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life $ eon] in HlewjJetWtee H§fttoflfet.
JOHN JL SEALS, Editor and Proprietor.
Mates’ Department
Mary E. Bryan, Editress.
BONNER S AMERICAN POETS.
Mr. Bonner, the well known and enterprising
Editor of the Ledger , promises an elegant volume,
with the above title as a sequel to Dana’s re
cently published work—the “ Household Book of
Poetry.”
“ The American Poets” will contain the best
productions of authors, whose merits Mr. Dana
has entirely overlooked, or but slightly noticed,
in his collections of poems ; and Mr. Bonner’s
well known literary taste and fine appreciation
of true genius is sufficient guarantee for the su
periority of the work he is engaged in compil
ing-
We see, by his mention of Simms, of Carolina,
Albert Pike, of Arkansas, and others, that Mr.
Bonner iutends the South shall be fairly repre
sented in his forthcoming book. Indeed, it
would be the acme of ingratitude, if he were un
just to the South, that has so liberally patronized
his admirable journal. We hope he will not
overlook Mrs. French, and several others of less
note, who have written poems worthy of being
preserved in the elegant volume of 11 American
Poets,” that will soon be adorning the drawing
rooms of Mr. Bonner’s numerous admirers.
< *
MONTHLIES.
Tiie March number of the Eclectic Magazine—
one of the most excellent of our American month
lies—has, in addition to its usual admirable mo
saic of foreign literature, two superb engravings,
alone, worth the subscription pi ice of the maga
zine. The first of these plates contain the por
traits of the renowned Empress, Maria Theresa,
and her Prime Minister, Kaunitz. The compan
ion plate is an elegantly engraved portrait of Eu
genie, Empress of the French, in her magnificent
ball costume, with the crown on her stately brow,
a triple necklace of diamonds encircling her beau
tiful neck, and her arms clasped round with the
■ame splendid jewels. The contrast between the
tpirituelle Eugenie and the firm, strong, shrewd
countenance of the Austrian Empress, is pecu
liarly marked.
Godey's Lady's Book for March is also upon
our Tuble, charming as usual; elegant, sparkling
and sprightly as a belle at her birth-night ball.
With its interesting reading matter, its choice
engravings and richly colored fashion-plates, it
is indeed like a jeweled music box, at once en
tertaining and beautiful. The author of the “ Tal
low Family” still continues her amusing story of
“Miss Slimmen’s Window,” and Mrs. Haven de
lights her readers with another of her charming
and instructive sketches, entitled “Content-”
“ Aunt Sophie” pays, also, another of her pleas
ant visits.
> Not in the least inferior to Godey, in sterling
attractions, is that excelsior monthly— Arthur's
Home Magazine.
The chaste and elegant taste displayed by Ar
thur and his gifted associate, Miss Townsend, in
‘he conduct of their magazine, is its peculiar
rharm. The Children’s Department, under the
charge of Miss Townsend, is a beautiful feature,
and her delightful moral stories for the “ Little
Folks” may be read with pleasure and profit by
children of a larger growth. *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
hr Ladies’ Manual of Fancy Work, a complete
instructor in every variety of Ornamental Nee
dle Work, by Mrs. Pullan, author of the Man
ual of the Wardrobe, Maternal Counsels, etc.
New York. Dick cf- Fitzgerald, Publishers.
This is a perfect bijou of a book, combining the
useful and the beautiful in the most charming
manner, with three hundred fine engravings and
eight pattern plates, exquisitely colored and prin
ted on tinted paper.
It contains plain and full instructions for doing
all kinds of fancy work, from the simplest crochet
to the most elaborate imitations of Honiton, Va
lencennes and point lace. It is an elegant addi
tion to a lady’s work-table, and we know of no
prettier or more appropriate gift for wife, sister
or cousin than this Manual of Fancy Work.
To the affluent, it will commend itself as furnish
ing pleasant occupation for many an idle hour
that would else be spent in listless ennui, while
to that numerous class of women who depend
►upon their own industry for subsistence, it will
afford opportunities for turning their skill, taste
and ingenuity to the best pecuniary account.
In brief, the boudior of no lady in the land is
complete without this cheap, yet invaluable, lex
icon of fancy needle-work. It is issued in the
best style of Dick & Fitzgerald, at the low price
ofsl 25; for sale at J. J. Richards & Co’s book
store on Whitehall Street, Atlanta, Ga.
Life of John H. W. Hawkins, compiled by his son,
Rev. William Hawkins. A. M. Published by
Jewett <s• Cos. Boston, Mass.
This excellent volume has the advantage of be
ing issued, while the virtues, talents and useful
ness of the well known subject of the memoir are
,yet fresh in the minds of the people, for it was
only on last August that this zealous and popular
advocate of temperance was called from the field
of his labors, in which he had toiled, with unti
ring assiduity, for nearly twenty years.
He died “at his post,” refusing to yield until
the last moment, but then giving himself into the
hands of “Him who doeth all things well,” with
She serene resignation befitting one whose life
had exemplified the beauty and perfection of Re
ligion.
When we say that John Hawkins was one of
his country’s noblest benefactors, we but echo the
sentiments of hundreds, reclaimed, through his
instrumentality, from the depths of drunkenness
and degradation, to usefulness and happiness.
Unlike White, Hewlett and other contempora
neous lecturers, whose forte consists in wit and
ridicule, the secret of Hawkins’ power over the
minds of his auditors was his kindly sympathy
for the deluded victims of intemperance, the in
tense, earnest feeling that gave such a charm to
his words and his delivery. He was extensive
ly known not only through his lectures, but
through the medium of the press, where, with
his able pen, he labored successfully in the cause
to which he had devoted his time and talents.
The biography is well written, and contains
. many interesting letters and pleasing incidents
in the domestic life of the celebrated lecturer.
The volume before us is handsomely printed and
neatly bound in muslin. *
A QUEER VALENTINE.
* Cupid’s Carnival —the day on which birds do
their mating, and featherless bipeds their court
ing and joking—has gone by and scattered its
* souvenirs all over the land, from Main to Califor
nia. E very where, where there is bashful love
blushful beauty, youth and mischievous waggery,
has this time-honored festival been commem
orated.
The silver filagree baskets of city drawing
rooms are filled with dainty, perfumed billits, or
namented with Cupid’s usual court of arms—
rose wreaths, forget-me-nots, hearts, darts, etc.
while on the pine table of the log cottage, where
and Mollies of the country sing to
their busy wheels, lie three-cornered billet doux
on blue foolscap paper, where Jonathan has
artistically symbolized his love, by drawing with
a red lead pencil an enormous and very beefy
looking heart, with something resembling a
carving knife sticking through the centre, and
beneath this appropriate emblem, the touching
lines,
My heart is broke, and you have done it,
By them little eye* you carry under your bonnet;
And if you don’t mend it by loving me straight,
I’ll die of the trouble, and you’ll be too late.
Bushels of these sentimental missals—some
of them real gems of art in their exquisite color
ing and design—were doubtless oflered on the
shrine of Eros last Valentine’s day.
Ah me! how it uplifts the hands and elongates,
the visages of philanthropists to contemplate such
a waste of “ funds,” that might have been inves
ted in charity schools, for the torment of young
sters who are now realizing the truth of the pro
verb, that “ ignorance is bliss.”
“ But of what use are such trumperies, I should
like to know,” sneeringly growls Mr. Soloman
Serious, who is a crusty old bachelor, and has
not received a valentine. “Better send a turnip,
or a cabbage, or a tract, or something that’s got
some sense in it. What good do such fripperies
as these do the world?”
Softly, uncle Soloman : Valentines are not to
be despised. Their use is much the same as that
of roses, lillies, rainbows and other beautiful
things, which, in your dollar and cents view, are
of no value whatever. They give pleasure to
human hearts—to the hearts of the young, whom
we all should love to see made innocently happy.
They send little thrills of delight to bosoms beat
ing beneath laced bodices, and plant blush-roses
in the dimples of youthful cheeks. Every thing
that tends to promote the pure happiness of our
fellow-creatures is of use, even though the pleas
ure it brings is transitory as a gleam of April
sunshine.
You were young, yourself, once —don’t wince,
uncle Soloman—and you have not forgotten the
blissful evening, when you sat by the smoulder
ing fire, dreaming sweet dreams over the valen
tine of pretty Nellie Carlton—Nellie Carlton, who
loved you, and whom, because she was poor, you
were too selfish to marry, though her love would
have been worth more to you than all the gold
you can ever glean from your musty law books.
“ Oh! what, without love, were youth ?”
Then, do not “snub” your office boy, because
of his valentine, uncle Soloman, or he will hint
“ sour grapes” to you, as do the pouting girls in
the brown school-house to their teacher, Miss
Prudence Prim, who has taken all their valen
tines and locked them in her desk, “ out of spite,”
because she has received none herself.
But we have entirely forgotten “ the queer val
entine” we were going to tell you about. More
than one pretty trifle of the orthodox kind found
its way to our table last week, with the customary
devices of doves and Cupids, which might have
been so many ducks and monkeys, for all the
difference it would have made to one so little
personally interested in le grande passions as our
selves ; but the odd valentine we referred to, was
written upon common letter paper, in a round,
manly hand, and directed, through us, to all the
lady readers of the Crusader. Although its lan
guage is sometimes more forcible than elegant—
and it certainly contains more truth than poetry
—yet, for the sake of its excellent sentiments, so
strongly expressed that they cannot fail of being
impressive, we will lay it before you as it is. If
it will induce one of our fair sisters to abandon a
practice so deleterious to health, beauty and in
tellect as snuff-taking, it will afford us more sin
cere gratification than a wheel-barrow full of
sentimental valentines could have given:
VALENTINE —SNUFF-DIPPING.
Mrs. Bryan : This is Valentine’s day, and, as
I am at leisure, I wish, by your permission, to
give your fair readers a valentine, through the
columns of your department. Permit me, then,
to pen a few thoughts on the practice of using
snuff, and if you find any thing worthy of note,
you may send it forth to your numerous readers;
if not, throw it aside, or conceal it in your sanc
tum.
Young ladies: The tendency to this filthy
practice of dipping, is acquired by a frequent
repetition of the use of it, and not because the
practitioner has any original taste or natural de
■ire to inhale the disgusting fumes, or to drink
down the filthy essence of the weed. No one
has a natural desire for it. Men and women
have within them a desire to attain to a high de
gree of purity. This desire and effort to attain
to this elevation is right, honorable and natural;
and then, we find no place in the original taste
of mankind for such low and groveling gratifica
tions. Young ladies, the using snuff excites
aversion, and is repugnant to all the finer feelings
implanted in you by your Creator. It is offen
sive to the better dictates of your noble minds.
It is disgusting, beyond endurance. Indulging
freely in alcoholic drinks by one of your sex, is
the only other habit that I can conceive of to be
more offensive to humanity.
Ladies, if you would have your minds free to
think, so as to acquire that knowledge which will
enable you to rise high in the scale of intellect
and be intellectually what you are capable of be
ing, why, never dip into a bottle of Maccaboy
again. A woman with a filthy stick staining her
lips, leaving her teeth yellow and polluting her
breath 1 Who will not raise their voice against
it? It is sickening beyond the power of words
to express, or thoughts almost to conceive.
Young ladies, if you love to steal away at pen
sive evening as earth mantles itself with its own
shade, and lift’ your heart to Heaven in grateful
prayer to God; if you love to “ commune with
your own heart upon your bed and be still;” if
you love to have pleasant and sweet thoughts to
cheer you ; if you wish for loving smiles to linger
near you in the night, or merry voices in the day;
if you desire to escape sleepless nights, sick head
ache and nervous irritability; if you hate to be
subjected to hysterical spasms; if you depricate
the idea of contending through life with hypo
condria, blue-devils and hobgoblins, why, throw
the black mop away and never try another
bottle of the abominable and revolting stuff.
Better give your money to bear the word of life
to sosse benighted land ; to aid those suffering
around you, for the necessaries of life; to assist
in promoting the cause of education, and the dis
semination of good and pure knowledge. This
would be laying up treasure in Heaven, instead
of implanting disease in the system.
Young ladies, if you wish to wither your pros
pects through life and make bitter the cup from
which you must drink, why, just “ dip,” and then
marry yourself to a drunken husband, and I as
sure you that your cup of woe is full. Shun both
as you would a serpent. Your
Feb. 14, 1859. VALENTINE.
Now, if the writer of the above intended his
valentine for our personal benefit, he has “wast
ed his sweetness on the desert air ;’’ for—though
custom permits ladies to fib about such matters
—we assure him that our experience of snuff
using extends no farther than a single dip, taken
at that ridiculous age when girls are anxious to
appear womanly. We have a feeling remem
brance of the consequences of that dip ; of the
laughter at our expense and our mental resolve
—never since broken—to “ touch not, taste not,
handle not the unclean thing.”
But “Valentine” has suggested to us a happy
idea, for which we are greatly obliged to him.
He intimates that, as the Crusader is an advocate
of Temperance, and as Alcohol has a zealous
adversary in Mr. Seals, we should erect our stan
dard against Tobacco, and raise our voice in
favor of total abstinence in respect to that weed
unclean —especially its modification of snuff, that
is playing such haves with the complexions, as
FOR THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARY*EXCELLENCE .
well as the lungs and livers of our Southern
ladies.
We thank “Valentine” for his timely sugges
tion, and shall act upon it without fail. Mr.
Seals flies to his Temperance theme whenever he
is short of material for editorials, and we intend
to do the same in regard to snuff. We know
ever so many fine phrases that will” bring down
the house” in theatrical parlance, and we don’t
mean to hide our light under a bushel.
Be it remembered, then, that our “ voice is for
war” against Tobacco in general, and snuff in
particular, and that we have pitted our “ gray
goose quill” against all the snuff brushes in the
land. The battle is not always to the strongest.
But seriously, this evil of snuff-using is a great
and extended one, and calls for more eloquence
than we can command, to inveigh against it.
The practice is a hundred times more general than
is believed, or even suspected, and if the foe is
more insiduous and less swift than Alcohol, it is
hardly less destructive.
We dare not tell you how many among our
lady acquaintances are secretly slaves to this
pernicious habit. . We know daughters, whose
snuff bottles are concealed in their rooms, where
they use the contents constantly, without the
knowledge even of their parents. We have seen,
at boarding schools, girls go into hysterics when
deprived for a day or two of their snuff, and bor
row tobacco from the servants, as a substitute, un
til they could obtain their usual stimulant of
Maccaboy; and we are well acquainted with
three sisters—beautiful young girls, were it not
for the sallow hue tarnishing their complexions
—who are at present under medical treatment
for derangement of the nervous system * and di
gestive organs, arising from their constant use of
snuff. Their physician has assured them that
this was the cause of the disease, thus blighting
their young lives, and that medicine must be in
vain as long as the practice was continued, and
still, they cling to their snuff bottles as persist
ently as the toper to his demijohn. And this
when they know that this vile poison nourishes
the worm of disease at the root of life, silently,
slowly, but surely destroying it ere its prime ; for
aside from the disgusting filthiness of this habit,
the constant drain of the salivary glands, pro
duced by frequentspitting and the narcotic poison
of the weed itself, throw the delicately balanced
system out of order, and bring a train of dis
eases to render life insupportably burdensome.
Is it not passing strange, that women will thus
sacrifice their health and beauty to a disgusting
habit, that—but hold! we have not room just
now to give our afflatus way, and so must close
the floodgates of our eloquence. Another time,
we will hunt up our dictionary and throw down
the gauntlet to snuff in an Editorial Philippic that
will cast Mr. Seals’ booming Temperance leader
•f last week completely in the shade. *
MY MISSING FLOWER.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
The day has glided past us, like a bark—
A fairy bark on an enchanted sea,
And now its gold and crimson pennon fades
In the lar West, and the pale stars look forth
To tell us that the day has sailed away
Into the mighty ocean of the Past,
And shall return no more.
How fair it was:
With all June’s balminess in its soft breath,
And April’s liquid azure in its skies—
Soft as the eyes oi cradled babies that lie
And smile through transient tears. The Earth
has waked
From its long winter dream, and beckons now
For Spring to come and crown its sun-kissed brow
With rosy chaplets. She will come, I know;
Her herald, the swift swallow, has proclaimed
That she but lingers in the tropic’s bowers
To weave a richer garland for her brow,
And ere long she will braid the leafless vines
With gem-like flowers, and write her magic name,
In golden daises, ou the emerald turf,
And yonder skeleton oak shall gaily toss
Its green and fragrant tresses in the breeze,
And feathered misers, in the clustered leaves,
Will hide their jewel baskets brimmed with pearls,
Each round, white pearl filled with a little heart
That shall awake to lile, to joy and song,
When April sheds her last, sweet, childish tears
On May’s maturer bosom.
’Twas a day
To call up olden memories, for the spell
Os its mild loveliness soothed the sick soul
To blissful dreams, and Fancy wandered back
To childhood’s fairy land, and strung again
Bright memories on the silken thread of thought,
As erst in youth, beneath the maple’s shade,
We strung Forget-me-nots on silvery grass—
Each sound that—like a pebble softly dropped
Into a full and tranquil lake—has broke
Upon the dreamy quiet of this day—
The chanticleer’s shrill crowing, the light laugh
Os gleeful childhood and the western wind
Playing a summer tune among the pines,
Has filled my soul with sadness, vague and sweet,
Like that, which steals across the heart that lists
To faint, far music at the midnight hour.
Is it because Spring’s first and halcyon days
Were childhood’s carnival, that they thus wake
Such dreams and memories ?
The young Spring marks
Her earliest footsteps in the violets, sweet
As her own nectared lip, and I, to-day,
Have marvelled if this balmy breeze has found
Any wild violets in its wanderings
By stream and field, hill-side ana sheltered glen.
Their breath has mingled strangely with my
dreams,
And their blue eyes have haunted me all the day,
Minding me of this time one year ago,
And of the tiny hand that brought wild flowers
And laid them on my open page and claimed,
As the reward, a kiss pressed on the lips
Os dewy crimson that were laised to mine,
While the small feet stood tip-toe, and the curls
Were thrown back from the baby-brow, and
bright
Glowed the young cheek, fresh from the kisses
sweet,
Os the Spring breezes.
Ah ! my little boy,
The Spring shall come with all her wealth of
flowers,
Os singing birds, sunshine and whispering leaves,
And the blue eyes of violets, ’neath the sky,
Shall open everywhere, but no dear hand,
Dimpled and sou as a half-budded flower.
Shall gather Spring’s first offerings from the
fields,
And lay them on the page o’er which I dream;
No wondering eyes shall shame my falling tears ;
No red lips kiss them from my burning cheek.
My little one, I dream, in the long night,
That thy small fingers on my bosom Tie,
Soothing as was their wont, my throbbing heart;
l stretch my arms to clasp thee, and I wake
To know that thou art far away, and weep
In utter loneliness, longing, with all
A mother’s passionate Tove, for the low voice,
In scarce articulate murmurs, to repeat
My name and say some tender, broken words,
Dying away, as sleep asserts her reign,
And lays her finger on the parted lips.
Ah! Spring may pour her vernal treasures forth
Upon the sunny hilts, and fill the trees
With warbling birds; but mine sings far away—
I may not hear his song.
Flower of my life,
Sole blossom of its blighted Spring—my boy
Whose sunny head a mother’s gentle hand
Laid on my bosom, while I was almost
A child myself in years, may this young Spring,
Whose coming quickens now the pulse of Earth,
Kiss no fair roses into life, whose bloom
Shall vie with those that open on thy lips,
And flush thy dimpled cheeks; may thy pure
eyes
Know but such gentle tears as violets weep,
And when each night, thou kneelest, at this
bleet hour,
Beside my mother’s knee, whom thou call’sttAt'ne,
May thy own absent “Mary’s” name be breathed
In thy pure orisons, and when sleep shuts
Thy innocent eyes, may the kind spirit of dreams
Bring some swaet memory of her, who first
Cradled thy head upon her beating breast.
Atlanta, Greorgia, February 25, 1859.
For the Crusader.
RANDOM THOUGHTS.
Life, life, how fluctuating—how uncertain thou
art! Yesterday methought the world was so
beautiful and bright, every one kind and loving—
the sun looked so cheerful— nature so smiling.
To-night, it is so gloomy; the day has been
bright externally, but faces have not been sun
lighted with good will; hearts have seemed es
tranged, and sadness has enveloped me like a
shroud. Still, we live on and on, day after day,
hopes, fears, gloom and sunlight alternating,
creatures of necessity, blind, yet impelled on
ward by a resistless, mysterious impetus. We
may not turn aside when the track of life be
comes dusty and toilsome. So it seems to me
now, and all is hollow. Hearts and homes, loved
faces and familiar places soon must pass away.
Tho earth, itself, must vanish, for what is it but
a speck in the illimitable ocean of God’s universe,
and what am I but a mite upon its unnoticed sur
face f And yet, this earth is all the world to us.
We cling to it because we a part of it. In
spite of her insignificance she is our mother.
We were first cradled in her we shall
at last rest in her embrace. Oh, God, how can
those who deny our immortality account for these
resistless cravings for something higher, holier
and more lasting than this poor world affords —
something from above, to which we can cling
when we feel our supports sliding from beneath
us here! Why do we shudder and shrink back,
even in our gloomiest hours, if the dark shadow
of a yawning grave looms up before us ?
If we are entirely of the earth, earthy, why do
we dread being resolved into our elements again ?
Atlanta, Ga. MYRA.
[For the Crusader.]
A DOMESTIC SKETCH.
BY L. L.
The sun was sinking in great splendor in the
western horizon one eve the last of September of
the year of 183. Its last beams were dancing on
the roof of a farmer’s cottage, which was built in
the true style of the olden time, when comfort
was the principal object of the builder. On
either side of the door were quaintly-shaped
flower-beds, rejoicing in an abundance of pinks,
roses and other old-fashioned flowers. The de
licious evening air swayed lightly the many-hued
leaves of the fragrant flowers, before it came
through the open window to cool tlie flushed
brow of the farmer’s busy wife. Oh, what a
peaceful home ! Every thing seemed happy and
at peace with all the world. Even the large, gray
cat, basking in the sunshine on the door-sill,
seemed to forget that there was another mouse
for her to catch. Yet, that little woman within,
although surrounded by many of the comforts,
and some of the luxuries of life, did not have as
smooth a brow as she had in her bridal year.
And why ? She had a way of “ looking on the
dark side of the picture.” But what picture
could have a dark side this bright evening?
Well, let’s be guilty, for once, of listening, while
she does not dream of our presence.
“ Oh, dear, when am I ever to get through with
my fall and winter work! There are husband’s
and the children’s last winter clothes to look over,
for mending and altering. Then that huge bas
ket of socks need darning. And oh 1 my patience,
there are my three quilts ruining for want of quilt
ing. I must get that ‘Lone Star of Texas’ in the
frames before long. But what an undertaking
for one woman ! It always makes me think of
one person in a large cotton field and it as white
as snow. I know Henry is always opposed to
quilting parties, but I do not know what to do, I
am sure. So I must ask about a dozen ladies
over next Wednesday to assist me.”
Feeling somewhat relieved by this decision,
the little woman put up her work-basket, and
gave out supper to her cook, Martha, then calling
her two children from the chicken house, where
they were shelling corn, for a walk down to the
gushing spring, and where they were soon joined
by Mr. Laurence, (the farmer,) who was return
ing from his farm labor. After supper, Mrs. L.
with some hesitation, approached the subject of
the quilt, and after some opposition, her husband
said:
“Well, Mittie, I think, if you are so hurried
with your work, you had better hi-e it out, or the
quilt.”
But no, she thought “ All would go along
smoothly enough, and she would save something
by the plan, as well as enjoy the company of her
friends.”
“Well,” said Mr. L. “I hope you will not re
gret your plan; there is no use in opposing it, for,
womanlike, you will have your own way.”
The day before the great event, Mr. L. and bis
two boys took refuge in the most distant part of
his farm, out of reach—as he laughingly told her
—of the broomstick and rolling pin. Oh 1 what
beating, sweeping and dusting went on all the
forenoon; then such baking, frying and stewing
all the afternoon.
Mittie and Martha were very tired, they said,
at supper. Henry said nothing, but his wife
detected a shy smile around his mouth, and
said, quickly, “ but a good night’s rest will bring
me straight again.” Poor woman 1 she “reck
oned without her host;” for her babe, perfectly
indifferent about quilts, was very fretful most of
the night. Sometimes she would doze off, but
distressing visions of burnt cake, raw turkey and
falling frames kept floating through her brain;
but with the earliest dawn of morning, before the
stars had grown pale, the farmer’s wife was astir,
busily preparing the breakfast table, feeling
very unwell, but knowing, of all days, this was
the one she would have to exert herself, and not
even have the sympathy of her husband. So,
swallowing a cup of hot coffee, she began her
household duties. She prepared a custard, got
out preserves, jellies and pickels, feeling some
what proud of her skill in the mystic arts of
housekeeping. Then she went to give the last
finishing touches to her parlor and quilti&g room;
she gathered flowers for the vases and tables.
Seeing that every thing was in a state of serene
readiness, she arranged her own simple, yet
graceful attire, and dressed her children very
neatly.
She then began to quilt a little—“ Just for a
sample, Henry,” she said. “I do not want any
kind of work on this quilt, as I am going to give
it to my little Mary Eliza, when she sets up house
keeping.” Oh 1 how natural for women to build
air-castles for their girls before the little inno
cents can-walk.
“Yes, my dear,” replied her husband; “but
someone has come.” Mrs. L. went out to wel
come her visitor, (who was an oldi maid.)
“ Good morning, Miss Lawrence,” she said, in
a shrill voice; “ how do you do ?”
Mrs. L. invited her in, and was giving some
directions to the boy, when Miss McGaxty scream
ed out, “ Boy, see that you give that animai
plenty to eat and drink, for you see,” turning to
Mrs. L. “ I came in a mighty hurry this morning
to do a day’s work for ye.”
“ Thank you,” said Mrs. L.; “ Henry will have
your horse fed; now come in and rest awhile.”
Miss McCarter was a lady of no particular age,
neither could she lay any cluim to beauty, but
sbehad a favorite saying to comfort herself, “Harn-
some is as harnsome does.” By this time many
others had arrived, some of whom will be men
tioned hereafter.
Mrs. Martin, with her six crying, badly man
aged children, were among the number. Mrs. L
gave a great sigh when she saw and heard them,
for she knew, by past sad experience, that not a
flower or vegetable would be in statu quo by
evening, to say nothing of the damage done to
snow-white table cloths and towels. Her hus
band heard her, and said,
“ No trouble, Mittie, eh ?”
Miss Stephens and Dr. Goodwin were the last
to arrive. The merchant’s and lawyer’s wives, from
the village, thought theffiselves a little better than
any one else, and consequently, held their heads
quite high, having very little to say to the farm-’
ers’ wives. By nine Miss McCarty said
“ As how she thought they ought to he at work,
or they would not earn their dinner.” All began
to get needles, thread and thimbles really for use,
talking all the time as fast as their woman
tongues would let them. It would have puzzled
any one to point out the hearers. Mr. L. said
it would take two Philadelphia Lawyers to
understand them sometimes, and I am sure I can
not begin to write all that was said and done,
but must give a few for a sample, and then leave
you to imagine the rest. Mrs. Thomas, after
peering over her spectacles a long time, said:
“ Mrs. L. why did you not have yaller in the
place of red?” Mrs. L, smiled and said she did
not admire yellow a great deal for quilts. Misj
Stephens asked Dr. Goodwin which color he
liked best ?
“ Well, really, I do not know, but I know I like
blue eyes.” (Hers were deep blue.) Miss S.
simpered and tried to blush, while Miss McCarty
whispered to one near her, “ The little thing is al
ways trying to get some body to flatter her.”
Mrs. L. saw and heard all, and, fearful that
there would be hard words, changed the subject
by asking Mrs. Dickson about her poultry.
“Well, I have had mighty bad luck, I can tell
ye. I did have a pretty chance of young ones,
but the hawk and varmints have left me with
none, almost.” Someone asked Mrs. Martin of
her garden.
“Only a toleble one this year; the worum
and birds have flustrated me a heap, but if you
want to make any pickles, just come over, for I
have the best cowcumber wines as you ever laid
eyes on. I got mighty hurt about them same
cowcumbers ; for you see, when my son’s little
boy’s funeral was preached, I was almost laid up
sick and had to stay at borne, and some smart
folks said I staid home to take kere of them cow
cumber wines, and I never thought of such a
thing.” While this speech was going on, the
upper ten seemed very much pleased at some
thing. Miss Stephens then said to Miss McCarty,
“I heard you were sick with the rheumatism;
perhaps the Doctor here can give you an infalli
ble remedy.” I cannot describe the scene which
ensued.
“What!” exclaimed the confused old maid, “ I
have the rheumatics? It is not true, and I thank
you, I do not need any Doctor stuff; he can keep
it for such delicate young ladies as yourself.”
Fortunately, by this time dinner was announced,
and Mrs. L. invited all to the well loaded table.
There was no chance for conversation and hardly
for thanks, amid the screams of Mrs. Martin’s
half doxen, who insisted on eating with the “big
folks,” when there was no room. Some felt at
home, and enjoyed the dinner very much. The
two village ladies tried to attract as much atten
tion as possible by spreading their handkerchiefs
over their silks for napkins, and eating rice with
a fork. One old lady, who had never seen u the
quality” before, sat with open mouth and eyes,
completely “ dunfoundered,” as they afterwards
said.
Well, the dinner, like every thing else, came to
an end. Then the aristocracy said “ they felt
quite languid, and would be compelled to take
their accustomed siesta.” Mrs. Martin and Mrs.
Dickson (simple souls) wondered between them
what disease they had, and what was it they
would have to take for it; “some new kind of a
yarb, you may be sure, neighbor.” The com
pany, of course, tried to follow the fashionables,
and walked here and there; some said they were
compelled to go home. Mrs. Lawrence, by this
time, began to see that the quilting of the “Lone
Star of Texas” progressed very slowly, and was
likely to stop altogether. She, herself, in two
days,, could have performed all that was accom
plished by the twelve. After all had left, as they
did by two, her husband teased her a good deal
about getting her work so cheaply. “ For,” said
he, “ it has only cost you a good dinner and some
hard work, to say nothing of your aching head,
and myself the corn and fodder for a dozen horses,
and a day’s work out of the farm. I think, Mit
tie, you will have to have a dozen dinners before
Mary’s quilt is ready for use.” His wife could
say nothing, but thought all the more. But what
was- worse than all, some of her friends felt them
selves slighted by not receiving an invitation,
and cut her acquaintance.
VEven those who were invited criticised every
thing, and Miss McCarty and Miss Stephens have
been sworn enemies ever since the rheumatic
question. The upper-ten declared they never
wished to be in such countrifield people’s com
pany again. Mrs. Lawrence went to rest that
night with her head almost bursting, and thought
she had paid dear for her quilting.
PAUL DESMOND,
A STORY OF SOUTHERN LirK.
BT MART K. BRTAK.
(Continued from lust treek.)
When Petranello had recovered sufficient
strength and composure, I let him recount to me
all that had happened since I saw him last.
A sad history it was, too, though not an un
common one.
Shortly after my departure, he lost his kind
old father—the only parent he had ever known,
and immediately after his death, some
gage, or prior claim—Petranello could not rightly
tell which, for he knew nothing of such matters
—swept away the small patrimony, the dear old
homestead and the little adjoining field, and Pe
tranello was left homeless and with nothing to
depend upon for a subsistence except his art—
that of a painter. He tried his fortune succes
sively in Louisville, Mobile and New Orleans, but
could obtain no employment. He was too proud
to fawn and cringe for patronage, and so he toiled
on —painting pictures, he could get no body to
buy—even trying to sell fans that he had orna
mented with ingenious designs, worthy of being
transferred to canvass. In New Orleans he ob
tained employment with a card-engraver for a
small pittance, but his employer failed, owing
him nearly all the paltry salary for which he had
been engaged. His means were now entirely ex
hausted, and he could find nothing to do, having
no friends or even acquaintances in the city.
His slight, delicate physique operated against him
when he would have offered himself for any kind
of manual labor, and, indeed, he was incapable
of physical exertion—grief and anxiety having
made such inroads upon a naturally frail consti
tution.
New Series, Yolnme IY. —Old Series, Volume XIV. No. 9
“I do not know what I should have been re
duced to, Paul,” he said, “had it not been for a
lady—the most beautiful of her sex—an angel, I
could have imagined her, from the inexpressible
grace and sweetness of her manner. I painted
her portrait and she paid me three times its price,
with a rare delicacy, placing the banknote in my
hand after she had entered her carriage, and im
mediately driving away to prevent me from as
certaining its value and offering to return it, as I
should have done. If I had been able, I would
not have parted with the picture for a hundred
times the sum, for it would have served me for
a model of beauty.”
“Notin love, my Petranello?” I said, smiling
at this return of his old enthusiasm.
“In love!” he] repeated, with a smile of in
tense bitterness. “ What have Ito do with love?
It is like talking of blue skies and sunny fields
to the hopelessly blind. The poor, Paul, have
no right to love. I have learned that toil and
shame and humiliation are all they may dare lay
claim to.”
“You must have suffered much, indeed, my
poor boy, to have so embittered your feelings;
but time, I trust, will teach you a brighter phil
osophy. You should have written to me and
told me of your reverses; you never answered
my letters, Petranello.”
“ You forget, Paul, that I left the State and
did not receive them. But why should I have
disturbed you with my misfortunes when I knew
you were yourself struggling against fortune ?
Your own purse was none too heavily burdened)
Paul.”
“ Nevertheless, it shall be shared in common
with my best friend. From this day we will be
as brothers, Petranello. You shall let me pro
vide for you until you are fully able to do so for
yourself.”
“ But, Paul—”
“Now I see the 1 no’ on your lips, but it shall
not be spoken. We must not be too proud and
independent in this world ; and besides, it will
be really conferring a great favor upon me. It
will give me a brother’s privilege, and I need to
have someone else to provide for, as a fresh stim
ulant to exertion. I want someone to care for;
someone to be dependant upon me. I always
had strong paternal instincts, I think, and I do
feel so alone in the world. You must not refuse
me, petranello.”
“Let it be so, then, dear Paul,” he said, with
one of his old, bright, trusting looks that told of
his gratitude and affection more eloquently than
words could hare done.
chapter v.
The night was a beailtiful one, with the fullest
and softest of harvest moons in the sky, and the
balminess of summer in the air, that scarcely
stirred the silken plumes of the pines. The blen
ded odors of the night jasmine and late tuberose
greeted me as I swung wide the gate of Ailing
ham Place and stood upon the same pot where
I had last looked on the sweet face of Myra and
held her hand in a parting, that now seemed des
tined to be an eternal one.
Gay voices, mingled with laughter, reached
me, and I saw several figures moving to and fro
in the long colonnade. Mrs. Allingham, as usual,
had visitors, who had come out to enjoy the
moonlight and fragrant air in the vine-hung
piazza. I ascended the steps just as a couple of
absorbed promenaders were passing, and recog
nized Nettie Griswold in the slight figure and
blonde ringlets of the lady, leaning on the arm
of Captain Mayfield She knew me also—which
was more than I had expected from the time that
had elapsed since our brief acquaintance—and
welcomed me with the childlike vivacity I had
admired at our first meeting.
She slipped her hand from the arm of her com
panion, and he sauntered away, leaving us alone.
We stood talking awhile, and thea walked to the
upper end of the piazza, where Mrs. Allingham
was sitting, half in the shadow of the vines.
Her face was turned from us, as she sat leaning
against the balustrade, her head supported by
an arm whose whiteness outshone the jeweled
bracelet that encircled it. She was conversing
with a gentleman who stood by her, but upon
hearing Nettie’s voice, she turned quickly towards
us.
“Why, Captain!” she began, and then recog
nizing me, she uttered a hurried exclamation,
half arose from her seat, and then sank back into
it again.
“ What consummate acting!” I thought. “She
has practiced deception so long that it has beeome
almost natural to her.”
The next moment she arose and extended her
band, smiling at her transitory embarrassment,
and declaring that a surprise always affected hei
in that manner. She was, as Seymour had af
fimed, more lovely than ever. The dark dress
she wore set off her dazzling complexion, and the
single, tremulous spray of white jasmine was
the fittest ornament she could have chosen for
her mngnificent hair.
It was sometime before an opportunity for the
private conversation I wished, was allowed me,
but at length the others strolled away into the
moonlit garden, and I was left with Mrs. Ailing
ham. I was at a loss bow to approach the sub
ject of Myra Allingham’s disappearance as deli
cately as I desired, and Mrs. Aliingham gave me
no opening. She sat, with the ribbon of her
guitar thrown around her neck, carelessly touch
ing its strings, singing snatches of songs and ask
ing one question after another relative to my re
cent travels. At last, I broke off a spray of the
yellow jasmine that was trained around the pillar
aud was now covered sparsely with autumn blos
soms.
“This reminds me of Myra,” I said. “I was
here, you remember, the evening she brought this
very vine with her from a walk in the woods and
had it planted here.”
“Still thinking of Myra?” she said, with one
of her singular, half sneering smiles. “What a
model of constancy 1 Do you know I always
suspected you of having spoiled a pretty romance
by breaking up her sentimental affair with that
handsome German? But your hope is now more
forlorn than ever, for she has been spirited away,
where no one can tell. It is very mysterious, but
I always thought there was something elfish about
her.”
Then seeing my grave countenance, she added,
more seriously:
“ I am afraid she has returned to the convent
of St. Joseph’s and taken the veil. Pray why do
you change color so, Sir Knight of the rueful
countenance?” and she scrutinized me steadily
for a moment, and then turning to her guitar,
struck a few notes and sang two lines from the
ballad of Bryau Bryne—
“ * And where went Jane?’ ‘To a nunnery, Sir-
Look not again so pale.’ ”
With equal nonchalence, I quoted the next coup
let—
“ ‘ Kinghorn’s proud dame grew harsh to her,
And she has taken the veil.’ ”
In an instant she raised her flashing eyes to
mine, and I saw in the moonlight the angry flush
that overspread her face.
I expected an outburst, but she had herself
under admirable control, and she gave no farther
token of having understood my meaning. Pres
ently she looked up again, with a countenance
softened to unusual gentleness.
“Do not construe my careless jests into want
of feeling,” she said. u I am sorry for Myra, and
I would have willingly shared my home with
her, if she would have remained. It was her
own waywardness that caused the breach be
tween us.”
And she looked so earnest, that, for a moment,
I half believed her to be sincere.
I said no more, for just then Nettie Griswold
came running up and threw a handful of freshly
gathered flowers in Mrs. Allingham’s lap.
“Be Namouna,” she said, “Captain Mayfield
says you are already an Enchantress. So ar
range me a magic wreath that shall make me as
irresistible as Nourmahal.”
There was no farther opportunity for speaking
with Mrs. Allingham alone, and I could only re
solve, at some future time, to question her more
closely, and to leave no means untried for dis
covering a clue to the lost Myra. I could not be
lieve that she had taken the veil, for I knew that
her prejudices against this feature of the Catholic
religion were too strong to be easily overcome.
CHAPTER VI.
The winter had glided away imperceptibly into
spring, and still I lingered in New Orleans.
Petranello was better. I had introduced him
to the notice of several influential leaders of
Fashion, and he now had more employment than
his delicate health would well permit him to at
tend to. His pleasant studio was a place of fash
ionable resort, and at least a dozen of the pretty
faces he painted, fell romantically in love with
the pale, handsome artist, who, with his sad,
sweet smile, long, light hair and artist’s robe of
black velvet, was, as Miss Rosa said, the very
counterpart of that “divine” picture of Raphael,
that has been executed, in crayon or water colors,
by every schoolgirl in the country. And par
parenthesis , Miss Rosa had herself painted as a
Florentine Flower girl, in a wide straw flat, with
the white muslin pitiably scanty about the neck
and arms, the corkscrew curls, coral necklace
and blue ribbons, with a bouquet in one hand
and a basket of lillies on her arm.
So the fickle dame Fortune had chosen to smile
on Petranello, and I was also obtaining sufficient
practice. This I told my aunt in my letters, in
order to excuse my prolonged absence. I did
not wish to leave yet, and besides, she spofe of
spending the summer abroad, and my visit might
interfere with her arrangements. Aleantime, I
had discovered nothing more concerning Myra,
nor could any one tell me any thing of Roden
stein, except that he had left New Orleans, soon
after I did, in company with a German family,
who intended giving concerts in the principal
Northern cities. As the spring advanced, I often
indulged myself and gratified Petranello by dri
ving him out of the hot and dusty city, to where
he could breathe the fresh air and ses wild flow
ei# blue skies and country scenes, but he was
averse to going into society, and in my occasional
visits to Mrs. Allingham, he never accompanied
me. I liked the gentle transparency of Nettie
Griswold s character, and there was a charm
about Mrs. Allingham that I could not help ac
knowledging. She was a study for me, with
her changeful moods, now silent and reserved,
now all vivacity and wit, cold and haughty at
times, and then gentle and almost tender in her
manner. I began to think that she must have
acted thus to Myra, from some singular prejudice
against her, or some peculiar motive, for she was
not altogether selfish. I had seen her more than
once give way to impulsive generosity, and be
tray evidences of deep natural feeling. But she
sacrificed every thing on the shrine of her vanity.
One day I received a long letter from Harry
Roysdan, describing, in glowing language, his
beautiful island home, with its enchanting pros
pects, exhilarating breezes, pure skies and abun
dant fruits, and assuring me, besides, that there
was an excellent opening for one of my profes
sion in Havanna. I had thought before of Cuba,
more on Petranello’s account than my own, for
I feared consumption, which I knew was hered
itary in his family. I handed him Harry’s letter
and watched the sparkling of his fine eyes, as he
perused it. Folding it up with a glow upon his
cheek, he lepeated Mignon’s words—
“ ‘Know’st thou the land
Where the young myrtles and the citrons flower,
And the gold orange darkling leaves embower—
There, oh ! there,
I long, with thee, beloved one, to repair.’ ”
“And we will go there, Petranello. We will
leave this pestilential city, and see if. those
strengthening ocean breezes will not bring back
the roses to your cheek,” I said, catching a por
tion of his enthusiasm, for he was thinking of
the Italy his father had so often described. I be
lieve I have never mentioned, that his mother
was of American birth.
A steamer was to leave for Cuba in a few days.
We engaged passage upon her, and then I made
all due preparations and collected what wai
owing to Petranello and myself. The evening
before our departure, I paid a visit to Mrs. Alling
ham for the purpose of bidding her adieu. I en
tered unannounced, for I was at all times a priv
ileged visitor. My footsteps made but little sound
in the richly carpeted passage, and when I opened
the door of the partially lighted drawing-room,
I imagined it unoccupied, until a stifled sound,
resembling a sob, made me look in the direction
whence it came. A little figure lay upon the
sofa. Her face was buried in the velvet cush
ions, but I knew that it was Nettie Griswold by
the brown curls scattered over the pillow. I
closed the door behind me, to make her aware of
my presence, and she raised her‘head quickly,
threw back her hair and came towards me, smil
ing Khrough her tears and blushes.
I sat down on the sofa beside her, and said a
few commonplaces to relieve her embarrassment;
but she gave me irrelevant replies, and seemed
distrait and abstracted.
Suddenly she exclaimed: “I am glad you
called this evening, so that I can bid you good
bye. lam going home to-morrow.”
“ To-morrow ! why I thought you were not to
leave until June.”
“ Yes, that was my intention—but—shall I tell
you f I have half a mind to do so, since you have
already seen what a child I am,” she said, wip
ing away her tears, with a sad smile. “ And be
sides, I want someone to advise me. I don’t
know any thing about such matters.”
“ Well, let me be your Father Confessor in
the absence of a better one,” I said, lightly, in
order to re-assure her.
“ Well, you must know, then—you have sus
pected it before, perhaps—that I am betrothed to
Morris Mayfield, and have been ever since we
were children. We were to have been married
this fall, but for a month he has said nothing
about it, and has constantly avoided being alone
with me. I know how it is: he is charmed with...
cousin Mabel’s beauty, and is trying to
pretext for breaking our engagement ?^ >^®ve
been striving against this suspum*'” accusing
myself of being unreasonably is^ 8 *® 8 ’ r y* n K
[Continued on W**]