SCENE I.--_Rose Hill. The garden before_ PROF.

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GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1851.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLII.

A Hindoo Belle, by _J. E. P._, 322

A Spring Carol, by _Mrs. A. A. Barnes_, 326

Cottage Furniture, 329

Design for a Lady's Work-Box, 364

Develour, by _Professor Charles E. Blumenthal_,

51, 102, 182, 257, 323, 377

Editors' Table, 65, 134, 201, 266, 330, 391

Editors' Book Table, 66, 135, 202, 267, 332, 392

Etruscan Lace Cuff, 328

Fashions, 70, 140, 205, 270, 336, 396

Flowers, by _G. H. Cranmer_, 284

Garden Decorations, 251, 282, 372

Good For Evil, by _Angele de V. Hull_, 252, 285

Home; or, the Cot and the Tree, by

_Robert Johnson_, 295

Incidents in the Life of Audubon, by _the author

of "Tom Owens, the Bee Hunter,"_ 306

Knitted Flowers, 61, 199, 263, 328, 386

Model Cottages, 4, 126, 283

Moral Courage, by _Alice B. Neal_, 316, 367

Publisher's Department, 269, 334, 394

Sabbath Lyrics, by _W. Gilmore Simms_,

26, 109, 174, 366

Sonnet, by _Mrs. L. S. Goodman_, 281

Sonnets, by _William Alexander_,

42, 75, 169, 215, 277, 390

Spring, by _Fanny Fales_, 292

Spring--a Ballad, by _Mary Spenser Pease_, 278

Susan Clifton; or, the City and the Country,

by _Professor Alden_, 29, 93, 170, 246, 302, 360

Taking Care of Number One, by _T. S. Arthur_, 320

The Judge; a Drama of American Life, by

_Mrs. Sarah J. Hale_, 21, 88, 154, 237, 298

The Language of Flowers, by _Jno. B. Duffey_, 277

The Last of the Tie-Wigs, by _Jared Austin_, 296

The Tiny Glove--a May-Day Story, by _Blanche_, 280

The Young Enthusiasts, by _Frank I. Wilson_, 309, 346

To A. E. B., or Her who Understands it, by

_Adaliza Cutter_, 297

Undersleeves and Caps, 327

Various Useful Receipts, 69, 139, 205, 270, 335, 396

Women of the Revolution, by _Mrs. E. F. Ellet_, 293

Ye Come to me in Dreams, by _Nilla_, 279

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MAY.

May-Day Morning.

The Language of Flowers.

Spring.

"Now be Careful."

Music, &c.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

BY JNO. B. DUFFEY.

(_See Plate._)

AS, wandering forth at rosy dawn,

When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn,

From glen and glade, and river-side,

We bring young flowers--the morning's pride.

And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet,

With flowers our favored ones we greet;

For flowers a silent language own,

That makes our maiden wishes known.

A language that by love was wrought,

And by fond love to mortals taught;

A language, too, that lovers know,

Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow.

A language richer, purer far

Than all the tongue-born dialects are;

And, as the flowers, devoid of art,

It is the language of the heart.

Thoughts that would perish all untold

Live on the tongues that flowers enfold:

Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell

The love of stammering youth unveil.

And happy will that trembler be,

If she, with cheek of modesty,

Shall give his soft avowal room,

And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom.

But, should her heart feel not his glow,

The mottled Pink may answer "No;"

Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath,

A balm upon the wound will breathe.

The Morning-glory's dewy bell

In mystic tones of hope may tell--

Tell of a struggle in the breast,

Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed.

The Heartsease, flower of purple hue,

Seeks an affection ever true;

And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply,

Speaketh a love will never die.

The little Daisy grows for her

Who heedeth not the flatterer;

And spotless Lilies love the breast

Where child-like Innocence is pressed.

Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose

Whose blushing petals half unclose;

And in the snowy Violet

Sweet Modesty her home hath set.

And thus of feeling, every shade

May be through voiceless flowers conveyed;

And all the fond endearments known

To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.

[Illustration: THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker

Printed by H. Quig.]

SONNET.--AUDUBON.[A]

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

AH! is he blind, who erst, untiringly,

Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold,

For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold?

When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly

Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song;

For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain,

No more to view your rainbow-tints again--

Love-lays in gratitude to him belong,

From matin Lark, loud herald of the day--

From Philomel, coy chorister of night:

Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight,

In rapture musing on your plumage gay,

Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done,

On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Written previous to his death.

SPRING.--A BALLAD

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.

(_See Plate._)

SPRING, with its glad influences

Stealing up from bosky dell,

Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse

With its sunny, witching spell.

Each new morn the boughs hang thicker

With the leaves of Nature's book;

Each new eve adds a new chapter

To the life of bird and brook.

Each new morn the world is greener;

Age forgets its shriveled years

In the warmth and life upspringing

Out from Winter's chill and tears.

Each new morn the song grows sweeter--

Song of loving bee and bird;

Each new eve, from youth and maiden,

Softer cadences are heard.

Each new morn her heart beat warmer,

Dreaming o'er his tale of love;

Each new eve, that tale repeated,

Brighter spells around her wove.

At the early, early daybreak,

To caress her as she slept,

Greetingly, the light spring zephyr

Through her open lattice crept.

Roving mid the golden tangles

Of her tresses' braidless flow,

Nestling in the half-veiled dimples

Of her bosom white as snow.

Mingling with her fragrant breathing,

Closely to her ear it came,

Murm'ring to her gentle dreaming,

In sweet music, his dear name.

"Through the valley, o'er the mountain,"

Sang the zephyr in her ear,

"At my own sweet will, I wander

All the loving, livelong year.

"With the lowly, tender grass-blade,

With the solemn, stately trees,

With each swelling bud and blossom

Sport I ever as I please.

"All the humble wayside flowers--

Daisy, king-cup, light harebell;

All the tall and proud ones--Kalmia,

Rose, and orchis--know me well.

"Of the brightest, sweetest flower-buds,

Sheltered by the mountain's brow,

Blooming in the wide, wide valley,

Loveliest of them all art thou.

"That is why he loves thee dearly,

Modest, gentle as thou art,

The proud lord of wood and manor

The proud lord of thy young heart.

"Oh, I heard a song last evening,

Sung to tremulous guitar,

Through the yellow, mellow moonlight,

Floating on the air afar;

"Breathing warmest, truest passion

For one bearing thy sweet name,

Telling of that passion thwarted

Bending unto station's claim:

"Telling how the claim of station

Must at last be overborne,

By a will and faith unyielding,

By a love no time can turn.

"'I must see her at the day-dawn,'

Sighed he, at the ballad's close,

'By the brook in the still copse-wood,

Where the purple violet grows.'"

Rose the maiden from her slumbers,

Fresher than the break of dawn,

Binding up her heavy tresses,

Looked she out upon the lawn.

Like a shower of yellow guineas

Flashing back the morning sun,

Crocuses and dandelions

Half the golden fields had won.

From the green and yellow shining,

Flecking it with flakes of white,

Drooping lilies, palest snow-drops,

Spread their petals to the light.

Looking out upon the copse-wood,

As she clasped her simple dress,

Suddenly the thought came o'er her,

"I will seek its wilderness.

"By the brook down in its thicket,

Where the purple violet grows,

I shall find the wild sweetbriar,

And the wind-flower, and--who knows?

"Who knows but my Edgar Lincoln

May be wandering that way,

Tempted by this fragrant morning--

Brightest morning yet of May.

"Oh, I know he loves me dearly,

And he knows I love him well;

That my love is deep and boundless,

More than tongue of mine can tell."

On she wandered, singing lightly

Snatches of some olden song--

How a lord and lowly maiden

Loved each other well and long:

How the haughty claim of station

Came at last to be o'erborne

By a will and faith unbending,

By a love no time could turn.

Singing lightly, on she wandered

Over hill and meadow lone;

Said she "This broad wood and valley

Soon I'll proudly call my own.

"Not one beggar, not one hungered

Shall there be in all the land;

Not one loathing life from hardship,

When I'm lady proud and grand."

Wandering on, she plucked wild flowers,

Flowers filled with morning dew,

Looking backward ever, ever,

Listening for a step she knew.

Press the flowers to thy soft bosom,

Braid them in thy shining hair,

Love them while their tender petals

Fragrant life and freshness wear;

For too soon they'll droop and wither,

Plucked and worn but one short day,

And too soon thy youth and freshness

May, like them, be flung away.

Light of heart, she nears the copse-wood,

From its depths sweet voices throng;

Voices of the jay and blue-bird,

And the wild wood-robin's song.

By the water-brook she's standing,

Where the purple violets grow,

Where the wind-flower and sweetbriar,

And the starry woodbines blow.

By the water-brook she's standing,

And her heart begins to fail;

Still she watches, still she listens,

Hearing but the night-owl's wail.

Silent shadows flit around her,

Looming darkly, broad, and tall;

But one shadow well remembered

Sees she not among them all.

Ah, perhaps--perhaps he may be

To his vow a traitor base!

Down into the clear brook glancing

There she sees her own sweet face.

Down into the clear brook gazing

There she sees her own sweet face;

Sees she also there reflected

One of noble, manly grace.

"Effie! Effie! late last evening,"

Spake he, circling her soft waist,

"My proud sire--and soon thine, darling--

Read the lines thy hand had traced;

"Breathing of thy sweet self, Effie,

Full of tenderness and truth--

'Such a heart, such wit and wisdom

Must be cherished, by my sooth!'

"Thus my sire--the lines re-reading

Traced by thy beloved hand--

Still he spake, 'Such wit, such wisdom.

Would grace lady of the land!'

"Then it was, my darling Effie,

Pleaded I thy cause and mine--

'Yes, yes, yes, I've watched thee, youngster,

Watched thee sigh, and pale, and pine!'

"More he said, my darling Effie--

For he knew my death he'd mourn

That the haughty claim of station

Is at last by love o'erborne."

[Illustration: SPRING.

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.B. Neagle.]

YE COME TO ME IN DREAMS.

BY NILLA.

YE come to me in dreams, baby,

In visions of the night;

Thy blue eye, full of blessedness,

Is glancing on my sight:

The music of thy breath, baby,

Is falling on my ear,

In those dear old-accustomed tones

I loved so well to hear.

Again upon my heart, baby,

Thy little hand is prest,

Again thy little nestling head

Is pillowed on my breast;

Again my lips are murmuring

Low words of love and prayer;

I strive to draw thee closer yet,

But clasp the vacant air;

And then I wake to weep, baby,

Rememb'ring thou art dead;

And never more can my poor heart

Pillow thy little head!

Yet I am happy even now--

This thought my grief disarms--

A few short months I fondly clasped

An angel in my arms:

That loftier minds than mine, baby,

Will now instruct thy youth,

And holier hearts will point the path

Of innocence and truth.

Thou wert my blessing here on earth,

And though tears dim my eyes,

I feel that I am richer far

To have thee in the skies!

THE TINY GLOVE.--A MAY-DAY STORY.

BY BLANCHE.

CHAPTER I.

BRIGHT, gladsome May-day!--the fairest maiden in all the train of the

merry "Queen of Seasons." May-day! what happy scenes this word

recalls--the day of all days for childhood's pleasures! I see the little

darlings tripping along the streets of my native town with baskets on

their chubby arms, smiles on their lips, and happiness in their eyes,

soon clustered in merry groups on some favorite spot in the suburbs,

laughing and chatting, arranging their pic-nic dinners, or sporting

beneath the shady trees.

But to my story. A mile or two from the village of A. were collected

some fifty or sixty little girls and boys, for the purpose of

celebrating their annual holiday. The May-pole, bedecked with flowers of

every hue and form, towered aloft, and around its base they frisked and

gamboled like so many little fairies. Some were "wafted in the silken

swing" high up among the boughs of the beech and elm; others sought the

brink of the rippling rivulet, and amused themselves with ruffling its

smooth surface or looking at their mirrored faces. Far down the

streamlet, and alone, was quietly seated a little girl, weaving into

garlands the buds and blossoms which grew around her in wild profusion,

caroling with a bird-like voice snatches of some favorite air, ever and

anon raising her violet eyes and looking round her in wondrous delight.

Her childish face was strikingly beautiful; around her small perfect

mouth there rested an angel smile, and her short brown curls were parted

on a forehead of matchless contour.

She wove and sang, and smiled a sunny smile, and seemed wholly

unconscious of a pair of bright black eyes fixed upon her from the

opposite bank. At length she turned, as if to listen; and soon upon the

air floated distinctly sounds of "Alice! little Alice!" and she bounded

away to her playmates. No sooner had she disappeared than the owner of

the black eyes--a boy, seemingly of twelve years, clad in a green jacket

ornamented with silver buttons, loose white trowsers, and wide-brimmed

straw hat, which but partly concealed his glossy black hair--sprang

across the water and possessed himself of the tiny glove which lay

forgotten on the bank, and which had once covered the hand of "little

Alice."

* * * * *

"Alice, my dove, you have brought but one glove from the May frolic."

"I lost the other one yesterday. I don't think I forgot it May-day,

mamma."

"Well, dear, go put this one away until you find the mate."

"Yes, mamma."

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

'TIS night in a boarding-school. The doors of many small rooms open on

the dreary hall, and the glimmering light through the key-holes tells of

the fair students within. One is partly open, and through it we see two

young girls standing near a toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass

of rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness about her snowy

shoulders. The other is rummaging amid the elegant trifles which

decorate the table.

"Alice," she began, "many, many times have I seen this beautiful little

glove among trumpery, and often thought I'd beg of you its history, but

always forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned."

"Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight years old I lost the

fellow, and put this one away until I should find it. Years have rolled

away; but it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then enjoyed,

that I have never been able to part with it, and still treasure it as an

index to the bright scenes of the past."

CHAPTER III.

AGAIN I beg the reader to pass over two years--short to you who possess

health and plenty, long to those in disease and want--and come with me

to the heights of the Alleghanies, crowded with stately trees all

covered with snow and ice, with here and there thick clambering

evergreens, looking all the richer for their bright unsullied winter

caps. Slowly and laboriously do the wheels of a heavy traveling carriage

wind along the rugged ascent, while the heaving flanks and dilated

nostrils of the noble steeds bear witness to the toilsome pathway.

Muffled in cloaks and furs, we scarcely recognize, in the inmates of the

coach, our two school-girls, lately emancipated from their narrow cell

and the thraldom of school-laws. We would willingly linger to admire

with them the grandeur and sublimity of these props of heaven; but we

will not attempt a description of that which was among the mightiest

works of Him, the Almighty; so we pass over the perilous and impressive

journey, nor pause until, again in her own village, again on the steps

of her dearly loved home, Alice Clayton is pressed to her mother's

bosom.

Now under her father's roof, she has become the glad child again. We see

her first with her companion, Kate Earle, wandering about the spacious

drawing-rooms, now tastefully arranging the folds of the heavy satin

curtains, or decorating the tables with rich bouquets; then trying the

full, clear tones of the piano; and at last, taking a delighted survey

of the whole, she trips away into the long dining-hall, contemplates a

moment the iced pyramids, foamy floats, transparent jellies, &c., then,

arm in arm, they seek their chamber, and are soon busily engaged in the

witching duties of the toilet.

Night hurries on, and the cold moon looks calmly down the quiet village:

but soon, no longer silent, we hear quickened foot-falls, rolling

carriages, the hum of busy tongues, and occasionally a silvery laugh

floats out upon the cool night air. Before the stately, and now

brilliantly-lighted, mansion of Mr. Clayton they pause, ascend the

steps, and are lost to view. But we will enter and look upon the happy

throng assembled here to welcome back their former playmate, sweet Alice

Clayton. Ah, how tenderly she greets them! Now do her soft eyes light up

and flash with intense joy as she receives her numberless guests with

unaffected grace, presenting many to her visitor, Kate Earle. The music

and the dance begin, youth and beauty eagerly join the circle, while the

older ones retire to the whist-tables, none marking the speedy flight of

the rosy hours. Some are there, strangers to the fair idol of the

brilliant concourse: one of these, a youth of striking mien and unusual

elegance, is now seeking a presentation from her father. With a

good-humored smile, he bows assent, and together they seek our heroine.

"Come, Alice dear, make your prettiest bow to my young friend, Percy

Clifford." Then, in a mock whisper, he added, "Guard well your heart,"

and left her, smiling maliciously at the painful blushes which his

remark had summoned to her cheeks.

However, the low, easy tones of Clifford's voice soon reassured her, and

a half hour glided away so pleasantly that her father's warning was

forgotten, or, if remembered, but too late. I don't mean to say that

Alice really gave her heart away before the asking; but that night when

she and Kate were repeating the sayings and doings of their late guests,

Percy Clifford's name was oftener on her lip, and when, with arms

entwined, they slept the sleep of innocence, Perry Clifford's musical

voice and captivating smile alone hovered round her pillow.

CHAPTER IV.

AGAIN and again they met; already had the finely-modeled features of

Alice Clayton gained an indescribable charm from the warm feelings of

her pure, ardent heart, which sprang up irresistibly to the surface. No

wonder that Percy Clifford yielded to the idolatrous affection which

grew and strengthened in his bosom for the fair girl. No wonder that his

passion knew no restraint when he pressed his lips on her innocent brow,

and drew in his clasp Alice, his betrothed.

* * * * *

"My sweet Alice!--my 'little Alice;' for so I love to call you. The dear

name recalls the little brown-haired beauty who sat upon the bank

weaving into garlands the bright flowers, none half so lovely as

herself, while from the depths of her gentle heart gushed out a song as

witching and melodious as the carolings of all the feathered tribe.

Then, a boy, did I first gaze enraptured on your infantile beauty; then

did my heart unclose to the lovely vision which it has since treasured

through years and absence, joy and sorrow. My father always granted my

request to prosecute my studies at his country seat near A., and,

unknown, unnoticed, I followed you through girlhood, and experienced my

first pang when you left me for the distant seminary.

"None can tell the overwhelming sorrow, the keen agony which succeeded

your absence; my only solace was to seek the streamlet and mingle my

boyish tears with its limpid waters. Again I met you; and I have since

wondered how I could so well act the stranger--how I could speak so

calmly when my heart was bursting. Soon all doubts and fears were

banished--_you loved me_! I saw it in the tearful eye, the flickering

cheek. And now, Alice, dearest one, _you are mine_! With this, you see

this little glove. It will tell you how you have _always_ reigned, as

now, in the heart of Percy Clifford."

And how can I describe _her_ joy as, half laughing, half crying, she

kissed again and again the little wanderer, and how that night she

placed it _mated_ in his hand, emblem of themselves?

SONNET

BY MRS. L. S. GOODWIN.

THE god of day hath laid ambition by,

And closely pressing to the fair west's side,

As ardent bridegroom to a beauteous bride,

Rests on her blushing cheek his lustrous eye.

List to the melody that floats adown

The aisles of yonder greenwood orchestra!

I fancy Nature's harp-strings lead the play,

Coveting for their mistress fresh renown.

And amorous zephyr, lo! with skillful touch,

Her music pages turns; the while he toys

With her vast wealth of fragrance. Naught alloys

The peace which seems to copy heaven o'ermuch;

Chaining the raptured spirit all too strongly here--

Teaching it to forget the higher, holier sphere.

[Illustration: GARDEN ORNAMENTS.]

IN the present number of the Lady's Book, we give a style of fountains

somewhat different from that given in our last.

Should the house be in a style suitable, a drooping fountain, like that

shown in the engraving, may be used; and the central part may be altered

to suit a Gothic or an Elizabethan house.

Whatever pattern may be adopted, there are certain rules to be attended

to in the construction of all fountains, in order to make them play. A

fountain may be formed wherever there is either a natural or artificial

supply of water some feet higher than the level of the surface on which

the fountain is to be placed. This supply of water is called the head,

and its height varies according to circumstances. Where a drooping

fountain is to be adopted, the head need be very little higher than the

joint from which the water is expected to issue; but where the fountain

is to form a jet, the head must be six inches, a foot, or more, higher

than the height to which the jet is expected to rise; the height

required varying according to the diameter of the jet. When the jet is

small, say about the eighth of an inch in diameter, the height of the

head above that to which the jet of water is expected to rise need not

be above six or eight inches.

In the mountainous parts of the country, ornamental fountains may be

constructed with very little trouble or expense. The water which flows

from springs in hill-sides may be made to form the head. It may be

conducted to the fountain through leaden or earthen pipes, or pipes made

of any material that is perfectly water-tight. If these pipes be

extended to the door of the dwelling, excellent water may be at all

times available--thus answering the double purpose of ornament and use.

MODEL COTTAGE.

[Illustration]

_A Dwelling of two stories._

This cottage contains, on the ground floor, an entrance lobby, _a_;

staircase, _b_; kitchen, _c_; parlor, _d_; tool-house, _e_; pantry and

dairy, _f_; back-kitchen, _g_; wood-shed, _h_; dust-hole, _i_;

water-closet, _k_; and cow-house, with brew-house oven, _l_.

The cow-house is connected with a court-yard, which contains a shed for

hay and straw, piggeries, with a manure-well connected with the

water-closet. The platform, on three sides of this dwelling, forms a

handsome walk, from which there is a door into the court-yard.

[Illustration]

The bed-room floor contains a best bed-room, _m_; a second bed-room,

_n_; a third bed-room, _o_; and a stair, _p_.

[Illustration]

_General Estimate._--14,904 cubic feet, at 10 cents per foot, $1,490.40;

at 5 cents, $745.20.

FLOWERS.

BY G. H. CRANMER.

What a volume of thought and feeling is contained in the simple flower!

As the lightnings which flash along the firmament of heaven, or the

thunders which startle the silence of eternity, are typical of His anger

and might--so are the beauty and simplicity of a flower typical of His

purity and mercy.

A flower is no insignificant object. It is fraught with many a deep

though mute lesson of wisdom. It teaches us that even itself, the

brightest ornament of the vegetable world, must fade away and die--and

the life which we prize so highly may be seen, as in a mirror, through

its different changes.

The withered leaflet is like unto a crushed and broken heart. Its fading

loveliness is like the approach of age as it throws its mantle of

wrinkled care over the form of some lovely specimen of humanity. Its

sweet fragrance is like the joys and pleasures of our breasts ere they

have been contaminated by the rude touches of the world.

The dew-drop which, at morning's dawn, rests upon the half-oped bud, is

like the tear which dims the infant's speaking eye when his childish

glee has been reproved by the voice of affection.

A flower represents mankind in the changes of infancy, youth, manhood,

and old age. The young bud is infancy; the bursting flower is youth; the

flower full blown is manhood, and the withered and tailing leaf is the

type of old age.

Its uses are various and manifold. Sometimes the promptings of affection

lead us to place it, in its purity and beauty, over the tomb of some

beloved friend, where, shedding around its fragrance, it steals upon our

senses like the memory of the departed being beneath. Sometimes the hand

of pride will pluck it from its stem, to deck the hair of the blooming

bride, or add by its odor to the festive scene. And not unfrequently it

is the mute bearer of some fond tale of love to the ecstatic sense of

her whose heart and feelings are at length justified, by its sweet

language, in the thoughts they so long have harbored. It soothes the

cares of the troubled soul, and alleviates the pangs of sorrow. It wins

upon us by its modest though blooming appearance, and its gentle

influence steals into our bosoms and softens our natures.

Study the flowers, and behold the wisdom, the goodness, and mercy of the

Almighty. Anatomize them, and behold the innumerable parts which form

and make up the whole, and the system and order with which they are

joined together.

Refinement dwelleth among the flowers. There the affections of our

hearts are given license to rove, and there the enthusiasm of our nature

overcomes the diffidence of our feelings. Voluntary homage arises to the

Maker of objects so fair and beautiful, and the soul in the

contemplation sighs itself away in a delicious reverie. Not less

beautifully than truly has it been said:--

"There is religion in a flower;

Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience.

Mountains, and oceans, planets, suns, and systems,

Bear not the impress of Almighty power

In characters more legible than those

Which He has traced upon the tiniest flower

Whose light bell bends beneath the dew-drop's weight."

_Wheeling, Va._

GOOD FOR EVIL

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

(Concluded from page 256.)

THEIR new home was a little bijou of a cottage, and Cora went to work

with a light heart. The furniture was of the very plainest kind; but

about the little rooms there was an air of comfort and refinement that

told of a woman's careful hand. Here and there hung pictures of her own

painting. In each apartment were one or two shelves, neatly stained and

varnished, on which were placed a few choice books. On the top stood the

nicely-trimmed lamp--thus making feminine ingenuity serve the double

purpose of library and bracket. The little octagon work-table, in one

corner, held a porcelain vase, daily ornamented with fresh flowers, for

in the sunny South the flowers bloom perpetually; and the white

counterpane on the small French bedstead in Cora's "spare room," tempted

one to long for an invitation from her sweet self to occupy it. How

proud and happy her husband felt as together they took their first

regular meal after the confusion was over, and Cora's housekeeping began

in good earnest!

A few weeks afterwards, she received a box containing her mother's

old-fashioned but costly set of China--and her tears fell fast and thick

as she looked once more on the well-known cups her childish lips had so

often pressed. No gift could have been so precious in her eyes, and she

kissed the souvenir of her early days with reverence. Many little

trifles had the good mother added to the welcome present--trifles that

Cora could not buy, because she could not afford it; and her heart

yearned towards her only parent, as she uncovered one after another of

the home treasures. An antique-looking silver coffee-pot, with cream-jug

and sugar-bowl, made Cora's little table look like the most _recherche_

in the land. Had Laura seen it, she would have cried with spite; for,

now that she had driven her sister-in-law from the house, the

remembrance of her own cruelty and injustice made her hatred more bitter

still. She had but one wish, and that was to see her brother and his

innocent wife in actual want!

Even in the street poor Cora was not safe from her violent rage. If by

chance they met, Laura's eye would flash, her cheeks grow pale, her lips

quiver, and she would pass, followed by Clara and Fanny, with a look of

scorn and gesture of defiance, which they would endeavor to imitate as

closely as they could, as a token of respect to their now wealthy

sister. Their father had long repented of his unkindness, but his weak

mind bent to that of Laura; and so they were as strangers--they who

should have been as closely united as God had made them! To Lewis they

made professions that disgusted him; but, at Cora's request, he still

paid Mr. Clavering the respect of calling occasionally. It was an

unhappy state of things indeed; but heartless, worldly people have no

ties, and easily sever the closest, should they bind inconveniently; so

it cost Laura and her sisters neither pang nor remorse to outrage a

brother's feelings. Margaret yearned towards Cora, and, as often as she

saw her, expressed the same unchanging affection, but dared not openly

avow her regret at her absence.

One day, as Cora sat in her room plying her needle, she heard some one

enter the back gate. In a moment Maggie was in her arms, weeping and

laughing by turns. She had stolen away, and came to spend the whole day.

"Darling Maggie!" said Cora, kissing her again and again, "how kind of

you to come! Lewis will be so happy, too!"

"Ah, Cora!" replied Margaret, untying her bonnet, "if you knew what a

time I had to get here! We were all invited out to dinner; I positively

refused to go--having laid my plans for you, sweetest! Laura was so

ill-humored, and the others so intent upon themselves, that they did not

remark my eagerness to remain. But they insisted on my going, until I

suggested that the carriage would not hold us all, large as it is, and

so they drove off to Rivertown in grand style, leaving me at length

alone. I danced with joy! I almost screamed. But I kept quiet enough

till T knew they were not going to return for some odd glove, a

handkerchief, or Fanny's eternal powder bag, and then started off."

"This shall be a _jour de fete_, then, my own Margaret; and I will put

up this work to show you my sweet little home. Oh, Maggie!" continued

Cora, clasping her hands, "were it not for the indifference of your

father and sisters to my poor Lewis, I would be the happiest woman on

the wide earth. He deserves so much affection, for he has given his own

so earnestly."

A few tears fell from her eyes, but she brushed them away and smiled

again. Margaret sighed, but was silent. This was a subject upon which

she never conversed, from her decided disapprobation of the course

adopted towards two beings so dearly loved. She remembered, with

bitterness and trembling, the thirty-sixth verse of the tenth chapter of

St. Matthew: "For a man's enemies shall be they of his own household,"

and pondered deeply over the means of reconciliation. But to-day she had

determined to be happy, and Cora was delighted at her open admiration

of their little _menage_. The China and silver particularly charmed

her--first, with their beauty; and secondly, with the air of luxury they

gave her brother's modest table. They were moreover, articles of real

value that were Cora's, no matter what the contingency; and Margaret's

gentle heart rejoiced at what she termed "their first piece of luck."

How these two chatted! How they valued each moment of the time allowed

them! Maggie drew out her thimble and insisted upon being employed, and

the hours flew lightly over their heads until noon, when Lewis entered.

"Maggie!" he cried, as she flew out from behind the door where she had

concealed herself. "This is indeed a pleasure."

This affectionate greeting made her burst into tears; and she held her

head, for a few moments, against his breast.

"How kind of you, dear sister, to brave all, and come to us at last! I

wish it were for ever; but we are such ungrateful mortals that we never

rest satisfied with present blessings. You have been happy to-day,

darling," continued Lewis, as Cora entered. "I can tell that by looking

at you."

"Ay, Lewis, as merry as a cricket ever since Maggie came before me, like

a good angel, this morning. Do get the girls to go out and spend the day

again, my own pet sister, and gleam on Lewis and me before we begin to

pine again for one of your soft kisses.".

"I wish you could put me in a cage, like a stray bird," said Margaret,

with a smile of love. "I think I should like a jailer like Cora, and be

content to stay captive for ever."

But, alas! dinner was over, and they had only the afternoon left them.

Maggie remained until it was nearly dusk, that she might get an early

cup of tea from Cora's pretty China; then, with Lewis and his wife at

her side, sauntered slowly home. The tears sprang into her eyes as she

bade them adieu, and she had just rung the bell when the carriage

containing her sisters drove up the street. Fortunately, it was too dark

for them to recognize her companions, and she succeeded in getting rid

of her bonnet and mantle before they had managed to get out, as Laura

insisted upon being carried in the parlor by poor Mr. Phillips, because

he had taken, at dinner, a little more wine than was positively good for

him. But he succeeded, in despite of occasional glimpses of two wives,

four sisters-in-law, and two Mr. Claverings. Laura was placed on a sofa,

where she lay until after the tea tray was carried out, and then,

calling her husband once more, desired to be taken to her room.

Fanny and Clara sat discussing the dinner, the furniture, and the

guests, and both seemed rather out of spirits. The old gentleman walked

up and down the piazza, thinking deeply, and Margaret alone looked fresh

and happy.

"Who was there, Fanny?" asked she, at length.

"Oh, a stupid set! Excepting ourselves and Mr. and Mrs. Denton, there

was not a decent creature there. Nearly all married people and old

bachelors. I declare, I have no patience with such incongruous

assemblies!"

"There was Mrs. Hildreth's brother! He is quite a beau, I'm sure; and

Clara expressed unbounded admiration of his mustaches and whiskers a few

days since."

"Yes, he was there, and is certainly a very unexceptionable young man.

But what is the use of one beau among four girls? The two Clays were

there, looking as forlorn as Shakspeare's nightingale: and Clara

monopolized Henry Bell, as though he belonged to her."

"Certainly I did," said Clara; "and so would you, if he had given you

the chance. Did you ever see such a dress as Betty Clay had on? She

looked like a buckwheat cake in it."

"And Mrs. Stetson's hair, Clara? Did you notice it? Screwed up behind

into an almost invisible little _catogan_, and put over her ears so

tight that she looked as if she had been in the pillory and came out

with her ears off."

"Was the dinner in good style?" again inquired Maggie.

"Yes, but too elaborate. Those people that have not always been upper

tens think it necessary to crowd their tables, and ruin one's digestive

organs. I declare, I thought I should swoon when that last course came

in. I was actually crammed with dinner, and looked forward to dessert

with a hope of relief!"

"And those two Charlotte Russes! As if one were not enough, with all

that ice-cream and jelly! Mrs. Hildreth said, at least half a dozen

times, how careful Soufflee was about having sweet cream, in spite of

the scarcity and expense. The idea of hinting to guests the cost of

their entertainment! These _parvenu_ people are _too_ absurd. I wish

they would learn _bienseance_ before they rise."

"So you had a dull day?" said Margaret, thinking of hers.

"Not precisely dull, but tedious. Laura does torment poor Phillips so,

that it makes us uncomfortable; and when people have to 'smile and

smile,' as we do, to gloss it over, it seems like that intense desire to

gap in stupid company, and the struggle to look as though you merely

meant to show now very wide awake you were. I do wish Laura would

confine her rudeness to ourselves; but no one ever dared tell her so but

Lewis, and he will never trouble himself to do it again."

"I wonder what he is doing now!" said Fanny. "I declare, I almost forgot

his existence. And that horrid woman, too! She had better do something

for herself, before she causes her husband to beg!"

"Depend upon it, Fanny, neither Lewis nor Cora would do _that_."

"Oh! you are their sworn champion, Margaret, we all know. But you cannot

do them any good, child--be sure of it. I wish she would go home, or

make Lewis mad, so that he could send her there."

"Fanny!" cried Margaret, shocked, "how unfeeling!"

"Pshaw! Did she not rob us of Lewis? Papa is poorer than ever; and we go

about dressed in shabby clothes, through her fault. Lewis used to pay

all our little bills, and now----."

"And now," interrupted Margaret, "instead of remembering his generosity

with gratitude, you abuse him for trying to be happy according to his

own ideas. You almost get on your knees to Laura if she but gives you a

cast-off ribbon. Be as full of deference to Lewis for past favors."

"We are obliged to curry favor with Laura," said Clara, lowering her

voice. "She has us all pretty much under her control since she promised

to live with us after her marriage."

"Excuse me," said Maggie, "but _I_ am not by any means under Laura's

dominion. She makes me no presents, and I make her no protestations. I

am civil to Mr. Phillips, however--and that is more than you are,

Clara."

"I am afraid," said she, laughing, "Laura is so _entichee_ of her love

that she does not like us to pay him attention. Cora won her eternal

hatred by speaking gently to him."

"How she must abuse us now!" exclaimed Fanny, after a pause. "I expect

Lewis is tired of our very names. She was always a vulgar thing, any

how."

"Vulgar!" cried Margaret. "You go rather too far, my dear sister. Cora

is as far from being vulgar as your own particular self--and you are not

sincere when you say so. Moreover, I believe she mentions our family as

seldom as possible. I wish that she could forget us, I am sure--for she

was brutally treated."

"Do hush, Maggie; here is papa, and you have half persuaded him to think

as you do. He seems actually conscience-stricken about Lewis's leaving

home. I would not be surprised to find him visiting Cora after a while."

"Where do they live, I wonder?" asked Fanny. "Laura will never let papa

know, if she can help it; and they might go to Kamschatka before we

Would discover it."

"Come, girls, go to your rooms," said Mr. Clavering, entering. "You talk

too much, and too lightly. Go to bed, and sleep if you can. It is more

than I have been able to do since you sent my poor boy from his father's

house."

The next morning at breakfast Laura seemed a little more amiable, and

began discussing plans for the summer excursions. Spring had set in, and

many were changing town homes for country ones.

"I vote for Dingleford," said Phillips, with a sudden burst of valor.

"You!" said his wife, with a look of scorn--"you!"

Mr. Phillips retired into himself, like Mr. Jenks of Pickwickian memory,

that being the only retirement _he_ was allowed; and Laura went on

without further notice.

"We will to Brooksford. The girls can come; for I will pay Clara's

expenses, and papa can easily do the rest. I heard the Martins, the

Hildreths, and the Fentons say they were going."

"Thank you for my share," said Margaret. "_I_ stay at home; your

fashionable friends are my aversion."

"You are so foolish, Maggie! You will never marry in the world."

"_Tant mieux_, I have no ambition to become _madame_. My tastes are very

simple, indeed. 'Liberty for me!' is my motto."

And it was arranged that Fanny and Clara should accompany Laura to

Brooksford to meet their friends, leaving Margaret and her father at

home to brave dust, heat, and musketoes as they could.

The old gentleman went to his counting-room to sit and think; Maggie

applied herself to some household occupation; Laura retired to her

chamber to fret like a peevish child; and Fanny and Clara prepared

themselves to go down to the front parlor to receive morning calls.

The bell rang, and the visits began. The consequence of each was easily

determined by the reception of the hostess, whose smiles were dispensed

more freely to some than to others. Mrs. Markham seemed determined to

outstay them all, and, being one of the "ultras," was encouraged to do

so. The dinner was once more discussed, as she had been one of the

invited, and Clara once more voted it a bore.

"I expected as much when I sent my refusal," said Mrs. Markham. "I hate

dinners; they are always dull and stupid. How can it be otherwise when

people meet expressly to eat?"

"And Mrs. Hildreth's piano is such an old kettle, too! I felt it almost

an insult to be asked to play on it."

"Yes; with such a sweet voice as yours, Clara, you ought to have a

perfect instrument. But where is Mrs. Clavering? She seems to have

withdrawn herself entirely from the world; we never see her now."

"She is not here," said Clara, coldly. "She does not live with us."

"No! Where is she then?" inquired Mrs. Markham, with more interest than

Clara liked. "She is a lovely creature. George fell quite in love with

her."

The girls seemed embarrassed; but Fanny's amiable expression advanced to

the rescue--

"The fact is, dear Mrs. Markham, we were somewhat disappointed in

Lewis's wife. She is very beautiful and accomplished, and, I dare say,

means well--in fact, I'm sure that her heart is very good, and all that;

but she hurt poor Laura's feelings so dreadfully one day that we really

had to notice it in spite of our love for Lewis. It almost breaks my

heart to think of it; but Cora was so violent after Laura once advised

her, in a mild, sisterly way, to be more economical (she _was_

extravagant), that we felt it our duty to rise against it; and she left

the house in great displeasure, making poor Lewis believe, of course,

what she liked. I _don't_ think she meant it," continued Fanny; "but it

_seemed_ unkind. I do not think she intended to be"--

"Then why did you notice it?" asked Mrs. Markham, abruptly. "I would

have found what palliation I could to prevent such a break up of ties."

This was something of a poser, and the two sisters exchanged glances;

but Fanny once more exerted her soft tones in behalf of "poor Laura."

"You know we could not hesitate between our own sister and Mrs.

Clavering. We could not have her insulted by a stranger, however

ignorant she may be of intentional wrong."

"But your brother is--your brother, is he not?"

Here Laura entered, and the conversation was stopped, to the infinite

relief of Fanny and Clara, who began to see that there was really

nothing to boast of in their treatment of Cora. The truth was, Mrs.

Markham had been on the opposite side of the street when they one

morning brushed against their sister-in-law with their usual

impertinence, and, amused at the scene, she tried to find out the cause

of it. On her return home, after her endeavors, she related what she

knew to her brother, and made her comments.

"Really, George, the idea of trying to persuade people that Cora

Clavering is a monster is, beyond everything, absurd; as if everybody

didn't see how unwelcome the poor thing was, how shabbily they served

her, and how they tried to hide her when she came among them. Why, they

never invited a soul to meet her as a bride; and when I asked for her

the day I called, you would have thought I mentioned a troublesome

animal."

"She is too pretty, Helen," said her brother. "That Mrs. Phillips is a

perfect tartar, and her sisters have no heart for anything but show.

They would sell their father for their love of fashion."

"All but Margaret, George."

"All but Margaret; and she is as far above them as heaven is above

earth. She must have had some other 'bringing up' than theirs. I would

swear that _she_ never ill treated Mrs. Clavering."

"Not she! Maggie loves her devotedly."

"Then that is sufficient proof to me of her perfect innocence and their

own falsehood. Mark that, Helen, Margaret's love proves that Mrs.

Clavering is worthy of kind and gentle treatment."

* * * * *

One day Cora looked through the blind and saw her father-in-law before

the gate. He looked wistfully in, and stood for a few moments with his

hand on the latch. She would have gone out to meet him; but, remembering

their parting, felt reluctant to expose herself to farther insult. But

her heart yearned towards the poor old man, as she looked at his bent

form and face of care. He _was_ her husband's father, and as such

excited her sympathy. On Lewis's return, she mentioned the circumstance

to him.

"I wish he had seen you, dearest; he is sorry for the past, and

doubtless wished to come in, but dared not. He and Maggie are alone at

the house. I met her to-day, and she told me she was coming soon to see

you."

Dear Maggie! She came soon, and announced her approaching marriage with

Mrs. Markham's brother, George Seymour. She, whose motto was "Liberty

for me!"

"But, you see, Cora, I could not resist George; and all this time I have

loved him without being certain how it would terminate. I want to be

married in church; so does he; and you and Lewis will come and sit near

me. Laura and the girls are coming home for a week, and I want to

persuade papa to return with them. He will be so lonely without me! We

leave an hour or two after the ceremony."

"And when will you be back?" asked Cora, as the tears fell from her

eyes. "How I shall miss you, darling!"

"We are going North to see George's mother, and, of course, will not be

back before the fall. You will write constantly, Cora?"

"Of course I shall; it will be one of my pleasures to do so. May you be

happy, dear Margaret--God knows you deserve it! Lewis and I will both be

at church, dearest, with hearts full of love for you and your future

husband."

Margaret blushed, and, kissing her, tripped away with a light heart.

A few days after, she was in church to have her destiny for ever

changed. The long bridal veil concealed her sweet face, but her low,

distinct tones reached the brother and sister, sending a prayer into the

heart of each for that young thing's future.

It was over--Margaret's vows were spoken; her husband led her from the

altar with a look of pride, and friends pressed forward to congratulate

her. Tenderly met she the warm embrace of the two that loved her so

well, and her last words to Cora were a low whisper--

"Take care of my father!"

The others passed their brother's wife unheeded, though they spoke to

him a few words. They had ceased to care for him, and he was no more

than an acquaintance.

The carriages whirled away, and the bride left her home to learn

another's ways and habits. Laura returned to Brooksford with her

sisters. They could not remain at home; nor would their father go with

them. He tired of the world, and felt how little they cared for his

comfort.

Soon he fell ill, and sent for Lewis. Cora was alone when the message

came, and flew to see him. She was shocked at the change, and insisted

upon removing him to her own home. Once in that dear little room, he

seemed better, and, when Lewis came in, fell asleep clasping his hand.

Kindly watched Cora by the old man, soothing him, reading to him, and

attending to his every want. He seemed so grateful, and would follow her

light form with his eyes until the tears flowed from them. But he

gained no strength; the doctor shook his head and thought this a bad

symptom. _He_ could not "minister to a mind diseased," and the cares of

business had shattered that weak spirit. Lewis wrote to his sisters; but

they thought he was only too easily alarmed, and wrote in return for

further tidings. Their letter came when their father lay speechless in a

state of paralysis.

Fanny arrived in haste. Mr. Clavering knew her; but his look turned from

her to Cora, who held out her hand to her sister with an expression of

earnest sympathy. Fanny saw it, and burst into tears. Lewis led her from

the room, and an hysterical fit was the consequence. Her screams reached

the old man's ear, for he looked troubled; but Cora signed to the

servant to close the door, while she sat down beside him, trying to

soothe him into sleep. He soon fell into a quiet slumber, and she then

went to Fanny's assistance.

Her quiet but efficient help succeeded in calming her, and together the

three watched all night by their father's bed. He looked so pleased as

he opened his eyes and saw them together. Cora bent down and kissed him,

as she read his look, and once more held out her hand to Fanny. He

signed for her to come nearer. She kneeled at his side, and laid her

young, sweet cheek to his, and once more he closed his eyes. Towards

morning he grew weaker, and a few hours after he had gently breathed his

last, Laura, her husband, and Clara arrived.

Their grief was loud and violent, and painful to witness. If any feeling

of remorse visited their hearts, none knew it, for no reproach escaped

their lips. Fanny alone seemed stricken, and turned to Cora for comfort.

Mr. Clavering was buried by the side of his wife. His children followed

him to the grave; but in all that crowd not one mourned him as Cora did.

She loved the poor old man that clung to her so like a child; and as she

looked at Lewis and beheld his manly grief, she grieved anew over their

short separation.

The most becoming mourning was chosen, and the most fashionable

bombazine bonnets ordered. Laura and Clara hated black, and thought it a

dreadful thing to wear such an uncomfortable dress in the summer. But

custom was not to be braved, and they all appeared at church the Sunday

after, looking very proper, having asked Cora into their pew. There was

no longer an excuse for refusing to speak to her, and they had requested

her to appear with them in public once more, thinking, perhaps, that the

world would expect it--the world, with its countless eyes, ears, and

tongues!

Poor Margaret! Sorrow came soon to disturb her newly-found bliss, and

she returned earlier than she had intended, to weep over her father's

grave. Her pale face bore witness to her suffering, and Seymour's

tenderness alone called her from her indulgence of her grief. How she

blessed Cora for her care of her father! How she loved her for her

forgiving spirit!

She saw her now almost daily, for they lived so near; and Cora had this

one cause for thankfulness as troubles gathered around _her_ little

fireside. Lewis had striven with superhuman strength to increase his

slender capital, but in vain. Cora, whose stout heart never failed her,

retrenched here and there, deprived herself almost of the necessaries of

life to try and stay the storm. When her husband remained at the office

instead of returning to tea, Cora's evening meal was a slice of dry

bread with a cup of weak Bohea. For him she prepared some dish set by

from dinner, which she had seen him relish.

Turning down the lamp that the oil might not waste, she would sit

wondering how she could help her darling Lewis. She knew how much he

would object to have her apply to her mother, and, hating to grieve that

tender parent's heart, she wrote cheerfully and hopefully when her heart

was weighed down by anxiety. Lewis was growing thin, his buoyant spirit

was gone, and she wept over that, indeed. Maggie dreamed not of the

cause, but she, too, remarked the change in both, and felt doubly uneasy

about these two so dear to her. She questioned Cora closely; but Cora

was a sealed book this time. Lewis was peculiarly sensitive upon the

subject of his poverty, and could not bear the thoughts of the triumph

it would occasion Laura when she knew that his wife was really in

distress. Slowly, but alas too surely, the little sum diminished, and

Cora would soon lose her dignity of banker. She opened the drawer and

counted the remainder with a deep sigh, and began to feel how terrible

it was to be poor. Not that she repined for herself--oh no!--but the

idea of her husband's wan face was like a dagger in her heart. She

looked around her; there was nothing within her modest dwelling that

could be parted with, nothing but her mother's gift, and she knew that

Lewis would not hear of that. In a few days, she would be forced to tell

him that the drawer was empty, and not a cent left to provide for even

their scanty wants. She buried her face in her hands.

She did not see the servant enter, and Nora stood some time at the door

watching her with a look of sympathy, for she knew a portion of her

mistress's sorrow, and felt it, too.

"Won't I put on some more coal, Mrs. Clavering?" at length she asked.

Cora looked up; the fire was quite out, and it was a cold night, but she

had not heeded it.

"Never mind, Nora; my husband will soon be home now, and it would be

useless. You know he never sits up long after he returns."

"But it is a cold, wet night, ma'am, and Mr. Lewis will want to dry his

clothes," persisted Nora.

"_Is_ it a wet night, Nora?"

"Lord bless you, Mrs. Clavering, it has been pouring down rain for an

hour past!" and she ran back to the coal house, returning in a second

with the scuttle. "You see, ma'am," continued Nora, as she lighted the

fire and the cheerful light filled the room, "you thinks too much. I've

been here half a dozen times to-night, and seen you a ponderin' on sad

things. It won't do, ma'am; thinking don't fatten folks."

Cora smiled, and Nora went on. She was privileged, for she had been a

servant in old Mrs. Clavering's family, and at her instance came to live

with Cora when her household cares began.

"You see, Miss Cora"--(Nora never said Mrs. Clavering more than once or

twice)--"I know what ails you, and you ought not to take on about it so.

The darkest hour's before the dawn, and _your_ dawn an't come yet."

"I wish it were, Nora," said Cora, smiling again. "But there is a hope,

at all events, for worse than I am. You say that you know why I am sad,

Nora, and I am sure that you feel for one whom you have served so long.

Now, is there nothing I can do to help Mr. Clavering that you know of?

Nothing that will enable me to keep _you_? for, as things are now, there

is no use in concealing that I could no longer afford to employ a

servant, were there no brighter prospect."

"Takes two to make a bargain, Miss Cora, and you couldn't send me off if

I didn't choose to go," said Nora, stoutly. "It's a hard thing to see

you work, but I s'pose it's got to be. Would you sew, ma'am? I'm sure I

could get plenty of that."

"Certainly I would, gladly I would," said Cora, eagerly. "So keep your

word, Nora, and bring me something to do as soon as you can. You know

how nicely I can do fine work."

But Nora was crying, and went out of the room. Her pride for "the

Claverings" was sadly humbled, and her "poor Miss Cora too unhappy!" She

kept her promise, however; and long after the portfeuille lay useless in

the drawer, Cora's busy fingers earned wherewith to supply the every-day

wants of the house. What mattered it if her bonnet grew rusty and her

gloves were mended? She was always pretty and neat, and had always that

sweet fresh color that a consciousness of right sent to her cheek. The

same glad smile ever welcomed her husband, the same rich, clear voice

sang the touching songs he loved, and he seemed to catch a portion of

her undying spirit.

He returned home one evening earlier than usual, and going up to Cora,

threw something into her lap.

"That is for the bank, my singing-bird: it is a long time since I made a

deposit, is it not? Oh, Cora!" and Lewis's deep voice faltered as he

said it--"oh, Cora, if you knew how I dreaded to have you tell me that

it was all gone, when I had no more to give! What hours of misery I have

endured, my darling, since I came so near actual want! And you, my

noble-hearted wife, how bravely you gazed at the coming clouds--how

firmly you awaited the storm!"

"And has the storm ceased, Lewis?--is the sunshine returning?"

"There is a glimpse of it shining through the crevice, Cora, and I dare

hope for better times, even with no prospects. I feared this, dearest,

when my poor father sent me on the wide world with the slender sum I

placed in your hands. It must be all gone now; is not your drawer empty?

for, with your strict economy, it has lasted beyond my expectations."

Cora smiled, and brought a little chair to sit beside him. Fondly he

stroked her shining hair as she leaned her head against him, and all

sense of sorrow left his breast as this, his treasure, was so near.

Holding one little hand, he watched the arch smile upon those beautiful

lips.

"Tell me, rose-bud, how is your bank now? Have you not also dreaded to

mention its emptiness to your gloomy husband?"

"I have, indeed, Lewis; but there is something yet in the drawer, and I

shall not touch your present supply for a while, as I do not need it."

"You do not need it, Cora! Surely, dearest, you must have used all that

I gave you at first; it was not even sufficient for our wants till now;

for I have often wondered at your ingenuity in providing as you have.

You have not parted with anything you valued, Cora?"

She shook her head--

"Not at all. Do you miss any of my pet china, my silver, or my cherished

books?" asked she, laughingly.

"Then how is it, Cora, that you have managed so well?"

"Oh, I was blessed by the fairies at my birth, and am a successful

mesmerizer, too. I have the power of making you see more than is before

you."

"Let me see your account book, then, queen of spirits. I had no idea

that I had married a banshee. Where is your book?"

"I keep my own accounts, Mr. Lewis, so please you. This is a liberty I

will not allow." And Cora ran to her drawer and turned the key, thus

preventing the discovery of her labor of love.

But she confined herself too closely, and it was not long before her

face began to grow pale and her temples throb through the night. Lewis

was alarmed, and sent a physician. He prescribed exercise, country air,

and quiet; three luxuries of which poor Cora had been deprived for

months, and Lewis was more wretched than ever.

In the morning early, before Cora had risen, Nora went to him and told

all. Her young lady should not work herself to death; hiding it from Mr.

Lewis was a sin, and so she made bold to betray her. Lewis bowed his

head and wept; she had, indeed, been firm in adversity; she had, indeed,

been true to her word, and kept a stout heart. How he loved her! how

willingly he could have knelt before her! The scene that passed between

them I could not think of describing; it must be imagined by the

kind-hearted reader, by the sacrificing wife, and the grateful, devoted

husband. One load was taken from the mind of Lewis, the absence of local

disease in his cherished one, and he thankfully turned his thoughts to

the Great Source of all his joys, blessing him for the trials he sent

that he might be purified. Poor as he was, destitute of expectation as

he felt himself to be, he left home with a light heart. His gem, his

bright, beautiful Cora was not threatened with a loss of health. She had

promised to rest, and now she would find her roses once more.

During all this time, Margaret had watched her brother and sister with

intense anxiety, and, suspecting the cause of their altered looks, set

her little head to work to find out more. On a visit to Laura, she

mentioned Lewis and his appearance of delicate health. Cora's name she

never breathed before her hard-hearted persecutor.

"Oh, they are so poor; no wonder!" cried she, with a look of scorn. "I

suppose they are starving. _I_ wonder they are not begging."

"God forbid!" said Margaret, earnestly. "Have you heard anything?"

"Yes; Phillips told me Lewis did not make a cent, and wondered how they

had lived till now. The other evening, Mr. Layton was here and asked me

about Lewis, saying he could not find his house. He wished to offer him

the situation of head clerk in the establishment of Layton, Finlay &

Co."

"And what did you tell him?" asked Margaret, breathlessly.

"Oh, I told him there was no use in doing anything of the kind, as he

would not be able to keep Lewis long, his habits of negligence were so

irremediable."

"Great God of heaven!" cried Margaret, starting up and standing before

her sister. "You did not tell him _that_, Laura!"

"Indeed, I did! I have no idea of seeing that wife of his benefited in

any way. She married him poor; let her remain so."

Margaret was gone in an instant. She almost flew down the street to her

husband's office, and, fortunately, met him on her way. In a few words,

she related to him what had passed.

His indignation was not less than hers; and, before a quarter of an hour

elapsed, George Seymour was closeted with Mr. Layton, his cheek flushed

and his eye bright with excitement, as, without one word of

circumlocution, he told the plain, unvarnished truth.

Mr. Layton was much shocked, and hastened to make his offer to Lewis

Clavering in "plain black and white." Before night, the note was

received, and Lewis and his inimitable Cora had the prospect of comfort

and happiness with the surely-coming salary of two thousand a year.

Their grateful reception of this intervention in their behalf, their

unmurmuring hearts at past suffering, would form a bright example to

hundreds possessing perfect independence and no cares.

Laura's disappointment knew no bounds. Margaret's joy was complete. How

she and Cora talked over this good fortune, and how silvery and sweet

their merry laughter seemed to Lewis and Seymour, who were listening to

every word these two said. They were now discussing a marriage on the

tapis.

Clara was fortunate enough to secure an offer from a widower with a son

older than his future stepmother. But Mr. Penrose was very rich, and

could be hid, like Tarpeia of old, under jewels and gold. Clara loathed,

and would often turn from him with disgust, as her eye fell upon his

great clumsy form "fitting tight" (as the mantua-makers say) to the

Louis Quatorze, in which he regularly ensconced himself. His false teeth

were unexceptionable; his cheeks round and shiny. He bore one

resemblance to poor Uncle Ned:

"For he had no hair on the top of his head,

The place where the hair ought to be;"

and, in case of any danger, Clara could easily screen herself behind him

and never be seen. He was in a melancholy state of extreme health,

though there was a hope of apoplexy in his case; and all that Clara

could rejoice at was his tendency to severe gout, which would prevent

his accompanying her upon many occasions in public.

Margaret ventured a hint upon the disparity of age and disposition, a

sad inequality to bring into married life. But Laura talked so loudly in

favor of wealth and Mr. Penrose's consequence, that she was forced to be

silent. Fanny, too, approved Clara's wisdom and prudence. It was an

excellent match; Clara had shown herself a woman of determination,

superior to the foolish girls who prated of love and cottages. Let a man

be esteemed before he was loved, and there would be no doubt of perfect

harmony afterwards.

"So write your cards for the reception-day, Clara, and we will have a

grand ball in the evening. You shall be married with _eclat_ becoming

your prospects."

"A ball, Laura!" cried Maggie. "Have you forgotten our mourning?"

"No, indeed; I wish I had. But, as we have worn it now nearly a year,

I'm going to take the opportunity of leaving it off on Clara's wedding

day. So will she and Fan."

"But, Clara," said Maggie, turning to her, "our father has not been dead

a year yet! Leave off mourning if you will; but, for mercy's sake, do

not outrage decency by going to a ball, even if you have no feeling on

the subject."

"I agree with Laura, Margaret. We have been in prison long enough. I do

not wish to begin my married life in seclusion. We have had _soirees_

only six or seven times since papa died, and I went to one polka party

at Mrs. Hildreth's. I'm sure I have been dull enough to suit any one."

"You do not pay our father the respect that Cora does, and she is only

our sister-in-law."

"Don't bring up _her_ name," said Laura; "I hate to hear it. Clara may

send her a piece of cake if she likes, but she shall not be asked here;

though I'm willing that Lewis should be invited, to show what I think of

_her_."

"They would not come, depend upon it," said Margaret; "nor shall I; so

do not expect me. You will be much blamed."

"Pshaw!" said Clara. And so she was married, having issued cards to all

her fashionable friends. Her reception-day was very brilliant, the

_fete_ the gayest of the season; and the bride and groom left the next

afternoon for their wedding tour, amid the applause of the waiters, who

regaled themselves on the scraps of the feast and the half bottles of

champagne that were left to evaporate.

A year after, no one would have recognized the gay and elegant-looking

Clara Clavering in the faded Mrs. Penrose. Her elephantine spouse was

not so amiable as before marriage; and the poor wife was heard to say

that, after all, wealth was not the principal thing in marriage; she

would prefer a competency and happiness.

Laura's health was much impaired by her unceasing fretfulness and ill

humor, and eventually her sight became affected. Sitting in a dark room,

unable to read or sew, deprived of every amusement, she wept herself

blind at last! Reduced to this melancholy state, Cora Clavering once

more stepped across the threshold from which she had been so rudely

thrust, and offered her aid to the sufferer. Her gentle hand applied the

cooling compressions to Laura's swollen lids; her noiseless footstep

could cross the room and not disturb her if she slept. That low sweet

voice never grated harshly on the sensitive ear of the invalid, and she

learned to long for her coming as a captive for freedom. Fanny clung to

her as a guardian angel; for from how many heartaches did Cora's

presence save her! Margaret watched with her, and together they

persuaded Laura to submit to an operation; and she requested that it

might not be delayed.

But on Cora she leaned for support in the hour of trial, and, clasping

her hand firmly, said that she was prepared. Faithful and true, that

voice encouraged her through the trying moments. That slender arm

supported her head, and seemed so strong; and until the bandages were

removed from her eyes, still that slight form glided about to supply her

bitter enemy's every want.

But at length Laura could see once more, and light had come, too, upon

her darkened soul. Sitting one evening in Cora's little parlor, she

glanced around with a look of admiration upon its plain furniture, its

absence of luxury, and remembered the perfect content of its happy

mistress. While she, surrounded by all that wealth could afford, had

made herself and everything around her wretched. Fanny had often dreamed

of flying to Cora for shelter from bitter words and reproaches, and

Clara had long since ceased to visit the sister from whose lessons she

had learned to be that misguided thing, a worldly woman.

"You may well love Cora, Lewis," said Laura, as she saw how fondly he

watched her every motion; "she seems to have the secret of exorcising

evil spirits, and replacing them with good ones, besides being the best

nurse, the best wife, and the most sunshiny soul that ever was on

earth."

"Don't flatter me, Laura," said Cora, laughing, and giving Margaret's

baby a toss that made the little creature clap its hands with delight.

"Lewis told me once he thought he _had_ married a banshee."

"He married what is as rare as a banshee," said Margaret, who had been

sitting at Laura's side, knitting a tidy for the arm-chair her skillful

fingers had embroidered to embellish Cora's little Eden. "He has the

brightest jewel in the world, in a wife that can forgive, forget, and

return, without even seeming to be aware of it, 'good for evil.'"

SPRING.

BY FANNY FALES.

SHE is with us! she is with us!

For I list her gentle sigh,

And her music tones of gladness,

Floating through the branches dry;

Now the south wind lifts the carpet

Spread beneath the forest old;

Waketh up the scented violet

From her bed of richest mould.

Softly trills the little sparrow,

Pecking seeds from out the sod;

And the robin, o'er me flying,

Lifts his anthem up to God.

To the dear old nest returneth,

Yet again, the bluebird bright--

To the hollow tree whence, yearly,

Azure birdlings wing their flight.

Now the brooklet is unfettered,

Swollen by the melted snow;

Shining like a thread of silver--

Singing through the vale below:

Tokens of the happy springtime,

On the hillside by the brook;

Emerald grasses, velvet mosses,

Smile from many a sunny nook.

On the cottage eaves alighting,

Swallows in the sunlight sing,

Filling all the air around me

With their joyous twittering.

O'er the deep blue upper ocean

Little white-winged barges fly;

Melting out, like fairy phantoms,

'Neath the Day-god's burning eye.

Sap is welling, leaf-buds swelling,

Springing towards their shining goal,

Bursting from their darkened dwelling,

Like the freed immortal soul.

Spring is with us! She is with us!

New life wakes in every vein;

Fresh hopes in my heart are welling,

As I welcome her again!

WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

MRS. LINCOLN.

THE following letter (never before published) from MRS. MERCY WARREN to

MRS. LINCOLN will be found interesting. Mrs. Lincoln was the eldest

sister of Josiah Quincy, Jr., to whom allusion is made in the letter.

Her husband, a brother of General Lincoln, died before the Revolution,

and she resided, during the war, with her father, Josiah Quincy, at

Braintree, now Quincy, in the mansion, now the summer residence, of

President Quincy. One of her letters to her brother, Samuel Quincy, who

left Boston with other loyalists, published in "Curwen's Memoirs" (page

562), is full of eloquence. She afterwards married Ebenezer Storer, of

Boston, and died, at the age of ninety, in 1826, a few weeks after the

decease of her early friend, John Adams. She was for many years a

correspondent of Mrs. Adams, and a life-long friendship subsisted

between them. They were often together at the family mansion at Quincy,

where, in 1824, she welcomed Lafayette to her father's residence. The

present Mrs. Quincy's mother, Mrs. Maria S. Morton, was there on that

occasion. This lady had resided at Baskenridge, New Jersey, during a

seven years exile from New York, where her husband, an eminent merchant,

left part of his property, devoting the profits of the sale of the rest

to the cause of American independence. He died during the war, leaving

Mrs. Morton with six children. Washington and all his officers were

frequent guests at her house, and some of the stirring incidents of the

campaign in New Jersey occurred in her immediate neighborhood. She was

born at Raub, on the banks of the Rhine, and lived to the age of

ninety-three, passing the last twelve years with her daughter. She

retained her powers to the last, and often beguiled the attention of

President Quincy's children with the narrative of the times when, as he

used to say, "the women were all heroines." She died at his residence at

Cambridge.

PLYMOUTH, _June 3, 1775._

DEAR MRS. LINCOLN: If the tenderest sympathy would

be any alleviation to your sorrow, when mourning

the death of a beloved brother, the ready hand of

friendship should soon wipe the starting tear from

your eye. Yet, while I wish to console the

disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the

still more afflicted wife, I cannot restrain the

rising sigh within my swollen bosom, nor forbear

to mix my tears with theirs, when I consider that,

in your valuable brother, America has lost a warm,

unshaken friend.[B] Deprived of his assistance

when, to all human appearance, had his life been

spared, he might have rendered his country very

eminent service.

By these dark dispensations of Providence, one is

almost led to inquire why the useful, the

generous, the spirited patriot is cut off in the

morning of his days, while the base betrayer of

his country, the incendiary, who blows up the

flames of civil discord to gratify his own mad

ambition, and sports with the miseries of

millions, is suffered to grow gray in iniquity.

But who shall say to the Great Arbiter of life and

death, to the righteous Sovereign of the Universe,

why hast thou done thus?

Not surely man, whose ideas are so circumscribed,

and whose understanding can grasp so little of the

Divine government, that we are lost at the

threshold, and stand astonished at the displays of

Almighty power and wisdom. But shall we not rely

on Infinite goodness, however severe may be our

chastisement, while in this militant state, not

doubting that, when the ball of Time is wound up,

and the final adjustment of the wise economy of

the universe takes place, virtue, whether public

or private, will be crowned with the plaudits of

the best of beings; while the vicious man, immured

in his cot, or the public plunderer of nations,

who riots on the spoils of the oppressed and

tramples on the rights of man, will reap the

reward of his guilty deeds?

The painful anxiety expressed in your last letter

for the complicated distresses of the inhabitants

of Boston, is experienced, in a greater or less

degree, by every heart which knows anything of the

feelings of humanity. But He who is higher than

the highest, and "seeth when there is oppression

in the city," I trust will deliver us. He has

already made a way for the escape of many, and if

speedy vengeance does not soon overtake the

wretched authors of their calamities, we must

consider them as the scourge of God, designed for

the correction of a favored people, who have been

too unmindful of his goodness; and when they shall

be aroused by affliction to a sense of virtue,

which stimulated their worthy progenitors to brave

the dangers of the sea, and the still greater

horrors of traversing a barbarian coast, in quest

of Freedom denied them on their native shore, the

modern cankerworms will, with the locusts and

other devourers which infested the nations of

old, be swept, with the besom of destruction, from

the face of the American World.

I hope my friend will not again be obliged to

leave her habitation for fear of the ravages of an

unnatural foe; yet I think we must expect

continual alarms through the summer, and happy

will it be for the British Empire, of which

America is a part, if this contest terminate then.

But, whether it be a season of war or the sunshine

of peace, whether in prosperity or affliction, be

assured Mrs. Lincoln has ever the best wishes of

her real friend,

MERCY WARREN.

REBECCA WILLIAMS.

One of the early adventurers in the Valley of Ohio River was Isaac

Williams. After he became a resident of the West, he explored its

recesses, traveling along the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid

waters of the Missouri. In 1775, he married a youthful widow, Rebecca

Martin, the daughter of Joseph Tomlinson, of Grave Creek. Her first

husband had been a trader with the Indians, and was killed in 1770. She

was born in 1754, on the banks of the Potomac, in Maryland, and removed

to Grave Creek with her father's family in the first year of her

widowhood. Since that time she had lived with her unmarried brothers,

keeping house for them, and would remain alone in their dwelling while

they were absent on hunting excursions. She was young and sprightly in

disposition, and had little knowledge of fear. In the spring of 1774,

she paid a visit to her sister, who had married a Mr. Baker, and resided

upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite Yellow Creek. It was soon after the

celebrated massacre of Logan's relatives at Baker's station. Rebecca

made her visit, and prepared to return home as she had come, in a canoe

alone, the distance being fifty miles. She left her sister's residence

in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe till dark. Then, knowing that

the moon would rise at a certain hour, she neared the land, leaped on

shore, and fastened her craft to some willows that drooped their boughs

over the water. She sought shelter in a clump of bushes, where she lay

till the moon cleared the tree tops and sent a broad stream of light

over the bosom of the river. Then, unfastening her boat, she stepped a

few paces into the water to get into it. But, as she reached the canoe,

she trod on something cold and soft, and stooping down discovered, to

her horror, that it was a human body. The pale moonlight streamed on the

face of a dead Indian, not long killed, it was evident, for the body had

not become stiff. The young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no

scream, for the instinct of self-preservation taught her that it might

be dangerous. She went round the corpse, which must have been there when

she landed, stepped into her bark, and reached the mouth of Grave Creek,

without further adventure, early the next morning.

In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling the fire, blowing the

coals on her knees, she heard steps in the apartment, and, turning

round, saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He shook his

tomahawk at her threateningly, at the same time motioning her to keep

silence. He then looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing

her brother's rifle hanging on hooks over the fireplace, he seized it

and went out. Rebecca showed no fear while he was present; but,

immediately on his departure, left the cabin and hid herself in the

standing corn till her brother came home.

Her second marriage was performed with a simplicity characteristic of

the times. A traveling preacher, who chanced to come into the

settlement, performed the ceremony at short notice, the bridegroom

presenting himself in his hunting-dress, and the bride in short-gown and

petticoat of homespun, the common wear of the country.

This Rebecca Williams afterwards became famous among the borderers of

Ohio River for her medical skill, and the cure of dangerous wounds. She

was with Elizabeth Zane at the siege of Fort Henry, at Wheeling, and

there exercised the healing art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers.

In 1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians became so

frequent that the settlement at Grave Creek was broken up. It was in a

dangerous locality, being on the frontier, and lower down the river than

any other.

* * * * *

In December, 1777, when the British army was in possession of

Philadelphia, and the Americans in winter quarters at Valley Forge,

Major Tallmadge was stationed for some time between the two armies, with

a detachment of cavalry, for the purpose of observation, and to

circumscribe the range of the British foraging parties. The horses of

his squad were seldom unsaddled, nor did they often remain all night in

the same position, for fear of a visit from the enemy.

At one time the major was informed that a country girl had gone into

Philadelphia with eggs, to obtain information. It is supposed she had

been employed for that purpose by Washington himself. Desirous of seeing

her, Tallmadge advanced towards the British lines, and dismounted at a

small tavern called "The Rising Sun," within view of their outposts. In

a short time, the young woman came from the city and entered the tavern.

She communicated the intelligence she had gained to the major; but their

conversation was interrupted by the alarm that the British light horse

were approaching. Stepping to the door, Tallmadge saw them riding at

full speed chasing in his patroles. No time was to be lost, and he threw

himself on his horse. The girl besought him to protect her: he told her

to mount behind him, which she did, and they rode three miles at full

speed to Germantown. There was much firing of pistols during the ride,

and now and then wheeling and charging; but the heroic damsel remained

unmoved, nor uttered one expression of fear after she was on horseback.

Tallmadge mentions her conduct with admiration in his journal.

* * * * *

On the approach of winter, when the British army retired from the active

service of the field, they were usually distributed, while in possession

of Long Island, in the dwellings of the inhabitants within the lines. An

officer, at first, visited each house, and, in proportion to its size,

chalked on the door the number of soldiers it must receive. The first

notice the good hostess commonly had of this intrusion was the speech,

"Madam, I am come to take a billet on your house." The best mansion was

always reserved for the quarters of the officers. In this way were women

forced into the society of British officers, and, in order to conciliate

their good will and protection, would often invite them to tea, and show

them other civilities.

* * * * *

The "New London Gazette," dated November 20, 1776, states that several

of the most respectable ladies in East Haddam, about thirty in number,

had met at the house of J. Chapman, and, in four or five hours, husked

about two hundred and forty bushels of corn. "A noble example," says the

journal, "and necessary in this bleeding country, while their fathers

and brothers are fighting the battles of the nation."

Lossing records a similar agreement on the part of the Boston women.

* * * * *

The "New York Spectator," April 13th, 1803, forty-seven years old,

announces the arrival in New York of Mrs. Deborah Gannett, the "Deborah

Samson" whose memoir appeared in a former number of the "Lady's Book."

It says: "This extraordinary woman served three years in the army of the

United States, and was at the storming of Yorktown under General

Hamilton, serving bravely, and as a good soldier. Her sex was unknown

and unsuspected, until, falling sick, she was sent to the hospital, and

a disclosure became necessary. We understand this lady intends

publishing her memoirs, and one or more orations which she has delivered

in public upon patriotic subjects. She, last year, delivered an oration

in the Theatre at Boston, which excited great curiosity and did her much

credit."

This curious confirmation of the account given of her in the memoir

alluded to should be a sufficient answer to the ill-natured criticism of

the "_London Athenaeum_," which, reviewing "The Women of the American

Revolution," endeavors to throw discredit on the whole story, by

ridiculing it as utterly improbable and romantic, though the critic does

not bring proof to controvert a single statement, nor assign any ground

for his doubt but "we surmise."

FOOTNOTE:

[B] Josiah Quincy, Jr., ob. 26 April, 1775.

HOME; OR, THE COT AND TREE.

BY ROBERT JOHNSON.

I KNOW a cot, beneath whose eave

There is a hawthorn tree,

Where playmates young were wont to weave

Spring's earliest flowers for me:

That old familiar cot and tree,

The oaken bench and shade,

Are ever present now with me

As when we met and played.

Beneath that ancient tree and cot

We lisped our earliest prayer,

And ours was then the happiest lot,

Blest by a mother's care;

Those gentle looks and tones still live--

Though time that group has riven--

As when we said "Father forgive,"

As we would be forgiven.

Home is a spot where memory clings,

As by a spell, through life;

For there's a voice whose tone still brings

Joy mid the world's dark strife:

We launch youth's bark and trim the sail,

Life's ocean o'er to roam,

But that same voice, throughout the gale,

Is whispering still of home.

Ask him, with sickness sore oppressed,

Who cheered his hope when dim,

He'll tell you _she_, in whose loved breast

Glowed sympathy for him:

The soothing voice, the gentle tread,

And ever silent prayer,

The pillow smoothed to ease the head--

All tell a mother's care.

Ask him who, on the ocean dark,

In unknown seas did roam,

When first he spied the nearing bark,

If he thought not of home?

He'll tell of thoughts that thrilled his heart

While bounding o'er the wave;

The joys that none but home impart

Lent courage to the brave.

He thought of her, his early choice,

The parting hour, the sigh,

The hand that pressed, the trembling voice,

Sad face, and tearful eye;

And while he walks the deck at night,

He ever sees that star

Whose beam reflects where joys more bright

Still win him from afar.

[Illustration]

COUNTRY CHARACTERS.

THE LAST OF THE TIE-WIGS.

BY JARED AUSTIN.

ONE of my earliest village reminiscences is a vision of old Captain

Garrow, in his old-fashioned, square-skirted coat, plush shorts, silk

stockings, shoe buckles, and, to crown the whole, his venerable tie-wig.

He was a character, the captain. He was a relic of a past age, an

antique in perfect preservation, a study for a novelist or historian.

Born in Massachusetts before the rebel times, he had taken an active

part in the Revolution; served as commissary, for which his education as

a trader had qualified him; and the rank of captain which was attached

to the office had given him the title he bore in his old age. When the

war was over, his savings (very moderate, indeed, they were, for the

captain was as honest as daylight) were invested in a stock of what used

to be called English goods, but what are now, through the increase of

manufactures in our own country, denominated dry goods; I think it

rather fortunate for our village that the worthy captain pitched upon it

for his residence, and for the sale of his well-selected English goods.

His strict old-fashioned notions of commercial honor and punctuality

gave a tone to the whole trade of the place, which lasted for a long

time. His modest shop was a pattern of neatness and economy. His

punctual attendance at all hours, his old bachelor gallantry to the lady

customers, and his perfect urbanity to all, furnished an example to

younger traders; while his stiff adherence to the "one price" system,

while it saved the labor and vexation of chaffering, gave a stability to

his establishment which made it respectable in the view of all sensible

people.

Worthy Captain Garrow! well do I remember you at the meridian of your

glory, the head "merchant" of our village, the acknowledged _arbiter

elegantiarum_ in all matters of chintz and linen, and lace and ribbons,

and all the _et ceteras_ of ladies' goods. Your opinion was law; for you

were known to be the soul of honor, and your word in all engagements was

reckoned as good as another man's bond.

But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and Vandals came down upon us

in the shape of cheap English goods' merchants. They inundated the place

with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave unlimited credit, sold

at almost any price you would offer, and seemed only anxious to have all

the villagers' names in their books, and to double the consumption of

English goods. The consequence was that the thoughtless part of the

population deserted the worthy captain's shop, which henceforward

received the custom only of the old steady-going people. His

ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its weather-beaten sign, was put

out of all countenance by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs,

and plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain, however, foreseeing

the result, bore it all with a dignity and quiet worthy of his

character. He "guessed" that the importers in Boston and New York were

destined to suffer at a future day; and so it turned out; for, after

charging many thousand dollars in their books to people who were not

very punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all failed; their

stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and their book debts were handed

over to the lawyers by assignees.

After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of cheap merchants

succeeded them, with precisely the same result. Meantime, the captain

kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original

character of his own modest establishment. He had grown rich, but

exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too

dignified to be insolent.

Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old

man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my

cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready

money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock,

and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that

Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price.

"O yes, my dear," answered the captain--he always called a lady, old or

young, "my dear"--"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where

the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say,

at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine.

They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never

have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into

fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however."

Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point,

hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future

to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods.

Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world,

the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he

directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the

establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument

of his sterling goodness and public spirit.

TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT

BY ADALIZA CUTTER.

DEAREST, my sad and lonely breast

Is full to-night of thoughts of thee,

And as the tired dove seeks its nest,

With its dear little ones to be,

E'en thus my weary spirit turns

To thee, for whom it fondly yearns,

And flies unfettered o'er the sea:

Upon thy breast it folds its wing,

And there its sweetest song doth sing.

I am thinking of those twilight hours

When, hand in hand, we used to rove;

When little birds in sylvan bowers

Awoke the echoes of the grove;

When flowers closed up their dewy eyes,

And o'er us arched those cloudless skies,

Smiling upon our mutual love:

And oh, my heart doth sadly yearn

For hours that may no more return!

More and more sadly, day by day,

I miss thy gentle loving tone,

And long to soar far, far away,

To meet once more my loved, my own.

I sit to-night with tearful eye

Fixed on that star in yonder sky;

But oh, it shines on me alone!

For she who watched its pale soft beam

With me, has gone like some bright dream.

I sometimes take my lute to sing

The simple songs we loved so well;

But when I touch each quivering string,

Sad, mournful sounds arise and swell;

For she whose presence could inspire

My heart with such poetic fire

Has kissed her last, her sad farewell

Upon my cheek, and left me here

To shed alone the silent tear.

I take my books; but bard and sage

Have half their beauty lost for me,

And tears fall fast upon the page

That I so oft have read with thee.

And then I throw those books aside,

While faster still the tear drops glide,

That by my side thou canst not be.

Poor heart, be still, nor sigh in vain

For joys that may not come again!

Where, where art thou? Oh, well I know

What joy my presence would impart!

What rapture in thine eye would glow

To clasp me to thy loving heart!

For in that noble heart of thine

Beats the same love that throbs in mine;

Nor time shall bid that love depart.

Meet me in Heaven! my heart's warm prayer,

I _love thee here_--I'll _love thee there_!

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

(Concluded from page 245.)

ACT V.

SCENE I.--_Rose Hill. The garden before_ PROF.

OLNEY'S _house_. YOUNG HENRY BOLTON _and_

ISABELLE; _she is weeping_. TIME _morning_.

HENRY BOLTON (_aside_).

I cannot leave her in this agony,

(_looks at his watch_,)

And yet the hour is nearly out. O Time!

Turn back thy sands! take months from out my life

For moments spared me now. I cannot leave her.

(_To her._) Dear Isabelle, be comforted; I'll go

And tell my father this sad tale you've told me.

Fear not; he has a soul of nobleness--

He will consent; and, when you are my wife,

You'll have a host of friends.

ISABELLE.

No! no! dear Henry;

This must not, cannot be. I've given my word

To him who hitherto I deemed my father,

And who has been a father in his care--

He's dying now--that I will take his charge,

Will teach his pupils, and insure a home

To his poor wife and Alice, whom I love

As an own sister. They gave me a home,

Else I had been cast off e'en as the weed

Is cast to perish. No! I must be firm;

My duty is made plain; I must stay here.

HENRY BOLTON.

Oh! say not so, dear Isabelle! be mine.

Would you waste youth, and health, and loveliness

In this unthankful and laborious life?

No! no! It must not be; I will provide

For these.

ISABELLE.

Oh, Henry, torture me not thus

Forcing my heart to strive against my soul.

Your generous love but humbles me the more.

Do not mistake me: 'tis not pride, but duty,

That tells me we must part--and part for ever.

HENRY BOLTON.

And you say this to me! You never loved me--

While I have given to you my heart, soul, mind--

Made you the idol of my earthly hopes,

My dream of angel-blessedness above!

You never loved me!

ISABELLE (_weeping_).

Ah! it may be best

That you should thus believe--should doubt my love.

Tis but another grief for me to bear;

And I had rather suffer than inflict

A pang on you. But, Henry, if I were

An heiress, with a fortune and a name,

And friends to love and flatter me--I'd speak

Of my heart's love for you: I cannot now--

A nameless, homeless, and forsaken child.

Oh! let me be forgiven if I keep

The station heaven appointed me--alone!

Some must be sufferers in this world of care--

Victims for others, wearing out their lives,

Like the poor Greenlanders, in night and winter.

But God will strengthen all to bear their lot,

If patiently they take the burden up.

(_Weeping bitterly._)

HENRY BOLTON.

This must not, shall not be, dear Isabelle;

Hear reason, if you will not love. Last night

A vile attempt was made to burn this house,

And carry you away. Dare you live here,

When there'll be none to guard you? Isabelle,

You must be mine at once--give me the right

To keep you, like a jewel, in my bosom,

Where not an eye but loves you shall behold you.

Oh! say you will be mine.

ISABELLE.

It would be vain:

Your father never would consent. A year

You've promised him to wait--and, ere that time

Is passed, you may forget the nameless girl.

HENRY BOLTON.

I will not wait a day. My word was passed

When I believed this home of yours was safe

Now--not a day. I go to ask my father.

If he refuses me, I leave his house.

I am of age to answer for myself.

ISABELLE (_calmly_).

Oh! not for me and mine must this be done:

You must not leave your home and friends for me.

Your future would be marred for ever, Henry

No! leave me to the care of Providence.

HENRY BOLTON.

Dear Isabelle, with you I have the world.

I'll hire two cottages together, love--

And we'll have one--your friends shall have the other.

The garden-plots shall join, and you and Alice

May have the flowers in partnership, as here.

The flower of love will bloom spontaneously

Beneath your smiles--and fortune's smiles I win

In winning yours. Come with me to your father,

The good and honest Olney. He will consent.

[_Exeunt into the house. Scene, closes._