CONCLUSION.
The next day old Mrs. Burns sat in the little family-room up stairs,
quite alone, for Anna had gone round to their old home to see their kind
friend, and the boys proceeded to their work, as usual, immediately
after breakfast. She was reading; for the necessity of constant toil had
been taken from her, and with this pleasant home, many of her old
lady-like wants had come back, asking for a place in her life.
So the old lady sat reading near the window, looking neat and tranquil,
as if care had never visited her. Quantities of soft, fine muslin were
folded over her bosom, and softer lace fell over her calm, old forehead,
from which the hair was parted in all its snowy whiteness. Her dress of
black alpaca, bright as silk, and of voluminous fulness, swept down from
the crimson cushions of the easy-chair, and covered the stool on which
her foot rested. She formed a lovely picture of old age, sitting in that
cool light, with the leaves twinkling their shadows around her, and
softening the whole picture into perfect quiet.
As she sat thus absorbed in her book, the gate opened, and an old man
came up the garden-walk. She lifted her head and looked out, but her
glasses were on, and she could only see some figure moving through the
flowers with dreamy indistinctness. Then she heard the door open, and a
step in the hall—a step that made her heart leap till the muslin stirred
like snow on her bosom.
Who could it be? Not one of the boys, the step was too heavy for that;
perhaps, that is, possibly, it might be young Savage, coming to explain
conduct that she much feared was breaking poor Anna’s heart. The
possibility that it might be him kept her still. After neglecting them
so long, she would not compromise Anna’s pride, by appearing eager to
meet him; so she sat, with book in hand, gazing wistfully at the door
through her spectacles.
The door opened slowly, and old Mr. Gould stood on the threshold, where
he paused a moment gazing on her.
The old woman answered the gaze with a half-frightened look through her
spectacles, then drew them slowly off, as if that could help her vision,
and stood up.
“Mary!” said the old man, coming toward her. “Mary!”
The old woman sat down again, helpless and trembling.
“Mary, will you not speak to me?”
“Yes, James, yes. I—I wish to speak, but—but I cannot.”
“And why, Mary? What have I done? What did I ever do that should make
you hate and avoid me so?”
“Hate! I never hated you, James. At the worst, I never hated you!”
“But you left me—hid yourself; kept my son from me all his life. How
could you find the heart to do that?”
The old lady sat upright in her chair; a faint red came into her
face—she trembled from head to foot.
“You speak as if I had done wrong, James; as if you were an innocent
man.”
“I speak as I feel, Mary—as I am. What fault had I committed which
warranted the separation of a lifetime?”
He questioned her almost sternly; but there was a quiver of wounded
tenderness in his voice which made that gentle old bosom swell with
gathering tears.
“Was it nothing,” she said, faltering, in spite of herself, “that you
left me and married another woman?”
“Mary Gould, are you a sane woman?”
“I saw her with my own eyes; heard her speak; watched her when she read
your letters. Nothing short of that would have driven me from you.”
“You saw all this? When—how?”
“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your letter; she told me that you
were her husband—all the time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it.
What could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace him? Kill
an innocent woman, perhaps? I loved you too well for that; so went away
with my child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women cannot die
when they wish. I was young and healthy; grief tortured me, but it could
not quite kill the strong life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled
for his sake. We went away into another State, and in the heart of a
great city buried ourselves. I gave you up. I gave up your name and
worked on through life alone. But God kept my son, and gave me
grandchildren; the wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this
late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old memories? I
have forgiven you long ago, James—long ago.”
The old man listened to her patiently. Once or twice he started and
checked some eager words as they sprang to his lips; but he restrained
himself and heard her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand
and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her as he seated
himself.
“Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?”
“Believe it? God help me, I knew it!”
“Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have never loved any woman
but you. I never had, and never will have another wife.”
The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful appeal.
“Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot bear it. Only ask me to
forgive you, and I will. Indeed, I will.”
“Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between us to forgive. I
do not know how this terrible idea has been fastened on your mind; but,
as God is my judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than I
have been to you.”
He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to his and found them
full of tears.
“James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The old woman fell down
upon her knees before him, and pressed her two withered hands on his
bosom. “Have I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh, my
husband! I am so thankful that it is me!”
He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that sweet, old face,
with its crown of snowy hair, to his bosom; his tears fell over her; his
hands shook like withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his
heart.
She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn love, which is so
beautiful in old age, filled her heart with a joy that no young bride
may even hope to know.
“We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary; but God has given
us to each other again, and the best part of our existence will be spent
together.”
“But I have cast away our youth, trampled down your mid-age; hid our son
away from you, and now he is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish,
the more piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor of old
age.
“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during all this time till
the war commenced, I thought both you and my son dead; while you,
knowing me alive, thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness
has been greater than mine.”
“Thank God for that!” she said, meekly.
“And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down the path which is lost
in the valley and shadow. You need me now more than ever, and I need
you, Mary, as we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you and I
can give each other becomes the sweetest and most precious thing in
life. Do not cry, Mary; but rather let me see if the old smile lives for
me yet.”
She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth softened into the
sweetest expression you ever saw on a human face.
“God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for our son’s death I
could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as if I had robbed you of him.”
“Never think that again. But remember that it is a good thing to have
loved ones waiting for us on the other side. I shall see our son; of
that be certain.”
“Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have you seen them?”
“Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little fellow.”
“Anna, too?”
“Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.”
“But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him above all; he is the
very image of his father.”
“I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a picture together.”
“And recognized us?”
“At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife was alive. More—after
our son went to the war, he wrote to me, told me that his mother was
living, and besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his family
from want. He gave no name but his own—no address; but referred me to a
gentleman in New York, who would tell me where to find you. This letter
was sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before it reached
me. Only two days before I saw you in that picture did I know of your
existence. I telegraphed to the person who held your address, and was
answered that he was away from home. Then I saw you for that one moment,
and you were lost to me again. I searched for you for days to no avail.
Then I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to Europe. I followed
him, learned the name you have borne, and where you could be
found—learned that our grandchild was already under my care. But I am an
old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did you know that this
house is mine—that I sent you here; that Anna is my friend; and that
little Joseph has made a small fortune in selling me papers?”
“I know that I am this moment the happiest old woman that ever lived.”
“I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall never be unhappy
again. We will enter on our second childhood with tranquil hearts;
knowing so well what loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving
companionship as few old people ever did. Now tell me how it was that
the terrible mistake which separated us arose.”
She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts to Anna only a
short time before.
“I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully. “This lady was my
brother’s wife; he had just come over from England, and took the western
trip with me. The poor young man never came back, but died in the
wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she was reading.”
“Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to believe ill of
you!” cried the old lady.
“Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it was, might have
deceived any one. You did not know that my brother was in the country,
for he came on me unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted
nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the precious time left
to us in regretting it.”
“Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your sake I hid myself.”
“Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when you thought me unworthy. I
shall never forget that. Now let us put all these things aside and think
only of the present.”
“Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around, but turning her
eyes on him at last. “After all, James, you do not look so very old.”
He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair in the old fashion,
but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted, ending off his laugh with a
little sigh, which she heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost
of her youth were passing by.
“This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking out into the
balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at play with the leaves. “Do you
know, Mary, I have never seen a place that seemed so like home since we
parted in England.”
She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered little hand, and
blushing like a girl, said,
“Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.”
“And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am coming home to help
take care of the grandchildren. But I must go now, or they will catch me
here earlier than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.”
He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with tears in his eyes, and
she stole into the balcony to watch him as a girl of twenty might. She
saw him pick a rosebud and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to
himself all the while. Then she stole away and went into her bedroom;
and there Anna found her, when she came home, upon her knees, and with
such benign joy on her face that the young girl closed the door, and
went off on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel.
After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of her husband’s wishes
by that intuition which needs no instruction, she said nothing of his
visit, but waited for him to explain, as best pleased him.
“Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted at the old house. Our
friend is driven beyond any thing with her work, but must go out
especially this afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing
forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”
The old lady consented at once, and put on that soft woollen shawl with
a smile, knowing who it was that had given it to her. It was rather warm
for the season, but she would not have gone without it for the world.
That night there was a great commotion in the cottage, in which the boys
joined, in high excitement, without understanding any thing about it,
except that a surprise was intended for grandmamma and Anna. A long
table was spread in the dining-room; china, glass, and silver, unknown
to the house before, glittered and sparkled upon it; flowers glowed up
from the sparkling glass, and flung their rich shadows across the
snow-white tablecloth; fruit lay bedded in the flowers, filling the
vases with a rich variety, which Robert and Joseph kept rearranging
every instant. Then came plates full of plump little birds, partridges,
and so many dainties, that the boys got tired of naming them. But when
the table was entirely spread, the effect was so magnificent that they
danced around it, clapping their hands in an ecstasy of delight. Up
stairs the rooms were radiant with flowers, and a rich perfume came up
from the gardens, scenting every thing as with the breath of paradise.
Scarcely were the rooms ready when the company came in. First, Georgie
greeted her stately grandmother, Miss Eliza, and a fine-looking
gentleman, whom she introduced as her father. Then came another
stately-looking person, who walked in with Mrs. Savage on his arm; and
after them appeared Horace Savage, natural and pleasant as ever,
chatting merrily with young Gould, with whom he walked up the garden
arm-in-arm, while Georgie was peeping at them from one of the balconies.
When these persons were all assembled, our landlady of the
tenement-house proclaimed her determination of going home at once and
bringing Mrs. Burns and Anna up to their surprise. Just twenty minutes
from the time she left the door they were to turn every light in the
house down, except that in the hall. Robert and Joseph were to take
their posts in the parlors and take charge of the chandeliers. In short,
every thing was ready, and the little parlors took a festive aspect
exhilarating to behold.
Just as Mrs. Burns and Anna came in sight of the house, following the
landlady, who insisted on seeing them home, old Mr. Gould joined them,
and quietly gave his arm to the old lady. Anna was a little surprised,
but they were close by the gate, and she had not much time to notice it.
“The boys have got tired of waiting and have gone out,” she said,
regretfully. “I wish we had come home before dark.”
They were in the hall now, the house was still as death. There seemed
something strange about this, which made Anna look anxious as she took
off her things.
“Walk in,” she said, opening the parlor door, through which Mr. Gould
led the old lady. That instant a blaze of light broke over the room,
revealing bewildering masses of flowers, and a group of smiling faces
all turned upon the new-comers.
Robert and Joseph jumped down, after turning on the light, and softly
clapped their hands, unable to restrain the exuberance of their spirits.
But Anna saw nothing of this. A voice was whispering in her ear; a hand
clasped hers with a force that sent the blood up from her heart in rosy
waves.
“My mother has told me all; they have consented,” he whispered.
She did not answer; for Mr. Gould had led her grandmother into the midst
of the room, and was welcoming all these people as if the house had been
his own.
“This lady,” he said, gently touching the little hand on his arm, “is a
little agitated just now, and leaves me to welcome you; but first let me
present her. She is my wife, and has been rather more than forty years
These boys and that girl yonder are my grandchildren. Their father, my
only son, was killed in battle. For many years, by no fault on either
side, I have been separated from my family. Thank God! we are united
now. Gould, come and kiss your aunt. Anna, have I performed my promise?”
Anna sprang toward him, and threw both arms around his neck.
“My own, own grandfather!” she cried, lavishing such kisses on him as
fatherly old men love to receive from rosy lips.
He returned her kisses, patting her on the head as he gently put her
away.
“James, James, I have seen that face before. Who is this lady?” said
Mrs. Burns, clinging to his arm, as old Mrs. Halstead came up with her
congratulations.
“Yes, Mary, this lady was my brother’s wife—not the mother of this young
fellow. His father came over later; but she is the lady whom you once
saw.”
“And one who hopes to see her many a time after this; especially as she
has been the means of reconciling me with this unreasonable man, who
never would have forgiven me for marrying again, but for the interest I
took in this family. For years and years, dear lady, we had been
strangers to each other. This is, in all respects, a family reunion.”
With this little speech, the handsome old lady held out her hand; but
Mrs. Gould, remembering all she had done for her, instead of shaking the
hand reached forth her arms, and the two old women embraced with tender
dignity, which filled more than one pair of bright eyes with mist.
The old man stood by well pleased and smiling. He saw that young Gould
had retreated toward Georgiana; and that Savage was bending over the
chair to which Anna had gone.
“There is no objection in that quarter, I fancy!” he said, looking at
Mrs. Halstead, and nodding toward the young couple.
“He already has our consent,” answered Mrs. Halstead, smiling.
“As for these young people,” said the old man, approaching Anna, “it is
but just to say that Horace Savage had his parents’ sanction to his
marriage with my granddaughter, before they knew that she would inherit
one fourth of my fortune; the other portion going in equal parts, to my
nephew and grandsons. Where have the little fellows hid themselves?”
“I am here, grandfather,” said little Joseph, lifting his beautiful eyes
to the old man’s face, and stealing a hold on his grandmother’s hand as
he spoke; “and so is Robert, only he’s so surprised.”
“I’m so glad, you mean,” said Robert, coming into the light; “for now
Josey can go to school; and Anna—hurra for sister Anna!”
When the bustle, which followed this speech, died away, it was followed
by a hysterical sob, piteous to hear, which came from a sofa in the
little parlor, on which Miss Eliza had thrown herself.
“What is the matter?” cried half a dozen voices—and the sofa was
instantly surrounded. “What is the cause of this?”
“Oh! leave me alone! leave me alone to my desolation!” she cried; “the
last link is broken; there is no truth—no honor—no chivalry in the
world!”
Old Mr. Gould, as master of the house, felt himself called upon to offer
some consolation for the disappointment, which he supposed had sprung
out of her unreasonable hopes regarding his nephew; but as he came close
to her, she sprang up and pushed him violently backward.
“Touch me not, ingrate! household fiend! traitor! You have broken my
heart, trifled with the affections of an innocent, loving, confiding,
transparent nature. Do not dare to touch me. Turn those craven eyes on
the antiquated being that you have preferred to my youth and confiding
innocence.”
She sat down, panting for breath, still pointing her finger at the
astonished old man; while her brother stood appalled, and old Mrs.
Halstead sat down in pale consternation.
“I do not understand this,” said old Mr. Gould, looking dreadfully
perplexed.
“I do,” whispered the nephew, laughing. “It wasn’t me, but another chap
she was after.”
Just then a sharp ring came to the door. Robert opened it, and there
stood his early friend, the newsboy, with a torn hat in his hand.
“Excuse me for coming when you’ve got company, old fellow; but I’m
awfully stuck—had my pockets picked. Look a-there! lost every cent I’ve
got in the theatre jest as that new tragedy chap was a-dying
beautifully! Broke up, if you can’t lend me something to start on in the
morning.”
The boy hauled out a very dirty pocket, and shook its emptiness in proof
of the reality.
“I haven’t got a dollar myself.”
“Jest so. Can’t be helped. I’m up a stump this time and no mistake.
Good-night, old fellow.”
“Stop, stop a minute; I’ll ask my grandfather. Come back, I say.”
The boy came back, and stood with one hand in the rifled pocket,
waiting.
“Grandfather! grandfather!” said Robert, breathless and eager, “I want
some of those funds of my quarter in advance. I’ve got a friend out
there in distress.”
The old man laughed, everybody laughed except Miss Eliza, who stopped
sobbing to listen, and Joseph, who said, “Oh, Robert! how can you! He
hasn’t been our grandfather more than an hour!”
Robert heeded nothing of this, but drew his grandfather to the door, and
pointed out his friend.
“He was good to me once, sir—good as gold. It was he who took me to your
counting-room, and recommended me.”
The old man was feeling in his pocket. He recognized the boy.
“How much will do, my boy?” he said, in high good humor.
“Say five—that’ll set me up tip-top.”
The old man handed him a bank-note.
“Twenty dollars, by golly!” cried the boy, putting his hat on with a
swing of the arm. “Old gentleman, you’re a trump, and he’s a right
bower! Good evening! I’m set up for life, I am!”
As Mr. Gould was turning to go in again, the mistress of the
tenement-house passed him.
“Every thing is right,” she said. “You wont want me.”
“But I want you,” said Mr. Gould. “No woman who has been the friend to
my wife that you have, must pass me without thanks. Tell me, what can I
do for you?”
“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing in particular; only if you would just
tell that agent of yourn not to be quite so hard about the rent of that
house. I shall have to give it up if he is.”
“What! do you live in a house of mine?”
“Yes, sir; and have these six years.”
“Where is it?”
She told him.
“What! that old tenement? Come to my office in the morning, and I’ll
give you a deed for it. Don’t forget.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Don’t forget. You know the place.”
“Never fear, sir; I wont let her forget,” said Robert, rejoicing in his
heart.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the old man, entering the parlor, “let
us see what the fairies have brought us for supper. Mr. Halstead, will
you take Mrs. Gould? Your mother and I are good friends now—I will take
her.”
“Miss Eliza, shall I have the honor?”
It was young Gould, prompted by Georgiana.
“No, no! I am faint—I am ill; pray leave me!”
“Oh, do come!” said Robert, who was everywhere that night. “Such birds!
Such partridges! Such chicken-salad!”
“Mr. Gould, to oblige you, I will make an effort,” said Miss Eliza.
“Sometimes a mouthful of chicken-salad brings me to when nothing else
will. Forgive me if I lean heavily.”
She did lean heavily; and beside that one mouthful of chicken-salad,
there was considerable devastation among the birds in her neighborhood,
to say nothing of the breast of a partridge that disappeared altogether.
Then came champagne in large glasses, which gave light to Miss Eliza’s
tearful eyes, color to cheeks that did not need it, and warmth to that
poor heart, just broken for the twentieth time. That is all I have to
say on the subject.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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The Rejected Wife, 1 50
The Heiress, 1 50
Fashion and Famine, 1 50
Mary Derwent, 1 50
The Old Homestead, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
FREDRIKA BREMER’S WORKS.
Father and Daughter, 1 50
The Four Sisters, 1 50
The Neighbors, 1 50
The Home, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Life in the Old World; or, Two Years in Switzerland and Italy,
by Miss Bremer, in two volumes, cloth, price, $4.00
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.
The Fortune Seeker, 1 50
Allworth Abbey, 1 50
The Bridal Eve, 1 50
The Fatal Marriage, 1 50
Haunted Homestead, 1 50
The Lost Heiress, 1 50
Lady of the Isle, 1 50
The Two Sisters, 1 50
The Three Beauties, 1 50
Vivia; Secret Power, 1 50
Love’s Labor Won, 1 50
Deserted Wife, 1 50
The Gipsy’s Prophecy, 1 50
The Mother-in-Law, 1 50
The Missing Bride, 1 50
Wife’s Victory, 1 50
Retribution, 1 50
India. Pearl of Pearl River, 1 50
Curse of Clifton, 1 50
Discarded Daughter, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Hickory Hall, 50
Broken Engagement, 25
MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS.
The Planter’s Northern Bride, 1 50
Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, 1 50
Robert Graham. The Sequel to “Linda,” 1 50
Courtship and Marriage, 1 50
Ernest Linwood, 1 50
Marcus Warland, 1 50
Rena; or, the Snow-bird, 1 50
The Lost Daughter, 1 50
Love after Marriage, 1 50
Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale, 1 50
The Banished Son, 1 50
Helen and Arthur, 1 50
Forsaken Daughter, 1 50
Planter’s Daughter, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS.
Flirtations in Fashionable Life, 1 50
The Lost Beauty, 1 50
The Rival Belles, 1 50
The Lost Love, 1 50
The Woman in Black, 1 50
The Pride of Life, 1 50
The Roman Traitor, 1 50
Saratoga. A Story of 1787, 1 50
The Queen’s Favorite, 1 50
Married at Last, 1 50
False Pride, 1 50
Out of the Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, 1 50
The Coquette; or, Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton, 1 50
A Woman’s Thoughts about Women, 1 50
Self-Love, 1 50
Cora Belmont, 1 50
The Devoted Bride, 1 50
The Initials. A Story of Modern Life. By Baroness Tautphœus, 1 50
Love and Duty, 1 50
Bohemians in London, 1 50
The Man of the World, 1 50
High Life in Washington, 1 50
The Jealous Husband, 1 50
Self-Sacrifice, 1 50
Belle of Washington, 1 50
Courtship and Matrimony, 1 50
Family Pride, 1 50
Family Secrets, 1 50
Rose Douglas, 1 50
The Lover’s Trials 1 50
Beautiful Widow, 1 50
Brother’s Secret, 1 50
The Matchmaker, 1 50
Love and Money, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.
The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray. In one duodecimo volume, full
gilt back. Price $1.00 in paper, or $1.50 in cloth.
MADAME GEORGE SAND’S WORKS.
Consuelo, 75
Countess of Rudolstadt, 75
First and True Love, 75
The Corsair, 50
Jealousy, paper, 1 50
Do. cloth, 2 00
Fanchon, the Cricket, paper, 1 00
Do. do. cloth, 1 50
Indiana, a Love Story, paper, 1 50
Do. cloth, 2 00
Consuelo and Rudolstadt, both in one volume, cloth, 2 00
WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS.
The Crossed Path, or Basil, 1 50
The Dead Secret. 12mo. 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
Hide and Seek, 75
After Dark, 75
The Dead Secret. 8vo 75
Above in cloth at $1.00 each.
The Queen’s Revenge, 75
Sight’s a-Foot; or, Travels Beyond Railways, 50
Mad Monkton, and other Stories, 50
The Stolen Mask, 25
The Yellow Mask, 25
Sister Rose, 25
MISS PARDOE’S WORKS.
The Jealous Wife, 50
Confessions of a Pretty Woman, 75
The Wife’s Trials, 75
Rival Beauties, 75
Romance of the Harem, 75
The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00.
The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.
The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe, one vol., paper $1.50, or cloth,
$2.00.
G. P. R. JAMES’S BEST BOOKS.
Lord Montague’s Page, 1 50
The Cavalier, 1 50
The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
The Man in Black, 75
Mary of Burgundy, 75
Arrah Neil, 75
Eva St. Clair, 50
BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.
Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be, 2 00
Petersons’ New Cook Book, 2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book, 2 00
Widdifield’s New Cook Book, 2 00
Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million, 2 00
Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking, 2 00
Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book, 2 00
Francatelli’s Celebrated Cook Book. The Modern Cook. With
Sixty-two illustrations, 600 large octavo pages, 5 00
CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS.
Charles O’Malley, 75
Harry Lorrequer, 75
Jack Hinton, 75
Tom Burke of Ours, 75
Knight of Gwynne, 75
Arthur O’Leary, 75
Con Cregan, 75
Davenport Dunn, 75
Above are in paper, or in cloth, price $2.00 a volume.
Horace Templeton, 75
Kate O’Donoghue, 75
☞ Books sent, postage paid, on receipt of the Retail Price, by T. B.
Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.
GET UP YOUR CLUBS FOR 1867!
THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD!
PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine in
the world. In 1867, it will have nearly 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12
double-sized mammoth colored steel fashion plates, and 900 wood
engravings—and all this for only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less
than magazines of its class. Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the
general advance of prices, it is THE ONLY MAGAZINE THAT HAS NOT RAISED
ITS PRICE. It is, therefore, emphatically,
THE MAGAZINE FOR THE TIMES.
In addition to the usual number of shorter stories, there will be given
in 1867, FOUR ORIGINAL COPY-RIGHTED NOVELETS, viz:
RUBY GRAY’S REVENGE, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
A LONG JOURNEY, by the Author of “Margaret Howth.”
CARRY’S COMING OUT, by Frank Lee Benedict.
A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND, by Ella Rodman.
In its Illustrations also, “Peterson” is unrivalled. The Publisher
challenges a comparison between its
SUPERB MEZZOTINTS & other STEEL ENGRAVINGS
And those in other Magazines, and one at least is given in each number.
DOUBLE-SIZE COLORED FASHION PLATES
Each number will contain a double-size Fashion plate, engraved on steel
and handsomely colored. These plates contain from four to six figures
each, and excel anything of the kind. In addition, wood-cuts of the
newest bonnets, hats, caps, head dresses, cloaks, jackets, ball dresses,
walking dresses, house dresses, &c., &c., will appear in each number.
Also, the greatest variety of children’s dresses. Also diagrams, by aid
of which a cloak, dress, or child’s costume can be cut out, without the
aid of a mantua-maker, so that each diagram in this way alone, _will
save a year’s subscription_. The Paris, London, Philadelphia and New
York fashions described, in full, each month.
_COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, &c._
The Work-Table Department of this Magazine IS WHOLLY UNRIVALED. Every
number contains a dozen or more patterns in every variety of Fancy work;
Crochet, Embroidery, Knitting, Bead-work, Shell-work, Hair-work, &c.,
&c., &c. SUPERB COLORED PATTERNS FOR SLIPPERS, PURSES, CHAIR SEATS, &c.,
given—each of which at a retail store would cost Fifty cents.
“OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.”
The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1867
our “COOK-BOOK” will be continued: EVERY ONE OF THESE RECEIPTS HAS BEEN
TESTED. This alone will be worth the price of “Peterson.” Other Receipts
for the Toilette, Sick-room, &c., &c., will be given.
NEW AND FASHIONABLE MUSIC in every number. Also, Hints on Horticulture,
Equestrianism, and all matters interesting to ladies.
TERMS—ALWAYS IN ADVANCE.
1 Copy, for one year. $2.00
3 Copies, for one year. 4.50
4 Copies, for one year. 6.00
5 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) 8.00
8 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) 12.00
14 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) 20.00
=A CHOICE OF PREMIUMS.= Where a person is entitled to an extra copy for
getting up a club, there will be sent, if preferred, instead of the
extra copy, a superb premium mezzotint for framing, (size 27 inches by
20,) “WASHINGTON PARTING FROM HIS GENERALS,” or a LADY’S ILLUSTRATED
ALBUM, handsomely bound and gilt, or either of the famous “BUNYAN
MEZZOTINTS,” the same size as the “WASHINGTON.” _Always state whether an
extra copy or one of these other premiums is preferred_: and notice that
for Clubs of three or four, no premiums are given. IN REMITTING, get a
post-office order, or a draft on Philadelphia or New York: if neither of
these can be had, send greenbacks or bank notes.
_Address, post-paid_,
CHARLES J. PETERSON,
No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
☞ Specimens sent to those wishing to get up clubs.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed bold or blackletter font in =equals=.