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 REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

153

The Stranded Ship. By L. Clark Davis. 1 vol., 16 mo New York: G. P. Putnam & Son.-Among recent stories by American writers this is one of the best. Very many of the chapters are written with great power. The description of the storm, toward the conclusion, is strikingly fine : one hears the very boom of the surf, and feels the sting of the scud. Mr. Davis understands one cardinal point in story telling: he arrests and fixes the attention at the very REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. How Lisa Loved the King. By George Eliot. 1 vol., 16 mo. opening of the tale ; and never afterward lets it go. He is Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.- The author of “ Adam Bede," a comparatively new writer, at least to us, but he gives " Silas Warner," " Romola," and " The Mill on the Floss," is promise of a very successful future. The Villa on the Rhine. By B. Auerbach. 2 vols. New the greatest of living novelists ; but she is not a poet, in the true sense of that term, at least: she is only a wonderful York: Leypoldt & Holt.-We have now the completion of artist, working in rhyme. Hier " Spanish Gipsy" exhibited this remarkable novel. It is published in four parts, bound at once her strength and her weakness ; and this new tale in paper, or in two volumes, bound in cloth : the last being, shows that she has not improved, as, indeed, she cannot. by all odds, the best edition, at least for the library. Both Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a born poet. Yet the editions, however, are from the same text. The translation critic, in reading her works, continually says to himself, has been made, for these editions, by the author's authority, "how much better this could have been made, with a little and for every copy sold, he receives a stipulated sum. A more care !" In perusing the " Spanish Gipsy," or " How portrait of Mr. Auerbach, and a biography by Bayard Lisa Loved the King," it is the very opposite reflection that Taylor, add to the value and attractions of the volumes. the reader makes : he is astonished to find how much George The finer edition is printed on tinted paper. Eliot has done, with so little real poetical material to work The Wedding-Day in All Ages and Countries. By Edupon. And yet our author is a genius, and one of the very ward J. Wood. 1 vol., 12 mo. New York: Harper & highest rank! She has dramatic as well as narrative power, Brothers - A very curious and even instructive book. The and an insight that has not been equaled since Shakspeare. author describes the marriage customs of the earliest and Nevertheless the poetic quality, in its highest degree at most savage tribes as well as the wedding-day of modern least, has been denied to her. There is more true poetry, for civilization. Ho shows how, in some nations, the wife was example, in Coleridge's Christabel," than in both the stolen, in others bought, and in others, as with us, won by "Spanish Gipsy" and " How Lisa Loved the King." personal courtship and devoted love. It is a book in which Oldtown Folks. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. 1 vol., 12 mo. ladies especially will be interested. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.- This is a story of the past. The Changed Brides. By E. D. E. N. Southworth. 1 vol., We incline to think it the best of Mrs. Stowe's novels, with 12 mo. Philada: T. B. Peterson & Brothers.-This writer the exception, perhaps, of " Uncle Tom's Cabin." We say, retains her popularity in a very remarkable degree. She owes perhaps, for the sensation which the latter fiction produced this success, we think, principally to her stirring incidents. was owing, in part, to its subject, and to the intense and Her stories, though often improbable, are always alive. Her even exalted feeling existing on that subject ; and the time novels belong to the class that ordinary, uncritical minds, has hardly come, even yet, when a critic can dispassionately looking only for excitement in their reading, find it difficult say, how much of its success was due to this feeling, and to lay down. This new tale is really one of her best. how much to its merits as a mere story. But the present Elements of Astronomy. By Charles J. White, A. 21. fiction has no such adventitions interest : it must stand or 1 vol., 12 mo. Philada : Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger.fall by its literary excellence alone. That excellence, as we A work designed for colleges and the higher grades of have already said, is very considerable. The pictures of the academies, very faithful and thorough, and profusely illnscomparatively primitive life of New England, at the period trated with diagrams and other engravings. All the latest of the narrative, are quite realistic, and the interest of the discoveries in anatomy are given. The chapter on meteoric story, which begins at once, is maintained to the end. bodies is particularly interesting. We are not sure but that Men, Women, and Ghosts. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.this is the best work of its kind before the public. 1 vol., 12 mo. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.- The success Ethelyn's Mistake. By Mary J. Holmes. 1 vol., 12 mo. of "The Gates Ajar," of which Miss Phelps is the author, New York: Carleton.- This is by the author of " Lena has led to the publication of these earlier and fugitive Rivers," "Tempest and Sunshine," and other popular Amearticles. It was not entirely, or even principally, the lite- rican fictions. Mrs. Holmes has her own circle of readers, rary merit of the " The Gates Ajar," that led to the large with whom she is quite a favorite. This new story will add sale of that book, but the yearning, which exists in every to her popularity. immortal soul, to pierce, if possible, the secrets of a future The Quaker Partisans. By the author of "The Scout." existence. These slight, half-didactic sketches have no such adventitious attraction. They are neither better, nor worse 1 vol., 16 mo. Philada: J. B. Lippincott & Co.- A welltold story of the war of independence. It is one of the than the average of magazine articles. Beautiful Snow, and Other Poems. By J. W. Watson. many merits of this publishing house, that everything they 1 vol., 12 mo. Philada: Turner Brothers & Co.- The prin- put forth, even a novel, is remarkably well printed. The cipal poem in this volume has long enjoyed considerable volume is illustrated. For Her Sake. By F. W. Robinson. 1 vol., 8 vo. New newspaper celebrity, so much so, indeed, that several persons, as in the parallel case of " Rock Me to Sleep," have York: Harper & Brothers.-Rather false in sentiment, and claimed its paternity. The real author, however, is J W. occasionally strained in incident, but nevertheless a readWatson, who, to put the dispute at rest, has published the able novel, as novels now go. verses in a neat volume, and added various other of his The Dodge Club. By James De Mills. 1 vol., 8 ro. Now York: Harper & Brothers.-This is a humorous narrative poetical productions. A handsomely printed book. Vanity Fair. By W. M. Thackeray. 1 vol., 8 vo. New of travel in Italy, in 1859, and is illustrated copiously with York: Harper & Brothers.- A cheap, illustrated edition of engravings. It is full of spirit and fun. this inimitable novel. When such a book can be bought Beatrice. Bythe Hon. Roden Noel. 1 vol., 24 mo. Philade: for thirty-five cents, there is no excuse for not having it J. B. Lippincott & Co.-A gracefully told story, written in in tens of thousands of households. blank verse. The descriptive passages are especially good.

IT WAS WELL SAID, by Zimmerman, that happiness consists, not in possessing much, but in being content with what we possess. To want little is always to have enough. IT IS WOMAN that makes home happy. A man may mar home ; he often does ; but he cannot make a home.

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 EDITOR'S

EDITORIAL CHIT - CHAT. THE IMPORTANCE OF GOOD MANNERS cannot be estimated too highly. A graceful carriage, a conciliatory demeanor, and tact in conversation, frequently go further in making friends than far more sterling qualities. It is true that success of this kind is not of itself lasting ; nor, indeed, should it be; but for first impressions a good manner is invaluable. First impressions, also, if made permanent by real merit, will always win the day. Of two young gentlemen, each equal in solid worth, each an aspirant for the hand of the same lady, and each making her acquaintance at the same time, that one will be sure to succeed who has the best manners. For that matter, too, a lady, under similar circumstances, will carry off a lover from a less wellbred rival. We often hear even sensible people complaining of this. They say that it is a shame to see mere surface qualities overrated in this way. But we doubt both whether good manners are a surface quality, and whether their value is overrated. Nothing, in this world, holds its own long, unless it has positive merit ; and good-breeding has been esteemed in all ages, in all nations, and with all classes. The reason is not far to seek. The best of us, not to put it too fine, have more or less self-love. We meet a stranger for the first time: he is affable, deferential, tries every way to please ; and naturally we are flattered, even though we may not be conscious of it ourselves. The same day we meet another stranger : he is rough, dictatorial, supercilious ; we part from him feeling out of humor with ourselves, with himself, with everything ; and it is all because, so to speak, he has rubbed us against the grain. Beauty, in a woman, goes a great way, and a distinguished appearance in a man, but neither can hope to rival, in the long run, really elegant manners. To a certain extent, good-breeding is conventional: a Turkish gentleman is offended if you ask after his wife, an Americau one is complimented by it; but behind these conventionalisms, which a traveler easily acquires, lies the basis of all real politeness, " to do unto others as you would wish to be done unto." A thoroughly good man, whatever his station, is always substantially well-bred. But even a bad man, or an indifferent one, if he acts, in society, on this rule, becomes an agreeable companion, and will distance any competitor, no matter how intellectual, or learned, who is boorish, that is selfish, in his deportment.

TABLE. SIMPLER FASHIONS.- In Paris, many ladies of fashion and influence seem disposed to come back to simpler fashions. It is especially against excessively large chignons that these ladies are crying out. They could not attack a more striking abuse. Modern chignons give a frightful shape to female heads. Any idea of the natural hair being worn is out of the question in presence of those gigantic edifices of leops and crepes. All the charm of a coiffure is lost as soon as one sees nothing but artificial tresses in those curls and bandeaux, put on as ornaments, but suddenly becoming an object of real repulsion. During last winter, several young ladies, at the head of Parisian society, achieved a real success byshowing themselves with their hair simply braided. We can assure those of our lady readers who are sighing over the necessity of wearing a false chignon, that such a necessity does not exist, and that these absurd chignons are teginning to be repudiated by the truest and best authorities France possesses in matters of elegance and good taste.

MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHS.- Leypoldt & Holt, New York, have just published an Album for confessions, tastes, habits, and convictions, which is quite original in its idea. A place is left, on each page, for a carte de visite of a friend, and the rest is occupied with questions as to his, or her tastes, habits, etc., the answers to which are expected to furnish a complete summary of character, etc. We should think an Album of this kind would become very popular.

THE MOST HEALTHY METHOD of dressing the hair of women, especially young ones, is to let the hair be as loose as possible, or arranged in large bands, so as to allow the air to pass through them. It is a mistake to plait tightly the hair of children under eleven or twelve years of age. The process of plaiting more or less strains the hairs in their roots by pulling them tight. The hair of girls should be cut at the ends, and allowed to curl freely. FLOWERS ARE THE ALPHABET OF ANGELS, as some one has prettily said. Scattered over hill and valley, they speak what no tongue can express : their beauty and fragrance suggesting a world even more beautiful than this.

PLAIN BODICES are trimmed in the shape of a berthe or fichu; often they are open in front, upon a fichu of pleated SAILOR COLLARS, so much worn in summer, especially at tulle or very fine muslin. This style of fichu is newer than the sea-shore, are very much slanted off in front, and are a high chemisette. most fashionable, either in linen or in embroidered cambric. THE PUFF REIGNS SUPREME .- Puff upon the head, puff beTo fill up the space between the points of the collar, the ladies wear a pretty cravat-bow of silk or satin, ready made, hind the back; skirts, dresses, casaques, bonnets, all mrst and fastened under the collar by means of an elastic string. conform to the puff. The fashions of Louis XV, in fact, These bows have taken the place of the narrow cravats have it all their own way. which have been worn so long. Dress-collars are made with WHEN AN ENGAGEMENT is broken off it is customary to short lace lappets in front, fastened under a brooch or a send back presents. The wisdom of the rule is obvious. cravat-bow of satin. We do not see how our fair correspondent came to think AN ENGLISH JOURNAL says that it is the fashion, in New differently. York, for brides to reside with their parents for the first BONNETS have gained in height what they have lost in year after marriage. Another English paper says that breadth. are diadems or puffs very high, and ornaAmerican brides make their bridal call in white silks. mented They with feathers and aigrettes. Both of these items will be news to our readers. IF ONIONS are sliced and kept in a sick-room, it is said NO WOMAN OF TASTE will dye her hair. The natural color they will absorb all the atmospheric poison. They should of the hair harmonizes with the complexion, whatever the be changed every hour. color may be, and to alter this is to offend one's sense of color. A brunette, who dyes her hair golden, simply makes IT IS NEVER TOO LATE to subscribe for "Peterson." See a fright of herself. the Prospectus at the end ofthe number. 152

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 " CASE

FOR

SILK

BUTTONS.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER. -

nd 20th MATERIALS.-Little pieces of colored velvet, wool, or silk stuff, silk braid, steel beads, white cardboard. The case, which is represented in No. 1, is in the form of an egg, and consists of six cardboard parts three inches and threequarters long, pointed at the ends, and one inch and a half broad in the middle, and may be easily opened by a light pressure of the finger. The outside may be of the same, or different colors. Each piece is bound with silk braid of a contrasting color, ornamented with steel beads ; the separate parts are carefully sewn together on the wrong side. The two end parts falling over each other, firmly close the

Hang form th

case. Bows are placed at the sides, also made of braid, and drawn out and tied up at the ends

to make a fringe tassel. open.

No. 2 shows the case

CROCHET INSERTION. INITIALS FOR MARKING.

T band 7f

AL

MI 151

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 150

KNITTED

dark-red strings of woolen or silk braid. The bag and lining are cut together to suit the embroidery, which is folded over in the form of a triangle, according to design. A ruche

KNITTED

CRAVAT.

one inch and a half broad covers the part where the embroidery is fastened on to the bag. For the bows, scallop a piece of silk or ribbon.

CRAVAT

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

MATERIALS .-Blue and white double Berlin wool, or eight-thread fleecy, wooden needles, No. 4. Cast on eighty stitches, and work four rows in plain knitting backward and forward with the blue wool. 5th row: White wool, purl throughout. 6th row: White wool, knit throughout. 7th row: Same as sixth row. 8th row: White wool. Bring the wool for-

, ward and knit two together throughout the row. Kait four rows blue, plain knitting, with white wool repeat twice from the fifth to the eighth row. Work another strip of four rows of blue; with the white wool repeat fromthe fifth to the eighth row once. Another four rows of blue finishes the cravat. Draw the ends together, and fasten on a tassel of white and blue mixed.

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 NEEDLE - CASE OF PERFORATED CARDBOARD. BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

MATERIALS.-Medium-sized perforated cardboard, colored silk, and sewing-silk to match. Cut six pieces of cardboard of equal size, and ornament two of these for a cover with colored silk stitches, according to No. 1. The other

must be cut out according to the design ; a few silk stitches are placed here and there to keep them firm. Each of these separate parts must be lined with colored silk, which must be previously sewn on the upper side only. They are then sewn to the large outer parts on the long sides with stripes of button-hole stitch at very small distances, forming afterward a moveable 124

four, which are ornamented with a narrow border, are represented in No. 2. Then, for the inside, cut six pieces of cardboard the same breadth and one-third shorter. In these, which are fastened on afterward, are placed the papers of needles. The outer part is ornamented with a narrow border of silk stitches, and the numbers placed upon them, for which the types

JAVA

hinge. The closed case is seen in No. 3 in the proper size ; three eyes are placed, and a double silk cord, with, tassels, is drawn through to fasten it.

CANVAS

CAP- BAG.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

THIS bag is ten inches square, ornamented The pattern may be easily worked from the with cross- stitches of dark-red Berlin wool design. Two triangles of thick covered hatworked over a square of four threads, with a wire forming together a square, and measuring thread of the same color underneath. The eight inches, must be fastened at the back of trellis-work foundation in the squares, and the the embroidery, which measures an inch more stars in loose stitches, are worked with single ; all round. the largest ones, however, are worked with The side of the bag measures eleven inches ; double Berlin wool. and at the upper part is a running to admit 149

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 LINEN BAG. BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

THIS bag is composed of five strips of calico five inches broad and twenty-three inches long, pointed at one end, and ornamented with cordstitch embroidery, with a border of tatting or crochet. The embroidery consists of large,

colors. (For cord-stitch chain-stitch may be substituted. ) The tatted border consists of two similar rows worked with one thread, as follows: eight double knots ; then three Josephine knots (see No. 2) again, one eye of eight double knots, one picot for joining, and eight double knots; repeat from *. The placing of the second row may be seen in the design. The tatted borders are sewn firmly on to the hemmed strips, as shown in the design. A similar border forms the upper conclusion, and takes in the cord to draw the bag. This cord may be of twisted red and white cotton to correspond with the cord embroidery. At the bottom is a round piece of calico, ornamented with a little pattern. The tassel is of red and white quilting- stitches, twisted, the narrow white cotton, and the head is covered with a hems are all fastened with cord-stitch of two kind of crocheted net-work.
 * One Josephine knot ; then one closed eye, containing eight double knots, one large picot, and

CROCHET

148

EDGE.

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 CHINESE FIGURES. covered by two little cross-bars of four steel beads. The outer scallops are ornamented with bead loops one inch long; for each loop about seventy of the large glass beads are required. The rounded cushion, which measures fourteen inches in diameter, has a black velvet edge

CHINESE

147

three inches broad, an upper covering of dark blue cashmere ; and at the under edge a thick, red woolen cord, with glass beads, wound around it. The rosette covering, which shows the blue cashmere through, is fastened on with a few stitches at the upper edge.

FIGURES.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

THESE figures are cut out of satin, and edged of brown are required for the hair. The ornawith gold cord, by which they are fastened toment on the head is of violet silk, and gold the foundation. The satin must be first care- thread. The stockings are of white silk, and fully gummed upon paper. The under-dress of the shoes red. No. 2. The under-dress and sleeves are of the Chinese in No. 1 is blue, the upper-dress red , the parasol is of red satin, the lining and handle straw-colored satin ; the folds are marked by are of white satin. The inner bars ofthe para- red and black stitches. The upper-dress is sol, the fringe on the upper-dress, and the trim- red satin, with wide sleeves, and trimmed with ming of the chemisette, are in fine gold cord ; fringe of fine gold cord. The scarf is of white for the seams and edge of the belt the cord must silk, also trimmed with fringe and fine gold be thick. For the folds, fine black stitches are cord. The fan in the hand is of white satin : required. Face, hands, and hair are worked the foundation and handle are fastened together in the usual marked stitches upon a ground of with gold cord. These figures make very showy flesh- color with split silk stitches ; two shades decorations for segar- cases, tobacco- pouches, etc.

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 ROUND

FOOT - CUSHION.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

MATERIALS. - Red woolen braid, medium- sized entirely once, and then of chalk and glass beads. silk cordon, steel beads, No. 7, glass and chalk The number of beads for the slanting scallop beads, same size, one yard and a half of thick, lines must be increased in proportion to the red woolen cord, a piece of blue cashmere, half widening of the circle. The second bead winda yard square, a strip of black velvet, one yarding must be begun where the two braid windings and a half long, four inches wide, strong gray join, (see No. 1, ) not between them. linen, glazed calico, a little darker. Rosettes of three different sizes form the covering of this stool. These are twenty-five. in number, and consist of little rounds one inch in diameter, worked in crochet with black silk. For each of these make a chain of ten stitches, close in a ring and work round eight rows in double stitch, making the proper increase for the work to be quite flat. For the large, middle rosette, a ninth row must be worked in treble, and thus increased to an inch and a half, as clearly shown in the design. The rosettes are filled up with flat, spiral windings of red braid. which are fastened upon a firm paper ground by scallops of strong beads. Each of the eight smallest rosettes has two spiral windings ; each of the sixteen large ones has three. For the When all the rosettes are finished, they are center one, five inches in diameter, five braid windings are required. For the innermost bead joined together, as in No. 2, and with the exscallops in all the rosettes, two glass and one ception of the alternate large and small outer chalk bead must be strung alternately upon scallops, are surrounded with scallops of six strong white thread, and fastened once on the steel beads. The thread must be always carbraid, and then on the crochet. The remaining ried back through the two last beads. bead windings are alternating of glass beads ? The place where the rosettes are joined is 146

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 DIAGRAM

www OF PANNIER MANTILLA.

A

145

A 82

11

SIN

B B

N ° 2

N°1

13IN N°4

D

C 292

26.N

11IN

D

IN

N°3

نا

No. 1. FRONT. No. 2. BACK. No. 3. HALF OF PANNIER. No. 4. HALF OF BAND. VOL. LVI - 10

The Pannier is to be pleated into the band. A more useful article of dress is not likely to appear this season, and will more than repay for the slight trouble of making it.

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 TWO

BORDERS

FOR

PETTICOATS.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

THE foundation is a strip of cloth with black, The woolen braid is fastened on with yellow braid laid over it, and worked with loose stitches silk. The different stitches may be easily of silk and wool in bright, variegated colors. { worked from the design.

PANNIER

MANTILLA

BY EMILY H. MAY.

dbo

TOU

AMONG the novelties of the month is a Pannier Mantilla, au engraving of which we give above. It will be quite a fashionable article of dress ; and it is so simple that any lady can make it for herself. It would be quite suitable for young ladies made in book muslin, with hemmed frills, edged with narrow thread lace ' 144

and goffered. It may be made of the material of the dress, in black lace, or in the most useful of all materials, black silk. Of silk, twenty-four inches in width, four yards and a half would be needed, and sixteen yards of black satin rouleau. On the next page we give a diagram, from which it may be cut out.

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 LADIES '

JACKET

WITHOUT

SLEEVES.

BY MRS. JANE WEAVER.

THIS jacket is worked with red fleecy wool in a sort of crochet a tricater ; the strips, which form the trimming, are knitted with red Berlin wool. The back and front are worked separately, and crocheted together on the shoulders and under the arms. Cut a good paper pattern from a bodice and try it on, then begin to work the back part at the upper edge on a sufficiently long foundation chain, and work the first double row as follows : 1st row: Make one loop in every foundation chain, and throw the wool forward after every loop. 2nd row: Cast off the stitches on the needle with the next stitch formed by throwing the wool forward. In the first row of the second double row take up together one loop in the long chain, and in the stitch of the following stitches formed by throwing the wool forward in the preceding row, and throw the wool forward. At the beginning of every double row miss the first stitch formed by throwing the wool forward, and throw the wool forward after the first selvedge-stitch ; the increasing and decreasing takes place at the end of the rows from the paper pattern. When you have arrived at the lower edge, crochet one row of slip-stitches on the last row. Each front part begins likewise at the upper edge, decreasing at the place marked for the breast-pleats on

the paper pattern. The front edge of the front parts must be straight. When the back and front parts are completed, crochet them together on the wrong side with slip-stitches, and fasten the knitted bands and the waistband. The latter is terminated at the bottom with vandykes. Begin to work the same with thick, fleecy wool ; cast on ten stitches and knit backward and forward twenty plain rows, increasing one stitch at the end of every other row on one side of the knitting, so that the twentieth row has twenty stitches. In the following twenty rows decrease in the same proportion as you increased before. Knit on in the same manner till the waistband is wide enough, ( on our pattern eight vandykes, ) edge the straight border with a row of double stitches in black wool, and the vandyked border with small chain-stitch scallops. Then sew the waistband on the jacket, letting the vandykes hang down. A similar narrower strip of vandykes edge the armhole and neck. Cast on five stitches for each of these strips ; each strip in the middle is nine stitches wide. The strips which trim the jacket are knitted with Berlin wool the long way ; they are edged with chainstitch scallops in black wool, and ornamented with jet beads from illustration. They are one inch wide. At the front edge of the jacket sew on hooks and eyes for fastening it. This jacket is both tasty and useful. 143

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 142 husband, he laffed so loud I was afeard they'd hear him.

"They did look funny enuff, though; she was so strait and still-like, you'd a thought the wind kerried her along; and he a swingin' both arms, with her fan in one hand and her sunshade in the other.

"And I wouldn't wonder a bit, Sophier, ef there was a weddin' afore long, and we was both invited."

A SOLITARY waif, Upon the changeful sea, Will lightly float, serene and safe, Where tempests roar and billows chafe, And the foundered ship sinks hopelessly.

'Tis true wat ganant bark Bore the cherished and the brave; But the surge has hushed their last death-note, While the lonely waif is still afloat. On that vengeful, melancholy wave.

And 'mid the living crowd That throng life's busy mart, Are there not many desolate, Who pray for death, or wishing, wait, His last, his sure, envenomed dart!

The gifted and the fair: The cherished and the brave; The hope of youth, the stay of years, They who are mourned with bitterest tears, Sink earliest to the solemn grave.

They who are formed to bless, Whose life is one bright dream, Struck by some thunderbolt from Heaven, Sink, while the lonely waif is driven Adown life's dull and solemn stream.

BEAUTIFUL HILLS OF EDEN.

BY ANDREW SHERWOOD.

In my dreams I have thought of the Heavenly land, Far away up the portals of torn, Where the evergreen-mountains eternally stand, And the beautiful rivers are born; 'Tis the land of the leal, 'tis the home of the biest, Where our sorrows are known not, they say; Where the way-weary voyager findeth a rest, And the pure waters wander away.

Our gaze cannot soar to the evergreen-vales, Which alone by the fancy is trod; But our souls are refreshed by the odorous gales, Which are fanned from the gardens of God; And we sometimes have longed for that beautiful Eden, Where the blue hills in majesty rise, And the clouds, like an army with banners unfurled, Float away through the ambient skies.

Oh! the stars never smile from their temples of light, Where the world of eternity glows, And we never behold the blue mountains at night, But we dream of a holy repose. We are traveling home as the centuries roll, Each a sailor on life's open sea, To the beautiful hills in the land of the soul, Whose pleasures and treasures are free.

DREAMS.

BY MRS. A. E. WOODBURY.

DREAMS-What are they? No sage can tell What bears the obedient soul afar, On tireless wing, to scenes long past— To moon or star.

All heights and depths, trod with an ease These mortal bodies ne'er could tread; Faces familiar greet and smile; Forms of the dead

Are clothed with life and health; and hands Clasp ours with youth's warm clasp of love, Or, crooked with age, and care, and pain, Tremblingly move.

And other dreams we have, so fraught With pain and passion, that the pen Need not the record give, to meet The eyes of men.

Sometimes, ah! blissful moments rare, Of Heaven's bliss we catch a gleam, And wake to find the vision sweet Was but a dream.

But, though a dream, the holy calm May tarry with us, if we will; And, storm-tossed, we may hear the Voice Say, "Peace, be still!"

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 LD LOYKA continued to be a constant figure of the district surrounding Frishets. If any one from the neighbourhood or from abroad had come there and inquired what novel or peculiar event had happened there, he would have learnt that they had there a vejminkar [pensioner] belonging to a large estate and with a large pension, but who would not dwell on his estate, and roved about even in the woods and dwelt in the cemetery with the grave-digger Bartos.

“You have here a strange and ludicrous thing”, he would hear said: for people frequently regard what is strange as also ludicrous. “Perhaps he wood sooner allow himself to be nailed to a cross than to return to the farm in which his son is hospodar. Some years ago he was just a little touched in the head and walked with a band of musicians from village to village—what a peasant it is! Now he is a little more reasonable; only no one can persuade him to go home-the fool!”

“And has he been long thus?” the stranger would perhaps inquire.

“Already a good many years. His wife dwells in the farmhouse, and about her Loyka says, ‘Let her stop there, she merits it.’ ’Tis a strange and ludicrous affair.” So would run the discourse of the native of the place.

And so we see that even over his sufferings several years have flown and, before he had expected it, we are several years older, and with us Loyka and Frank and Staza and all the rest. During this time, it is true, Joseph importuned his father to return home. He dispatched servants after him with the assurance that he never dreamed his father would make such a fuss about the two chambers by the coach-house and take the matter so seriously, and that if only he would return he might dwell in the pension house unmolested. But the servants who were sent with these messages never succeeded much, because on these occasions old Loyka behaved as though they wished to hale him to the butcher’s, stuffed his fingers in his ears, and took to flight. Moreover, at times, he sent strange messages to his son, though it is hard to say whether the servants delivered them just as he gave them.

But old Loyka took so violent an aversion, even to the servants. from the farm, that if he came to a village his first question was whether any one from Frishets was on the watch for him. And


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180 excluded the death-penalty. The Twelfth Council of Toledo accepted them in full.

By the use of similar methods, Erwig induced this Council — summoned within three months of his consecration — not only to sanction his usurpation and accept the false pretext that Wamba had become a monk of his own free will and had charged the metropolitan of Toledo to anoint him (Erwig) as his successor, but also to defame the memory of Wamba, to forbid his restoration, and to proclaim the person of Erwig and his family sacred and inviolable (Council XIII, Canon IV). Erwig was so desirous of ingratiating himself with the dangerous elements of the nation that he pardoned, not only those who had been punished in Wamba's time for their share in the rebellion of Paulus, but also all those who had been branded as traitors during the reign of Chintila, restoring to them the property, titles, and civil rights which they had forfeited (Council XIII). The second canon of the same Council continued this policy; it laid down rules for the protection of the nobles, officials of the palace, and free-born men, in their suits, so as to prevent the arbitrary degradation and confiscation of property which the kings were wont to order. But this was not the first time that the Visigothic legislation dealt with this point, and established guarantees of this nature. In 682, Erwig, by means of these laws and others, made a revised edition of the Liber Judiciorum or Judicum.

Before Erwig died in 687, he named as his successor Egica, a relation of Wamba and his own son-in-law; and in November of that year Egica was duly elected king. Notwithstanding the oath which he had taken in the presence of Erwig to protect the family of his predecessor, he at once divorced his wife Cixilona, degraded Erwig's other relations, and punished the nobles who had taken the most prominent part in the conspiracy which deprived Wamba of the throne; on the other hand he favoured the partisans of Wamba, whom Erwig had persecuted. This behaviour naturally led to another rebellion of the unruly section of the Visigothic nobles. In the fifth year of Egica's reign,


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 if he tarried several days in a village he posted guards here and there, that he might timely take to flight if the servants ventured to approach.

And it happened on one occasion that the servants from the farm entered several villages close upon his heels, because the young hospodar had charged them with a message in which he declared that he would no longer be held up to the eyes of the world as a villain, and have his name bandied about from mouth to mouth as that of a God-forsaken reprobate.

Here old Loyka fumed furiously. “Only let him come himself and I’ll show him how I hold him up to the world as a villain”, said he, and from that time forth he avoided the villages and dwelt most willingly with Bartos at the cemetery.

I know not how it came about, whether Joseph took the message to mean that he was to come personally to his father, but so it was that he came to the cemetery, and all the servants with him who had ever been dispatched after his father with any message. No sooner did old Loyka become aware of their approach than he was almost beside himself, and locked himself into the charnel-house among the shin-bones and skulls, only that he might see no one and need not have to speak to any one.

Then Joseph called in a loud voice in the cemetery to his father, bidding him come forth and return home; ay, he swore that he himself would not return home without him, that he would no longer endure to become the byword for a God-forsaken reprobate among the populace, and that if his father refused he should be dragged home forcibly.

“And how do you mean to accomplish it?” inquired Bartos, who had appeared during this scene on the threshold of his dwelling.

“I shall have the doors forced”, responded Joseph.

“How so?” inquired Bartos calmly.

“Oh, you know all about it”, said Joseph to Bartos. “It is you who are the cause of all this, and I will suffer it no longer. It is you who purposely retain my father in your house to make capital out of him. It is you who are purposely coupling my brother with that young vagabond”

Further Joseph did not proceed in his harangue.

“What is it you called Staza”, Bartos asked Joseph, and at the same time uttered a yell so menacing that the servants who were with Joseph recoiled several paces. But scarcely had Bartos pronounced the words before he had already gripped Joseph under


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MAGAZINE-September, 1869.

A

PETERSON'S

Design in Crochet for Top of Glove Box.

Border in Crochet.

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192

water hurled upwards with the greatest violence in a spiral, and it appeared that it left a hollow space in the centre; so that we concluded the water only formed a hollow tube, instead of a solid column. We were strongly confirmed in this belief by the colour, which was exactly like any hollow glass-tube. After some time the last water-spout was incurvated and broke like the others, with this difference, that its disjunction was attended with a flash of lightning, but no explosion was heard. Our situation during all this time was very dangerous and alarming; a phænomenon which carried so much terrific majesty in it, and connected as it were the sea with the clouds, made our oldest mariners uneasy and at a loss how to behave; for most of them, though they had viewed water-spouts at a distance, yet had never been so beset with them as we were; and all without exception had heard dreadful accounts of their pernicious effects, when they happened to break over a ship. We prepared indeed for the worst, by cluing up our topsails; but it was the general opinion that our masts and yards must have gone to wreck if we had been drawn into the vortex. It was hinted that firing a gun had commonly succeeded in breaking water-spouts, by the strong vibration it causes in the air; and accordingly a four-pounder was ordered to be got ready, but our people being, as usual, very dilatory about it, the danger was past before we could try this experiment. How far


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 NUTTING IN THE WOODS.

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 BER SEPTEM S. FOR FASHION N'S CHILDRE

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 WALKING-DRESS. HAT. BONNET.

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 the armpits, swung him into the air, and balancing him like a racket ball, continued, “I’ll pound every one to a jelly who dares once say such a thing.”

And from the way in which Joseph turned deadly pale in Bartos’s hands and impotently shook and shivered, it was evident that he believed the grave-digger to be in earnest and about to fulfil his threats to a tittle.

But Joseph, in his own impotence, began to pluck up a bolder spirit when he contemplated his servants, and no sooner had Bartos once more dropped him on to the ground than he shouted to them to force the doors of the charnel-house without further hesitation and to drag out the aged Loyka.

“And, prithee, why not? Prithee, why not?” observed Bartos in a voice again perfectly calm, as if a moment before he had not threatened to make a jelly of a human body. And he posted himself before the doors of the charnel-house.

“Cleave the doors asunder!” commanded Joseph, seeing that his servants did not wish to have anything to do with the business. “A souterkin of beer to the man who cleaves them open.”

And when the servants made a rush in right earnest to get at the doors Bartos, as though he had heard nothing of what Joseph had said, merely stretched out his two hands and said, “Cave!” and already two of the servants lay on the ground blubbering, as though they had come to order their own graves to be delved. The rest of the servants wavered in their charge, and then suddenly turned and fled at full speed by the shortest road out of the cemetery.

Joseph began to jeer and threaten them.

“Everything is not to be had for a souterkin of beer”, said Bartos, and laughed, or rather smiled, tauntingly.

“But it will be had all the cheaper,” said Joseph, “when I bring half the village against you, you will pipe in another strain.”

“Do not bring them”, said Bartos, and continued to smile tauntingly.

“When I report matters at the bureaux”

“Report it not, report nothing, unless you would report your own precious doings”, said Bartos. “But, of course, if you think it right, bring them, report it all, only, you just sleep upon it and I will sleep upon it, too.”

“But I tell you it is notorious how you encourage his vagabondage, how you cause disunion in the family”


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 WALKING -DRESS. BONNET. CHEMISE RUSSE.

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 FALL STYLES OF HATS AND BONNETS.

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 MUSLIN BODICE. ISABEAU BODICE. APRON. FROCK FOR LITTLE GIRL

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 TOE AND BACK OF SLIPPER IN CLOTH APPLIQUE.

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 months to put in, and from all I hear of you, you won't take three months finding out who murdered Lyon."

Joe looked grave. "I may take more than that," said he, "for maybe I'll never find out at all. But I'm right pleased, Mr. Quaritch, to hear you can stay so long. There's plenty of grub in my shack, and I dare say that I shan't be many days gone."

"How far is it to Big Tree Portage?"

"Five miles to the river and eight up it."

"I'd like to go with you."

He gave me one of his quick smiles. "Then I guess you'll have to wait for your breakfast till we are in the canoe. Turn the mare loose. She'll make Harding's by afternoon."

Joe entered the shack and came out again with one or two articles. In five minutes he had put together a tent, my sleeping-things, food, ammunition, and all necessaries. The whole bundle he secured with his packing-strap, lifted it and set out through the woods.

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To Me. Fr. G.

MAGAZINE

Nichols.

POLKA.

Composed expressly for "Peterson."

BY A. ROTTENBACH.

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 “Ay, ay, peasant, you have it well off by heart; but let me tell you, that if half your village comes with all its bureaux they will retire hence just as your own servants retired a moment since. And so it is I who cause disunion in families? Behold yonder doors before the charnel-house, and think whom they conceal. So it is I who cause disunion between him and thee. I, forsooth, was that notable son who lowered his father beneath the meanest of his servants, who shortly after commanded him to dwell in a stable, who baited him until he had baited him out of house and home, who deprived him of head and of reason, oh! I pray you, just bring hither your village and the whole squad of officials. I will enlighten them in your presence as to what a notable peasant thou art, who, in place of a heart, hast planted in thy bosom the gross peasant’s corruption and art a wicked son because thy father is a pensioner on thy bounty!”

Such and more to the like effect said Bartos, and hereupon pressed Joseph, with his body, out of the cemetery. There was little need to use pressure; Bartos was only making sport of him, but it was all the worse for Joseph, because he felt what a ridiculous figure he cut before the servants and before Bartos, and his humiliation appeared to be intolerable. But there was no escape from it. He must e’en quit the cemetery with his message undelivered and must see to it that he did not fairly take to flight, which would have been more ridiculous than this measured retreat, during which Bartos, at least, allowed him so much apparent liberty that he appeared to be retiring of his own free will, and so Joseph had nothing for it but to recoil with threats.

And being now in a towering passion be resolved to fulfil these threats. When he had returned to Frishets he collected his neighbours and others and summoned them to go with him for his father, whom Bartos was detaining in the charnel-house, and whom he refused to let out.

Certainly this announcement wore little the appearance of truthfulness, because they knew Bartos too well to believe him capable of doing anything of the kind. Nevertheless Joseph contrived to persuade them to go with him, partly out of curiosity, to see what would happen, partly because they thought that the father and son might yet be reconciled, now that the son made such a point of it; and an affair of such importance was worth the trouble of a man’s being a witness to it.

And so they trailed out of Frishets, and Joseph at their head, towards the cemetery, so that they had the appearance of a pro-


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 NEW STYLES OF WEARING THE HAIR.

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sometimes wondered whether he was not irked at the prospect of my proffered companionship, and whether he did not at first intend to shake me off by obvious and primitive methods.

He has in later days assured me that neither of my suppositions was correct, but there has been a far-off look in his eyes while he denied them, which leaves me still half-doubtful.

However these things may be, it is certain that I had my work, and more than my work, cut out for me in keeping up with November who, although he was carrying a pack while I was unloaded, travelled through the woods at an astonishing pace.

He moved from the thighs, bending a little forward. However thick the underbrush and the trees, he never once halted or even wavered, but passed onward with neither check nor pause. Meanwhile, I blundered in his tracks

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 AT

THE FALLS.

185

morning; and she feared that he was not de- been able to win the treasure of that man's love. ceived by her factitious gayety ; but she was She tried to hate him; to malign him in her more vexed with herself for being so poor an { thoughts ; to deny that he was so much more actress, than with his penetration. talented, or gentle, or noble, than scores of The day was over at last. They were back at other men whom she had met. the hotel, and Cora felt as tired as if she had She fought her battle desperately, and aided been doing a forced march with a troop of sol- the devils all she could ; but it was no use, she diers, and was suffering fatigue for the whole was too good and womanly to succeed ; her reregiment. ligion was too much a part of her life for her But there was worse weariness and pain in { to put it aside even in that frenzy. The bitterstore for the proud woman. She needed, I sup- ness and anger passed -even the insane rage pose, the peculiar discipline that was being be- against her own weakness paled and died out. It was a horrible night, but before it ended stowed upon her, and there was no hope of avoiding it. Cora was able to accept her humiliation, to There was music and dancing in the parlors. admit that she needed and deserved it. It was Cora waltzed until she could do her duty no the worst punishment that could have befallen longer ; then she managed to escape, and got her—all her life her pride had been her besetout on the veranda, where the moonbeams lay ting sin ; verily, she was mortally punished where she had erred. clear and silvery as glorified daylight. She walked slowly round to another part of And the morning came, and Cora woke from the building, and came suddenly upon two the heavy, unrestful slumber that had come at figures standing together in the shadow. It last, and looked about, and knew that, though needed only one glance to show her who they an earthquake had passed over her soul and wereshattered its every stronghold, the world must e—May and Hugh Wellesley. May's hand lay upon his arm, his head was go on as usual, and she must take her part in bent toward her, and he was listening eagerly it too. She would not even allow herself the solace to some low words that fell hesitatingly from her lips. of breakfasting in her own room, and was just Cora gathered up her long train and rushed { ready to sail out as grand as Dido, when a seraway, swift and noiseless as a ghost, and never vant came up with coffee, and a message from stopped till she was in her own room, and the her aunt that she had better not come down, door barred against all intruders. she looked so tired the night before. Then she had it out with herself. The scales So she had another hour to herself. At the had fallen suddenly from her eyes. Useless to end of it there was a tap at the door, and May's try to be blind or deaf any longer ; idle to call voice called , upon her overweening pride to help ; it shrunk "I want to come in, enchanted princess. ” and shriveled in the fierce passion that had Cora found a voice quite like her usual one to suddenly burst into flame in her soul, and her answer, woman's heart asserted its womanhood, and "Come in, Miss Wickedness - why didn't you throbbed, and ached, and cried out in its agony, wake me?" and mastered her hitherto indomitable will as In came May, looking fresher and more lovely if she had been the weakest of her sex. than ever, with such light in her eyes, such She sat there, cowering and shaking in the color in her cheeks, that Cora knew what it moonlight, hiding her face in her hands as if meant before she spoke a word. "I was up so early that I thought I would the white beams had been spirit-watchers, whose gaze she was ashamed to meet ; crouched there, not disturb you, " cooed May, dancing about her. and heard her heart beat and moan, and could "I have been up for hours, and out. Oh ! such not deny one syllable of its passionate utterance. a lovely walk as I have had." "Were you alone ?" Cora asked, certain what She loved Hugh Wellesley- she who had been more sought than any girl of her day, and had was coming, and anxious to bring the revelation been like a beautiful icicle under it all; at last to a climax, and have it over. her heart had gone out, unasked, to a man who "Not I," cried May. " Do I look like a girl did not care for her- worse, who loved another. that would take early walks alone ?" The devils that torment poor humanity at cerSuddenly she threw her arms about Cora, and tain crises in life, sorely beset poor Cora in that turned away her head. black hour. She fairly hated May, that in her " Guess who was with me ?" she whispered. childish loveliness and want of thought she had "Mr. Wellesley," Cora said, with a calmness

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 186

AT

THE FALLS.

that astonished herself, and she felt her heart "May tells me we are forced to bid you stop beating. good-by," she said. " I am sorry ; but I trust "Oh, yes - at first ! " May replied, hurriedly. you are coming back so soon that we can at "Oh! Cora- ” once begin to think of your return in order to "I am sure you have something to tell me, console ourselves." "Thank you!" he answered ; and Cora was my dear," Cora said ; when she broke off abruptly, "I think I know what it is." conscious of a vague wonder that his voice " Don't !" whispered May. " Oh ! it frightens should sound so uncertain and tremulous in this first hour of his certainty of his own triumph. me yet." He led her to a seat, and sat down beside her. She clung fast to Cora ; and Cora held her close in her arms, and was thankful that she She glanced at him once, and saw that he was could offer a prayer for the girl's happiness, deathly pale ; and a fear of some evil for him though all the while she felt death in her heart, banished all selfish thoughts. " Are you in any trouble ?" she asked, quickly. and knew that however long the semblance of existence might last, life was at an end where "Is there any bad news you wish me to break anything like interest or hope for herself was to May ?" "No," he said, gravely, "no. I am going concerned ; it had died in the shudder of agony which shook the very springs of her being, away- shall I come back?" "Of course, you are coming, I know from when May's happy voice broke beneath its May. She did not tell me, but I understand passion of bliss and delicious shyness. "Cora ," May said, suddenly, still with her everything." head turned aside, " Mr. Wellesley is going "Yes, May is very happy," he said, "and I away this morning- he wants to bid you am so glad. Wentworth is a noble young fellow ; but that is not it-___ " good-by." "Wentworth!" repeated Cora, in horror. "Going?" exclaimed Cora. Oh! this was worst of all ; he was suffering"Yes ; for a day or two only. He got a telegram last night. Please go down- he is in May did not love him. " Wentworth !" she repeated. mamma's sitting- room. There's nobody there." Cora knew what it signified ; the trembling "Yes ; don't you know your willful little voice, the broken words-the wors agony was cousin put him out of his suspense this mornover ; she could bear anything now, could evening ?" "I am so sorry; oh! do believe it ! I don't see him - see the pride and joy in his face, do know what to say-I- "" her part without faltering. She clasped May more closely in her arms, "We can leave them to their happiness," he kissed the bonny brown hair that hung about went on, when he saw that she could not finish. "I am a selfish mortal, and must think of my her shoulders, and said, softly, "God bless my darling, and make her a own hopes and fears. May I come back, Cora?" happy woman !" Was she going mad ? Did her senses play She went straight out of the room without her false ? "Oh ! don't you understand ?" he cried out. looking back, gave herself not an instant to think, made no pause until her hand was "I love you ; I had seen you long before you upon the door of the room where May's lover ever saw me ; and, mad as it was, I loved you waited. from the first. May knew it-sent for me here. The very thought that came into her mind- Cora, don't drive me from you. Give me a May's lover-it gave her a wild sort of strength hope- may I come back ?" There was an odd little gasp in her throat, which she knew would support her to the end. She opened the door ; there was no tremor in which made him look suddenly in her face ; he her limbs, no mist before her eyes- she felt read the whole truth there, and the next instant dead and cold ; she was not conscious even of Cora felt herself pressed to his heart, and heard any suffering, she was just walking about like the words of love and tenderness which burst a ghost whose penance it was to linger upon from his very soul. It was all made clear in the long hour that earth and watch the happiness of those still left here clothed in mortality, and bearing mor- elapsed before they were disturbed ; then May danced into the room, exclaiming, tality's sensations and happiness. She saw him rise and come toward her ; she "There's a train going, and there's a poor was the calmer of the two, and held out her wretch must go on it. Is it all right ?" Their faces must have answered, for she white hand, and was the first to speak.

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 187 E LANE. IN TH E EE PL -TR AP HEthem both, laughing declared ; and he would not , in spite of Cora's dashed at them and kisTsed attempt at expostulation, when May vowed that the business was of the utmost importance. yidng, and redpeating, d and"Icrdi Then May danced about them again, and d gh ul I Hu wo old I tol ! it I di it! d if he'd only mind me! And you thought he laughe and cried more ; and aunt Agatha and h liked me, and was badly treated ; and so you got Wentwort came in, and I doubt if a happier set le op of pe were gathered together in this old ed acquaint with him . Oh! you panther princess , world that has such a trick of sometimes turnen !"e went so crazy that she made them both ing into heav when we least expect it. Thanks youSh ul laugh, and brought them down a little from be to a mercif Father, who helps us and guides te us, in spi our blind struggles and erring of e nc h their lofty roma , whic was good for them. ls il yw 'll s in d. . Wellesle "You she t ,"saiMr "I shallmis go tra not the till ," nigh - so I leave them.

APPLE - TREE

IN

THE

LANE.

TIIE BY MRS. S. P. MESERVE HAYES. A trysting-place for youthful friends Was the apple -tree, in the days of yore ; rn e od Ir sto clos by where, on leathe -binge , And oft we've sat beneath its shade , The gate swung back from the grassy lane ; And talked bright dreams of the future o'er. Where the cows come home when the dusky eve d when the warm October sun , tle ew An r in Its man thr ove hill and pla. Shone on the maple's scarlet robe , Its branches, knotty and gnarled by time, We gathered apples smooth and fair, Waved to and fro in the idle breeze , When the Spring days brought a blushing crown And round as our own mystic globe. The stately hemlock crowns the hill, Of blossoms bright to the apple -trees. And dark pines rise above the plain ; Its shadow fell o'er the crystal stream, But one we prize far more than theyThat all the long, bright Summer days , The apple -tree in the pasture-lane. Like a silver thread, 'mid the waving grass , Long years have passed, and cows no more Reflected back the golden rays Come home at night through the grassy lane, Of the noonday sun, that madly strove Where the gate swung back on leathern-hinge, To drink the fount of the brooklet dry; But the rain-clouds showered tear -drops down , I stand and gaze on the far-off plain. No more we list to the music low And the glad brook laughed as it glided by. Of the crystal stream as it ripples on; Never were apples half so sweetAnd the apple -tree in the pasture -lane, Golden russet, striped with redIs but a dream of the days by-gone. As those that fell on the yielding turf, As we shook the branches overhead.

S

MEMORY'

HAL L.

RK. BY HENRY C. PA For the lips that warbled them now are dumb , And slumber in silence there. 's On a strange old castle is Memory Hall , With its towers and turrets sublime ; Smiles that have faded, and joys now dead , For its portals are guarded by spectres talle tho ught fair, face ircled t enc athsswe d wre some loved one's head, thaonc AnAnd The spectres of years, that come at the call oes t t me e Of ech tha liv in tha cli. Words of tenderness once been said, And garments that she used to wear. It stands in the country of " Long Ago," By the side of the river of Time , hoes of voices that used to call, E ess Whose waters surge on with an endl flow, Fall on the tremulous air; And sing a song as they gently go, And pictures dim on its sombered walls , As soft as the vesper chime. Scenes from the shadowy past recall, To the door of this castle we often go, While we stand enchanted there. For we've buried our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty, and hands of snow , The present departs, and the past returns , And forms we have clasped long years ago, As we tread o'er its dusty floor ; And our hearts, overflowing with sadness, burn, And tresses of golden hair And our souls within us with wildness yearn , There's a lute unswept, and a harp unstrung, For the things we loved of yore, And a part of a dying prayer ; And fragments of song no longer sung,

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 MRS. MARCH'S

BOARDERS.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA. Has ever any one of ye had any experience in taking city boarders ? If you have, you needn't read this story, you can skip right on to the next one ; but if you hain't, then I advise you to read it, and take warning by me., It's got proper fashionable round here, in Peaville, for the farmer folks to take boarders from the city. It pays well, and anything that pays is pritty likely to be fashionable. You see, these ere city people come out here to git a sniff of fresh air, and injoy the huckleberries and miskeeters, of which we ginerally have oceans.

and Sundays, when I go to meeting, I set in Capen Webster's pew instid of ourn, because his is a wall- pew, and I can put the back part of my bunnit right up aginst the side of the meeting ' us, and that makes it stay pat. Mrs. Brown's parlor is ilegant. There hain't nothing like it in Peaville. There's a Brussels carpet that is soft as a piller-tick when you step onto it ; and the cheers and sofys is kivered with green stuff that looks like the minister's wife's velvet bunnit ; and there's two ottermans, and a picter of Henry Clay with a blue cloak on, and three chany Then they go home about the first of Sep- dogs on the mautel-shelf, and a marble-topped tember, all burnt and tanned, and bit up, with { table that looks jest as the grave- stuns in the all their clothes ruinated, and not a grate sight burying- ground does -only there ain't no deof money into their purses ; and they tell every- scription on it. And she's got a fotygraft body that they see how delightfully they have albion, with the picters of her father and mother, and her husband's father and mother, spent the summer. Isaac, that's my second son, and he's been a and all their folks, and Napoleon Bonyparte, hoss-car conductor in Bosting, and has seen a and Gineral Stark, and Jenny Lind, and lots of powerful sight of high life, says that they don't others that I disremember intirely. go into the country for pleasure-they go beAs soon as I seed them things in that parlor cause somebody else does. He says a woman my mind was made up. I'd take boarders too. would lose caste if she stayed to home while the I'm a widder woman, and my brother, Lemuel rest of her neighbors was off. I dunna what Hanscom, lives with me. He owns the sheep's caste means, but mebby you do. Isaac has been pasture and the ten-acre wood lot, so I allers to school two year to the Mount Benbo Ceme- try not to be disrespectful to him. He's a nice man, but he's dreadful nigh to tery, and he is dreadful high- flown sense he come back. being a monymanyach. He's had a sight of A year ago last summer, Miss Brown-the these ere Patent Office Reports sent to him from colonel's wife -she took boarders, and she got Washington, and they've long ago sot him crazy rich on it ! She had as much as a dozen, and to invent sunthin'. And fer more than five year made a sight of money. Folks did pretend to he's been a whittling, and boring and sawing say that she nigh about starved her boarders ; { away the best of the time, a trying to make but then everybody knows city folks is genteel, some kind of a machine that'll never stop going. and genteel people, it stands to reason, don't Perpetual motion, he calls it. He says if he can need so much to eat as common folks. They only git it, and he's serting he can in time, he shall be a richer man than Judge Fishtell that live on ceremony and perliteness some. Mrs. Brown, she saved enuff out of her lives over to the corner, and keeps two hosses, boarders to pay all expenses, and new furnish and drinks brandy that is twenty dollars a her parlor, besides putting a portagal over the gallon. Lemuel hain't really no right to meddle in front door, and buying a pearley shawl for herself, and a ten-dollar thing, made out of hair my affairs, but when I'm a going to do anything and stuff, for her darter Ann to pin onto the oncommon, I ginerally speak to him about it, back part of her head to set her bunnit onto. jest for the looks of the thing. So, after I'd made up my mind about the It's the slickest thing to keep a bunnit from slipping. And there's that ere purple silk bun- boarders, says I to him, says I, nit of mine, that I've had nigh onto five years, "Lem, I'm a going to take city boarders this it's all the time a slipping off from my head ; { summer. " 188

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 MARCH'S

BOARDERS

189

MRS.

1

tains, that we read about in the illustratiorated "Take city fiddlesticks ! " says he, whittling newspapers -them fellers that one is awfully away on a round stick with a hole through it. afeard of, and yet sorter falls in love with at "No," says I, " boarders . Mrs. Brown made e time. money last summer, and I mean to see if I can't theI sam took him to once, and give him the north do as well as her. My Melissy is crazy after t chamber . one of them new-fashioned pepperlambs that frun The same day there came a woman , all in they wear hitched onto the waists of their black , and as handsome as a picter . She'd lost gounds , and I calkerlate she shall have it. her husband not long afore , she said, and And Isaac needs a new bedstead in his room , wanted to come out into the country to recooand I mean to have some furniture in the fore pera . her I didn't know about the cooperattold I te room, jest like Mrs. Brown's ." "You can do as you'r a mind to," l, kinde r cross Lemue like ; e"but if you do says take ing. It wasn't common for women folks to larn boarders, you'll wish yer cake dough afore you the cooper's trade ; but then, if they was a going to vote , I didn't know as there'd be anything gh . man git throuific And hadn' they'ltl ort bothe me bothe to death A scient red !! onproper in their learning one of the men folks' tor be

de. laffed They'll put me back so on my machine that I traShe , and sed I didn't quite understand shan't git it ready to go to Washington till next Her health was poor, and she had come winter. And I meant to use some of the money her. country to recruit. I shall git for the invention in buying that farm to the And then she talked so pitifully of her grief and trouble, and flurrished her scented handof Spencer's ." s I,kno n't he fullynkercher so sorrowfully around her eyes, that I sayhe "I'm talke,", for to mor used no no sai " Tai ws whe and sot," agreed to take her. I gave her the south frunt I'm deetarmined on a thing that I hain't easy chamber, and told her there was a young man by the name of Cliffe in tother , with black eyes , persuaded to give it up. I got Eustace Atkins , the schoolmaster over and a red neck-tye ; and she sithed , and said to the corner , to write me some advertisements black eyes and red neck-tyes were nothing to to put into two of the Bosting papers , and he did it powerful . To have read what he writherHer now. name was Myra Westley , and she came you'd have thought our farm was a Paradise from New York . I felt well pleased with her, for I calkerlated upon airth. He called the house Poplar Lodge , and there that being in trouble she wouldn't be likely to hain't but one popple on the farm that I know have much appetite . People don't ginerally, of, and that's out back of the hog' - house . you know. So thar'd be a saving. Well, in three days , I was overrun with folks The next day Mrs. Wilson came, with her that had come out to see the primises. And three children, and I agreed to take ' em if most of ' em smelt of musk , and carried their they'd be contented to sleep in the tool-house heads dreadful high, and turned up their noses chamber, because all my rooms was full. Mrs. at everything. The men they tip-toed round Wilson was dreadful genteel, but she said she'd among the cabbage -plants and ruty-beggars, stay if she had to roost in a tree ! For her and wondered what kind of flowers them things neighbors, the Joneses , and the Smiths , and the would turn into ; and the women, they screeched Jenkinses , had all gone into the country , and and held their smelling -bottles to their noses she'd die but what she'd be as much as they when the geese and turkeys chased ' em, and stuck out their necks at ' em, as them animals was! Them children of hern was awful ! If you ld sarch the world over from Californy to shou is apt to do. The fifth day there was a feller came that I the Gulf of Mexico, you couldn't find three such thought would do. His name was Henry Cliffe, youngsters. Adolphus, he was twelve year old, and he was about as nice -looking a chap as and Katrina Adelaide was ten, and Ignatius Catyou'll see anywhere out of a picter-book. He ngus wasvok seve ed n .Lemuel's life out of him. was tall, and wore one of these short coats tera They pro that is a kind of a cross between a coat and a Dolph, as his ma called him, cut Lem's machine jacket, and he had a red neck-tye, and a buff all up to kindle a brush -heap with : and Adevest, jest as if he was reddy to be married. laide tore the picters out of his Patent -Office His hair and eyes was black, and his mus- Reports, and papered the hen-house with ' em ; tache was black, too ; and he kinder put me in and Angus, the little one, he upsoot my whole mind of one of them pirats, or bandanna chief-

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 190

MRS. MARCH'S BOARDERS.

Churning- cream down the sullar-stairs, and Afore many days, the widder Westley, she got filled the churn up with two litters of my spring to be dreadful peart for a widder. And when chickens - and the old hens, they liked to have she and Mr. Cliffe didn't know that anybody scratched and picked his eyes out in the scrape. seed ' em, they was jest as sociable together as Their ma said they were children of genius, if they'd known one tother from their cradles. that she feared they was short-lived ; their She got so gay and lively that I sot out to brains was too big for their heads. And then send her off. I was afeard people would begin she'd kiss ' em ; and Dolph, he tied a dead rat to talk if I had a woman in the house that laffed to her water-fall, and skeered her nigh about so loud, especially as she was a widder. into fits. I spoke to Mr. Cliffe about it one day, and he One morning I missed the cat. She warn't growed so red that I didn't know but the widder there to git her new milk, and she was allers had been saying sunthin ' onproper to him. But he sed he guessed if he was me be as constant to the milk-pail as the needle is to the pole. I was worried about her, for she is as wouldn't go to having no fuss, and he was so extry perlite and nice about it, that I told him good a cat as ever you seed. I asked the children if they had seen her, and jest to oblige him I'd keep still. After that he was dreadful retentive to me, Dolph giggled and looked at Angus, and that little wretch said she was in the flour-barrel. and every time he spoke to me he either called "Dolph put her in last night ," said he ; " we me dear madam, or dear Mrs. March. And he got into the habit of patting me onto didn't like her color, she's so black, and we thought we'd powder her jest as ma does her the shoulder, and squeezing my hand whenever face !" . he wanted to say that the butter was too salt, "You little trollop !" cried Mrs. Wilson, grab- or the coffee not sweet enuff. And he kept telling of me how young I looked, bing him and giving him a shake that made his teeth clatter, "I'll learn you to tell falsehoods !" and what pritty hair I had, and what a good "It's so- bain't it, Dolph ?" exclaimed Angus, form, and said that if all ladies were such a and then he scooted out of the house ; and the figure as I was, corsets wouldn't never have next I seed of him he was out in the barn, with been invented. And when he went to the Corner, he allers two hens tied to a pole, trying to brush the me home some peppermint lozenges, of brung cobwebs off from the barn winders. He'd got a feather duster, he said. which I am very fond, and which is excellent As soon as I found out whar the cat was I fer wind in the stummuk. run to the flour- barrel, and shore enuff, when I After a spell I began to see through it, though histed up the kiver, out she bounced as white at fust I couldn't hardly believe it. But, then, as a miller, and skeered nigh about to pieces. I'm very young -looking of my age, and I hain't And when she come out she jumped onto the near so old as I might be. cake-board that had as much as a dozen tumAnd I s'pose I hadn't orter have thought of blers, jest washed, onto it, and down went the marrying agin ; but then a widder's life is a board, and all them tumblers along with it ; very lonesome one, and Mr. Cliffe was such a broke ' em into five hundred pieces, and skeered fine- looking fellow ! I knowed half the girls in the cat so that she didn't come anighst the house Peaville would be yellow with envy ; and as fer for more than a month. the widders and old maids, I doubted if they'd Wall, I had my revenge onto the Wilsons in manage to live through it. One day Mr. Cliffe he sot down terrible nigh one way. The bread they eat was made out of that indenticle flour! me on the settle in the kitchen, and he put his The next day Dolph fell through the scaffling arm round me, and tuk my hand into his as in the barn into the pen, where we had a sow affectionate as ever you seed a person. "Hold on a minnit," says I, ** and let me wipe and some pigs, and the hoggish old lady tore all his clothes off from him afore he could git my hands onto my apron, " I've been a kneedout. Angus got kicked by the old mare half to ing up bread, and they're a little doughy." death ; and Adelaide, she upsot one of the bee" And he waited jest as obedient as a kitten. hives, and was stung so bad that her face looked Then he took my hand agin, and says he, like a biled lobster with the small- pox . " Mrs. March, it is not good for man to be But, land ! ' tain't no use for me to try to begin alone. That is Scripture is it not?" to tell the performances them children had, and "Yes," says I, and it's the truth, too." the scrapes they got into. It would take half. "I'm glad you think so, " says he, "because I'm in love." of my lifetime.

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text: November Joe/Chapter 2

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 cession of people carrying some one to the grave, whereas they went for a man in order to bring him from the grave and back to his own home.

When they reached the cemetery the neighbours remained in the rear. Joseph advanced to the dwelling of the grave-digger and shouted, “Bartos, now we are here, so let out my father.”

Bartos issued from his house, which had also a door into the fields, halted in front of the threshold, and seeing in reality half the village at Joseph’s back inquired jestingly, “Are you come to pay me a visit, neighbours? I am delighted, I am delighted, but you must only come one by one, because men do not enter these precincts all at once.”

“We are come for my father”, said Joseph. “I’ll teach thee, thou son of a spade, that I know how to keep my word.”

“For your father? You have him there”, said Bartos, and pointed vaguely all over the cemetery.

“Open the charnel-house, grave-digger,” said Joseph imperiously.

“It will not be necessary,” answered the grave-digger. “Yonder is thy father”, and he pointed to the great ruddy cross by which stood old Loyka with dishevelled hair, holding in his hand a human shin-bone which he had picked out for himself in the charnel-house, and looking from one to the other of those who had approached the cemetery, as much as to say, “If any one comes near me I will break his head for him with this shin-bone.”

All started back who saw it, even Joseph started. That grey-haired sire among the tombs, holding his left hand around the great cross on which hung the old white-iron figure of the Christus, and in his right hand a human bone, seemed standing there the defender of the dead against whom the living had come in battle-array.

“What went ye out for to see?” began old Loyka in the words of Scripture. “A notable son who promised in presence of you all to bear me on his arms, and then waved me to those chambers which I had reserved for beggars, and bade me dwell there. Behold him, yonder, he is among you. Or came ye out for to see a father bereft of sense and reason who long ago invited you to the feast, danced with you and made you merry? Behold me here, I stand beneath the crucified Jesus, but I have no more to spend on feasts, nothing remains to me save this bone, and none of you have much appetite for that. Surely, you do not believe that old Loyka has ceased to be hospitable? Oh, I could


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 CHARITY'S

SECRET.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE SECOND LIFE ," ETC., ETC. "THE quality of mercy is twice blessed. It { blesseth him that gives, and him that takes," said Portia. I would like to add my experience as a corollary to that ; to fit the beautiful, ancient truth into a modern setting, as I have seen diamonds foiled by cheap enamel. Perhaps most of the lady readers of " Peterson" can match my story with a like one of their own ; but if not, it may save them a pang or two of disheartenment in the beginning of their charitable career ; for now-a-days the outside work of women of moderate means, like myself, lies very much in the same fields, and between soldiers' widows and thriftless Irish, I fancy they will find in the courts below Lombard street harder missions than was Portia's to the court of Venice, and will be more apt to lose pounds of flesh in them than to save them. But to my story. There was a great fire in Second street the winter after we were married. It began, I remember, in a factory in which they burned bituminous coal, for when we were wakened by the throbbing of the engines in the street below, the night air was choking with oily soot, and the heavy waves of smoke, black, and filled with fiery sparks, were ebbing over the sky westward, shutting out the blue silence into which my husband and I had looked but a few hours ago, and in which the calm beauty of the Pleiades and " Arcturus, with his sons," wrote the same great poem which the old prophets heard. It was just before dawn. I was alone in the house with the two servants, George having been called out to a patient in the early part of the night- one of his first cases, by-the-way, in the city. I was not yet used to the solid blocks of building in Philadelphia- it was but two months since we had left a country village of Delaware ; the flames seemed to me to be gaining ground toward our dwelling, step by step. "They're tiniment houses, mim, " said the cook, who was out on the flat, "while I stood at the window. " God be marciful to thim poor sowls this bitter night." Ann was one of the " Kerry Irish," as little and black as their crows. But she had a gentle, kindly voice, as excellent a thing in cooks as in Cordelia. I chose her for it, in fact.

Of course, I was troubled about the homeless wretches in Second street ; but I could not forget that we ourselves had but the furniture which we had bought with uncle John's legacy, and that it was not insured ; beyond that we depended on George's practice for our daily bread and butter. When morning and George came, therefore, I felt worn and haggard enough, and entertained him over his breakfast, which he was eating with a relish, with my terrors. "I knew the fire was near us," he said. "But I could not leave the child, and I knew you would be taken care of, " in a lower tone. Dr. Brettler was one of the most reticent of men ; but I had been his wife long enough to know that Jung Stilling, nor our own pastor, Passavant, never surpassed him in the strength of his simple faith. Doubtless, he had prayed for baby and me ; and then knew he would find his threshold unharmed, as surely as if he had seen the sign above the door, over which the Angel of Death had command to pass. Where was the fire ?" he asked of Ann, who knew the localities better than I. "Tenement houses !" he exclaimed, when she had named the squares. I noticed that he changed color and pushed away his plate, im- " mediately after drawing his boots toward him again. "What is it, George?" "We must go round and see what is to be done. Wrap yourself up well, Lou . " I ran up stairs with my heart full. I did so thank God for my husband that morning ! it was so easy to do good with such a leader. For me, like most young girls, I always had been goodnaturedly anxious to help to lift the burden of ignorance and poverty in the world ; and just here, despite all the popular cant about the indifference of the rich, and those classes who are comfortably provided for in life, to the suffering I must say that I have never seen such indifference. It may serve to point a moral, and adorn a magazine tale, to picture the jeweled lady sweeping by the virtuous, starving beggar ; but the chances are that if the wearer of the jewels once recognized the real virtue, and the real starvation apart from their counterfeits, the beggar would be spoiled with indulgence 199

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 198

DEATH

IN LIFE.

to the cottage of Elise's father. It was here sence here. She learned at last the one central that she had determined to seek shelter for a fact that Philip was dead- killed in a duel, few days, till she was able to go to the distant brought on by his own wickedness and folly. convent in which she had been educated, and Leon, who had arrived in Paris only a few which she had been assured by the abbess days before his brother's death, received the message summoning the Marquis de Haut lieu would gladly receive her again. Vivienne had determined to leave the cha- to the chateau, and then was first informed of teau immediately, for her attendants told her the truth concerning the will of the late marquis, that "Monsieur le Marquis was expected every and, as his brother's heir, he succeeded not only hour," and she would not meet that bold, bad man. to the title, but to the vast estates of Hautlieu. But Vivienne was destined never again to In the lowly cottage of Elise's parents she was welcomed with tears and blessings ; and enter the old chateau. In the dead of night, beneath a peasant's roof she found a peace when she lay sleeping in the cottage, the sky and repose she had never known in the proud was crimsoned with a great conflagration. From Chateau de Hautlieu. The night brought her nearly every window of the chateau sudden gentle, heathful slumbers, and the morning, flames leaped and roared. The new owner of though it roused her to a remembrance of her the stately building, sleeping for the first time grief, bore with it also a sense of consolation beneath its roof, was wakened by the crash of and safety. falling timbers, and with difficulty escaped, and When the noonday sun shone brightly, Vivi- roused the slumbering servants. Nothing could enne sat by her latticed window, leaning her { be done to check the flames-nothing could be brow against its frame, and listening to the saved from the wreck. Of all the beautiful and soothing hum of a spinning-wheel in the ad- costly contents of the chateau, not one article joining room. Suddenly the wheel stopped. escaped destruction save a small casket, which There was a strange step on the cottage- floor, was found lying at a distance from the building, a murmur of voices, and Elise entered the room and which, on being opened, was discovered to with an excited face. contain the " Hautlieu rubies." It was after"Madame, " she cried, " Monsieur le Marquis ward conjectured that the chateau was set on is arrived . He wishes to see you . Oh, madame ! fire by Duroc, who was never seen after the something has happened ! I do not know how death of Philip Saint Evremonde, and who, it to tell you. Will you go and speak to monsieur?" was believed, had robbed the chateau of many Vivienne rose, bewildered by the girl's ex- jewels and other valuables, but in his flight had citement and incoherence, and hesitatingly ad- dropped this single casket. The chateau sunk into utter ruin, and was vanced to the door. She shrunk from seeing that cold, cruel, insolent face, and yet there never rebuilt ; but a beautiful mansion soon rose seemed no escape. on a distant portion of the Hautlieu estate, and Near the open door of the cottage, in the thither, two years afterward, the young marquis blaze of the summer sun, stood a tall figure in brought his beautiful bride- more beautiful the splendid uniform of an officer of high rank. than ever in the light of returning health and The marquis ! It was Leon ! Leon's brilliant happiness, and the dignity of a fine and noble eyes fixed themselves rapturously upon her face. womanhood. Leon's dear voice called her name in accents The horrors of the old chateau were almost be in vain endeavored to render calm and cere- obliterated from her memory by the two years monious ; his hand clasped hers, and his lips of tranquil happiness she had spent in the contouched for an instant the fluttering hand he vent, amongst the gentle nuns she had loved held. in her childhood. Leon was with her, and she was free ! And With beauty more wonderful than ever, and in spite of her dimmed beauty, and her lost with infinitely more winning sweetness and gayety, he loved her still. Not a word did he gentleness of character, the young marquise utter to assure her of that, but not a word was again appeared at court ; and the " Hautlieu needed. She knew it by the light in his eyes, rubies, " though magnificent as the jewels of an and the tender accents of his voice. She com- empress, were ornaments less rare and beautiful prehended it with greater ease than she did than the purity and modesty that adorned the the strange story which accounted for his per- wife of Leon, Marquis de Hautlieu.

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 197 IN LIFE. the hands that clasped Vivienne's grew colder, should hear of her death, would it matter to yet the end did not come. him? Would he give one regretful thought to The short summer night had passed, and the an the wom he had once loved ? Oh! did he morning breeze stole gently through the winlove her still ? If only she could know that he dows, from which the curtains had been withsometimes thought of her; if this terrible blank The eyelids of the dying woman, that . n closed in the gray, morning twilight , of silence and uncertainty could be broken ; if dra hadwn bee she could see him once more ! The robe that opened gently as an infant's ; the eyes wandered shook her wasted frame told plainly enough of from Vivienne's face to the rosy sky. There the heart that still clung to earth, though she was a movement of the pale lips, a fleeting smile on the white face, and with one gentle would fain have given it all to heaven. wers bloomed sigh, Madame de Beranger had ceased to breathe. flo The mer sum It was mid . again on the terraces of Hautlieu, and filled For a moment. Vivienne knelt with those pale with their perfume the chamber where Vivienne hands still clasping hers ; then she gently folded knelt beside her dying mother. All that fair them on the quiet bosom, and rose up from the summer day Madame de Beranger had lain couch. Her work was ended now, and in her calm and still, and faintly smiling , while her weary heart there was no thought but a pasheart throbbed with pulsations that grew slower sionate longing to pass beyond the gates which parted her from the mother she had lived for. and weaker every moment. Pallid as the corpse she had left, with bowed Priest and physician had rendered their last services, and there was no sound in the room head and woeful eyes , she went from the chambut Vivienne's low, clear tones , and her mother's ber of death. On the threshold stood Duroc, his eyes glitrs. nt ewhispe faiTh s er' hands dying woman held her daught tering with malicious triumph. • in her feeble clasp, and looked up with undying He leaned toward her, and half whispered , love into the sweet, solemn eyes of her child. 'Madame has, perhaps, forgotten the penalty 66 So the hours wore away, and the end was attached to what she has done." ing y r ver nea . The rays of the declin sun peneShe looked at him quietly , and his evil eyes trated the crimson curtains of the windows, and sunk before the dignity and purity of her shed a roseate glory over both the pale, worn nce . monsieur ," she said , simply, "I have gla"No, faces of the women. The gloom faded, and twilight gathered in not forgotten. I am no longer mistress here, the room ; but still Vivienne knelt there with and we are going away, my mother and I." her hands clasped in those feeble, clinging ones She glided past him, and entering her own chamber, summoned Elise , and began to give which were growing chill in death . Suddenly Elise drew near, and stooping, directions for the funeral of her mother, whispered something in her young mistress ' Vivienne was adored by every person on the estate, and she knew her requests would be ear. Vivienne looked up, and shook her head ; but obeyed, though the right to command was no Elise still lingered , with a disturbed expression ger hers. lonShe wished that her mother's body should be e on her fac . " What is it, my child ?" whispered the dying Itlaid , not in the drear vaults of Hautlieu , but voice. "Ah ! I know now ! Elise is right. in the green church -yard of the village, and ne ! that the hands of the humble peasants, who ien Viv Oh, e ve is tim for you to lea me. loved her so faithfully, should perform the last must you go from me now ?" "No, my mother !" said Vivienne, gently . sacred duties for the dead . It was done as she directed . In the hushed " I will not leave you now. My work is almost m of the mid -summer evening, the day after cal done ; I will stay with you to-night ." A smile lit up the wan face of the mother, and her death, they laid Madame de Beranger in an expression of deep peace and rest succeeded the peaceful church -yard ; and rough peasants the momentary look of anguish that had ruffled sobbed aloud as they gazed at the black -robed figure, and the pale , lovely face of the young herSilbro encwe. again in the dim, flower -scented room, marquise, who stood alone at the head of the and then, faintly and slowly came the chime of ve. n at last all was finished , Vivienne turned the clock . Vivienne counted the eight solemn graWhe strokes, and bent her head that her lips might away, and leaning on the arm of the sobbing e on, 's han ch the d . and hour after hour Elise, she went slowly along the path leading herwor touSo her nig motht

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 196

DEATH IN LIFE.

She could see nothing but that luminous crossthink of nothing but of the heaven that had pitied her, and sent her help. The hours passed on, and still she knelt there, half leaning for support against the rough wall. { Still her lips moved in passionate prayer, and { her eyes never wandered from the faintly-shining cross. Daylight found her there ; and at last, when the hour of her release came, and Elise's voice sounded in trembling accents at her door, she rose and tottered out into the chapel, pale as death, with sunken eyes, and loose, falling hair, and garments dampened by the vapors of the vaults. Yet the spirit of the Berangers still burned in those hollow eyes ; and when Duroc met her in the chapel with his usual obsequious bow, she said calmly, "You have kept good watch, monsieur, I am sure. Your employer has reason to be satisfied with you," and passed on with a steady step. The day passed away in dutiful attendance upon her mother, who attributed Vivienne's pallor and weakness to her extreme grief for her husband's death, and said all she could to soothe and console her. When night drew on, and Vivienne prepared to leave her, Madame de Beranger entreated her to stay, but it was easy to excuse her absence to so gentle and yielding a person. Vivienne took her hand, and said gently, "I am sure, dear mother, you will excuse me when I tell you that I leave you now-that I must always leave you at this hour-in order to obey a request of my husband's. He has left me something to do, which occupies me now. " "Go, my dear child, " said her mother ; "the requests of the dead are sacred. I would not keep you." Another night of horror, of unspeakable agony, alternating with wild ecstasies of prayer. But on the third night exhausted nature could endure no more. When Vivienne sought her gloomy cell, faint and trembling, she lay down upon the couch which Elise's care had made soft and warm. The lamp placed in a niche, which sheltered it from the sighing wind, shone steadily and calmly on the silver crucifix, and Vivienne's eyes fixed themselves on the holy symbol. Then in a moment her weary eyelids closed, and she sank into a slumber as profound and tranquil as an infant's. All through the long, dark night she slept till Elise roused her by her hurried, frightened calling at the door, and Vivienne, as she unbarred it, welcomed her with a smile, and said, with a little glow on her

cheek, "I have had such sweet dreams, Elise. Would you believe that one could sleep well and dream sweet dreams here ?" Elise gazed upon her mistress with eyes of mingled love and awe as she answered warmly, "Yes, madame, those whom the saints love, and the angels guard, may have fair dreams and peaceful slumbers even here." The faint smile lingered on Vivienne's lips, and her eyes held a tender, happy light in their depths, for she had been dreaming of Leonand it was no longer a crime to think of nim. Many different rumors concerning the death of the Marquis de Hautlieu, and the strange life the young marquise was leading, had reached the gay and careless court, and had even wandered to the camp far away. Some averred that Vivienne was mad, others that she intended to convert the chateau into a convent ; some that she was doing penance for a terrible, mysterious crime ; and others dimly conjectured the true reason, and believed that she was condemned to this death in life by her stern husband's will. The new Marquis de Hautlieu, when questioned about his fair cousin, answered by careless shrugs of his shoulders, and laughing hints, which reflected anything but honor upon the character of the young marquise. But the words and looks of as unprincipled a man as Philip de Hautlieu, made but little impression upon those who remembered the spotless purity and modesty of Vivienne's life at court ; and more than once he found himself angrily and haughtily reproved for his malicious insinuations by some young cavalier who had admired the " Child Marquise," but had never dared to tell her so. Vivienne, however, was ignorant of all this. Day after day she spent by her mother's bedside ; night after night was passed in the drear solitude of her tomb- like cell, which was no longer full of horrors too great to be borne, but had become a holy, solemn retreat, where she spent long hours in prayer, and in rapt ecstatic, trance-like visions of the glories of the blest. It mattered little to her that her body grew feeble and emaciated ; that the clinging vapors in her cell banished the bloom from her cheek, and the light from her eyes ; that she seemed hurrying to the grave while yet in the early dawn of womanhood. She had done with the joys of earth, she thought, and heaven was close before her. She only asked that she might live to soothe her mother's dying moments, and then in the holy peace of a convent she prayed that her life might be ended. When she was dead- when Leon, in the distant camp,

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