Time did not serve to rally him from the lethargy, hopeless and fatal,

into which her spell had thrown him. The chains which bound him grew

stronger and stronger, and his desire to break them weaker and weaker.

This he attributed to her unrivalled beauty and the extent and variety

of her accomplishment, to depict which requires a poet's pen and

limner's art.

"Age cannot wither, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety. Other women clog

The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies."

Happy picture! yet how inadequate to convey a correct impression of

her entire character or history! But that portion intended to be

depicted, the winning graces, the charming exterior, her manifold

accomplishments, and queenly airs, how delicately, perhaps faithfully,

touched off! The gifted and happy artist was not at fault here. The

usually faithful limner, we have reason to believe, was not here

unfaithful. He has portrayed the Egyptian queen, as she walked along

the stage with Antony, truly and well.

But Cleopatra completed the ruin of Antony. He had wellnigh ruined

himself; but it was hers to give the final stroke. How little he heeded

his vow to Octavia at Rome, after he had spent part of his dissolute

career in Egypt!

"My Octavia,

Read not my blemishes in the world's report.

I have not kept my square; but that to come

Shall all be done by the rule."

Poor Antony! the sequel of his life, the consummation of his destiny,

how just, yet how painful to be observed! Fit retribution to one

forsaking a true and faithful wife, to one choosing the paths of vice

and dissipation and enervating pleasures. The stern warrior, the

experienced general, the able statesman and orator found, at last, in

the hand of the Venus he adored, the sword of a Nemesis.

Among the many noticeable women of this age, we would not pass by with

seeming indifference the three Cornelias, wives of distinguished men,

themselves, "withal, well reputed." Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna,

was a very estimable woman, and the wife of Julius Cæsar. The best

eulogy that has been pronounced upon her character and worth is the

fact related by Plutarch concerning her. It appears that, though it

was at that time contrary to custom at Rome to have funeral orations

on young women deceased--only on the aged--yet Cæsar, from his high

appreciation of the virtues of his wife, himself pronounced hers

without regard to the practice of the times. This was her highest

praise--the most worthy commendation of her merit. To recommend herself

to her husband thus is one of the rarest excellences of a wife.

Pompey's wife, Cornelia, was Metellus Scipio's daughter. Considering

the time in which she lived, the condition of society in which she

moved, and the many examples of corruption daily exhibited in and about

Rome, she certainly must be regarded as a woman of remarkable character

and stability of virtue. Her accomplishments were many and various, and

she was equally noted for the excellency of her private character, her

domestic habits, and the extent and variety of her information.

Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, so celebrated in Roman history,

was the daughter of Scipio Africanus Major. She also occupied a high

rank among the worthy women of her day. She had a masculine turn of

mind, but an irreproachable character. She is said, after the death

of her husband, to have trained and educated her children in the

most exemplary manner. In illustration of her regard for them, is

the anecdote of Valerius Maximus concerning Cornelia, wherein she is

represented, after having had displayed to her by a Campanian lady

very many beautiful ornaments, and having been requested in turn to

display her own, as having said, pointing to her children, "Here are my

ornaments."

From the days of the Cæsars, Rome's glory began to depart. The stars

that sparkled in her imperial diadem one by one faded, and at last were

extinguished, leaving nations long accustomed to bondage and tribute

free to grope about in the night of northern barbarism. Her conquerors

and destroyers, though stigmatized as cowardly barbarians, without

taste, learning, or genius, and destitute of any appreciation of the

uses or beauty of art, could at least boast of a higher respect for

woman. Ignorant and uncultivated, they yet looked upon the gentler sex

with a kindly eye, and in her presence felt a generous sentiment, noble

in itself and worthy of men. They looked upon woman as on the face

of the calm heavens, to draw thence a kind of holy inspiration. They

regarded her as mother, sister, wife, daughter--not as slave, servant,

or a temporary toy. A worthy characteristic, though manifest in Goth

and Vandal, the destroyers of statues, paintings, and magnificent

cities, the dismantlers of queenly Rome, or the ravagers of Tuscany.

One of the disorders of which old Rome died--she had many preying on

her vitals--was the rottenness of her social system. The Roman, in the

days of Augustus, could not justify himself to his family on any rules

of ancient or modern propriety; and too often it happened that his

family, his wife, sister, and daughter, could not vindicate their own

conduct, much less atone for that of the Roman man.

The history of that age, with what afterwards befel that proud empire,

teaches with a plainness that is unmistakable that, when a nation or

state loses its self-respect, and the people cease to pay a proper

regard to social proprieties, and due respect and deference to female

character--when woman is denied the charity she merits, or when she

herself is encouraged to step beyond her generously accorded limits,

its heart is unsound and its path is descending.

* * * * *

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL,

AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE THIRD LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated March 3d._)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

I do begin, Nelly, to like this wretched place a little better. All

the girls are not Nobles and Peacocks; and it's lucky they ain't,

for I never met with such a couple of disagreeable things. They set

themselves up for great judges and wits, ridiculing everything they

do not like, and trying to make the rest feel humbled and worthless,

because our mas have never been to court, or our pas do not drive a

pair of horses!

Meggy Sharpe and I both think Annie Flower much prettier than Rosa

Peacock, although she is not a fine lady, and her father is only a

farmer. They call her "Dairymaid;" but, for all that, Miss Rosa Peacock

is jealous of her beautiful complexion, and is always imitating Annie's

merry laugh.

That little impudent thing with the turn-up nose is a Miss St. Ledger.

Her pa is a city alderman, and a great patron of Mrs. Rodwell. Meggy

calls her "Piggy," because she is always stuffing--hiding in the

closets and the box-room, to eat _by herself_, the things she smuggles

into the college. Whenever you meet her in the passages, she cannot

speak--her cheeks are crammed so full of goodies. They tell a story

against her about the drawing-room piano. It was terribly out of

tune, and upon examination was found to be full of orange-peel and

peach-stones. The supposition is that Miss St. Ledger had taken the

peaches and oranges up with her to be able to eat them _on the sly_

when she was practising, and, being suddenly disturbed, had thrown

them inside the lid of the grand piano, so as not to be detected. This

greedy girl is extremely rich, and she is always boasting that her

papa could buy up a whole street of such poor creatures as Noble and

Peacock, who she says, have _nothing but debts for a fortune, and a

title to pay them of with_. At the same time, she flatters them, and

tries all she can to get friendly with them; but they only _snub_ her

the more. But, Nelly, she dresses so beautifully, always in silks,

and her pocket-handkerchiefs are as fine as muslin, and, I'm speaking

the truth, trimmed with real _Valenciennes_! They give you a fever to

finger them. Then she has boxes upon boxes full of the most lovely

ribbons and belts; whilst Madame La Vautrien makes her bonnets, and

charges three guineas apiece for them! But, in spite of all her finery,

she is the meanest girl in the school--so stingy and greedy, always

borrowing, and never lending--never sharing, never helping any one. I

do not like her a bit--nasty, disagreeable thing! if she did not go and

pry into my boxes; and I heard her telling the girls "all was cheap and

common--only one silk dress, and that a turned one of mamma's." The

lady principal is very fond of her (her money, more likely), and is

always sending her into the drawing-room to practise (though she can't

play a bit), because she is so fat and fine, and has hot-house grapes

sent to her.

Miss Plodder is another favorite. She is the "Good Girl." Her nickname

is "Preterpluperfect." Poor girl, her face makes you sad to look at it!

It seems full of tasks and forfeits. Her fingers are always inky, and

her hand is so cold that touching it is as unpleasant as the tearing

of silk. My blood runs cold merely to think of it. She never plays or

laughs, but is always thumbing her lessons, though what she does with

her learning no one can tell, for she is never "up" in class, and is

always sent "down" at examinations.

How different is dear Lucy Wilde! She seems to know everything without

looking at a book. It comes as naturally to her as eating. Ah! she is

clever. The professors pay her such compliments before all the school,

and the governesses are afraid of her. The lady principal, however,

cannot bear Lucy, because she is idle, and up to fun. She tries to keep

her down; but Lucy is like a cork in a pail, she is sure to come to the

top again. The more she is pushed under, the more she rises. With all

her mad-cap tricks, she is always at the head of the class. How she

learns no one can tell, for she is never seen with a book. Meggy says

it comes to her in her sleep. Professor Drudge told us last week that

if Lucy could only be tamed into studying she could do anything, and

I believe it. She writes verses, too--little satirical poems on the

mistresses, and Peacock and Noble; and sent off on Tuesday the most

beautiful Valentine I think I ever read.

But, Nelly, it is Amy Darling you would love best--a bright, pleasant

girl, all sunshine, except when she cries, and she cries immediately

any one is hurt. We all run to Amy directly we are in trouble. She is

like a young mother to us, and treats us with such tenderness that

it is almost a pleasure to be in trouble to be comforted by Amy. She

consoles one so beautifully; and I'm sure, if our puddings were taken

away, we should miss them far less than the absence of dearest Amy.

You should see how the little girls crowd round her in the play hours,

and pull her about. She romps with them with the greatest good-humor,

and never tires in teaching the little things some new game. She was

in bed for three days once, and one would have imagined there was a

death in the house; but when she recovered, we made so much noise that

the lady principal came down from her boudoir to inquire what was

the matter. It's strange! She is not clever, nor altogether pretty,

nor even professional (her papa's a coachmaker), and yet, somehow,

notwithstanding these tremendous drawbacks, she is the favorite of

all the school. Even the masters and schoolmistresses cannot help

giving the preference to Amy. Professor Drudge himself, who seems to

love nothing in the world but his snuff-box, pats her occasionally on

the head, bestowing on her at the same time _a grim snuffy smile_,

that he accords to no one else. She is such a dear, dear love! so

sweet--so full of joy and sympathy--that I really believe, Nelly, she

was intended for an angel, and was only made a school-girl by mistake.

Her sweetness is best shown by the fact that Peacock and Noble never

give themselves airs to her, though her father is but a coachmaker. She

would shame them out of their vulgarity without retorting a harsh word,

and make them blush (if that was possible) by merely reproaching them

kindly. It is a wonder for a school, where there are so many girls,

that not one of them is jealous of Amy. Such a thing would appear

unnatural. It would be like being jealous of your mother, or of a nurse

who had tended you through a long illness. We are too grateful to be

jealous; for there is not a girl in the school, big or little, but who

has some cause to be grateful to her. The little girls she protects,

and saves them from being bullied; and the big ones she advises when

they are in a mess, besides helping them through their tasks. She is

the protectress that all fly to--the peacemaker that all abide by

(_even those in the wrong_); and the general _confidante_ of us all,

the poor mistresses included. Meggy calls her our "Sister Confessor;"

and really it is terrible to think of the heap of secrets that must be

piled up, as high as the boxes on a Margate steamer, upon her honor.

When you think, Nelly, it is as much as we can do to keep _one_ secret,

I wonder how Amy can breathe with such a load upon her breast! Yet she

carries it all as lightly as a fairy does her wand.

Meggy says, "poor Mary Owen is in pawn to Mrs. Rodwell," which means

that she has been left as security for a debt, as hopeless as any

national one.

Years ago (so Meggy tells me) Mary's father--a captain in the

army--left her at school, with directions that she was to learn

everything, and no expense spared in her education. With the exception

of one or two small remittances, nothing has been heard of her father

since. Year after year, Mary grows paler and more sad, with not a

friend in the world to cling to, but dearest Amy, who treats her

more like a sister than anything else, being always by her side, as

something told her that if the poor girl hadn't a crutch of some sort

to lean upon she would assuredly fall to the ground. The lady principal

has lost all hope of Mary being ever claimed, or (worse still) of

her bill being ever paid. This makes Mary's position all the more

melancholy, for she is pointed to as a kind of living monument to the

cardinal virtues of the schoolmistress who keeps her. If there is a

little sermon on charity or benevolence, Mary is always chosen as its

text. Whenever there is a lecture read about ingratitude, poor Mary is

always brought forward as the disgraceful illustration of it. It is the

same with dishonesty, _taradiddles_, fibbing, and the entire category

of school vices--Mary serves as the example of them all. It would seem

as if the poor girl was kept as a "terrible warning" to the college;

and I'm sure in this capacity alone, that her bill has been paid more

than twenty times over. It is sad to watch the poor girl while she's

being thus publicly pointed at before her school-fellows. She never

says a word, nor attempts to defend herself. She sits quietly in her

seat, her face growing paler, and her head falling lower with each

blow of her accuser; and if you saw her heavy, tearless eye, Nelly,

and her lips quite colorless, as I have seen them, you would pity her

with all your heart, and long to go up and kiss her, and tell her not

to mind it. Often and often have I felt inclined to call out and beg

of Mrs. Rodwell to stop such cruelty; but fear has pinched my lips,

and I have caught myself crying, and I defy any one to help it. But I

don't mean to say that Mrs. Rodwell ill-treats Mary, or is positively

unkind, or lifts her hand against her; but she is always taunting her

with her misfortune in so sharp a manner, that I would sooner by far

be beat outright, or be sent away at once. It is one unceasing tyranny

of little petty trifles all day long (a tyranny of pins and needles,

Meggy calls it), which I call most cowardly for a woman like Mrs.

Rodwell (though she has lost her money) to use against a poor girl who

cannot defend herself: just as if Mary wouldn't pay if she could! On

such occasions, Amy is kinder to her than ever, and struggles, by dint

of affection, and by trying to lead her into play, to make her forget

the harshness she has experienced during school hours. I'm not certain

that she succeeds very well. Mary tries, in grateful return for so

much kindness, to smile and to play; but it isn't smiling nor playing,

Nelly; it's working, and _hard working_ at it.

Her dress is the funniest thing you ever saw. When I, say funny, I do

not mean it makes you laugh--far from it--but that it is extremely odd

and peculiar. At first, Mary used to wear the cast-off things of two

Indian girls, who are here and never go home; but since she has grown

tall she is packed up in Mrs. R.'s old trumpery finery, and flits

about like a thin shadow of what the lady principal was six months

previously. No one, however, is cruel enough to quiz Mary. Her sorrow

throws a sacred protection over her that is better than any shield, and

even Miss St. Ledger (with her pert turn-up nose) forgets the sharpness

of her tongue in her presence. Amy, besides, wouldn't allow any one

to slight her. They tell me, Nelly, that when "breaking-up day" comes

round, and all are skipping about in the wild joy of being fetched

home, poor Mary sits silently apart, shunning everybody--avoiding the

windows where all the girls are heaped together, watching the arrival

of the carriages; and that she almost runs away from dear Amy's

caresses, rejecting her loving endeavors to cheer her, as if they were

a source of pain to her. Dear Amy always stops the last with her; but,

when it comes to her turn to go away, then poor Mary flings herself

round her devoted friend's neck, and bursts into one long flood of

tears, as if her heart was breaking. May we never know such grief as

that, Nelly! Only think, dearest, how cheerless must the holidays be to

the poor homeless girl! The reassembling of school, which school-girls

dread so much, must come back to her with all the delight of holidays

to us.

Once Amy asked for Mary to go home with her, but the lady principal

objected to it. It would take too much money and trouble to "get her

up." Amy said she should wear her things; but Mrs. Rodwell still

objected. She was afraid (Meggy says) to "trust the security of her

debt out of sight!" Poor Mary has never left the Princesses' College

now for four years, except at such times when she has been out walking

with the school!

This is very sad and terrible, Nelly, and we ought to think ourselves

very fortunate, that we have such good papas and mammas, and that our

positions in life are very different from that of poor Mary Owen! But I

have written myself quite miserable, and you too, I am afraid, Nelly;

so no more at present, dear, from

Your little stupid

KITTY CLOVER.

P. S. Excuse haste.

P. S. Why don't you write?

* * * * *

MRS. MUDLAW'S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING;

OR, GOSSIP FROM OUR TOWN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BEDOTT PAPERS."

[The following story is not now published for the first time; but

we republish it at the request of many subscribers, who want it

in an endurable form, and because we wish to preserve a story so

characteristic of the peculiar talent of its amiable writer, whose

memoir we published in our numbers for July and August, 1853.]

Mr. John Darling, a worthy and intelligent mechanic, who has been, for

two years past, a resident of our town, was somewhat surprised and

considerably gratified one day last fall, at receiving an invitation to

dine with Colonel Philpot, one of the aristocracy.

Mr. Darling enjoys that respect in our community which mechanical

ingenuity and integrity united are always sure to command everywhere.

These qualities, and a more than ordinary degree of information,

acquired by the employment of much of his leisure time in reading, have

given him an almost unbounded influence amongst his own class.

Though the invitation to Colonel P.'s created some surprise in his

mind, he felt more disposed to be pleased at the honor than to question

the motives which prompted it; for his nature is wholly free from

suspicion and the petty feeling of jealousy which those in his station

sometimes indulge towards the "upper ten"--feelings with which, we are

sorry to say, the bosom of his better half was frequently agitated.

"We have been neighbors for some time, Mr. Darling," said Colonel

Philpot; "it is time we were better acquainted. You must come and dine

socially with me to-morrow. Mrs. Philpot and the children are out of

town, and I am going to have a few friends to enliven my solitude."

So John Darling "saved his appetite," dressed himself in his best

clothes, and, at the appointed hour--a somewhat later one than his

customary time for dining--repaired to Colonel Philpot's.

He met there several of his associates--had a "fine time and a grand

dinner"--the utmost hilarity and good feeling prevailed; and Mr.

Darling entertained his wife with an account of it at every meal for

several weeks.

"Hester," said he one day, as they were seated at a codfish dinner,

"did you ever taste a potato pudding?"

"Potato pudding! No; I never heard of such a thing."

"Well, I wish you could, for 'tis delicious! We had one when I dined at

Colonel Philpot's."

"I wonder what you _didn't_ have at Colonel Philpot's," said Mrs.

Darling. "I declare, I'm tired hearing about it."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing we didn't have--we didn't have

_codfish_. But, that pudding--I wish you'd learn how to make it; it was

superb!"

"I presume so; and I guess, if I had half a dozen servants at my heels,

and a thorough-trained cook into the bargain, I could have things

superb, too. But, as long as I have everything to do myself, and very

little _to do with_, I don't see how I'm to get up things in style. I

wonder you can expect me to."

"I don't expect you to, Hester. You always do things to suit my taste.

But that pudding was excellent; and, being made of potatoes, I thought,

of course, it must be economical, and"--

"Economical! That's all you know about it. What gumps men are! I'll

warrant it had forty different things in it, and less potatoes than

anything else. I'm no hand to fuss up. I like plain cookery, for my

part."

"So do I, as a general thing. But, then, you know, it's well to have

something a little better than ordinary once in a while."

"Well, if you're not satisfied with my way of doing things, you must

hire a cook, or go and board out." And Mrs. Darling put on her _injured

look_, and remained silent during the rest of the dinner.

But, after all, she was not an ill-natured woman really; and, after her

husband had gone to his shop, she began to feel a little pricked in

her conscience for having been so cross at dinner. She wished she had

not _gone on_ at such a rate. But, then, John had bored her so about

that dinner at Colonel Philpot's--she was out of patience with it. Yet

what right had she to be out of patience with John? He never was out

of patience with her, and she could but acknowledge that he often had

reason to be so. So she resolved to _make it up_ as soon as possible.

"John," said she, as she handed him a cup of tea, "I've a great notion

to try that potato pudding. I believe I could make one."

"No doubt of it, Hester," said her husband; "you can do almost anything

you try to."

"I suppose it takes butter, and sugar, and eggs, and spices, and so

forth; but I wish I knew the proportions."

"It's very easy to find out all about it by calling at Colonel

Philpot's. He said his wife would be delighted to get acquainted with

you."

"So you've told me a dozen times; but I think that, if she wanted to

get acquainted with me, she might call upon me. She's lived here longer

than I have, and it isn't my place to call first; and I don't believe

the colonel tells the truth when he says she wants to get acquainted

with me."

"Well, I always think people mean as they say, and I wish you would,

too, Hester."

"But it's very evident that she holds herself a great deal above

me. She has no reason to, certainly, for her family wasn't half as

respectable as mine. Mrs. David Potter knows all about them, root and

branch, and she says that Mrs. Philpot's father kept a very low tavern

in Norridge, and Mrs. Philpot herself tended the bar when she was a

girl. But, somehow, Colonel Philpot happened to fall in love with her,

and he sent her away to school, and then married her."

"Well, that's nothing against her, is it?"

"No, of course it wouldn't be, if she didn't carry her head so high

now. But it's always the way with such persons--they never know how to

bear prosperity. There wouldn't be anything said about her origin, if

she didn't put on such airs; but, as long as she feels so lifted up,

folks _will talk_, you know."

"Perhaps you don't do her justice, Hester. You know nothing about her

excepting what you've heard. At any rate, it would do no harm to call

upon her."

After repeated conversations and discussions of this sort, Mrs. Darling

concluded to pay Mrs. Philpot a visit. She could make the potato

pudding an excuse, and be governed by Mrs. P.'s reception in regard to

farther intercourse. Mrs. Philpot has been, for several years past, to

use her own expression, "very unfortunate in her domestics." With the

exception of her cook--up to the time of Mrs. Darling's call--she had

seldom kept one above a month, and sometimes not as long as that. This

frequent change of servants was not so much owing to any unkindness on

Mrs. Philpot's part, as to the fact that Mrs. Mudlaw, her cook, could

never agree with them. This functionary had been, for several years,

a fixture in Colonel P.'s establishment; indeed, Mrs. P. declared she

could not possibly get along without her. Mrs. Mudlaw was, in fact, a

good cook, and so entirely relieved that lady from all care in that

department that, rather than part with her, she was willing to submit

to her petty tyranny in everything. The cook actually "ruled the roast"

at Colonel P.'s in more than one sense. And she did not often find the

subalterns of the household as submissive to her wishes as Mrs. Philpot

herself was. She contrived to quarrel them away in a short time, for

she had only to say to Mrs. P., "Well, either Bridget or I must quit,

so you may take your choice;" and the offending servant-maid was

dismissed forthwith, there being no appeal from Mrs. Mudlaw's decision.

A scene of this kind had just occurred when Mrs. Darling made her

visit, and a new raw Irish girl had that morning been installed in

place of the one discharged. The duty of this girl was to answer

the door-bell, and help Mrs. Mudlaw. In fact, the hardest and most

disagreeable of the kitchen-work came upon her. When Mrs. Darling rang,

Mrs. Philpot was in the kitchen giving instructions to Peggy, or rather

acquiescing in those which Mrs. Mudlaw was laying down.

"There goes the bell," said that important personage, and Mrs. Philpot

hastened to an upper window to see who it was. Having satisfied

herself, she came back and told Peggy to go and admit the lady.

"Why don't you start, you?" said Mrs. Mudlaw.

"Well, what'll I do now?" said Peggy, whirling round in that bewildered

way peculiar to Irish girls.

"Do!" roared Mudlaw. "Don't you know nothin'? Hain't we jest been

tellin' ye 'twas your duty to tend to the door-bell? Run to the front

door and let 'em in, and show 'em into the drawin'-room. You know where

that is, don't you?"

"Faith, I know _that_," answered Peggy, and away she ran, thanking her

stars that there was at least one thing that she knew.

"It's no one that I know, I'm sure," said Mrs. Philpot, after Peggy had

gone; "at least, the bonnet and shawl are not familiar to me. I presume

it is somebody I don't care about seeing."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Mudlaw. "But I s'pose you couldn't do

otherways, as the curnel has given orders that nobody ain't to be

refused till after _'lection_."

With much confusion and toe-stubbing, the unfortunate Peggy ushered

Mrs. Darling into the nursery, which was also Mrs. Philpot's ordinary

sitting-room. It was directly over the kitchen, and heated from the

cooking-stove by means of a drum, or dummy, as Mrs. Mudlaw called it.

Every word that was said in the kitchen could easily be heard in the

nursery--quite a convenience to Mudlaw, as it enabled her often to

communicate with Mrs. Philpot without the trouble of going up stairs.

Many an interesting account of what she did when Mr. Mudlaw was living,

and how they managed at General K.'s when she _was staying_ there, has

gone up that stove-pipe.

The nursery was in a state of the greatest disorder, as was usually

the case, though the children were all out just then. Sukey, the

nurse-girl, had taken the baby out to ride, and Philip Augustus had

gone with them; and Zoe Matilda was at school. Playthings of every

description, carts, horses, dolls, as well as children's books and

clothes, were scattered about the room in what Mrs. Darling called

"awful confusion." But she had not time for inward comments upon this

state of things, before her attention was called to the conversation

below.

"It's Mrs. Darling as wushes to see ye, mum," said Peggy.

"_That_ Mrs. Darling! Did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Philpot.

"She ain't nobody, is she?" said Mrs. Mudlaw.

"Nobody at all. Her husband is a cabinet-maker; but the colonel has

charged it upon me to be polite to her just now. He wished me to call

upon her; but I wouldn't condescend to stoop so low as that, though he

made me promise to treat her with attention if she called."

"Well, I wouldn't do it, if I was you," said the cook. "I'd be mistress

in my own house, anyhow."

"But, you know, it's for his interest now. He says that Darling has a

great deal of influence among mechanics--can command a good many votes."

"Oh, I remember now! he's one of them codgers that dined here while you

was away, that the curnel was laughin' about afterwards, and tellin'

you how awkward they handled the silver forks."

"Yes; isn't it provoking to have to be polite to such people? Well, I

shall be glad when 'lection 's over, for the colonel says I may cut

them all then, and I think it won't be long before they sink back to

their own level." And Mrs. Philpot arose with a sigh, and ascended

to the drawing-room, arranging her features into a gracious and

patronizing expression as she went.

Mrs. Darling's feelings during this conversation "can be better

imagined than described," as the novels would say. Her first impulse

was to leave the house without waiting for Mrs. Philpot's appearance,

and she rose and made a few steps with that intention; but, on second

thoughts, she resolved to remain, and let her know that she only came

on an errand, and resumed her seat.

When Mrs. Philpot found no one in the drawing-room she returned to the

kitchen, supposing that her visitor had gone.

"She's gone," said she, "without waiting for me. She doesn't know

enough about good society to understand that a lady doesn't make her

appearance the moment she's called for."

"I shouldn't wonder if she was in the nursery all the time," said

Mudlaw; "for I heard a stepping up there a while ago, and the children

hain't got home yet. Where did you take her to, you?"

"Why, I tuck her in the dhrawin'-room, sure, as you tould me, right

overhid," said Peggy, in some alarm.

"You blunderin' Irish gumphead! Don't you know the drawin'-room from

the nursery?"

"Och! but I thought it was the dhrawin'-room; for didn't I see the

young masther a dhrawin' his cart, and wasn't Shukey a dhrawin' the

baby about the floore by its feet, when I went up to take the wather

this mornin'?"

"There, I told you she was a born fool!" said Mudlaw, in a rage.

"She'll never know nothing--she'll never learn nothing--you may as well

send her off first as last."

"Hush! don't speak so loud," said Mrs. Philpot, in a whisper. "She can

hear all you say--she _has_ heard enough already. Dear me, what _shall_

I do? The colonel will be so provoked! How could you be so dumb, Peggy?

Run right up and take her into the drawing-room. Stop! you needn't; you

will make some other mistake. I'll go myself."

In a state of mind not to be envied, Mrs. Philpot hastened to the

nursery. But, as she entertained a faint hope that the conversation

below had not penetrated through Mrs. Darling's bonnet, she endeavored

to hide her embarrassment under an affable smile, extended her hand

gracefully, and drawled out a genteel welcome to her visitor.

"Delighted to see you, Mrs. Darling; but very sorry you should have

been brought into the nursery"--no wonder she's sorry, thought Mrs.

Darling--"these raw Irish girls are so stupid! Walk into the parlor, if

you please."

"No, I thank you, Mrs. Philpot, I'd as soon sit here," returned Mrs.

Darling. "I can only stay a moment. I called to ask for a receipt for

potato pudding. Mr. Darling tasted one when he dined with Colonel

Philpot, and liked it so much that he wished me to get directions for

making it."

"Potato pudding? Ah, yes, I recollect. Mudlaw, my cook, does make a

very good plain thing that she calls a potato pudding; but I know

nothing about her manner of preparing it. I will call her, however, and

she shall tell you herself." Thereupon she pulled the bell, and Peggy

shortly appeared, looking more frightened and bewildered than ever.

"Send Mudlaw here," said Mrs. Philpot.

She would not have dared to address her "chief cook and bottle-washer"

without the respectful title of _Mrs._; but it was rather more grand to

omit it, and she always did so when not in her hearing.

"The missus said I was to send you there," said Peggy.

"_You_ send _me_!" exclaimed the indignant cook. "I guess when I go for

_your_ sending, it'll be after this."

Mrs. Philpot, although conversing in a condescending manner with Mrs.

Darling, caught something of the cook's reply to her summons, and asked

to be excused for a moment, saying that Peggy was so stupid, she feared

that Mudlaw might not understand her, and she would go herself and send

her. So she hastened down to the kitchen, where she found the head

functionary standing on her dignity.

"Pretty well," said she, "if I am to be ordered round by an Irish

scullion!"

"Mrs. Mudlaw, step here a moment, if you please," said Mrs. Philpot,

meekly, opening the door of an adjoining room.

The offended lady vouchsafed to comply with the request, and, with a

stern aspect, entered the room with Mrs. Philpot. The latter closed the

door for fear of being heard overhead, and began--

"What do you think, Mrs. Mudlaw? That Mrs. Darling has come to learn

how to make a potato pudding, and you'll have to go up and tell her."

"I sha'n't do it. I make it a point never to give my receipts to

nobody."

"I know it; and, I'm sure, I don't blame you. But, in this case--just

now--I really don't see how we can refuse."

"Well, I sha'n't do it, and that 's the hull on 't."

"Oh, do, Mrs. Mudlaw, just this once. The colonel is so anxious to

secure Darling, and he will be so angry if we offend them in any way."

"But he needn't know it, need he?"

"He certainly will find it out by some means. I know it is real

vexatious to you, and I wouldn't ask it if election was over; but now

'tis very important--it may save us all trouble. The colonel is so

decided, you know."

These last words of Mrs. Philpot had an effect upon Mudlaw which no

wish or entreaty of that lady would have ever produced, for they

suggested to her selfish mind the possibility of a dismissal from her

snug birth at Colonel P.'s, where she carried it with a high hand; so

she gave in.

"Well, jest to please you and the curnel, I'll do it; but I wish

'lection was over."

Mrs. Philpot returned to the nursery, and Mrs. Mudlaw took off her

apron, changed her cap for one trimmed with pink ribbons and blue

roses, gave numerous orders to Peggy, and followed. She was a short,

fat woman, with a broad, red face--such a person as a stranger would

call the very personification of good nature; though I have never found

fat people to be any more amiable than lean ones. Certainly, Mrs.

Mudlaw was not a very sweet-tempered woman. On this occasion, she felt

rather more cross than usual, forced, as she was, to give one of her

receipts to a nobody. She, however, knew the necessity of assuming a

pleasant demeanor at that time, and accordingly entered the nursery

with an encouraging grin on her blazing countenance. Mrs. Philpot,

fearing lest her cook's familiarity might belittle her mistress in the

eyes of Mrs. Darling, and again asking to be excused for a short time,

went into the library, a nondescript apartment, dignified by that name,

which communicated with the nursery. The moment she left her seat, a

large rocking-chair, Mudlaw dumped herself down in it, exclaiming--

"Miss Philpot says you want to get my receipt for potater puddin'?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Darling. "I would be obliged to you for the

directions." And she took out of her pocket a pencil and paper to write

it down.

"Well, 'tis an excellent puddin'," said Mudlaw, complacently; "for my

part, I like it about as well as any puddin' I make, and that's sayin'

a good deal, I can tell you, for I understand makin' a great variety.

'Taint so awful rich as some, to be sure. Now, there's the Cardinelle

puddin', and the Washington puddin', and the Lay Fayette puddin', and

the--"

"Yes. Mr. Darling liked it very much--how do you make it?"

"Wal, I peel my potaters and bile 'em in fair water. I always let the

water bile before I put 'em in. Some folks let their potaters lie and

sog in the water ever so long, before it biles; but I think it spiles

'em. I always make it a pint to have the water bile--"

"How many potatoes?"

"Wal, I always take about as many potaters as I think I shall want. I'm

generally governed by the size of the puddin' I want to make. If it's

a large puddin', why I take quite a number, but if it's a small one,

why, then I don't take as many. As quick as they're done, I take 'em up

and mash 'em as fine as I can get 'em. I'm always very partic'lar about

_that_--some folks ain't; they'll let their potaters be full o' lumps.

_I_ never do; if there 's anything I hate, it's lumps in potaters. I

_won't_ have 'em. Whether I'm mashin' potaters for puddin's or for

vegetable use, I mash it till there ain't the size of a lump in it.

If I can't git it fine without sifting, why, I _sift_ it. Once in a

while, when I'm otherways engaged, I set the girl to mashin' on't. Wal,

she'll give it three or four jams, and come along, 'Miss Mudlaw, is the

potater fine enough?' Jubiter Rammin! that's the time I come as near

gittin' mad as I ever allow myself to come, for I make it a pint never

to have lumps--"

"Yes, I know it is very important. What next?"

"Wal, then I put in my butter; in winter time I melt it a little, not

enough to make it ily, but jest so's to soften it."

"How much butter does it require?"

"Wal, I always take butter accordin' to the size of the puddin'; a

large puddin' needs a good sized lump o' butter, but not _too_ much.

And I'm always partic'lar to have my butter fresh and sweet. Some folks

think it's no matter what sort o' butter they use for cookin', but _I_

don't. Of all things, I do despise strong, frowy, rancid butter. For

pity's sake, have your butter fresh."

"How much butter did you say?"

"Wal, that depends, as I said before, on what sized puddin' you want

to make. And another thing that regulates the quantity of butter I use

is the 'mount o' cream I take. I always put in more or less cream;

when I have abundance o' cream, I put in considerable, and when it's

scarce, why, I use more butter than I otherways should. But you must be

partic'lar not to get in too much cream. There's a great deal in havin'

jest the right quantity; and so 'tis with all the ingrejiences. There

ain't a better puddin' in the world than a potater puddin', when it's

made _right_, but tain't everybody that makes 'em right. I remember

when I lived in Tuckertown, I was a visitin' to Squire Humprey's one

time--I went in the first company in Tuckertown--dear me! this is a

changeable world. Wal, they had what they called a potater puddin' for

dinner. Good laud! Of all the puddin's! I've often occurred to that

puddin' since, and wondered what the Squire's wife was a thinkin' of

when she made it. I wa'n't obleeged to do no such things in them days,

and didn't know how to do anything as well as I do now. Necessity's the

mother of invention. Experience is the best teacher after all--"

"Do you sweeten it?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure it needs sugar, the best o' sugar, too; not this

wet, soggy, brown sugar. Some folks never think o' usin' good sugar to

cook with, but for my part I won't have no other."

"How much sugar do you take?"

"Wal, that depends altogether on whether you calculate to have sass

for it--some like sass, you know, and then some agin don't. So, when

I calculate for sass, I don't take so much sugar; and when I don't

calculate for sass, I make it sweet enough to eat without sass. Poor

Mr. Mudlaw was a great hand for puddin'-sass. I always made it for

him--good, rich sass, too. I could afford to have things rich before

he was unfortinate in bisness." (Mudlaw went to State's prison for

horse-stealing.) "I like sass myself, too; and the curnel and the

children are all great sass hands; and so I generally calculate for

sass, though Miss Philpot prefers the puddin' without sass, and perhaps

_you'd_ prefer it without. If so, you must put in sugar accordingly. I

always make it a pint to have 'em sweet enough when they're to be eat

without sass."

"And don't you use eggs?"

"Certainly, eggs is one o' the principal ingrejiences."

"How many does it require?"

"Wal, when eggs is plenty, I always use plenty; and when they 're

scarce, why I can do with less, though I'd ruther have enough; and be

sure to beat 'em well. It does distress me, the way some folks beat

eggs. I always want to have 'em thoroughly beat for everything I use

'em in. It tries my patience most awfully to have anybody round me

that won't beat eggs enough. A spell ago we had a darkey to help in

the kitchen. One day I was a makin' sponge cake, and havin' occasion

to go up stairs after something, I sot her to beatin' the eggs. Wal,

what do you think the critter done? Why, she whisked 'em round a few

times, and turned 'em right onto the other ingrejiences that I'd got

weighed out. When I come back and saw what she'd done, my gracious! I

came as nigh to losin' my temper as I ever allow myself to come. 'Twas

awful provokin'! I always want the kitchen help to do things as I want

to have 'em done. But I never saw a darkey yet that ever done anything

right. They're a lazy, slaughterin' set. To think o' her spilin' that

cake so, when I'd told her over and over agin that I always made it a

pint to have my eggs thoroughly beat!"

"Yes, it was too bad. Do you use fruit in the pudding?"

"Wal, that's jest as you please. You'd better be governed by your own

judgment as to _that_. Some like currants and some like raisins, and

then agin some don't like nary one. If you use raisins, for pity's sake

pick out the stuns. It's awful to have a body's teeth come grindin'

onto a raisin stun. I'd rather have my ears boxt any time."

"How many raisins must I take?"

"Wal, not _too_ many--it's apt to make the puddin' heavy, you know; and

when it's heavy, it ain't so light and good. I'm a great hand--"

"Yes. What do you use for flavoring?"

"There agin you'll have to exercise your own judgment. Some likes

one thing, and some another, you know. If you go the hull figger on

temperance, why some other kind o' flavorin' 'll do as well as wine

or brandy, I s'pose. But whatever you make up your mind to use, be

partic'lar to git in a sufficiency, or else your puddin' 'll be flat. I

always make it a pint--"

"How long must it bake?"

"There's the great thing after all. The bakin' 's the main pint. A

potater puddin', of all puddin's, has got to be baked jest right. For

if it bakes a leetle too much, it's apt to dry it up; and then agin

if it don't bake quite enough, it's sure to taste potatery--and that

spiles it, you know."

"How long should you think?"

"Wal, that depends a good deal on the heat o' your oven. If you have

a very hot oven, 'twon't do to leave it in too long; and if your oven

ain't so very hot, why, you'll be necessiated to leave it in longer."

"Well, how can I tell anything about it?"

"Why, I always let 'em bake till I think they're done--that's the

safest way. I make it a pint to have 'em baked exactly right. It's very

important in all kinds o' bakin'--cake, pies, bread, puddin's, and

everything--to have 'em baked _pre_cisely long enough, and jest right.

Some folks don't seem to have no system at all about their bakin'. One

time they'll burn their bread to a crisp, and then agin it'll be so

slack tain't fit to eat. Nothing hurts my feelin's so much as to see

things overdone or slack-baked. Here only t'other day, Lorry, the girl

that Miss Philpot dismissed yesterday, come within an ace o' letting my

bread burn up. My back was turned a minnit, and what should she do but

go to stuffin' wood into the stove at the awfullest rate? If I hadn't

a found it out jest when I did, my bread would a ben spilt as sure as

I'm a live woman. Jubiter Rammin! I was about as much decomposed as I

ever allow myself to git! I told Miss Philpot I wouldn't stan' it no

longer--one of us must quit--either Lorry or me must walk."

"So you've no rule about baking this pudding?"

"No rule!" said Mudlaw, with a look of intense surprise.

"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, "you seem to have no rule for anything about

it."

"No rule!" screamed the indignant cook, starting up, while her red face

grew ten times redder, and her little black eyes snapped with rage.

"No rules!" and she planted herself in front of Mrs. Darling, erecting

her fleshy figure to its full height of majestic dumpiness, and

extending the forefinger of her right hand till it reached an alarming

propinquity to that lady's nose. "No rules! do _you_ tell _me_ I've no

rules! Me! that's cooked in the first families for fifteen years, and

always gin satisfaction, to be told by such as _you_ that I hain't no

rules!"

Thus far had Mudlaw proceeded, and I know not to what length she would

have "allowed herself" to go, had not the sudden entrance of Col.

Philpot interrupted her. He being a person of whom she stood somewhat

in awe, particularly "jest at this time," she broke off in the midst of

her tirade, and, casting a look of ineffable disgust at Mrs. Darling,

retreated to her own dominions to vent her fury upon poor Peggy, who

had done everything wrong during her absence.

While Col. Philpot was expressing his extreme satisfaction at seeing

Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Philpot emerged from the library, where she had been

shaking in her shoes during the interview between that lady and Mudlaw.

"Matilda, my dear," said the colonel, "this is quite an unexpected

pleasure, for really, Mrs. Darling, we began to fear that you did not

intend to cultivate us."

"I did not come for that purpose," replied Mrs. Darling, who, now

that she saw through Col. Philpot, despised him thoroughly, and was

not afraid to let him know it, notwithstanding he belonged to the

aristocracy of our town. "I came on an errand, and your cook has got

very angry with me for some reason, I scarcely know what."

"Poor Mudlaw," said Mrs. Philpot, anxious to screen her main stay from

the colonel's displeasure, yet feeling the necessity of some apology to

Mrs. Darling. "Poor Mudlaw! I don't think she intended to be rude."

"What! has the cook been rude to Mrs. Darling?" exclaimed Col. P.

"Not rude, exactly, dear; but you know she is so sensitive about

everything connected with her department, and she fancied that Mrs.

Darling called her skill in question, and became somewhat excited."

"_Quite_ excited, I should call it," said Mrs. D. with a smile.

"And she has dared to treat Mrs. Darling rudely!" said Col. P.,

apparently much agitated. "Shameful! disgraceful! the wretch shall

suffer for it! To think that a lady like Mrs. Darling should be

insulted by a _cook_! in my house, too!"

"And just before _election_, too; it is a pity!" said Mrs. Darling

quietly, as she rose, and wishing them good-morning, departed, leaving

Col. Philpot lost in astonishment. Her last remark rendered necessary

some explanation from Mrs. P. She was compelled to repeat some part

of the conversation that had taken place in the kitchen, which,

though softened down as much as possible, was sufficient to rouse the

colonel's indignation to the highest pitch, for he saw at once that

Darling was lost. He gave his silly wife a hearty blowing up, but upon

Mudlaw his wrath fell heaviest. No entreaties of her mistress could

save her; she was commanded to quit the premises, to _troop forthwith_

"for being rude to visitors." But Mudlaw knew well enough the real

reason of her dismissal, and when she went forth in rage and sorrow,

she found some consolation in spreading it far and wide, thereby making

Col. Philpot very ridiculous in the eyes of the community.

"Well, I'm surprised, Hester," said John Darling, after his wife had

given him a circumstantial account of her visit. "And I'm right sorry,

too, to have my good opinion of a man knocked in the head so, for I

did think well of Col. Philpot. I really believed we couldn't send a

better man to Congress. But it won't do. A man that can stoop to such

conduct isn't fit to go there. I can't vote for him, and my influence,

what little I have, must go against him. If he gets there, it must be

without any help from John Darling!"

Col. Philpot did _not_ go to Congress, and what made his defeat the

more aggravating was the fact that his opponent was elected by the

small majority of three votes. And so Col. Philpot lost his election;

and Mrs. Philpot lost her cook; and Mr. Darling lost his esteem for

Col. Philpot, and all through the over-politeness of the latter.

And was there nothing gained? Oh, yes; Mrs. Darling gained something.

Not much information in regard to the potato pudding, certainly;

but she gained some knowledge of the internal arrangements of Mrs.

Philpot's household, which proved of great service to her, for she

confesses to John that she was never so contented with her own home and

her own husband as she has been since she made that memorable call at

Col. Philpot's.

Poetry.

THE DYING WIFE.

BY PHILA EARLE.

You'll think of me sometimes, beloved,

When I am gone from sight?

When you can see me nevermore,

You'll not forget me quite?

You'll miss sometimes, at twilight hour

My low and loving tone;

Your heart will sometimes feel a pang,

When beating all alone.

You'll think of days forever gone,

And grief may wring a tear

From eyes that have but seldom wept,

But I shall not be here;

You'll come and go; and yet the smile

That once your fond eyes met,

Will faded be--forever fled,

But oh, do not forget!

When cold and lifeless is the form

That's nestled on thy breast,

When chill and marble-like the lips

That once thine own have pressed,

Oh, sometimes think of me, and come

Unto the quiet spot

Where I shall slumber lone and still,

But oh not quite forgot!

You'll think of me when sitting 'side

My lone and vacant chair;

And sometimes, love, oh! gaze upon

This golden tress of hair!

And think that with its sister curls

It floated o'er the brow

That rests within the lowly grave,

So damp and pallid now.

But yet your grief will pass away

Like dusky shades of night;

The cypress wreath you'll change, beloved,

For one with flowers white;

You'll fondly love another one,

And call her thine--but yet

Your _lost_ young bride--your first beloved,

Oh, do not quite forget!

And _she_, thy chosen one, may bring

A heart of love to thee,

But not more loving, true, than mine,

I _know_ it _cannot_ be.

But mine must throbless, pulseless be,

Its warm outgushings still.

But you will sometimes think of her,

Who rests so pale and chill.

Oh! sometimes fancy that my arms

Are fondly round thee twined,

And that my cheek, once warm and fair,

Is closely pressed to thine.

When I am gone, forever gone,

I'd be remembered yet,

Oh! think of me sometimes, beloved,

And _never_ quite forget!

WE PARTED.

BY M. A. RICE.

We parted at the dawn of day,

While in the east a bright cloud lay

Awaiting the approaching sun;

The night, with all its dreams, was done,

The birds sang sweetly from each spray;

Dim mists began to speed away.

We parted at the old street door--

I stood and blessed him o'er and o'er,

As down the dear old grass-grown way

Which sparkling in the dew-drops lay,

He passed with slow, unwilling tread,

With tearful eyes and bended head.

He left us--he, the gifted boy,

The worshipped to idolatry.

But sixteen summer suns had shed

Their gladsome smiles above his head,

And now in memory's mirror fair

He stands before me just as there--

With that endeared bewitching face,

And form of more than sculptured grace--

With raven hair and eagle eye,

And brow so sunny and so high.

Long days of absence did I mourn

And wish a brother's loved return;

But, oh! how lonely were the hours,

How scentless were the sweetest flowers,

How joyless was the summer's sky,

And well I wished the hours gone by!

How oft at evening, sad and lone,

I watched the silent stars that shone;

And though they were so cold, so high,

They seemed to gaze with sympathy;

And many a gentle whispering gale,

And many a silvery moon-beam pale,

Can witness that the flight of years

Stayed not affection's truest tears.

Three summers, with their flowers, had cheered,

And winter's snow as oft appeared;

'Twas said that our beloved would come

Once more to his paternal home.

The grape-vine o'er our cottage door

Put out its glist'ning leaves once more;

Fair flowers looked smiling from the ground--

A welcome mingled in each sound.

And one there came with bearing high--

Ambition's fire was in his eye;

But ah! how blighted was my joy,

No feature of the lovely boy

That parted with the bitter tear,

Had left its cherished traces there!

Time leaves an impress--and _will bring_

A change o'er every human thing.

Seest thou a cloud at hour of even

Soft floating in the vault of heaven?

Gaze on the shadowy vision fair;

'Tis the last time it resteth there.

And dost thou breathe the word "farewell?"

'Twill be affection's funeral knell.

And never dream to thy fond arms,

Thy friend, arrayed in cherished charms,

This cold, vain world will e'er restore

As warm and truthful _as before_.

Hope in thy heart may chide its pain,

But loved ones never come again.

LAY OF THE CONSTANT ONE.

BY MRS. COROLLA H. CRISWELL.

Why do I doubt thy truth, dear one,

When thou art _all_ to me?

Why do I doubt thy love, and deem

Thy fond heart false to be?

Why do I think thou lovest _her_,

Although thy thrilling eyes

Do ever shine on me, dear one,

As stars shine from the skies?

I watch thy roving glances, love,

And when on _her_ they rest,

I feel a pang of jealousy

Shoot through my throbbing breast;

And then, I coldly turn away,

And force a careless smile,

As if my lonely heart was not

In anguish all the while.

Could I believe that thou wert _true_,

What bliss would then be mine!

I never loved but _thee_, dear one,

Will never be but _thine_.

Though many may have sought my heart,

Their vows were nought to me;

For years, long, weary years, mine own,

I have been true to thee!

And still my faith I'll constant keep,

Though false thou mayest prove,

My heart will never lose for thee

Its life-absorbing love;

And shouldst thou take _her_ for thy bride,

Though shalt not hear _one sigh_;

As melts "the snow-flake in the sea,"

So silently I'll _die_.

TO MY BROTHER.

BY MRS. M. A. BIGELOW.

Brother, brother! storms are sweeping

Through the skies on wings of gloom;

And to-day I have been weeping

At a rising thought of home.

Oh! the place where first we center

All the love of early years,

When life's stormy clan we enter,

How its memory prompts our tears!

Brother, does the vernal sunlight

Fall the same on the green wood?

Sings that stream as full of music?

Or, hath winter changed its mood?

Are the cowslips still as fragrant?

Still as pure their golden light,

Showing the sweet brooklets pathway

Through the meadows fresh and bright?

Do the zephyrs soft at even

Gently wave the clambering vine?

Do the brilliant gems of heaven

Make the night about thee shine?

Are the fields around thee lying

Radiant with their former light?

Though above them clouds are flying,

Mem'ry sees them always bright!

Oh! there is no place--no other

Where the scenery seems so fair!

While afar, my dearest brother,

Still my thoughts are ling'ring there.

Could I watch the sun declining

Till the skies with crimson burn,

Till the moon-beams softly shining

Might forgotten thoughts return!

Could I take my seat beside thee,

Where the bees' soft lull is heard,

And the young maturing foliage

By the breath of home is stirred!

Wherefore, wherefore am I turning

To conceal my bitter tears!

Wherefore, O my heart, this yearning

For the home of earlier years

Dearest, ever faithful brother,

Is that home unchanged to thee?

While I wander with another,

Does thy heart's love follow me?

Dost thou miss me in the morning?

Am I missed at close of day?

Canst thou let me be forgotten

While afar my footsteps stray?

Let me know my brother loves me,

That the hearts of home are warm--

Then the heavens may frown above me,

And I will not heed the storm!

'TIS GOLD! 'TIS GOLD!

BY JAMES L. ROCHE.

What is it worldlings bow before,

And thieves and murderers adore;

Corrupts the young, and damns the old

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! my heart detests

Its haughty rule, its proud behests;

It turns the warmest natures cold,

Corrupting gold! corrupting gold!

What is it dooms to live and die

Unblest, the hearts it could not buy?

Betrays the honest, tries the bold?

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it sets one friend, one brother,

In deadly strife against another?

The kind, warm heart turns selfish, cold

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it that doth Earth subdue,

And _thinks_ to conquer Heaven too?

That doth o'er ALL dominion hold?

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

What is it tempts th' unguarded soul,

From God, and from its destined goal?

Accursed thing! still be it told,

'Tis gold! 'tis gold!

'Tis not for me! &c.

THE WRECK.

BY MRS. E. LOCK, OF CALCUTTA, AUTHORESS OF A VOLUME OF POEMS ENTITLED

"LEISURE HOURS," AN "EDUCATIONAL WORK IN THE BENGALI LANGUAGE," ETC.

ETC.

Mark yonder light bark 'mid the whitening surge,

And, hark! how the loud storm is breaking

Around her frail sides, while the howling winds call;

Destruction's dread powers are waking!

Ay, stand on the rock and behold the last shock,

It has shivered her deck, and no more

Her pennons will stream in the sun's glancing beam--

Her voyage forever is o'er!

Down 'neath the wave she sinks! none can save;

Let us bid her adieu, for, ah! never

She'll meet with the light of her Cynosure bright,

For the sea has closed o'er her forever!

The whelming waves of woe swell o'er my soul,

From this affliction I can never rise;

The dark and heavy rolling surges break

Over my storm-tost bark, and not a star,

A beacon-spark amid the gloomy waste,

Shines forth to light me to the opening grave.

A brilliant star there was--my guiding star;

On it I kept my eye and fondly dreamed

It ne'er would set until my journey's end;

On it I gazed as on a star of hope,

To the tired wanderer a gift from God,

A star of promise to the lonely one!

But, ah! am I deceived? have all my hopes

Been placed on nothing save a shadow bright,

An ignis fatuus, a meteor delusive?

It cannot be, for have I not, since first

That light arose upon my darksome path,

Been guided gently, safely by its rays?

The glory of this bright, resplendent star

Has ne'er been quite shut by lowering skies,

Though intervening clouds have oft obscured,

And 'neath a mystic veil have sometimes hid

Its soft and radiant light; still, still enough

I've seen to guide me safe through quicksands, rocks,

Through paths beset with dangers worse than death.

Upward and onward I've pursued my way,

A way strewn thick with cares and trials too,

And sorrows neither few nor far between.

A timid, untried one launched forth upon

The ocean-world, no friend with counsel kind,

No hand to save or aid the helpless bark

To navigate the sea of foreign waters!

Pale apprehension brooded o'er my heart;

At length it sank! but ere 'twas fully lost,

This star arose benignly o'er the grave

Of my departed hopes, and beaming peace,

Ay, on its brow were written PEACE and LOVE.

They filled my heart, those two celestial rays--

An earnest gave that they would ne'er forsake,

But be my guidance to my long, last home.

My sinking soul was strengthened; I arose

In trust relying on the promise given,

Clasped to my heart the cheering form of hope,

And on her anchor leaned in confidence,

Sustained by faith e'en when enwrapped in clouds,

And darkness palpable my guiding light!

Almost one lustrum now has passed away

Since the soft vision met my lifted eye,

Since first I felt its holy influence,

Its secret spell connecting me with heaven!

And has that STAR in gloom impervious set,

_Forever set_, at least from out my view!

Compact, piled up, dark leaden-colored clouds

Now intervene like demons of revenge

On swift destruction bent. Malice and Hate,

And Scandal's cruel breath unite to doom

The fragile bark to an untimely tomb!

Full many a gloomy night (and all is night

To the lone one now on the boisterous wave, or sea),

Through life's kaleidoscope, with straining eye,

I've gazed and prayed that brighter skies would shine,

Or that, at least, a half-lit solitude

Upon the deep might still remain for me,

And not Cimmerian darkness cover all

Fore'er in life my only solace stay.

Baseless and unsubstantial promise given,

In that unmeaning "morrow" ne'er to rise!

THE EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS.

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A HOLIDAY GIFT.

If a pen full of ink will my feelings portray,

Accept my best thanks for those slippers, I pray;

I prize them sincerely; they suit to a T;

And no trifle, dear madam, shall wrest them from me.

Should the sons of St. Crispin their workshops give o'er,

And the cobblers declare they will cobble no more,

What _boots_ it to me if they throw down their _awl_

And come to an _end_, and the craft wholly fall?

Possessing such friends, with those banners unfurled,

No fear of my going barefoot through the world.

'Tis said Cinderella, a well-meaning lass,

Was raised to great wealth by a shoe made of glass;

Now if one single slipper such wonders will do,

How fortunate those who are favored with two!

Still some have their doubts, and hesitate whether

One slipper of glass is worth two made of leather.

The man who is upright (they may think as they choose),

That _person's_ full weight must rest in his shoes;

Be lowly his station, or high and commanding,

Two slippers secure him a firm understanding.

OLD, WHILE YOUNG.

BY MABEL CLIFFORD.

I asked a friend why she was so sad? Her reply was,

"Sorrow hath made me old, while young."

You ask me why I am so strangely tearful,

Why clouds of anguish o'er my brow are flung?

You strive and pray to make me gay and cheerful,

And wonder how I can be sad while young.

Yes, I am young in years, but not in feeling,

For many frosts upon my bosom lie,

And sorrow's mantle o'er my spirit stealing,

Wrapped _age_ within, and cast _youth_ idly by.

I may be young, but, with my blighted spirit,

My clouded heart, and weary head and brain,

I feel, I know I never can inherit

A careless brow, and cheerful mien again.

Then do not scorn me that I have not power

To show a brow where shadows may not come,

For, were your heart like mine, a blighted flower,

You would not wonder I feel old, while young.

PRESENTIMENT.

BY MRS. PRISCILLA P. LOMPAYRAC.

I know that I shall die! and oh, beloved,

Chide me not now if o'er _thy_ heart I send

The echoes of that voice which I have long

In silence heard.

I would have been the sunshine o'er thy path,

But such was not my lot. The light must fade--

The tones thou lovest linger not. I die

Ere the young freshness of our love hath flown

I die, and thou wilt be on earth alone!

Speak not, dear friend! Let this sad thought now find

An utterance--solemn, strange, as it hath swept

O'er me like some strong whirlwind in its might;

But now 't hath melted to a moaning wind,

Which lulleth me to peace. The flush of health

Is on my cheek, and the cool blood moves on

Through all my veins, unfevered in its flow;

And yet I know that I shall die, and ere

The young fair flowers, which thou and I have sown,

Have faded on their stems, be all at rest!

There is strange music in the air, and tones

Upon the twilight breeze, and voices heard

In midnight dreams, for those who early die;

And I have heard them all, and my doomed heart

With life hath striven until the victory

Is won. I would that we had earlier met,

Dear friend, that all the sunshine of my first

Young dreams were poured on thee, for now my love

Hath caught that settled sadness which deep love

On earth must ever wear. Have I not looked

On death, and are they not companions e'er?

And memory, grows it not tearful too?

Do high hopes wither not?

'Twas thus, while life's young spring bloomed on my cheek,

My heart grew sorrowful beyond its years,

And learned to fear and doubt, and for its dreams

And hopes a coffin made, all sealed and hid,

Till thou didst loose them once again.

But, oh! they could not spring to meet thine own,

With all the freshness of their early day.

There lived the memory of the past,

And when I clasped thy hand in mine, and looked

Into thine eyes, and heard thy words of love,

My heart grew dark with sad and tearful thought.

I have remembered me,

That hands which I had clasped in love were now

The earthworms' prey; soft eyes were quenched, and tones

Of love were changed by time, or stilled by death!

Oh! I have drained from even joy the dregs

Of grief, which in its cup have mingled ever.

Perchance its tracery was on my brow,

And all my love, the fond, and deep, and true,

Hath been upon thy lot a shadow cast.

'Tis well that I depart ere it grow deep,

And link the sunshine of its joyous soul

With its dark hues.

Thou wilt remember me? I know thou wilt:

Thou wilt sit here, perchance, where we recline

Beneath the shade of vines which I have reared

And the sweet flower-scents will go floating by,

Blent with all mournful memories of the past.

Yet do not weep, but think of me as one

Whose heart was like the restless moaning wave,

Which frets itself to peace--whose love was all

Too deep for bliss on earth, and who above

Will watch with anxious ministry thy steps.

I have had dreams--bright, holy dreams--dear friend.

I would have poured the fulness of these thoughts,

Which burn within, upon the breath of song--

Have left my name upon the lips of men

As one whose foot had trod within the realm

Of mind afar, that when upon the breath

Of fame it floated past, thou might'st have said,

"She was mine own, most worthy of my love."

It was in vain--I die, all unfulfilled

The promise of my youth, leaving my name

But in thy heart.

Lay me to rest in that lone lovely spot

Which I have loved, and o'er my grave plant flowers

Let not the funereal willow wave above:

I would remind thee, by all happy things,

Of her thou loved and lovest; and sometimes come

To that sweet spot and think of me, for all

My kindred's graves are far, and they who loved

Me in my early years will see me not.

Friend, dearest friend, thy love, thy love alone

Is all the sunshine which, unshaded ever,

Was thrown upon my path: shall I not bear

It all away? and if mine own hath caught

From earth a shade of gloom, will it not soar

Where all is light? I say not now farewell,

But, in that last stern hour, close thou mine eyes,

Which smile adieu to earth and thee, and let

Me rest in peace.

SONNET.--BEAUTY.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Beauty--'tis but a beam, a flickering flame,

A flower that withers, whose gay colors die;

Such, erst, was Helen's, of historic fame,

Such thine, fair lady of the diamond eye.

As fades the lily on the water's breast,

So fades thy color, shown thee in thy glass;

As fade the flowers wherewith thy head is drest,

So quick away thy beauty too shall pass.

Love, golden-winged, away doth quickly fly,

When Time's dark pinions heard are flapping near,

And thou, deformed, art left all suddenly,

Who, erewhile, wert to thy acquaintance dear.

"This skull is Helen's"--beauteous relic this,

Of her so famed for form and loveliness.

FAIRYLAND.

BY LAURA M. COLVIN.

Sleeps the old woodland through midsummer night!

Its leafy arches, spreading far away,

Are still, and silvered by the pale moonlight,

From gnarled branch unto the tiniest spray.

O'er the soft moss-beds, by the streamlet's sheen,

And o'er the greensward, are the folded flowers;

A heaven of azure o'er the beauteous scene,

Doth watch the gliding of serenest hours.

The moon smiles fair upon the greenwood glade,

The red lips of the rose new fragrance shed,

And stealing forth, in radiant robes arrayed,

What sprites are those that merry measures tread?

These are the revels of the Fairyland--

It is Titania and her gentle band!

O'ER BLEAK ACADIA'S PLAINS.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MRS. L. B. GURLEY.

BY CLARK GADDIS.

O'er bleak Acadia's plains, where blow

From arctic piles an icy breath,

And earth is wrapped in shrouds of snow,

As if that earth lay cold in death,

I roam, as strangers sadly roam--

For every step its distance lends

From those, the cherished ones at home,

And constant friends.

Still fondly in my breast I wear

(And kindly every feeling glows)

The images of clear ones, where

The loved at home in peace repose:

From distant lands, where'er I roam,

To thee my heart still fondly tends,

My mother, sisters, brother, home,

And constant friends.

Ye are the sunshine on my path,

Dispelling gloom amid the shade;

Though hope that led my boyhood, hath

All withered or all been betrayed;

Still ye are true! where'er I roam

I know for me the prayer ascends

From those, the cherished ones at home,

And constant friends.

THE LIFE OF MAN.

BY C****.

As rosy light in eastern skies

Gives hope to all of bright sunrise;

As floweret lays its petal bare

And sheds its fragrance on the air;

As babbling rill 'neath greenwood trees

Wends on its way to distant seas;

As comet in its rapid flight

Across the azure vault of night--

Thus runs the mortal life of man.

When on his infant form we gaze,

Sweet Hope shines bright upon his days;

With tott'ring steps he treads the ground

And sheds his joyousness around,

Till, wending on through smiles and tears,

He meets the sea in manhood's years;

Then, for a moment flashing bright,

Is lost fore'er to mortal sight--

And his eternal life's began.

Then breaks to him another day,

In which eternal sunbeams play.

As the sweet floweret fades and dies,

At Spring's soft summons will arise;

As babbling rill, lost in the main,

Returns again in gentle rain;

As comet, when it disappears,

Will glow again in after years;

Man may be lost to mortal eye,

The Spirit Man will never die.

* * * * *

BRAIDED SLIPPER.

[Illustration]

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

A LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.

[Illustration: LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.]

The above is a pattern of a fashionable lady's walking-dress, made of

either velvet or cloth. It is closed down the front, and ornamented

with gilt buttons.

[Illustration:

CUFF HALF OF SLEEVE SHOULDER

FRONT BACK

DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S WALKING-DRESS.]

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

[Illustration: Fig. 1 is a small sideboard-table, very convenient for

holding the dessert, the glasses, the plate, and other things in use.

It is placed on castors concealed in the legs.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2 is another pattern for a sideboard-table, used

for the same purpose as that represented in Fig. 1.]

CHEMISETTES AND SLEEVES.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

[Illustration: Fig. 3.]

Open dresses are still the order of the day; and as the spring comes

in, we select two very neat and ladylike styles, both of which are

easily followed.

Fig. 1 is composed of alternate rows of insertion and muslin puffs; the

collar is rather large and square, the favorite style at present.

Fig. 2 can be made either of Swiss muslin, cambric, or linen, and is

suitable for mourning, when black studs should be used to close it.

Fig. 3 is a sleeve to correspond with Fig. 1. As we have before

remarked, chemisettes and undersleeves now come in sets to match,

and make a favorite and most acceptable holiday or bridal gift. A

plain sleeve, with band of the same, will match Fig. 2. Lace will be

worn the coming season; but, at present, muslin and cambric are most

appropriate, except in evening-dress.

MADAME CAPLIN'S CORSETS.

[Illustration: No. 1.]

We have before alluded to the establishment of this lady, at 58 Bemers

Street, Oxford Street, London, and have now procured some cuts of those

peculiar inventions, founded on physical investigations and principles,

which have made her so famous.

No. 1.--The Registered Coporiform Child's Bodice offers many

advantages, and is valuable for infants and children, affording ease

and comfort, supporting the frame, and directing the growth. It is

arranged so as to follow the prominent and receding lines of the

body; a smooth and comfortable fit is thus obtained, but without the

slightest pressure. A pair of straps passes over the shoulders, which

cross in the back, and are fastened similarly to a gentleman's brace.

We can at once accord the advantages that this bodice possesses over

those usually made for children--namely, the straight-corded bodice,

which Madame Caplin states, from a want of shape and adaptation, slips

off the shoulders on to the arms, causing the head and shoulders to

bend forward; thus producing a stooping position, round shoulders,

contraction of the chest, and a flattening of the ribs.

[Illustration: No. 2.]

Madame Caplin has introduced another invention, called "The Invisible

Scapula Contractor." (No. 2.) This we were very much pleased with, and

consider it an ingenious contrivance. She explained its use by stating

that, in many cases, the child's bodice has not sufficient power of

itself to counteract the stooping of the body, and particularly where

this evil has been of long standing. In such instances, the contractors

cannot fail to be of the greatest utility. We were also much gratified

in inspecting the models and numerous inventions which were exhibited

by Madame Caplin at the Great Exhibition, and where she received the

only prize granted in the United Kingdom for adaptations of this kind.

They are twenty-three in number, commencing with infancy, and following

the different phases of woman's life up to old age.

[Illustration: No. 3.]

The Contracting Belt (No. 3), among others, is strictly anatomical

in its construction. The front is composed of elastic materials, in

which are inserted medical plates, thus combining perfect support and

elasticity.

TAPER STAND.

[Illustration]

_Materials._--5 skeins of pink single Berlin wool, 3 shades of green,

2 skeins of each shade; 2 balls of silver twine, and a skein of wire,

No. 24, bell gauge; Penelope needle, No. 2. The stand is made of

mill-board, and may be had for sixpence.

THE FLOWER. _The Centre Divisions._--Commence with the pink

wool, *, work 17 chain, take the wire, and, leaving an end of about

3 inches, place it between the wool and the loop on the needle, work

1 chain across the wire; then fold the wire back even with the other

piece, and holding them along the foundation chain, miss the 1 plain

that crosses the wire, and work 16 plain on the foundation chain,

keeping the doubled wire under the stitches; then leave the wire, as it

will not be required in the next round, turn; 1 chain to cross, and up

the other side work 3 plain, 3 treble, 5 long, 3 treble, 3 plain, turn,

and down the other side, 2 plain, 3 treble, 5 long, 3 treble, 3 plain.

Repeat from * 6 times more, and in working the next 17 chain, leave the

same length of wire as the chain. When the 7 divisions are made, work 1

single on the 1st plain of the 1st division to make it round; then join

on the silver twine, and work the wire under the following stitches: 15

plain up the 1st division, 2 plain in one at the point, * *, 15 plain

down the other side; miss 3, 1 plain on the 2d plain stitch of the next

division; 7 plain more, join to the 7th stitch of the last 15 plain;

7 plain, 2 plain in one. Repeat from * *, 5 times more; then 7 plain,

join to the opposite stitch of the 1st division, 8 plain, then work a

plain row along the bottom of the division, and fasten off.

_The Inner Divisions._--Commence with the pink wool, make 15 chain;

turn, miss 1, and down the foundation chain, 1 plain, 2 treble, 1 long,

6 extra long, 1 long, 1 treble, 1 plain. Repeat 6 times more, then 1

single on the 1st plain stitch of the 1st division to make it round,

join on the silver twine; take the wire and work it under the following

stitches: 12 plain, 2 plain in one, †, 12 plain down the other side;

miss 3, work 7 single up the next division, join to the 5th stitch of

the last 12 plain; then 5 plain, 2 plain in one. Repeat from †, 5 times

more, then 5 plain, join to the opposite stitch of the 1st division, 7

plain; then work a plain row along the divisions. Fasten off; and for

THE LEAVES.--With the green wool, work 16 chain, turn, miss 1,

2 plain, 13 treble; 2 chain, 1 single in the same stitch as the last;

3 chain, turn, and up the other side, work 3 long in one, 8 long, 4

treble, 3 plain, turn, and down the other side, 2 plain, 4 treble, 8

long, 3 long in one, 3 chain, 1 single in the same stitch as the last.

Fasten off; and for

THE STEM.--Commence with the silver twine, work 10 chain, 1

single on the 1st stitch of the 3 chain of the leaf. Take the wire and

work it under the following stitches: 34 plain round the leaf; then 10

plain on the stem and fasten. Work 12 leaves more the same with the 3

shades of wool; and for

THE BUD.--With the silver twine, work 15 chain, turn, miss 5, 1

single.

_1st round._--3 chain (2 treble in one stitch, 5 times), 1 single on

the 1st treble stitch.

_2d round._--3 chain, 10 treble, 1 single on the 1st treble stitch;

join on the pink wool, then miss 1 and 1 treble, 7 times. Fasten off,

and work 2 buds more the same.

THE HANDLE.--With the green wool, work 7 chain, make it

round, and work plain round and round for about 4 inches. Fasten off,

and place the handle through it. The upper part of the stand should

be covered with dark green velvet or cloth; place the leaves and buds

around the sconce and sew them to the stand, then put the large and

small divisions of the flower over the sconce, and sew them to the

stand.

* * * * *

EMBROIDERY.--DESIGN FOR SCREEN.

(_See Plate in front of Book._)

_Materials._--Drab or black satin, three shades of crimson, two

of brown, three of green, three shades of amber, and two of blue

embroidery silk or chenille.

Frame the satin, and draw the pattern with a white crayon; work,

in embroidery stitch, the flowers with the shades of crimson, the

leaves with the greens, the stems with the browns, and the birds with

the shades of blue, amber, and green, blending the colors as may be

suggested by the taste and judgment of the worker. The above design is

well adapted for a cheval-screen, but in drawing the pattern, it will

be necessary to considerably magnify the whole. The easiest method of

drawing a design on satin for embroidery is to make use of a pounced

pattern. This is prepared in the following manner: Trace the outline of

the pattern on thin paper, then neatly pierce it with a steel point.

Fix the pattern thus prepared firmly on the material, rub the pounce

over the paper so as to penetrate the perforated outline; afterwards

trace it over with a white crayon. Finely-ground pumice forms the

best kind of pounce. Embroidery in chenille, though rather expensive,

if neatly worked, is extremely rich and elegant in appearance; it is

well adapted for screens, provided when made up the work is protected

by glass from the dust. In working on satin, a long-eyed needle

is preferable. Chenille à broder is used for embroidery; and much

unnecessary waste may be avoided if the needle is brought up close to

the preceding stitch.

* * * * *

THE ARROGONESE AND THE VALENCIA.

(_See Plates in front of Book._)

The cloaks we illustrate this month are made respectively of cloth and

velvet, and, although differing widely in style, are perhaps equal in

their claims upon the favor of our gentle readers.

THE ARROGONESE.

The first, the "Arrogonese," is of black velvet, and is very simple in

construction, it being merely a _circular_ back, which extends in a

half yoke in front; to this the front portion of the cloak is attached;

it is box-plaited in four plaits. These, however, are only continued to

the waist, from thence they escape confinement, and the material droops

in graceful freedom. A collar, narrow at the throat, but with two

scallops upon each side springing boldly to greater width, adorns the

neck; from the point formed by the scalloped cut of the collar depends

a fancy tassel at the back. The cloak is elaborately adorned with a

rich design in needle-work.

THE VALENCIA.

The companion to this, in our pages for this issue, is the "Valencia,"

a very graceful cloak of drab cloth; it is, however, made of this

material in all colors which are favorites this season. The cloak is

constructed by box-plaiting the back upon a plain or smoothly-fitting

yoke, which extends upon the back only from shoulder to shoulder;

the points are quite plain, and fall from the neck smoothly. The

peculiarity of this style of garment chiefly consists in the mode of

the cutting of the sleeve, which is, as reference to the illustration

will demonstrate, a turning over of the cloth upon itself at the elbow,

the edge of this portion being cut scalloped, and all the borders of

the cloak most beautifully ornamented in embroidery. Both cloaks are

lined with quilted taffetas in colors to match.

[Illustration: PLANS OF THE ORNAMENTAL COTTAGE.]

AN ORNAMENTAL COTTAGE.

(_See Plate in front of Book._)

This design cannot strictly be termed a Gothic building, but by the

term we only intend that the principal features are taken from the

Gothic style. The walls are of brick or stone, roughcast, without

pointing. The roof is of slate, and the chimney-stacks are of brick,

also roughcast.

On the second floor are four large chambers and a bedroom, furnishing

ample room for a family of five or six persons exclusive of servants.

On the first floor, if the size of the family required it, the

dining-room might be used as a back parlor or sitting-room, the

present kitchen as a dining-room, and the laundry, being removed to

an out-house, might be used as a kitchen. The hall is to receive

additional light by a window in the roof immediately over the well of

the stairs. Beneath these stairs is a flight descending to the cellar.

* * * * *

EMBROIDERED ANTIMACASSAR.

(_See Plate in front of Book._)

_Materials._--One and a quarter yards of book muslin, three skeins of

Shetland wool, and twelve skeins of Berlin wool. The Shetland wool is

to be of three different shades, and the Berlin may match any one of

them; or mohair braid may be used instead of Shetland wool.