely, surely. I am ready now.
  It is the very place and time to see him.
                                            [_Exeunt._

       *       *       *       *

SCENE II.--_A street. Crowds of people hurrying on._

      _Enter PROFESSOR OLNEY and FREDERICK
                     BELCOUR._

                      OLNEY.
  You say the sentence will be passed to-day?


                      BELCOUR.
  Most certainly; and crowds will press to hear it
  Judge Bolton has a world-wide reputation,
  And 'tis a cause to rouse his eloquence.

                      OLNEY.
  I wish I could be there.


                      BELCOUR.
                            What should hinder?
  'Twould but detain you for an hour or two.


                      OLNEY.
  My pupils stand between. Yet Isabelle
  Might hear the recitations; she does this
  Often, when I am ill. A dear, good child:
  She thinks her learning of no more account,
  Save as the means to help me in my tasks,
  Than though she only could her sampler sew
  Yet she reads Latin like a master, and
  In Greek bids fair to be a Lizzy Carter.
  If she but knew I was detained--


                      BELCOUR.
                                    A note
  Would tell her this. Write one, and I will send it.
  Here's paper, pencil--
      [_Taking them from his pocket, OLNEY writes._

                  OLNEY.
                         I shall trouble you.


                  BELCOUR.
  No trouble in the least. Now, hurry on.
  The court-room will be filled. I'll send the note--
                                  _[Exit OLNEY._

  Or bear it, rather. She shall see me, too
  Before she has the letter from my hand.
  A proud, ungrateful girl:--reject my love!
                                     [_Turns to go out_.

              _Enter_ CAPTAIN PAWLETT

                      PAWLETT
  How, Belcour--what's the matter? You go wrong.
  'Tis to the court-house all the world is going.

              BELCOUR (_impetuously_).
  Let the world go its way, and me go mine
  We've parted company, the world and I.
  When Fortune frowns, the wretch is left alone

                      PAWLETT.
  Ah! true--I've heard of some embarrassments--

                      BELCOUR.
  Embarrassments!--A puling, milliner phrase!
  One of those tender terms we coin to throw
  A sentimental interest round the bankrupt;--
  As though he may recover if he choose.
  Why, Pawlett, man, I'm ruined, if the plan
  I've formed to-day should fail. It shall not fail.
  I will succeed. And Isabelle once mine,
  With cash to bear us to a foreign land,
  I care not for the rest, though death and hell
  Should stand at the goal to seize me.
                                      [_Exit violently_.

            PAWLETT (_looking after him_).
                                       The fool!
  He's in a furious mood--and let him rave--
  He'll never win his way with Isabelle.
  My chances there are better, but not good.
  Young Bolton's in my way. He loves her well;
  And she, I fear, loves him. But then his father
  Is proud as Lucifer, and selfish too.
  Ambition makes the generous nature selfish.
  He'll ne'er consent his only son should wed
  The portionless daughter of a pedagogue.
  No, no. I'll tot these bitter waters out.
  I'll give the judge an inkling of the matter.
  I'll write a note--he'll think it comes from Belcour.
  If I can drive young Bolton from the field,
  Then Isabelle is mine.--I'll do it.

  (_As_ PAWLETT _is going out, Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE
                   _and_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)

                      GODFREY.
  You say Judge Bolton lives in princely style.
  Is he a married man?

                      MARGRAVE.
                      He has been married;--
  Most happily married, too. His wife was one
  Of those pure beings, gentle, wise, and firm.
  That mould our sex to highest hopes and aims.
  He loved her as the devotee his saint:
  And from the day he wed he trod life's path
  As one who came to conquer.

                      GODFREY.
                            I see it now.
  The motive to excel was all he needed.
  He had a vigorous mind, a generous heart,
  An innate love of goodness and of truth.
  But he was wayward, and he hated tasks.
  Such men must have an aim beyond themselves,
  Or oft they prove but dreamers. And with such,
  Woman's companionship, dependence, love,
  Are like the air to fire:--the smouldering flame
  Of genius, once aroused, sweeps doubts away,
  And brightens hope, till victory is won.

                      MARGRAVE.
  'Twas thus with Bolton. To his keeping given
  The weal of one so dear--then he bore on,
  Gathering from disappointments fruitful strength,
  As winter's snows prepare the earth for harvest.
  And when his angel wife was taken from him,
  She left him pledges of her love and trust,
  A son of noble promise, and a daughter
  To nestle, dove-like, in her father's heart,
  And keep her place for ever. She is blind!

                      GODFREY.
  I marvel not that Bolton has excelled,
  And won a station of the highest trust,
  If his warm heart enlisted in the work:
  But the small cares, the constant calculations
  Required to make, at least to keep, a fortune--
  I never should have looked to him for these.

                      MARGRAVE.
  'Twas luck that favored him; or Providence,
  As you would say. A friend of his and ours.
  De Vere, the young West Indian in our class--
  You must remember him--he left to Bolton
  All his estate. A hundred thousand pounds
  'Twas said he would inherit.

                      GODFREY.
                               How happened this?
  De Vere returned to Cuba, there to marry?

                      MARGRAVE.
  He did, and had a family. But all
  His children died save one, and then his wife.
  And so he hither came to change the scene.
  Bolton, just widowed then, received his friend
  With more than brother's kindness, for their griefs
  Bound them, like ties of soul, in sympathy.
  De Vere was ill, and, with his motherless babe,
  He found in Bolton's home the rest he sought.
  And there he died, and left his little daughter
  To his friend's guardian care; and to his will
  A codicil annexed, unknown to Bolton,
  That gave him all if Isabelle should die
  Before she reached the age of twenty-one,
  And die unmarried.

                      GODFREY.
                     She is dead, then?

                      MARGRAVE.
  She is. Her life was like the early rose,
  That bears th' frost in its heart. The bud is fair;
  The strength to bloom is wanting; so it dies
  But come, we shall be late.

                      GODFREY.
                              What crowds are going!
  And Irishmen!--Are these so fond of Justice?

                      MARGRAVE.
  Ay; where they feel she holds an even scale,
  And is the friend alike of rich and poor,
  They yield a prompt obedience, and become
  Americans. Our motto is--"The law."
                                      [_Exeunt._

       *       *       *       *

SCENE III.--_The Court-room. A crowd of people._ PRISONER _in the dock. His
Wife, an infant in her arms, and his Sister, both in deep mourning, near
him_. LANGDON, _counsel for the prisoner;_ SHERIFF; CLERK _of the Court_;
CRIER _of the Court;_ CONSTABLES. _Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON, _followed by two
other_ JUDGES. _All take their places on the bench. Then enter_ DENNIS
_and_ MICHAEL.

              DENNIS (_staring at the_ JUDGE).
  I' faith, 'tis a _purty_ thing to be a judge,
  And sit so high and cool above the crowd.
  And your good master well becomes his seat.
  He looks, for all the world, like Dan O'Connell.

                      MICHAEL.
  He looks like a better man, and that's himself.
  I wish he was judge of Ireland.

                      DENNIS.
                                   So do I;
  And my good _masther_ was her doctor too.
  They'd set the _ould_ country on her legs right soon.
  He's coming now.
      _Pointing to_ DR. MARGRAVE, _who is entering,
          followed by_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.

                      MICHAEL.
                  Who's with your master?
  He looks as he had mettle in his arm.

                      DENNIS.
  He is my master's friend--a sort o' priest.

                      MICHAEL.
  And sure can battle with the fiend himself.
  He looks as strong as Samson.

                      DENNIS.
                                 Well for him
  Living away in the West, 'mong savages,
  And bears, and wolves, and--

                CRIER OF THE COURT.
                                  Silence!

  MARGRAVE (_turning to_ GODFREY, _who is gazing_
              _at_ JUDGE BOLTON).
  You seem surprised. Has he outlived the likeness
  Kept in your mind? Seems he another man?

                      GODFREY.
  He is another man. The soul has wrought
  Its work, as 'twere, with fire, and purified
  The dross of selfish passion from his aims.
  I read the victory on his open brow,
  And in the deep repose of his calm eye.

                      MARGRAVE.
  His was a noble nature from the first.

                      GODFREY.
  He had a searching mind, a strong, warm heart,
  And impulses of nobleness and truth.
  But Nature sets her favorite sons a task:
  We are not good by chance. Bolton had pride--
  An overweening pride in his own powers.
  This pride obeys the will; and when the brain
  Is mean and narrow, like a low-roofed dungeon,
  And only keeps one image there confined--
  The image of self--the heart soon yields its truth,
  And makes this self its idol, aim, and end.
  Such is the Haman pride that mars the man,
  And makes the wise contemn and hate him too--
  Hate and contemn the more, the more he prospers.

                      MARGRAVE.
  This is not Bolton's picture?

                      GODFREY.
                               No. His pride,
  Now his strong lion will has curbed the jackals--
  Those appetites and vanities of self
  That mark the coxcomb rare wherever seen--
  Is all made up of generous sentiments,
  The father's, citizen's, and patriot's pride.

                      MARGRAVE.
  You read him like a book.

                      GODFREY.
                           An art we learn
  Of reading men when we have few books to read.

                  CRIER OF THE COURT.
  Silence!

_Enter two_ OFFICERS OF THE COURT, _attending the twelve_ JURYMEN, _who
take their seats. A crowd follows._ PROFESSOR OLNEY _trying to press
through the crowd: young_ HENRY BOLTON _makes room for him_.

                    YOUNG BOLTON.
  Stand here, Professor Olney--take this place;
  Here you will not be crowded. Ah! your cough
  Is troublesome to-day. Pray, take this seat;
  You'll see as well, and be much more at ease.

        PROFESSOR OLNEY (_taking the seat_).
  Thank you! thank you! This is kind, indeed.
  I am not well to-day, but could not lose
  This chance of listening to your father's voice.
  His eloquence is classic in its style;
  Not brilliant with explosive coruscations
  Of heterogeneous thoughts at random caught,
  And scattered like a shower of shooting stars
  That end in darkness--no; Judge Bolton's mind
  Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene.
  His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps
  Fixed on the sun of Truth, and breathes his speech
  As easy as an eagle cleaves the air,
  And never pauses till the height is won.
  And all who listen follow where he leads.

                    YOUNG BOLTON.
  I hope you will be gratified. Are all--
  All well at home?


            PROFESSOR OLNEY _(smiling)_.
                    I should not else be out.
  And Isabelle will hear the recitations.

                YOUNG BOLTON _(aside)_.
  I'll go, and see, and help her. Not to conquer
  As Cæsar boasted--she has conquered me.
  I'll go and yield myself her captive.
                              [_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON.

                  CRIER OF THE COURT.
                                        Silence!

                  CLERK OF THE COURT.
  Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready
  To give the verdict now?

                      FOREMAN.
                          We are ready.

                  CLERK OF THE COURT.
  Prisoner, stand up and look upon the jury.
  Jury, if and up and look upon the prisoner.
  The man you now behold has had his trial
  Before you for a crime. What is the verdict?
  Is he, the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?

            FOREMAN _(reading the verdict)._
  Guilty of murder in the second degree.

[_A deep silence, broken only by the sobs of prisoner's wife and sister.
Prisoner sinks down on his seat_. CLERK OF THE COURT _records the
sentence_.

                  CLERK OF THE COURT.
  Gentlemen of the jury, listen to
  The verdict as recorded by the court
  The prisoner at the bar is therein found
  For crime committed--and that has been proven--
  Guilty of murder in the second degree.
  So say you, Mister Foreman? So say all?

                FOREMAN AND JURY.
  All (_bowing_).


                  JUDGE BOLTON.
  A righteous verdict this, and yet a sad one
  A fellow-being banished from our midst,
  To pass his days in utter loneliness
  Prisoner you've heard the verdict. Have you aught
  To say why sentence should not now be passed?
  Speak; you may have the opportunity.

      LANGDON _counsel for the prisoner, confers
        with him then addresses the_ JUDGE.

                      LANGDON
  He cannot speak; his heart o'erpowers his tongue;
  The tide of grief seeps all his strength away,
  As rising waters drown the sinking boat.
  And he entreats that I would say for him,
  The court permitting me, a few last words.


                  JUDGE BOLTON
  Go on. You are permitted.


                      LANGDON.
                            May it please
  The court, the jury, and all these good people,
  The prisoner prays that I would beg for him,
  As on his soul's behalf, your prayers and pardon:
  That is, while he in penitence will yield
  To the just punishment the law awards,
  You'll think of him as one misled--not cruel.
  The murderous deed his hand did was not done
  With heart consent--he knew it not. The fiend
  That _rum_ evokes had entered him, and changed
  His nature. So he prays you will never brand
  His innocent boy with this his father's guilt;
  Nor on his broken-hearted wife look cold,
  As though his leprous sin defiled these poor
  And helpless sufferers. Then he prays that all
  Would lend their aid to root intemperance out,
  And crush the horrid haunts of sin and ruin,
  Where liquid poison for the soul is sold!
  And while the victims of this deadly traffic
  Must bear the penalty of crimes committed,
  Even when the light of reason has been quenched,
  That you would frame a law to reach the tempter,
  Nor let those go unscathed who cause the crime.
  And then he prays, most fervently, that all
  Who may, like him, be tempted by the bowl,
  Would lake a warning from his fearful fate,
  And "touch not, taste not" make their solemn pledge,
  And so he parts with all in charity.

      [_A pause--the sobs of the prisoner's wife and
        sister are heard._

                  CRIER OF THE COURT.
  Silence!


                  CLERK OF THE COURT.
  Prisoner, stand up and listen to the sentence.


              JUDGE BOLTON (_solemnly_).
  Laws hitherto are framed to punish crime
  All legislators have been slow to deal
  With vice in its first elements; and here
  Lie the pernicious root and seeds of sin.
  That children are permitted to grow up
  From infancy to youth without instruction,
  Is a grave wrong, and ne'er to be redeemed
  By penal statutes and the prisoner's cell.
  We leave the mind unfortified by Truth,
  And wonder it should fill with wayward Error.
  There's no blank ignorance, as many dream;
  Each soul will have its growth and garnering.
  As the uncultured prairie bears a harvest
  Heavy and rank, yet worthless to the world,
  So mind and heart uncultured run to waste;
  The noblest natures serving but to show
  A denser growth of passion's deadly fruit.
    Another error of our social state--
  We charter sin when chartering temptation.
  We see the ensnarer, like a spider, sit
  Weaving his web; and we permit the work.
  How many souls Intemperance has destroyed,
  Lured to his den by opportunities
  The law allows! The prisoner at the bar
  Is one of these unhappy instances.
  The testimony offered here has shown
  He bore a character unstained by crime.
  Nay, more--an active, honest, prudent man,
  Prisoner, you have appeared, since you came here
  Five years ago. You came with us to share,
  In this free land, the blessings we enjoy;
  Blessings by law secured, by law sustained;
  The impartial law that, like the glorious sun,
  Sends from its central light a beam to all,
  And binds in magnet interest all as one.
  And you had married here, and were a father
  And prospered in your plans, and all was well.
  Nay, more--'tis proved you had a generous heart,
  And had been kind to your poor countrymen,
  The homeless emigrants who gather here,
  Like men escaped from sore calamities,
  Where only life is saved from out the wreck.
  And one of these, an early friend, who died
  Beneath the kindly shelter of your roof,
  Left to your care his precious orphan child--
  His only child, his motherless, his daughter.
  And you received the gift, and vowed to be
  A father to the little lonely one.
  Where is that orphan now?--Must I go on?
  'Tis not to harrow up your trembling soul.
  I would not lay a feather on the weight
  Stern memory brings to crash the guilty down.
  But I would stir your feelings to their depths.
  And bring, like conscience in your dying hour,
  The sense of your great crime, that so you may
  Repent, and Heaven will pardon. Here on earth,
  Man has no power t' absolve such guilty deed.
  Prisoner, one month ago, and you were safe--
  A man among your neighbors well beloved,
  And in your home the one preferred to all.
  No monarch could have driven you from the throne
  You held in th' loving hearts of wife and child.
  Your coming was their festival; your step,
  As eve drew on, was music to their ears.
  The little girl, the adopted of your vow,
  Was always at the door to claim the kiss
  That you, with father's tenderness, bestowed.
  Alas! for her--for you--the last return!
    One fatal night you yielded to the tempter,
  And drained the drunkard's cup till reason fled,
  And then went reeling home, your brain on fire,
  And, raging like a tiger in the toils,
  You fancied every human form a foe.
  And when that little girl, like playful fawn,
  Unconscious of your state, came bounding forth
  To clasp your knee and welcome "father home"--
  You, with a madman's fury, struck her dead!
            [_A shriek is heard from prisoner's wife._
  Prisoner, for this offence you have been tried,
  And every scope allowed that law could grant
  To mitigate the awful punishment.
  No one believes that malice moved your mind;
  But murdering maniacs may not live with men;
  And therefore, prisoner, you are doomed for life
  To solitary toil. Alone! alone! alone!
  Love's music voice will never greet your ear;
  Affection's eye will never meet your gaze;
  Nor heart-warm hand of friend return your grasp;
  But morn, and noon, and night, days, months, and years,
  Will all be told in this one word--alone!
  Prisoner, the world will leave you as the dead
  Within your closing cell--your living tomb.
  But One there is who pardons and protects,
  And never leaves the penitent alone.
  Oh, turn to Him, the Saviour! so your cell,
  That opens when you die, may lead to heaven:--
  And God have mercy on your penitence!
               [_Prisoner sinks down, as the curtain
                  slowly falls_.]

END OF ACT I.

       *       *       *       *       *

SABBATH LYRICS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

GOD THE GUARDIAN.--PSALM XI.

  How say ye to my soul,
    As a mountain bird depart?
  For the wicked bend the bow,
    With the aim upon the heart.
  In the Lord I put my trust--
    The Great Giver of my breath--
  He is mighty as he's just,
   He wilt guard my soul from death.

  On his holy throne he sits,
    With his eye o'er all the earth;
  But his shaft, that slays the vile,
    Never harms the breast of worth.
  The man of wrath he dooms
    To the terror and the blight;
  But his love the soul sustains
    That walks humbly in his sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

LET WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

BY MRS. EMMA BALL.

"A word spoken in due season, how good is it!" and how often is its
influence more lasting and more beneficial than at the time of its
utterance either speaker or hearer dreams of.

To illustrate. When about seventeen, I was, at my earnest solicitation,
placed in a seminary, with the understanding that for one year I should
devote myself to study, and thus become better fitted for future usefulness
as a teacher. How I had wished for such an opportunity! How often had my
wish been disappointed! and how narrowly I had escaped disappointment even
then! But I was there at last, and everything seemed to be just as I would
have it. Thus far I had studied unaided, and amid incessant interruptions.
Now I could obtain assistance, and command the necessary leisure. The last
four years I had passed in a crowded city. Now I breathed the purest
atmosphere, and the scenery around me was of surpassing beauty. My window
commanded the prettiest view; and, better still, I had no room-mate to
disturb me with unwelcome chit-chat. Who could be happier than I? There was
but one inconvenience, one drawback to the feeling of entire satisfaction
with which, day after day, I looked around "my charming little room;" and
that was the position of my bedstead. I did not like that; for the head was
so near the door as to leave no room for my table; and consequently, as I
could not place my lamp in perfect safety near my bed, I was compelled
either to waste the precious hour before broad daylight, or to rise and
study in a freezing room. "If I could only turn this bedstead round,"
thought I, "so that the head would be near the table, how many hours I
might save!" and I resolved that, on the coming Saturday, I would make the
desirable change. On the afternoon of that day, I was engaged to ride home
with one of the teachers, and the morning I had intended to devote to
sewing and study: "but no matter," thought I; "by a little extra effort I
can accomplish all." Accordingly, when Saturday came I commenced
operations; but, after removing the bed and mattress I discovered, to my
great concern, that, although the bedstead would stand as I wished, yet I
could not turn it thither without first taking it apart; and for this a
bed-key was necessary. "Well," thought I, "it is worth the trouble;" so I
procured a bed-key; and at length--at length--two of the screws yielded to
my efforts. The others, however, _would not_ yield. I tried and tried, but
without avail; and, wearied and disappointed, I stood wondering what I
should do. Just then, the door opened; and "Aunty," an old lady whose
kindness and sound sense had already won my regard, stepped in. "What is
the matter?" she exclaimed--"why, what has the child been about?" "I was
trying to turn my bedstead so," said I, ruefully pointing towards the
table; and I went on to explain why I had done so. "I dare say thou wouldst
find it more convenient so," answered Aunty; "but it is quite beyond thy
strength." "I see it is," sighed I. "I would have it turned for thee" she
said; "but that is the most troublesome bedstead in the house: no one can
do anything with it except John Lawton, and he won't be home till Monday."
"What shall I do?" asked I. "I'll get Mary to come up and help thee fix it
as it was before," answered Aunty. I drew a long breath. "Oh, never mind,"
said she, soothingly; "it is not quite so convenient this way, to be sure,
but--" "I'm not thinking of the inconvenience now," interrupted I, "but of
the time I've wasted. Why, I've spent nearly four hours over that foolish
old bedstead. I was to have taken tea with Miss Mansell this afternoon, and
I had expected to learn a good French lesson besides: but now the morning
is gone, and a profitable time I've made of it!" "I should not wonder if it
prove one of the most profitable mornings of thy life." rejoined the old
lady, "and teach thee a lesson more valuable than thy French or thy music
either." "What is that?" inquired I. "To let well enough alone." answered
Aunty--and she smiled and nodded slowly as she spoke. "I'll let well enough
alone after this, I promise you," said I. "People of thy ardent temperament
seldom learn to do it in one lesson," replied she; "but the sooner thou
dost learn it, the better it will be for thy happiness. However, I'll go
now and send Mary to help thee." Mary came: but it was nearly two hours
before my room resumed its usual neat appearance.

Some three months after, I learned that a young lady whom I had unwillingly
offended, by declining to receive her as a room-mate, had spoken of me
disparagingly, and greatly misrepresented various little incidents of our
every-day intercourse. Surprised and indignant, I at once resolved to "have
a talk with her;" but first I made known my disquietude to Aunt Rachel.
"What shall I do?" asked I, in conclusion. "Not much," she answered. "Take
no notice of it. I see she has been talking ill of thee; but she can do
thee little or no real injury. Those who know thee won't believe her," "But
those who don't know me--" interrupted I. "Won't trouble themselves much
about it," she replied; "and if ever they become acquainted with thee,
they'll only have the better means of judging thee truly." "If I say
nothing about it, though," urged I, "she'll feel encouraged to talk on, and
worse." "If thou dost find she is really doing thee an injury," returned
Aunty, "I'll not dissuade thee from taking it in hand; but, as it now
stands, it is not worth disturbing thyself about." "I could make her feel
so ashamed," persisted I. "I don't doubt thee," replied she, laughing; "I
don't doubt thee in the least: but in doing so, won't thou get excited?
Won't thou sleep better, and study better, and waste less time, if thou
just 'let well enough alone?'" "That seems a favorite maxim with you,"
observed I. "I have found it a very useful one," she answered; "and, had I
known its value earlier in life, I might have escaped a good deal of
suffering. Ten years ago, I had a kind husband, and a promising son, and
slowly, yet surely, they were gathering a pretty competence. We thought we
could gather faster by going south; but the location proved unhealthy, and
in one season I lost them both by a bilious fever." Sympathy kept me
silent. "You would not discourage all attempts to better one's condition?"
I at length inquired. "By no means," answered Aunt Rachel; "for that were
to check energy and retard improvement. I would only advise
people--impulsive people especially--to think _before_ they act: for it is
always easier to avoid an evil than to remedy it. Thou art fond of
History," she continued, "and that, both sacred and profane, abounds with
examples of those who, in the day of adversity or retribution, have wished,
oh how earnestly, that they had let well enough alone. Jacob, an exile from
his father's house: Shimei, witnessing the return of David: Zenobia,
high-spirited and accustomed to homage, gracing Aurelian's triumph, and
living a captive in Rome: Christina, after she had relinquished the crown
of Sweden; and, in our own days, Great Britain, involved in a long and
losing war with her American colonies. Every-day life, too, is full of such
examples." I asked her to mention some. "Thou canst see one," she answered,
"in the speculator, whose anxiety for sudden wealth has reduced his family
to indigence; and in the girl who leaves her plain country home, and
sacrifices her health, and perhaps her virtue, in a city workshop.
Disputatious people, passionate people, those who indulge in personalities,
and those who meddle with what don't concern them, are very apt to wish
they had let well enough alone. People who are forever changing their
residence or their store, their clerks, or their domestics, frequently find
reason for such a wish. Even in household affairs, my maxim saves me many
an hour of unnecessary labor. Dost thou remember the bedstead?" she added,
with a smile. "Yes, indeed," I answered; "I shall never forget that. The
other day I was going to alter my pink dress into a wrapper, like Miss
Mansell's; but the thought of that old bedstead stopped me; and I'm glad of
it; for, now that I look again, I don't think it would pay me for the
trouble." "Well, think again before thou dost notice Jane Ansley's talk,"
said Aunty. I followed her advice; and I have never regretted that I did
so.

Dear old lady! I left her when that pleasant year was ended, and never saw
her again. She has long since entered into her rest: but I often think of
her maxim, and in many cases have proved its value.

I think of it when I see a man spending time and money, and enduring all
the wretchedness of long suspense or excitement, in a lawsuit which he
might have avoided; and which, whether lost or gained, will prove to him a
source of continual self-reproach. When I see a business man who, by an
overbearing demeanor and oppressive attempts to make too much of a good
bargain, has converted a conscientious and peace-loving partner into an
unyielding opponent: or, when I hear of a farmer who has provoked a
well-disposed neighbor by killing his fowls and throwing them over the
fence, instead of trying some neighborly way of preventing their
depredations on his grain. When I have seen a teacher exciting the
emulation of a jealous-minded child; or by threats, or even by ill-timed
reasoning(?), converting a momentary pettishness into a fit of obstinacy--I
have felt as if I wanted to whisper in her ear, "Do not seem to notice
them; let well enough alone." When I see an envious mother depreciating and
finding fault with a judicious and conscientious teacher till she has
discouraged or provoked her, I think it likely that the day will come when
both mother and children will wish that she had "let well enough alone."
So, too, when I observe a mother forcing upon her daughters an
accomplishment for which they have no taste: a father compelling his son to
study law or physic, while the bent of his genius leads to machinery or
farming: or a widow with a little property placing her children under the
doubtful protection of a young stepfather. Vanitia is intelligent and well
read, and appears to advantage in general society; but her love of
admiration, her wish to be thought _superior_, is so inordinate, that she
cannot bear to appear ignorant of any subject; hence she often tries to
seem conversant with matters of which she knows nothing, and perceives not
that she thereby sinks in the estimation of those whose homage she covets.
Affectua is pretty and accomplished, and, two years ago, awakened goodwill
in all who saw her. Latterly, however, she has exchanged her simple and
natural manners for those which are plainly artificial and affected. What a
pity these ladies cannot "let well enough alone!"

But I must stop, or my reader may exclaim: Enough--practice thy own
precept--and let well enough alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUSAN CLIFTON; OR, THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

On a pleasant afternoon in August, two gentlemen were sitting in the shade
of a large walnut tree which stood in front of an ancient, yet neat and
comfortable farmhouse. Perhaps it would be more in accordance with modern
usage to say that a gentleman and a man were sitting there; for the one was
clothed in the finest broadcloth, the other in ordinary homespun. They had
just returned from a walk over the farm, which had been the scene of their
early amusements and labors.

"I don't know," said he of the broadcloth coat, "but that you made the
better choice, after all. You have time to be happy; you have a quiet that
I know nothing about--in truth, I should not know how to enjoy it if I had
it."

"The lack of it, then," replied his brother, "can be no hardship. I have
often regretted that I did not secure the advantages of a liberal education
when they were within my reach."

"That is an unwise as well as a useless regret. If you had gone to college,
you would, as a matter of course, have chosen one of the learned
professions. Your talents and industry would, doubtless, have secured to
you a good measure of success; but you would often have sighed for the
peace and rest of the old farmhouse. Remember, too, that it and these lands
would have passed into the hands of strangers."

"Perhaps you are right. Still, as I am now situated, I should be very glad
to have the advantages and influence which a liberal education would
bestow."

"I think you overrate those advantages. You are substantially a well
educated man; and you can now command leisure to add to your information.
If you should be in want of any books which it may not be convenient for
you to purchase, it will give me great pleasure to procure them for you. I
can do so without the slightest inconvenience."

"I am greatly obliged to you; and, if it should be necessary, I will,
without hesitation, avail myself of your kind offer. I feel the deficiency
of my education most sensibly in respect to my daughter. I find myself
incompetent to take the direction of her opening mind."

"That is the very point I wish to speak upon. You must, my good brother
allow me to take charge of her education. I owe it to you for keeping the
old homestead in the family. It will give me great pleasure to afford her
the very best advantages. Let me take her to the city with me on my
return."

"We may, perhaps, differ in our estimate of advantages. I can conceive of
none at present sufficiently great to compensate for the loss of her
mother's society and example."

"No doubt these are very valuable; but girls must go away from home to
complete their education, especially if they live in the country. Even in
the city, a great many parents place their daughters in boarding-schools,
and that, too, when the school is not half a mile distant from their
residence."

"A great many parents, both in the city and country, do many things which I
would not do."

"You are willing to do what is for the best interests of your child."

"Certainly."

"If you will allow Susan to go with me to New York, I will place her at the
first school in the city. She shall have a home at my house; and my wife
will, for the time being, supply the place of her mother."

"I fully appreciate your kind intentions; but I could almost as soon think
of parting with the sunlight as with Susan."

"You forget the advantages she would enjoy. You are not wont to allow your
feelings to interfere with the interests of those you love. I am sure you
will not in this case. Think the matter over, and talk with your wife about
it. She has an undoubted right to be consulted. I must go and prepare some
letters for the evening mail." So saying, he arose and went to his room.

The two brothers, Richard and Henry Clifton, had been separated for many
years. When Richard was seventeen years of age, his father indulged him in
his earnest desire to become a merchant. At a great pecuniary sacrifice, he
was placed in the employment of an intelligent and prosperous merchant in
New York; and when, at the age of twenty-one, he was admitted as a member
of the firm, his patrimony was given him to be invested in the concern.

To his remaining son, Henry, Mr. Clifton offered a collegiate education.
This offer was declined by Henry, not through lack of a desire for
knowledge, but in consequence of a too humble estimate of his mental
powers. When he became of age, a deed of the homestead was given him. Not
long afterwards, his father was carried to his long home.

The business of the firm to which Richard Clifton belonged rendered it
necessary for him to repair to a foreign city, where he resided for fifteen
years. He was now on his first visit to his native place, subsequent to his
return to the commercial emporium.

Susan, the only child of Henry and Mary Clifton, was just sixteen years of
age. Her light form, transparent countenance, brilliant eye, and graceful
movements, were not in keeping with the theory that rusticity must be the
necessary result of living in a farmhouse, especially when the labors
thereof are not performed by hireling hands.

From the first day of his visit, the heart of the merchant warmed towards
the child of his only brother. Her delicate and affectionate attentions
increased the interest he felt in her. That interest was not at all
lessened by a distinct perception of the fact that she was fitted to adorn
the magnificent parlors of his city residence. It was, therefore, his fixed
purpose to take her with him on his return. Some objections, he doubted
not, would be raised by his sober brother; but he placed his reliance for
success upon the mother's influence. No mother, he was sure, could reject
so brilliant an offer for her darling child.

The time spent by the merchant in writing letters, affecting operations in
the four quarters of the globe, was passed by the farmer in thoughtful
silence, though in the presence of his wife and daughter. He withdrew as he
heard his brother coming from his room.

"Uncle," said Susan, "do you wish to have those letters taken to the
post-office?"

"Yes, dear."

"Let me take them for you."

She received the letters from his willing hand, and left him alone with her
mother.

"Your husband," said he to Mrs. Clifton, "has spoken to you of the
proposition I made to him respecting my niece?"

"He has not," said Mrs. Clifton.

"I requested him to consult you. I proposed to take her home with me, and
give her the very first advantages for education that the city can afford."

"You are very generous. But what did Henry say to it?"

"He does not like the idea of parting with her; but, as I understand it, he
holds the matter under advisement till he has consulted you. I hope you
will not hesitate to give your consent, and to use your influence with my
brother, in case it should be necessary."

"I should be sorry to withhold my consent from anything which may be for
the good of my child. So generous an offer should not be declined without
due consideration. At the same time, I must frankly say that I do not think
it at all probable that I can bring myself to consent to your proposal."

"What objection can be urged against it?"

"I doubt very much whether it will be for the best."

"Why not for the best? What can be better than a first rate education?"

"Nothing; certainly, taking that term in its true sense. A first rate
education for a young lady is one adapted to prepare her for the sphere in
which she is to act. If Susan were to go with you, she would doubtless
learn many things of which she would otherwise be ignorant; but it may be a
question whether she would be thereby fitted for the station she is to
occupy in life. That, in all probability, will be a humble one."

"She has talents fitted to adorn any station, only let them receive
suitable cultivation. She shall never be in a position which shall render
useless the education I will give her. I have the means of keeping my
promise."

"I doubt it not. But ought a mother to consent that one so young and
inexperienced should be removed from home and its influences, and be
exposed to the temptations of the great world in which you live? It is a
very different one from that to which she has been accustomed."

"As to removing her from home, my house shall be her home, and my wife
shall supply the place of her mother."

"I will give to your kind proposal the consideration which it deserves; but
I must say, again, that it is very doubtful whether I can bring myself to
consent to it."

"I can't say that I have any doubt about the matter," said her husband, who
entered the room as she uttered the last remark. "To be plain, my dear
brother, if there were no other reasons against the plan, I should not dare
to place her in a family where the voice of prayer is not heard, especially
as her character is now in process of formation."

Richard was silent. At first, he felt an emotion of anger; but he
remembered that they were in the room in which their excellent father was
accustomed to assemble his family each morning and evening for social
worship. On no occasion was that worship neglected, even for a single day.
After a long silence, he remarked, "You may think better of it, my
brother," and retired to his room.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER II.

For some time after Richard Clifton had exchanged the quiet of agriculture
for the bustle of commercial life, he read his Bible daily, and retained
the habit of secret prayer which had been so carefully taught him in
childhood. But, at length, the Bible began to be neglected, and the altar
of mammon was substituted for the altar of God. In his business
transactions, the laws of integrity were never disregarded, nor was his
respect and reverence for religion laid aside, but he had no time to be
religious. When he became the head of a family, the Word of God lay
unopened on his parlor table, and family worship was a thing unknown.
Though God had guarded him at home and abroad, on the sea and on the land,
and had made him rich even to the extent of his most sanguine expectations,
yet he had forgotten the source of his prosperity, and had never bowed his
knee in thanksgiving. The education of his wife, a daughter of one of the
"merchant princes," had been such that she found nothing to surprise or
shock her in the practical atheism of her husband's course.

On the morning after the occurrence of the events recorded in the chapter
above, as Susan returned from the village post-office, she handed her uncle
a letter. Having perused it, he remarked--

"I must return to the city tomorrow. Will you go with me, Susan?"

"I should be delighted to do so, if father and mother could go with me."

"I should be happy to have them go. But suppose they do not? You cannot
expect to have them always with you."

"Must you go so soon?" said Henry. "You make a very short visit after so
long a separation."

"I must return to the city to-morrow; but my presence will be needed there
only for a day or two. If Susan will go with me, I will return here next
week and spend a few days more with you."

The matter was referred to Susan for decision. Her desire to see the
wonders of the great city, as well as to gratify her uncle, overcame the
reluctance which she felt to be separated, even for so brief a period, from
her happy home.

The preparations for her sudden journey required the assistance of several
neighbors; and thus the news of her intended visit to the city spread
quickly through the village. There was, of course, much speculation
concerning it. Some said it was merely a passing visit. Others said she had
been adopted by her wealthy uncle, and was thenceforth to be a member of
his family. Some regarded the supposed adoption as fortunate, and rejoiced
in it for Susan's sake. Others were envious, and were ingenious and
eloquent in setting forth the evils which might ensue. Some were sorry to
see one so young and innocent exposed to the temptations of a city life. A
few were surprised that her parents should consent to have her leave them,
even though it were to become the heiress of almost boundless wealth.

In the course of the evening, a number of Susan's friends called to bid her
good-by. As each new visitor came, an observant eye might have seen that
she was disappointed. Her manner indicated that she expected one who did
not come. The evening wore away, the social prayer was offered, and they
were about to separate for the night.

"Susan, dear," said her uncle, "I will thank you for a glass of water."

Susan took a pitcher and repaired to the spring, which gushed out of a bank
a few yards from the house. She had filled her pitcher, when a well-known
voice pronounced her name.

"Is it you, Horace?" said she. "I am away to-morrow."

"So I have heard. Are you going to live with your uncle?"

"Oh no. I am coming home in less than a week."

"I am sorry you are going."

"Are you?"

"I am afraid you will not want to come home."

"Why Horace!"

"Come back as soon as you can."

"I will."

"Good-by!" He extended his trembling hand, and received one still more
trembling. It was carried to his lips. Another good-by was uttered, and he
was gone.

It was well for Susan that her uncle was not sitting in his own brilliantly
lighted parlor when, with blushing cheek and trembling hand, she handed him
the glass of water. In the dim light of a single candle, her agitation
passed unnoticed.

In the morning, after oil-repeated farewells, and amid tears not wholly
divorced from smiles, Susan set out on her journey, and, on the following
day, arrived at the busy mart where souls are exchanged for gold, and
hearts are regarded as less valuable than stocks. She entered the mansion
of her uncle, and was introduced to his polished and stately wife.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER III.

No pains were spared by her uncle to amuse Susan and to gratify her
curiosity. Mrs. Clifton, also, to her husband's great delight, put forth
very unusual exertions tending to the same end. Still, Susan was far from
being perfectly happy. She wanted a place like home to which she couid
retire when weary with sight-seeing and excitement. In her uncle's house,
notwithstanding his manifest affection and the perfect politeness of his
wife, she did not feel at ease--she felt as if she were in public. And then
to sit down at the table and partake of God's bounties, when his blessing
had not been asked upon them, and to retire for the night when his
protection had not been invoked, detracted greatly from the enjoyment which
her visit was in other respects adapted to afford. The week during which
she was to remain had not elapsed ere she desired to return home. Of this
desire she gave no voluntary indication, but exerted herself to appear (as
she really was) thankful for the efforts designed to contribute to her
happiness.

"What do you think of our niece?" said Mr. Clifton to his wife one morning,
when Susan was not present.

"I think she will make a fine girl--that is, with due attention," said his
wife. She would have expressed her meaning more accurately if she had said,
"I think she will make a fine impression--will attract admiration, if her
manners are only cultivated."

"Would you like to have her remain with us permanently?"

"I rather think I should. I like her very well." This was uttered in a very
calm tone.

"What school would you send her to if she should remain?"

"I would not send her to any school. She is old enough to go into society;
and all that she needs is a little attention to her manners."

"She is only sixteen years old."

"She is quite tall, and will pass for eighteen at least. If we make a
school-girl of her, she can't go into society for a year or more to come."

"It was a part of my plan to give her a thorough education."

"It is a part of my plan to have some one to go into society with me."

"I do not believe her parents will consent to part with her, except on
condition that she shall spend several years in one of our best schools."

"Then let them keep her and make a milkmaid of her. If I take a girl and
fit her for society, and introduce her into the circle in which I move, I
wish to be understood as conferring a favor, not as receiving one."

"My dear, you know that the ideas of those who have always lived in the
country must, of necessity, be somewhat contracted. We must not judge them
by the standard to which we are accustomed."

"We ought not to make the girl suffer for the follies of her parent, to be
sure. You can say what you please to them about it, and then the matter can
be left with her. She will be glad to escape the drudgery of school, I dare
say."

"I think not. She has an ardent desire for knowledge; and the strongest
inducement I can set before her to come to the city is the means it
furnishes for gratifying that desire."

"There are other gratifications furnished by the city which she will soon
learn to prize more highly. Let her once be at home here, and be introduced
to society, and her desire for book-knowledge will not trouble her much. I
know more about women than you do, perhaps."

Mr. Clifton was silent. The last remark of his wife made a deep impression
upon his mind. Certain it was that his knowledge of woman was rather more
extensive and of a different character from that which he had expected to
acquire, when he lived amid the green fields of the country, ere the stain
of worldliness was upon his soul.

"I like Susan," said Mrs. Clifton. "I think she will prove quite
attractive. I have never seen a girl from the country who appeared so well.
She has a quick sense of propriety, and will give me very little trouble to
fit her for society."

"I am glad you like her," said. Mr. Clifton. "Her residence with us will
make our home more cheerful; and, with your example before her, her manners
will soon become those of a finished lady."

Mr. Clifton went to his counting-room, and his wife was left alone. The
compliment her husband had just paid her inclined her to dwell with
complacency upon the plan of adopting Susan. She liked her for her fair
countenance and her faultless form, and her quick observation and ready
adoption of conventional proprieties. Her presence, moreover, would attract
visitors, who were now less numerous than when Mrs. Clifton was young. Her
name, too, favored the idea of adoption. The difference between a real and
an adopted child would not readily be known. She made up her mind to adopt
her, and would have made known her determination to Susan at once, had not
an engagement compelled her to go out.

       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER IV.

While Susan was thus left alone for a little season, she employed herself
in writing the following letter to her mother--

"My Dear Mother: I have been so long without any one to speak to (you know
what I mean), that I must write you, though I hope to reach home almost as
soon as this letter. I am treated in the kindest manner possible. My uncle,
I think, really loves me, and I certainly love him very much. His wife is a
splendid woman. She was once, I doubt not, very beautiful, and she looks
exceedingly well now when she is dressed. She is very polite to me. I am, I
believe, a welcome visitor; and she desires me to stay longer than I
engaged to when I left home. I have not been out much, except with my uncle
to see the curiosities with which the city abounds. I have seen but few of
my aunt's friends. In truth, I suppose I have pleased her not a little by
not wishing to be seen. I am from the country, you know; though she thinks
I am making rapid progress in civilization. I judge so from the
commendation she bestows upon my attempts to avoid singularity. I remember
you used to commend me when I made successful efforts to govern my temper:
aunt commends me for the manner in which I govern my limbs, or rather when
they happen to move to please her without being governed. Last evening (I
had not seen uncle since the day before at dinner), I was glad to find him
in the parlor as I entered it. Aunt said to me, 'If you could enter the
parlor in that way when company is present, you would make quite a
sensation.' I can hardly help laughing to think what a matter of importance
so simple a thing as putting one foot before the other becomes in the city.
I suppose, if I were to live here, I should learn to sleep, and even to
breathe, by rule. I was going to say to think by rule; but thinking is not
in fashion. So far as I can learn, the thinking done here is confined to
thinking of what others think about them. Aunt was originally taught to do
everything by rule. Custom has become with her a second nature. Her manners
are called fascinating; but to me they are formal and chilling. I suppose
they are perfectly well suited to those who desire only the fascinating.
You have taught me to desire something more.

"I find myself deficient in the easy command of language which seems so
natural here. I have been astonished to find what an easy flow of polished
and tolerably correct language is possessed by some with whom language
might rather be regarded as the substitute for, than the instrument of,
thought. It must be owing to practice; though it is a mystery, to me how
persons can talk so smoothly, and even so beautifully, without ideas.

"I have seen a great many new things. I will tell you all about them when I
get home. I long for that time to come, though it be only two days off.
Every one has so much to do here, or rather in in such a hurry, that, were
it not for my uncle's mercantile habit of keeping his word, I should not
expect to see home at the appointed time.

"I am glad I came, for many reasons. I did not know so well before how
little the external has to do with happiness. As persons pass by and look
through the plate glass upon the silk damask curtains, they doubtless think
the owner of that mansion must be very happy. Now I believe my dear father
is far more happy than my uncle. I do not believe that my uncle's
magnificent parlors (I use strong language; but I believe they are regarded
as magnificent by those who are accustomed to frequent the most richly
furnished houses) have ever been the scene of so much happiness as our own
plain _keeping-room_ has. I would not exchange our straight-backed chairs,
which have been so long in the _home-service_, for the costly and luxurious
ones before me, if the _adjuncts_ were to be exchanged also. I long to sit
down in the old room and read or converse with my parents, by the light of
a single candle. I prefer that homely light to the cut-glass chandelier
which illuminates the parlors here. I love to see beautiful things, and
should have no objection to possessing them, provided the things necessary
to happiness could be added to them. Of themselves, they are insufficient
to meet the wants of the heart. Instead of being discontented with my plain
home, I shall prize it the more highly in consequence of my visit to this
great Babel. Do not think I am ungrateful to my dear uncle and to his wife
for their efforts to amuse me and make me happy. I should not be your
daughter if I were.

"Aunt has just come in, and has sent for me to her room. Kiss my dear
father for me, and pray for me that I may be restored to you in safety.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"SUSAN."

(To be continued.)

       *       *       *       *       *

SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN!

BY MISS E. BOGART.

      Sing me that song again!
  A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain;
  And as its echoes on my fancy break,
      _Heart-strings_ and _harp-chords_ wake.

      Sing to my viewless lyre!
  Each note holds mem'ries as the flint holds fire;
  And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play,
      Thought travels far away.

      And back, on laden wings,
  The music of my better life it brings;
  For years of happiness, departed long,
      Are shrined in that old song.

      Its cadence on my ear
  Falls as the night falls in the moonlight clear--
  The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams,
      As I am lost in dreams.

      Sing on, nor yet unbind
  The chain that weaves itself about my mind--
  A chain of images which seem to rise
      To life before my eyes.

      The veil which hangs around
  The past is lifted by the breath of sound,
  As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show
      The hidden things below.

      I listen to thy voice,
  Impelled beyond the power of will or choice,
  And to those simple notes' mysterious chime,
      My rushing thoughts keep time

      The key of harmony
  Has turned the rusted lock of memory,
  And opened all its secret stores to light,
      As by some wizard sprite.

      But now the charm is past,
  My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last,
  And harp-chords, stretched too far, refuse to play
      Longer an answering lay.

      The music-spell is o'er!
  And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore
  It is so old, 'tis time that it should die!
      Forget it--so will I.

      Let it in silence rest;
  Guarded by thoughts which may not be expressed
  There was a love which clung to it of old--
      _That_ love has long been cold.

      Then sing it not again!
  The voice that seemed to echo back the strain
  Has filled succeeding years with discords strange
      And won my heart to change

      And thou mayst surely cull
  Songs new and sweet, and still more beautiful:
  Sing _new_ ones, then, to which no memories cling--
      _Most_ memories have their sting.

       *       *       *       *       *

COSTUMES OF ALL NATIONS.--SECOND SERIES.

THE TOILETTE IN ENGLAND.

CHAPTER I

Ancient authors disagree in the accounts they give of the dress of the
first inhabitants of Britain. Some assert that, previously to the first
descent of the Romans, the people wore no clothing at all: other writers,
however (and, probably, with more truth), state that they clothed
themselves with the skins of wild animals; and as their mode of life
required activity and freedom of limb, loose skins over their bodies,
fastened, probably, with a thorn, would give them the needful warmth,
without in any degree restraining the liberty of action so necessary to the
hardy mountaineer.

Probably the dress of the women of those days did not differ much from that
of the men: but, after the second descent of the Romans, both sexes are
supposed to have followed the Roman costume: indeed, Tacitus expressly
asserts that they did adopt this change; though we may safely believe that
thousands of the natives spurned the Roman fashion in attire, not from any
dislike of its form or shape, but from the detestation they bore towards
their conquerors.

The beautiful and intrepid Queen Boadicea is the first British female whose
dress is recorded. Dio mentions that, when she led her army to the field of
battle, she wore "a various-colored tunic, flowing in long loose folds, and
over it a mantle, while her long hair floated over her neck and shoulders."
This warlike queen, therefore, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the
Romans, could not resist the graceful elegance of their costume, so
different from the rude clumsiness of the dress of her wild subjects; and,
though fighting valiantly against the invaders of her country, she
succumbed to the laws which Fashion had issued!--a forcible example of the
unlimited sway exercised by the flower-crowned goddess over the female
mind.

With the Saxon invasion came war and desolation, and the elegancies of life
were necessarily neglected. The invaders clothed themselves in a rude and
fantastic manner. It is not unlikely that the Britons may have adopted some
of their costume. From the Saxon females, we are told, came the invention
of dividing, curling, and turning the hair over the back of the head.
Ancient writers also add that their garments were long and flowing.

The Anglo-Saxon ladies seldom, if ever, went with their heads bare;
sometimes the veil, or _head-rail_, was replaced by a golden head-band, or
it was worn over the veil. Half circles of gold, necklaces, bracelets,
ear-rings, and crosses, were the numerous ornaments worn at that period by
the women. It is supposed that mufflers (a sort of bag with a thumb) were
also sometimes used.

Great uncertainty exists respecting the true character of a garment much
used by the Anglo-Saxon ladies, called a _kirtle_. Some writers suppose it
to have meant the petticoat; others, that it was an under robe. But, though
frequently mentioned by old authors, nothing can be correctly determined
respecting it.

Little appears to be known concerning the costume in Britain under the
Danes; but we are told that the latter "were effeminately gay in their
dress, combed their hair once a day, bathed once a week, and often changed
their attire."

[Illustration]

The ladies' dress continued much the same till the reign of Henry the
First, when the sleeves and veils were worn so immensely long, that they
were tied up in bows and festoons, and _la grande mode_ then appears to
have been to have the skirts of the gowns also of so ridiculous a length,
that they lay trailing upon the ground. Laced bodies were also sometimes
seen, and tight sleeves with pendent cuffs, like those mentioned in the
reign of Louis the Seventh of France. A second, or upper tunic, much
shorter than the under robe, was also the fashion; and, perhaps, it may be
considered as the _surcoat_ generally worn by the Normans. The hair was
often wrapped in silk or ribbon, and allowed to hang down the back; and
mufflers were in common use. The dresses were very splendid, with
embroidery and gold borders.

[Illustration]

About the beginning of the thirteenth century, the ladies found their long
narrow cuffs, hanging to the ground, very uncomfortable; they therefore
adopted tight sleeves. Pelisses, trimmed with fur, and loose surcoats, were
also worn, as well as _wimples_, an article of attire worn round the neck
under the veil. Embroidered boots and shoes formed, also, part of their
wardrobe.

The ladies' costume, during the reigns of Henry and Edward, was very
splendid. The veils and wimples were richly embroidered, and worked in
gold; the surcoat and mantle were worn of the richest materials; and the
hair was turned up under a gold caul.

[Illustration]

Towards the year 1300, the ladies' dress fell under the animadversion of
the malevolent writers of that day. The robe is represented as having had
tight sleeves and a train, over which was worn a surcoat and mantle, with
cords and tassels. "The ladies," says a poet of the thirteenth century,
"were like peacocks and magpies; for the pies bear feathers of various
colors, which Nature gives them; so the ladies love strange habits, and a
variety of ornaments. The pies have long tails, that trail in the mud; so
the ladies make their tails a thousand times longer than those of peacocks
and pies."

The pictures of the ladies of that time certainly present us with no very
elegant specimens of their fashions. Their gowns or tunics are so immensely
long, that the fair dames are obliged to hold them up, to enable them to
move; whilst a sweeping train trails after them; and over the head and
round the neck is a variety of, or substitute for, the wimple, which is
termed a _gorget_. It enclosed the cheeks and chin, and fell upon the
bosom, giving the wearer very much the appearance of suffering from
sore-throat or toothache.

When this head-dress was not worn, a caul of net-work, called a _crespine_,
often replaced it, and for many years it continued to be a favorite
coiffure.

The writers of this time speak of tight lacing, and of ladies with small
waists.

In the next reign, an apron is first met with, tied behind with a ribbon.
The sleeves of the robe, and the petticoat, are trimmed with a border of
embroidery; rich bracelets are also frequently seen; but, notwithstanding
all the splendor of the costume, the gorget still envelops the neck.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONNET.--WINTER.

BY LEWIS GRAHAM, M.D.

  Stern Winter comes with frowns and frosty smiles,
    The angry clouds in stormy squadrons fly,
    While winds, in raging tones, to winds reply;
  Old Boreas reigns, and like a wizard, piles,
    Where'er he pleases, with his gusty breath,
    The heaps of snow on mountain, hill, or heath,
  In strangest shapes, with curious sport and wild;
    But soon the sun will come with gentle rays,
    To kiss him while with fiercest storms he plays,
  And make him mild and quiet as a child.
  Though now the bleak wind-king so boisterous seems,
    And drives the tempest madly o'er the plain,
    He smiles in Spring-time soft as April rain,
  In Summer sleeps on flowers in zephyr-dreams.

       *       *       *       *       *

BUBBLES.

BY JOHN NEAL.

"Hurrah for bubbles! I go for bubbles, my dear," stopping for a moment on
his way through the large drawing-rooms, and looking at his wife and the
baby very much as a painter might do while in labor with a new picture.
"Bubbles are the only things worth living for."

"Bubbles, Peter!--be quiet, baby!--hush, my love, hush! Papa can't take you
now."

Baby jumps at the table.

"Confound the imp! There goes the inkstand!"

"Yes, my dear; and the spectacles, and the lamp, and all your papers. And
what, else could you expect, pray? Here he's been trying to make you stop
and speak to him, every time you have gone by the table, for the last half
hour, and holding out his little arms to you; while you have been walking
to and fro as if you were walking for a wager, with your eyes rolled up in
your head, muttering to yourself--mutter, mutter, mutter--and taking no
more notice of him, poor little fellow, than if he was a rag-baby, or
belonged to somebody else!"

"Oh, don't bother! _Little arms_, indeed!--about the size of my leg! I do
wish he'd be quiet. I'm working out a problem."

"A problem! fiddle-de-dee--hush, baby! A magazine article, more
like--_will_ you hush?"

Papa turns away in despair, muttering, with a voice that grows louder and
louder as he warms up--

"Wisdom and wit are bubbles! Atoms and systems into ruin, hurled! And now a
_bubble_ burst! And now a WORLD! I have it, hurrah! _Can't_ you keep that
child still?"

"Man alive, I wish you'd try yourself!"

"Humph! What the plague is he up for at this time o' night, hey?"

"At this time o' night! Why what on earth are you thinking of? It is only a
little after five, my dear."

"Well, and what if it is? Ought to have been a-bed and asleep two hours
ago."

"And so he was, my love; but you can't expect him to sleep _all_ the
time--there! there!"--trotting baby with all her might--"Hush-a-bye-baby on
the tree top--there! there!--papa's gone a-huntin'--"

"My dear!"

"My love!"

"Look at me, will you? How on earth is a fellow to marshal his
thoughts--will you be quiet, sir?--to marshal his thoughts 'the way they
should go'--Mercy on us, he'll split his throat!"

"Or train up a child the way he should go, hey?"

"Thunder and lightning, he'll drive me distracted! I wonder if there is
such a thing as a ditch or a horsepond anywhere in the neighborhood."

"Oh! that reminds me of something, my love. I ought to have mentioned it
before. The cistern's out."

"The cistern's out, hey? Well, what if it is? Are we to have this kicking
and squalling till the cistern's full again, hey?"

"Why what possesses you?"

"Couldn't see the connection, that's all. I ask for a horsepond or a ditch,
and you tell me the cistern's out. If it were full, there might be some
hope for me," looking savagely at the baby, "I suppose it's deep enough."

"For shame!--do hush, baby, will ye? Tuddy, tuddy, how he bawls!"

"Couldn't you tighten the cap-strings a little, my dear?"

"Monster! get away, will you?'

"Or cram your handkerchief down his throat, or your knitting-work, or the
lamp-rug?"

"Ah, well thought of, my dear. Have you seen Mr. Smith?"

"What Smith?"

"George, I believe. The man you buy your oil of, and your groceries.--Hush,
baby! He's been here two or three times after you this week."

"Hang Mr. Smith!"

"With all my heart, my love. But, if the quarter's rent is not paid, you
know, and the grocer's bill, and the baker's, and the butcher's, and if you
don't manage to get the bottling-house fixed up, and some other little
matters attended to, I don't exactly see how the hanging of poor Mr. Smith
would help us."

"Oh hush, will you?"

The young wife turned and kissed the baby, with her large indolent eyes
fixed upon the door somewhat nervously. She had touched the bell more than
once without being seen by her husband.

"Wisdom and wit," continued papa, with a voice like that of a man who has
overslept himself and hopes to make up for lost time by walking very fast,
and talking very little to the purpose--"Wisdom and wit are bubbles"--

The young wife nodded with a sort of a smile, and the baby, rolling over in
her lap, let fly both heels? at the nurse, who had crept in slyly, as if
intent to lug him off to bed without his knowledge. But he was not in a
humor to be trifled with; and so he flopped over on the other side, and,
tumbling head over heels upon the floor, very much at large, lay there
kicking and screaming till he grew black in the face. But the girl
persisted, nevertheless, in lifting him up and lugging him off to the door,
notwithstanding his outcries and the expostulatory looks of both papa and
mamma--her wages were evidently in arrears, a whole quarter, perhaps.

"Wisdom and wit are bubbles," continued papa; "dominion and power, and
beauty and strength"--

"And gingerbread and cheese," added mamma, in reply to something said by
the girl in a sort of stage-whisper.

Whereupon papa, stopping short, and looking at mamma for a few moments,
puzzled and well nigh speechless, gasped out--

"And _gingerbread and cheese!_ Why, what the plague do you mean, Sarah?"

"Nothing else for tea, my love, so Bridget says. Not a pound o' flour in
the house; not so much as a loaf, nor a roll, nor a muffin to be had for
love or money--so Bridget says."

"Nothin' to be had without _money_, ma'am; that's what I said."

"Bridget!"

"_Sir!_"

That "_sir!_"--it was an admission of two quarters in arrear at least.

"Take that child to bed this moment! Begone! I'll bear this no longer."

The girl stared, muttered, grabbed the baby, and flung away with such an
air--three quarters due, if there was a single day!--banged the door to
after her, and bundled off up the front stairs at a hand-gallop, her tread
growing heavier, and her voice louder and louder with every plunge.

"_Sarah!_"

"_Peter!_"

"I wonder you can put up with such insolence. That girl is getting
insufferable."

The poor wife looked up in amazement, but opened not her mouth; and the
husband continued walking the floor with a tread that shook the whole
house, and stopping occasionally, as if to watch the effect, or to see how
much further he might go without injury to his own health.

"How often have I told you, my dear, that if a woman would be respected by
her own servants, she must respect herself, and never allow a word nor a
look of impertinence--_never! never!_--not even a look! Why, Sarah, life
itself would be a burthen to me. Upon my word," growing more and more in
earnest every moment--"Upon my word, I believe I should hang myself! And
how _you_ can bear it--you, with a nature so gentle and so affectionate,
and so--I declare to you"--

"Pray don't speak so loud, my love. The people that are going by the window
stop and look up towards the house. And what will the Peabodys think?"

"What do I care! Let them think what they please. Am I to regulate the
affairs of my household by what a neighbor may happen to think, hey? The
fact is, my dear Sarah--you must excuse me, I don't want to hurt your
feelings--but, the fact is, you ought to have had the child put to bed
three hours ago."

"_Three_ hours ago!"

"Yes, _three_ hours ago; and that would have prevented all this trouble."

Not a word from the young, patient wife; but she turned away hurriedly, and
there was a twinkle, as of a rain-drop, falling through the lamplight.

A dead silence followed. After a few more turns, the husband stopped, and,
with something of self-reproach in his tone, said--

"I take it for granted there is nothing the matter with the boy?"

No answer.

"Have you any idea what made him cry so terribly? Teething, perhaps."

No answer.

"Or the colic. You do not answer me, Sarah. It cannot be that you have
allowed that girl to put him to bed, if there is anything the matter with
him, poor little fellow!"

The young wife looked up, sorrowing and frightened.

"The measles are about, you know, and the scarlet fever, and the
hooping-cough, and the mumps; but, surely, a mother who is with her child
all night long and all day long ought to be able to see the symptoms of any
and every ailment before they would be suspected by another. And if it
should so happen"--

The poor wife could be silent no longer.

"The child is well enough," said she, somewhat stoutly. "He was never
better in his life. But he wanted his papa to take him, and he wouldn't;
and reaching after him he tipped over the lamp, and then--and then"--and
here she jumped up to leave the room; but her husband was too quick for
her.

"That child's temper will be ruined," said papa.

"To be sure it will," said mamma; "and I've always said so."

She couldn't help it; but she was very sorry, and not a little flurried
when her husband, turning short upon her, said--

"I understand you, Sarah. Perhaps he wanted me to take him up to bed?"

No answer.

"I wonder if he expects me to do that for him till he is married? _Little
arms_, indeed!"

No answer.

"Or till he is wanted to do as much for me?"

No answer; not even a smile.

And now the unhappy father, by no means ready to give up, though not at all
satisfied with himself, begins walking the floor anew and muttering to
himself, and looking sideways at his dear patient wife, who has gone back
to the table, and is employed in getting up another large basket of
baby-things, with trembling lips and eyes running over in bashful
thankfulness and silence.

"Well, well, there is no help for it, I dare say. As we brew we must bake.
It would be not merely unreasonable, but silly--foolish--absolutely
foolish--whew!--to ask of a woman, however admirable her disposition may
be, for a--for a straightforward--Why what the plague are you laughing at,
Sarah? What have you got there?"

Without saying a word, mamma pushed over towards him a new French
caricature, just out, representing a man well wrapped up in a great coat
with large capes, and long boots, and carrying an umbrella over his own
head, from which is pouring a puddle of water down the back of a delicate
fashionable woman--his wife, anybody might know--wearing thin slippers and
a very thin muslin dress, and making her way through the gutters on
tip-toe, with the legend, "You are never satisfied!" "_Tu n'est jamais
contente!_"

Instead of gulping down the joke, and laughing heartily--or making believe
laugh, which is the next best thing, in all such cases--papa stood upon his
dignity, and, after an awful pause, went on talking to himself pretty much
as follows:--

"According to Shakspeare--and what higher authority can we
have?--reputation itself is but a _bubble_, blown by the cannon's mouth:
and therefore do I say, and stick to it--hurrah for bubbles!"

The young wife smiled; but her eyes were fixed upon a very small cap, with
a mournful and touching expression, and her delicate fingers were busy upon
its border with that regular, steady, incessant motion which, beginning
soon after marriage, ends only with sickness or death.

"_And_," continued papa--"_and_, if Moore is to be believed, the great
world itself, with all its wonders and its glories--the past, the present,
and the future, is but a '_fleeting show_.'"

The young wife nodded, and fell to dancing the baby's cap on the tips of
her fingers.

"And what are _bubbles_," continued papa, "what are _bubbles_ but a
'fleeting show?'"

The little cap canted over o' one side, and there was a sort of a giggle,
just the least bit in the world, it was _so_ cunning, as papa added, in
unspeakable solemnity--

"And so, too, everything we covet, everything we love, and everything we
revere on earth, are but emptiness and vanity."

Here a nod from the little cap, mounted on the mother's fingers, brought
papa to a full stop--a change of look followed--a downright smile--and then
a much pleasanter sort of speech--and then, as you live, a kiss!

"And what are _bubbles_, I should be glad to know, but emptiness and
vanity?" continues papa.

"By all this, I am to understand that a wife is a bubble--hey?"

"To be sure."

"And the baby?"

"Another."

"And what are husbands?"

"Bubbles of a large growth."

"Agreed!--I have nothing more to say."

"Look about you. Watch the busiest man you know--the wisest, the greatest,
among the renowned, the ambitious, and the mighty of earth, and tell me if
you can see one who does not spend his life blowing bubbles in the
sunshine--through the stump of a tobacco pipe. What living creature did you
ever know--"

"Did you speak to me, my dear?"

"No. Sarah, I was speaking to posterity."

Another nod from the little cap, and papa grows human.

"Yes!--what living creature did you ever know who was not more of a
bubble-hunter than he was anything else? We are all schemers--even the
wisest and the best--all visionaries, my dear."

By this time, papa had got mamma upon his knee, and the rest of the
conversation was at least an octave lower.

"Even so, my love. And what, after all, is the looming at sea; the Fata
Morgana in the Straits of Messina, near Reggio; or the Mirage of the
Desert, in Egypt and Persia, but a sample of those glittering
phantasmagoria, which are called _chateaux en Espagne_, or castles in the
air, by the wondrous men who spend their lives in piling them up, story
upon story, turrets, towers, and steeples--domes, and roofs, and pinnacles?
and _therefore_ do I say again, hurrah for bubbles!"

"What say you to the South Sea bubble, my dear?"

"What say I!--just what I say of the Tulip bubble, of the Mississippi
Scheme, of the Merino Sheep enterprise, of the Down-East Timber lands, of
the Morus Multicaulis, of the California fever, and the Cuba hallucination.
They are periodical outbreaks of commercial enterprise, unavoidable in the
very nature of things, and never long, nor safely postponed; growing out of
a plethora--never out of a scarcity--a plethora of wealth and population,
and corresponding, in the regularity of their returns, with the plague and
the cholera."

"And these are what you have called _bubbles_?"

"Precisely."

"And yet, if I understood you aright, when you said, 'I go for
bubbles--hurrah for bubbles'--you meant to speak well of them?"

"To be sure I did--certainly--yes--no--so far as a magazine article goes, I
did."

"But a magazine article, my love--bear with me, I pray you--ought to be
something better than a brilliant paradox, hey?"

"Go on--I like this."

"If you will promise not to be angry."

"I do."

"Well, then--however _telling_ it may be to hurrah for bubbles, and to call
your wife a bubble, and your child another; because the world is all a
'fleeting show,' and bubbles are a 'fleeting show;' or because the
Scriptures tell us that everything here is emptiness and vanity--and
bubbles are emptiness and vanity; I have the whole of your argument, I
believe?--is hardly worthy of a man, who, in writing, would wish to make
his fellow-man better or wiser--"

"Well done the bubble!--I never heard _you_ reason before: keep it up, my
dear."

"You never gave me a chance; and, by the way, there is one bubble you have
entirely overlooked."

"And what is that--marriage?"

"No."

"The buried treasures, and the cross of pure gold, a foot and a half long,
you were talking with that worthy man about, last winter, when I came upon
you by surprise, and found you both sitting together in the dark--and
whispering _so_ mysteriously?"

"Captain Watts, you mean, the lighthouse keeper?"

"Yes. Upon my word, Peter, I began to think you were _up_ for California. I
never knew you so absent in all your life as you were, day after day, for a
long while after that conversation."

"The very thing, my dear!--and as I happen to know most of the parties, and
was in communication for three whole years with the leader of the
enterprise, I do think it would be one of the very best illustrations to be
found, in our day, of that strange, steadfast, unquenchable faith, which
upholds the bubble-hunter through all the sorrows and all the
discouragements of life, happen what may: and you shall have the credit of
suggesting that story. But then, look you, my dear--if I content myself
with telling the simple truth, nobody will believe me."

"Try it."

"I will!--Good night, my dear."

"Don't make a long story of it, I beseech you.--Good night!"

"Hadn't you better leave the little cap with me? It may keep you awake, my
dear."

"Nonsense. Good night!" and papa drops into a chair, makes a pen, and goes
to work as follows:--

Now for it: here goes! In the year 1841, there was a man living at
Portland, Maine, whose life, were it faithfully written out, would be one
of the most amusing, perhaps one of the most instructive, books of our day.
Energetic, hopeful, credulous to a proverb, and yet sagacious enough to
astonish everybody when he prospered, and to set everybody laughing at him
when he did not, he had gone into all sorts of speculation, head over
heels, in the course of a few years, and failed in everything he undertook.
At one time, he was a retail dry-goods dealer, and failed: then a
manufacturer by water power of cheap household furniture, and failed again:
then a large hay-dealer: then a holder of nobody knows how many shares in
the Marr Estate, whereby he managed to feather his nest very handsomely,
they say; then he went into the land business, and bought and sold township
after township, till he was believed to be worth half a million, and used
to give away a tithe of his profits to poor widows, at the rate of ten
thousand dollars a year; offering the cash, but always giving on
interest--simple interest--which was never paid--failed: tried his hand at
working Jewell's Island, in Casco Bay, at one time, for copperas; and at
another, for treasures buried there by Captain Kyd. Let us call him Colonel
Jones, for our present purpose; that being a name he went by, at a pinch,
for a short period.

Well, one day he called upon me--it was in the year 1842, I should
say--and, shutting the door softly, and looking about, as if to make sure
that no listeners were nigh, and speaking in a low voice, he asked if I had
a few minutes to spare.

I bowed.

He then drew his chair up close to mine, so near as to touch, and, looking
me straight in the eyes, asked if I was a believer in animal magnetism;
waiting, open-mouthed, for my answer.

"Certainly," said I.

Whereupon he drew a long breath, and fell to rubbing his hands with great
cheerfulness and pertinacity.

"In clairvoyance, too--_perhaps_?"

"Most assuredly--up to a certain point."

"I knew it! I knew it!" jumping up and preparing to go. "Just what I
wanted--that's enough--I'm satisfied--good-by!"

"Stop a moment, my good fellow. The questions you put are so general that
my answers may mislead you."

He began to grow restless and fidgety.

"Although I am a believer in what _I_ call animal magnetism and
clairvoyance, I would not have you understand that I am a believer in a
hundredth part of the stories told of others. What I see with my own eyes,
and have had a fair opportunity of investigating and verifying, that I
believe. What others tell me, I neither believe nor disbelieve. I wait for
the proof. Suppose you state the case fairly."

"Do you believe that a clairvoyant can see hidden treasure in the earth,
and that it would be safe to rely upon the assurances of such a person made
in the magnetic sleep?"

"No."

"But suppose you had tried her?"

"_Her!_ In what way?"

"By hiding a watch, for example, or a bit of gold, or a silver spoon, where
nobody knew of it but yourself?"

"No; not even then."

"_No!_ And why not, pray?"

"Simply because, judging by the experiments I have been able to make, I do
not see any good reason for believing that, because a subject may tell us
of what we ourselves know, or have heretofore known, which I admit very
common, therefore she can tell me what I do not know and never did know. My
notion is--but I maybe mistaken--that she sees with my eyes, hears with my
ears, and remembers with my memory; and that she can do nothing more than
reflect my mind while we are in communication."

"May be so; but the woman we are dealing with has actually pointed out the
direction, and, at last, by a process of lining peculiar to herself, the
actual position of what I had buried in the earth at a considerable
distance, and without the knowledge or help of any living creature."

"Could she do this _always_ and with _certainty_, and so that a third
person might go to the treasure without help, on hearing her directions?"

"Why no, perhaps not; for that some few mistakes may have occurred, in the
progress of our investigations, I am not disposed to deny."

"Probably. But, after all, were the directions given by her at any time,
under any circumstances, definite and clear enough to justify a man of
plain common sense in risking his reputation or money upon a third party's
finding, without help, what you had concealed?"

Instead of answering my question, the poor fellow grew uneasy, and pale,
and anxious; and, after considering awhile, and getting up and sitting down
perhaps half a dozen times before he could make up his mind what to say, he
told me a story--one of the most improbable I ever heard in my life--the
leading features of which, nevertheless, I know to be true, and will vouch
for as matters of fact.

There had been here, in Portland, for about six months, it appeared, a
strange-looking, mysterious man--I give the facts, without pretending to
give the words--who went by the name of Greenleaf. He was a sailor, and
boarded with a man who kept a sailor boarding-house, and who, I am told, is
still living here, by the name of Mellon. People had taken it into their
heads that the stranger had something upon his mind, as he avoided
conversation, took long walks by himself, and muttered all night long in
his sleep. After a while, it began to be whispered about among the
seafaring people that he was a pirate; and Mellon, his landlord, went so
far as to acknowledge that he had his reasons for thinking so; although
Greenleaf, on finding himself treated, and watched, and questioned more
narrowly than he liked, managed to drop something about having sailed under
the Brazilian flag. And, on being plied with liquor one day, with listeners
about him, he went into some fuller particulars, which set them all agog.
These, reaching the ears of Colonel Jones, led to an interview, from which
he gathered that Greenleaf was one of a large crew commissioned by the
Brazils in 1826; that, after cruising a long while in a latitude swarming
with Spanish vessels of war, they got reduced to twenty-five men, all told.
That one day they fell in with a large, heavily-laden ship, from which they
took about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in gold and silver,
and a massive gold cross, nearly two feet long, and weighing from fifteen
to twenty pounds, belonging to a Spanish priest; but what they did with the
crew and the passengers, or with the ship and the priest, did not appear.
That, soon after getting their treasure aboard, they saw a large sail to
windward, which they took to be a Spanish frigate; and, being satisfied
with their booty, they altered their course, and steered for a desolate
island near Guadaloupe, where, after taking out three hundred doubloons
apiece, they landed, with the rest of the treasure packed in gun-cases, and
hooped with iron; dug a hole in the earth and buried it; carefully removing
the turf and replacing it, and carrying off all the dirt, and scattering it
along the shore. That they took the bearings of certain natural objects,
and marked the trees, and agreed among themselves, under oath, not to
disturb the treasure till fifteen years had gone by, when it was to belong
to the survivors. That, having done this, they steered for the Havana, and,
after altering their craft to a fore-and-aft schooner, sold her, and shared
the money. Being flush, and riotous, and quarrelsome, they soon got
a-fighting among themselves; and, within a few months, by the help of the
yellow fever, not less than twenty-three out of the whole twenty-five were
buried, leaving only this Greenleaf and an old man, who went by the name of
Thomas Taylor, and who had not been heard of for many years, and was now
believed to be dead.

A fortune-teller was consulted, and put into a magnetic sleep, and, if the
description they had painted of the man they were after could be depended
on by her, they would find him, under another name, in a national ship on
the East India station.

Here the Colonel began rubbing his hands again.

It appeared, moreover, that Taylor and Greenleaf had met more than once,
and consulted together, and made two or three attempts to charter a vessel;
but, being poor and among strangers, and afraid of trusting to other
people--no matter why--they finally agreed to lie by till they were better
off, and not be seen together till they should be able to undertake the
enterprise without help from anybody.

"But," said Greenleaf. "I am tired of waiting. He may be dead for all I
know He was an old man. At any rate, he is beyond my reach, out of hail;
and so, d'ye see, if you'll rig us out a small schooner, of not more than
seventy-five or eighty tons, I will go with you, and ask for no wages; and
here's the landlord'll go, too, on the same lay; and, if you'll give me a
third of what we find, I'll answer for Taylor, dead or alive, and you shall
be welcome to the rest, and may do what you like with it."

"Would they consent to go _unarmed_?"

"Yes."

And all these facts being communicated to some of our people, and agreed
to, a small schooner was chartered--the Napoleon, of ninety tons; Captain
John Sawyer was put in master, and Watts, who had followed the sea forty
years, and is now the keeper of Portland light, supercargo.

Not less than five, and it may be six, different voyages followed, one
after the other, as fast as a vessel could be engaged and a crew got
together; and, though nothing was "_realized_" but vexation,
disappointment, and self-reproach, till the parties who had ventured upon
the undertaking were almost ashamed to show their faces, there is not one
of the whole to this hour, I verily believe, who does not stick to the
faith and swear _it_ was no _bubble_; and they are men of character and
experience--men of business habits, cool and cautious in their
calculations, and by no means given to chasing will-o'-the-wisps anywhere.

And now let me give the particulars that have since come to my knowledge,
on the authority of those who were actually parties in the strange
enterprise from first to last.

Before they sailed on their first voyage, they consulted a fortune teller
by the name of Tarbox, who, without knowing their purpose, and while in a
magnetic sleep, described the place, and the marks, and the treasure, even
to the cross of gold, just as they had been described by Greenleaf himself.
But she chilled their very blood at the time by whispering that, within two
or three weeks at furthest, there would be a death among their number.
Greenleaf made very light of the prediction at first, but grew serious,
and, after a few days, gloomy, and refused to go. At last, however, he
consented, and they had a very pleasant run to the edge of the Gulf Stream,
latitude 38° and longitude 67°, when--but I must give this part of the
story in the very language of Watts himself, a man still living, and worthy
of entire confidence.

"We had been talking together pleasantly enough, and he seemed rather
_chippur_. Only the night before, he had given me all the marks and
bearings, and everything but the _distance_. He had never trusted anybody
else in the same way, he said, but had rather taken a liking to me, and he
kept back that one thing only that he might be safe, happen what must on
the voyage. Well, we had been talking pleasantly together--it was about
nine A.M., and the sea was running pretty high, and I had just turned to go
aft, when something made me look round again, and I saw the poor fellow
pitching head foremost over the side. He touched the water eight or ten
feet from the vessel, but came up handsomely and struck out. He was a
capital swimmer, and not at all frightened, so far as I could judge; for,
if you'll believe me, squire, he never opened his mouth, but swum head and
shoulders out of the water. At first, I thought he had jumped overboard;
but afterwards, I made up my mind that he was knocked over by the leach of
the foresail. I got hold of the gaff-topsail yard and run it under his
arms, and threw a rope over him, and sung out 'Hold on, Greenleaf! hold on,
and we'll save you yet.' But he took no notice of me, and steered right
away from the vessel. I then called to Captain Sawyer that we would lower
the boat, and asked him to jump in with me. There was a heavy sea on, and
we let go the boat, and she filled; she _riz_ once or twice, and then the
stem and stern were ripped out, and the body went adrift; and when I looked
again, there was nothing to be seen of poor Greenleaf. We ran for
Guadaloupe and sold our cargo, and then for St. Thuras's, and then for the
island where the money was buried. I offered to go ashore with Mellon, the
Dutchman, though Captain Sawyer tried to discourage me."

"Well, you went ashore?"

"I did."

"And satisfied yourself?"

"I did."

"But how?"

"I found the marks and the trees, and a well sunk in the sand with a barrel
in it; and I came to a place where the turf had settled, and a--and a--and,
from what I saw, I believe the money was there just as much as I believe
that I am talking with you now."

"You do!--then why the plague didn't you bring it home with you?"

"I'll tell you, squire. Fact is, we all agreed to go shears when the voyage
was made up. Greenleaf was to have a third, the Dutchman a third, and
Williams and M'Lellan a third, to be divided between Mr. C--Colonel Jones,
I should say--Captain Sawyer, and myself. But, the moment Greenleaf was out
of the way, the Dutchman grew sulky, and insisted on having his
part--making two-thirds; and finally swore he would have it, or _die_. This
we thought rather unreasonable; and, as I had the chart with me, and all
the marks, while the Dutchman had nothing to help him in the search, I
determined to lose myself on the island, feel round the shore a little, for
my own satisfaction, and then steal off quietly, and try another voyage,
with fewer partners. You understand, hey?"

"Well, my good friend, I don't ask you _how_ you satisfied yourself; but I
may as well acknowledge that I have understood from another owner--Colonel
Jones himself--that you carried probes and other mining tools with you,
such as you had been using on Jewell's Island for a long while; and that in
pricking, where you found the turf a little sunk, you touched something
about the size of a small tea-chest, and square, three feet below the
surface?"

To this Watts made no answer.

"And here ended the first voyage, hey?"

"Yes."

"How many were made in all?"

"I made three trips, and Captain M'Lellan two--and it runs in my head there
was another, but I am not sure. I returned from my third voyage on the 18th
day of July, 1842, in the Grampus, a little schooner of about seventy-five
tons."

"Perhaps you would have no objection to tell me something about the other
voyages?"

"Well, squire, to tell you the truth, we didn't land at all on the second
voyage. July 14th, we'd fell to leeward, and was beating up. I had been all
night on the look-out--I was master that trip--and we had got far enough to
bear up and run down under the lee of the island. We saw huts there, and
twenty or thirty people, and we didn't much like their behavior. When they
saw us, they ran down to the landing and took two boats and launched 'em. I
offered to go ashore, if anybody would go with me. John Mac, he first
agreed to it, but all the others refused; and then he said he would go if
the others would. And then we steered for Portland Harbor."

"Well, and the third voyage?"

"That we made in the Grampus. Captain Josh Safford and Captain Bill
Drinkwater went with us. We found two Spaniards upon the island. Their
boats had gone to Porto Rico after provisions, they said. So Captain
Safford, he gave them two muskets, with powder and ball, and they went off
hunting goats. After this, I didn't consider myself justified in going
ashore; and Captain Drinkwater complained a good deal of the liberty
Safford took in supplying strangers with firearms. They might pop a fellow
off at any time, you know, and nobody thereabouts would a ben the wiser."

"And here endeth the third voyage, hey?"

"Jess so."

"Do you happen to know anything about the other two?"

"Yes--for though I didn't go in the vessel, I knew pretty much all that
happened. You see, Colonel Jones he went to work with the fortin-teller
again; and he jest puts her to sleep, and tries her out and out, on
Jewell's Island, where she found a skeleton fixed between two trees, and
the walls of a hut, all grown over with large trees, and all the things
he'd buried there; and then too, while we was at sea, she told him what we
were doing, day by day, and they logged it all down: and when we got back
and compared notes, we found it all true. Ah! he was a sharp one, I tell
you! At last, he got her upon the track of Taylor. She found him in the
East Indies, under another name, and shipped aboard one of our national
ships. And so, what does he do but go to work and petition the Navy
Department for Taylor's discharge, upon the ground that a grand estate had
been left him--or, that he had large expectations, I forget which. He was
very shy at first, and wouldn't acknowledge that he had ever gone by the
name of Thomas Taylor. I dare say he had his reasons. But, after hunting
him through hospitals, and navy yards, and sailor boarding-houses, and from
ship to ship, the colonel he cornered him, and got him to say he would go
with them. He told exactly the same story that Greenleaf did: I was taken
sick, and couldn't go, and---stop--I'm before my story, I believe--they
made their voyage without him. They landed, dug trenches, and blistered
their hands, and spent over two days in the search, while the schooner lay
off and on, waiting for them: but they found nothing. After they got back,
however, the colonel he had a meeting with the owners, and satisfied them
all, in some way--I never knew how--that they had just reversed the
bearings, and hadn't been near the place. How he knew, I can't say, for he
had never been there, to my knowledge, and I happen to know that they must
have been pretty near the spot, for they found a sort of a hillock that I
remembered, and they told me all about the bearings, and they agreed with
my chart."

"Well!--"

"Well, the next time they went, they took Taylor with them, and everything
went on smoothly enough till one day, when the voyage was almost up, Taylor
he said to Pearce--'Pearce,' said he, 'to-morrow, at this time, I shall be
a rich man; and now,' says he, 'Mr. Pearce,' says he, 'I must have my
letters.' Upon this, up steps John Mac, and says he, 'Taylor,' says he,
'when you want any letters, you'll have to come to me for them; and I shall
have to put you upon allowance.' And then Taylor--he was an old
man-o'-warsman, you see, and he couldn't get along without his grog--he
jest ups and says--'that's enough, capt'n. You may haul aft the sheet, tack
ship, and go home. I shall tell you nothing more. As soon as the money is
safe--I see how 'tis--old Taylor'll have to go overboard.' And he stuck to
what he said, though he went ashore with them, just to show them that he
knew every point of the compass--for he told them where they would find a
couple of holes in the ledge--and they found them there, just as he said;
and the first thing they saw, there was Taylor away up on the top of a high
mountain, smoking a pipe. He had always told them he knew how to get up
there; but they never believed him, because they had all tried and couldn't
fetch it."

"And he stuck to it, hey, and never told them anything more?"

"Jess so."

"And what became of Taylor? Is he living?"

"No; he died in the hospital at Bath not more than five years ago."

"And you still think the money was there?"

"Think!--I am sure of it."

"Do you believe it is there now?"

"Do I!--Certainly I do!"

Whereupon, all I have to say is--_Hurrah for bubbles!_

       *       *       *       *       *

SONNET.--QUEEN OF SCOTS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

  Within a castle's battlemented walls,
    In crimsoned dungeon lay fair Scotia's queen:
    Like drooping sorrow seemed she oft to lean
  Her weary head. Pale, weeping memory recalls
  The beaming joys of her life's early day,
    Forever fled. Her spirit, palled with gloom,
    Anticipates sweet rest but in the tomb--
  White wingéd Faith, her guardian one, alway
  There hovering nigh. 'Tis morn; dreams she no more;
    On Fotheringay's black scaffold now she stands,
    Clasping her cherished croslet in her hands,
  Anon to die. Her fate the loves deplore;
  The angel-loves, eke, waft her soul to heaven;
  Her faults, her follies, to her faith forgiven.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PIONEER MOTHERS OF THE WEST.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

MARY BLEDSOE.

The history of the early settlers of the West, a large portion of which has
never been recorded in any published work, is full of personal adventure.
No power of imagination could create materials more replete with romantic
interest than their simple experience afforded. The early training of those
hardy pioneers in their frontier life; the daring with Which they
penetrated the wilderness, plunging into trackless forests, and
encountering the savage tribes whose hunting-grounds they had invaded; and
the sturdy perseverance with which they overcame all difficulties, compel
our wondering admiration. But far less attention has been given to their
exploits and sufferings than they deserve, because the accounts we have
received are too vague and general; the picture is not brought near us, nor
exhibited With life-like proportions and coloring; and our sympathy is
denied to what we are unable to appreciate. It will, I am sure, be
rendering a service to those interested in our American story to collect
such traditionary information as can be fully relied upon, and thus show
something of the daily life of those heroic adventurers.

The kindness of a descendant of one of those noble patriots who, after
having won distinction in the struggle for Independence, sought new homes
in the free and growing West,[1] enables me to present some brief notice of
one family associated with the early history of Tennessee. The name of
Bledsoe is distinguished among the pioneers of the Cumberland Valley. The
brothers of this name--Englishmen by birth--were living in 1769 upon the
extreme border of civilization, near Fort Chipel, a military post in Wyth
County, Virginia. It was not long before they removed further into the
wild, being probably the earliest pioneers in the valley of the Holston, in
what is now called Sullivan County, Tennessee, a portion of country at that
time supposed to be within the limits of Virginia. The Bledsoes, with the
Shelbys, settled themselves about twelve miles above the Island Flats. The
beauty of that mountainous region attracted others, who impelled by the
same spirit of adventure, and pride in being the first to explore the
wilderness, came to join them in establishing the colony. They cheerfully
ventured their property and lives, enduring the severest privations in
taking possession of their new homes, influenced by the love of
independence, equality, and religious freedom. The most dearly-prized
rights of man had been threatened in the oppressive system adopted by Great
Britain towards her colonies; her agents and the colonial magistrates
manifested all the insolence of authority; and individuals who had suffered
from their aggressions bethought themselves of a country beyond the
mountains, in the midst of primeval forests, where no laws existed save the
law of Nature--no magistrate except those selected by themselves; where
full liberty of conscience, of speech, and of action prevailed. Yet, almost
in the first year of their settlement, they formed a written code of
regulations by which they agreed to be governed; each man signing his name
thereto. The pioneer settlements of the Holston and Watanga, formed by
parties of emigrants from neighboring provinces, traveling together through
the wilderness, were not, in their constitution, unlike those of New Haven
and Hartford; but among them was no godly Hooker, no learned and
heavenly-minded Haynes. As from the first, however, they were exposed to
the continual depredations and assaults of their savage neighbors, who
looked with jealous eyes upon the approach of the white men, and waged a
war of extermination against them, it was perhaps well that there were
among them few men of letters. The rifle and the axe, their only weapons of
civilization, suited better the perils they encountered from the fierce and
marauding Shawnees, Chickamangas, Creeks, and Cherokees, than would the
brotherly address of William Penn, or the pious discourses of Roger
Williams.

During the first year, not more than fifty families had crossed the
mountains; but others came with each revolving season to reinforce the
little settlement, until its population swelled to hundreds; increasing to
thousands within ten or fifteen years, notwithstanding the frequent and
terrible inroads upon their numbers of the Indian rifle and tomahawk. The
dwelling-houses were forts, picketed, and flanked by block-houses, and the
inhabitants, for mutual aid and protection, took up their residence in
groups around different stations, within a short distance of one another.

Not long after the Bledsoes established themselves upon the banks of the
Holston, Colonel Anthony Bledsoe, who was an excellent surveyor, was
appointed clerk to the commissioners who ran the line dividing Virginia and
North Carolina. Bledsoe had, before this, ascertained that Sullivan County
was comprised within the boundaries of the latter province. In June, 1776,
he was chosen by the inhabitants of the county to the command of the
militia. The office imposed on him the dangerous duty of repelling the
savages and defending the frontier. He had often to call out the militia
and lead them to meet their Indian assailants, whom they would pursue to
their villages through the recesses of the forest. The battle of Long
Island, fought a few miles below his station, near the Island Flats, was
one of the earliest and hardest fought battles known in the traditionary
history of Tennessee. In June, 1776, more than seven hundred Indian
warriors advanced upon the settlements on the Holston, with the avowed
object of exterminating the white race through all their borders. Colonel
Bledsoe, at the head of the militia, marched to meet them, and in the
conflict which ensued was completely victorious; the Indians being routed,
and leaving forty dead upon the field. This disastrous defeat for a time
held them in check: but the spirit of savage hostility was invincible, and
in the years following there was a constant succession of Indian troubles,
in which Colonel Bledsoe was conspicuous for his bravery and services.

In 1779, Sullivan County having been recognized as a part of North
Carolina, Governor Caswell appointed Anthony Bledsoe colonel, and Isaac
Shelby lieutenant-colonel, of its military company. About the beginning of
July of the following year, General Charles McDowell, who commanded a
district east of the mountains, sent to Bledsoe a dispatch, giving him an
account of the condition of the country. The surrender of Charleston had
brought the State of South Carolina under British power; the people had
been summoned to return to their allegiance, and resistance was ventured
only by a few resolute spirits, determined to brave death rather than
submit to the invader. The Whigs had fled into North Carolina, whence they
returned as soon as they were able to oppose the enemy. Colonels Tarleton
and Ferguson had advanced towards North Carolina at the head of their
soldiery; and McDowell ordered Colonel Bledsoe to rally the militia of his
county, and come forward in readiness to assist in repelling the invader's
approach. Similar dispatches were sent to Colonel Sevier and to other
officers, and the patriots were not slow in obeying the summons.

While the British Colonel Ferguson, under the orders of Cornwallis, was
sweeping the country near the frontier, gathering the loyalists under his
standard and driving back the Whigs, against whom fortune seemed to have
decided, a resolute band was assembled for their succor far up among the
mountains. From a population of five or six thousand, not more than twelve
hundred of them fighting men, a body of near five hundred mountaineers,
armed with rifles and clad in leathern hunting-shirts, was gathered. The
anger of these sons of liberty had been stirred up by an insolent message
received from Colonel Ferguson, that, "if they did not instantly lay down
their arms, he would come over the mountains and whip their republicanism
out of them;" and they were eager for an opportunity of showing what regard
they paid to his threats.

At this juncture, Colonel Isaac Shelby returned from Kentucky, where he had
been surveying land for the great company of land speculators headed by
Henderson, Hart, and others. The young officer was betrothed to Miss Susan
Hart, a belle celebrated among the western settlements at that period, and
it was shrewdly suspected that his sudden return from the wilds of Kentucky
was to be attributed to the attractions of that young lady; notwithstanding
that due credit is given to the patriot, in recent biographical sketches,
for an ardent wish to aid his countrymen in their struggle for liberty by
his active services at the scene of conflict. On his arrival at Bledsoe's,
it was a matter of choice with the colonel whether he should himself go
forth and march at the head of the advancing army of volunteers, or yield
the command to Shelby. It was necessary for one to remain behind, for the
danger to the defenceless inhabitants of the country was even greater from
the Indians than the British; and it was obvious that the ruthless savage
would take immediate advantage of the departure of a large body of fighting
men, to fall upon the enfeebled frontier. Shelby, on his part, insisted
that it was the duty of Colonel Bledsoe, whose family, relatives, and
defenceless neighbors looked to him for protection, to stay with the troops
at home for the purpose of repelling the expected Indian assault. For
himself, he urged, he had no family to guard, or who might mourn his loss,
and it was better that he should advance with the troops to join McDowell.
No one could tell where might be the post of danger and honor, at home or
on the other side of the mountain. The arguments he used no doubt
corresponded with his friend's own convictions, his sense of duty to his
family, and of true regard to the welfare of his country; and the
deliberation resulted in his relinquishment of the command to his junior
officer. It was thus that the conscientious, though not ambitious, patriot
lost the honor of commanding in one of the most distinguished actions of
the Revolutionary War.

Colonel Shelby took the command of those gallant mountaineers who
encountered the forces of Ferguson at King's Mountain on the 7th October,
1780. Three days after that splendid victory, Colonel Bledsoe received from
him an official dispatch giving an account of the battle. The daughter of
Colonel Bledsoe well remembers having heard this dispatch read by her
father, though it has probably long since shared the fate of other valuable
family papers.

When the hero of King's Mountain, wearing the victor's wreath, returned to
his friends, he found that his betrothed had departed with her father for
Kentucky, leaving for him no request to follow. Sarah, the above-mentioned
daughter of Colonel Bledsoe, often rallied the young officer, who spent
considerable time at her father's, upon this cruel desertion. He would
reply by expressing much indignation at the treatment he had received at
the hands of the fair coquette, and protesting that he would not follow her
to Kentucky, nor ask her of her father; he would wait for little Sarah
Bledsoe, a far prettier bird, he would aver, than the one that had flown
away. The maiden, then some twelve or thirteen years of age, would
laughingly return his bantering by saying he "had better wait, indeed, and
see if he could win Miss Bledsoe who could not win Miss Hart." The arch
damsel was not wholly in jest, for a youthful kinsman of the colonel--David
Shelby, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who had fought by his side at
King's Mountain--had already gained her youthful affections. She remained
true to this early love, though her lover was only a private soldier. And
it may be well to record that, the gallant colonel who thus threatened
infidelity to his, did actually, notwithstanding his protestations, go to
Kentucky the following year, and was married to Miss Susan Hart, who made
him a faithful and excellent wife.

During the whole of the trying period that intervened between the first
settlement of east Tennessee and the close of the Revolutionary struggle,
Colonel Bledsoe, with his brother and kinsmen, was almost incessantly
engaged in the strife with their Indian foes, as well as in the laborious
enterprise of subduing the forest, and converting the tangled wilds into
the husbandman's fields of plenty. In these varied scenes of trouble and
trial, of toil and danger, the men were aided and encouraged by the women.
Mary Bledsoe, the colonel's wife, was a woman of remarkable energy, and
noted for her independence both of thought and action. She never hesitated
to expose herself to danger whenever she thought it her duty to brave it;
and when Indian hostilities were most fierce, when their homes were
frequently invaded by the murderous savage, and females struck down by the
tomahawk or carried into captivity, she was foremost in urging her husband
and friends to

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