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sessing a certain fascination in her manners al together charming. Her eyes were soft and languishing; her character evidently possessed bat little strength, being made ap mostly of gentleness and good nature. “Iam very glad you are so punctual,” were the lady's first words, after motioning the young man to a seat. “ I was so completely mystified at receiving your note that I could not stay away,” replied Philip. “It is very strange that you should have known me.” “Very likely. Nevertheless, I have been awaiting your arrival in New York a long while.” “ Indeed ! And yet no one knew of my inten tion to visit the city.” The lady smiled. “ To tell you the truth, I was passing through a side hall adjoining the restaurant in which you were seated, when I heard you say very dis tinctly, ‘ I am here on business that may decide my future life.’ ” “ And you wished to satisfy your curiosuy as regards that business ?” “ No. I knew that you were alone here in a great city, with no friends but a foolish lot of striplings infinitely beneath you. In short, I was drawn towards you by a sort of secret sym pathy. I wished to be your friend, and I wish to be so now. Will you accept my friendship ?” “Certainly,” stammered Philip, charmed and confused at the same t’me. “But have you told me your only reason for wanting to be friend me?” “ No.” “Will you tell me?” “Before long I shall reveal to you certain se crets which you do not dream I possess; now I cannot tell you anything.” “But what do you know about me?” “ In the first place, I know of your whole life.” “Everybody knows that.” “ Don’t try to deceive me.” “ What do you mean ?” and now Philip began to look troubled. “ I know your true name; I have guessed your business; and perhaps some day I may speak to you of your father.”' “ My father!” cried Philip, starting up. There was a moment of silence, which was broken by the lady. j “You see,” said she, “that I would speak with you upon matters of great importance.” “Why will you not tell me everything now?” “Because the time has not yet come; then again, I wish to know you better myself before confiding in you.” “Then I shall return soon,” said Philip, ris ing and holding out his hand to the lady. “ Thank you,” she murmured, as she took his hand and pressed it softly. “ I shall be anxious to see you soon.” After this interview, Philip hurried away, hardly knowing what to think of Miss Cathcart’s words, and finally according them the credit of some plan to extort money. He attached so lit tle importance to them that both they and the fair one who had uttered them were soon out of his mind. While walking along the street, after leaving the mysterious lady, the young man suddenly started, as though moved by a sudden impulse, and walked rapidly up Fifth avenue, only stop ping when he had reached the notorious De Vere mansion. Since the terrible murder of Mr. De Vere, the house had remained closed to the world, only offering to passers-by a view of its closely-barred windows and gloomy front. A janitor who lived in the basement was its only occupant, if report could be believed. Philip snudderedqat the sight of this sinister- looking building, and seeing the janitor about to enter, politely accosted him. 1 Would it be possible for me to go through the house?” “ What!” exclaimed the janitor; “do you want to look through a house that has been closed for five years ?" “I knew Mr. De Vere,” said Philip impa tiently. “ I was absent from New York at the time of his death, and if a ten-dollar bill will be of any inducement ” The man shook his head sadly, as he was obliged to refuse the proffered money. “I could let you see the garden, but I haven’t got the keys to the upper part of the house. Won’t you tell me your name, sir? I knew nearly all of my old master’s friends. ” Philip was evidently greatly disappointed, and, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he handed the old man one of his cards, and then walked slowly away. CHAPTER II. RUBE AND LEGGET. In one of the most squallid portions of Roose- velt street was situated a dilapidated, rusty- looking hardware store, over which was fastened a rusty sign, bearing the inscription, “Peters & Co.” The firm consisted of Peters, alias Lame Rube, and his boon companion, Legget. Rube was one of those miserable wretches who make of crime a profession, and who never hesitate between right and wrong when a ques tion of gain is being considered. He was bad to the very core, and never experienced what is familiarly termed conscientious scruples. He, with his daughter Jennie, and his amiable part ner, Legget, lived in the rear ot the store of which he was the proprietor. On the evening following the events related in the last chapter, Legget was smoking in the rear apartment when Rube entered. “ Where’s Jennie?” were his first words. “In there,” answered Legget, pointing to a door which led to an adjoining hall room. “Ain't ye done anything this morning?” “No; and you?” “Nothing,” Rube replied, with an oath. “That’s nice !” “ What d’ye mean ?” “ I mean that business is bad, Rube. I don’t say anything against you, d’ye see, nor against Jennie, who’s too mighty pious for her position; but we’ve got to do somethin’ desperate, or we will all go to the dogs.” “ Hum !” growled Rube; “ I made an acquaint ance with some one yesterday that we may make a dollar or two out of—a young feller who’s cornin’ here to-night. ” * * Here ? Are you crazy ?” “I guess not. You wait and see. But I must have him alone—private business, Leg. ” “ Well,” growled the other, “Idon’t see what ye need keep private from me. I ” He was interrupted by the sound of carriage- wheels, and at a sign from Rube, arose hastily and disappeared through a back door. A few moments later, the carriage stopped, and Philip alighted. Rube was at the door to receive the young man, and led the way to the room which Legget had just vacated. “ Well,” he asked, as soon as they were seated, “ what d’ye want ?” “ I came to learn something about the . n murder,” Philip said, without hesitatior “What’s that?" “You ought to know, since you were implica ted in it ” “Eh?—who told you so?” “The papers were full of it.” “You ought ter know more’n me, then, fer I can’t read yer papers.” “ Nonsense! Your name is Rube, isn’t it ?” “Peters, please.” “ You told me just the contrary yesterday.” " There’s a hundred Rubes in the city, young My name’s Peters.” least,” said Philip, impatiently, “you were known under the name of Rube at the time of the murder and robbery committed five years ago.” Rube laughed nervously as he replied: “D’ye come here to cross-examine me? If ye do, you’ve got the wrong man, I can tell ye. ” “Well,” said the youDg man, perceiving his mistake, “you need not have any fears regard ing my profession. Here’s my card; I am only a sailor.” “ What’s that to me?” “Will you not tell me something?” “ I tell ye I don’t know anything !” “Understand me, Mr. Peters. This De Vere business is given up as an impenetrable mys tery by justice, and it has been shown that neither Rube nor Legget, who were the first ones accused, could have committed the mur der.” “The murder? Oh, no !” “Now, since everything is agreed upon this point, why should you not reveal the name of the murderer ?” “We don’t blow, we don’t.” “Listen to me,” insisted Philip, hotly. “I know no one in New York, and therefore I am not dangerous. I was in Brazil when the crime was committed. For reasons which I must keep secret, I want to unravel this mystery. Rob bery was not the principal object of the murder; the robbers were probably innocent of the crime.” “What’s all that to you?” demanded Rube, obstinately. “ I’ll tell you. My interest in finding out the assassin is so great that I offer all I possess— two thousand dollars—to him who will tell to me the murderer’s name, and prove to me that neither Rube nor Legget were engaged in the murder. Does that interest you ?” “That depends ” “ What do you mean ?” “I must know what ye mean by proofs.” “ I want to learn how and at what time the robbers entered the house; what they saw upon entering, and when they left. In other words, precise facts.” “And all that for two thousand dollars?” “ Do you consent?” “That’s not dear!” “It’s not enough, you mean? But it is all the money I possess.” “ Let’s see your money, first.” “What do you take me for?” asked Philip, smiling. “Do you imagine I would walk about the streets, or come here with two thousand dol lars in my pockets ?” “ Well, Rube won’t speak before he’s sure. Then there’s expenses, and ” “ Here,” interrupted Philip,taking out twenty dollars, “I’ll begin with this. Perhaps that will untie your friend Rube's tongue. In two or three days you will give me an answer.” “All right; where d’ye live?” “At the Westminster Hotel.” “ I know it.” “Don’t forget.” Philip was about to leave the room, when a second carriage rolled up to the door. Urged by curiosity, Philip looked out to see who the new visitor could be. “ Oh !” muttered Rube, gazing suspiciously at the young man, “ you are playin’ games, are you: Do “Are you a fool?” said Philip, sharply, you think the police are after you ?” “Yes.” “ Look and see for yourself.” The burglar did as requested, and im medi ately gave a cry of surprise. “A woman !” he whispered. “Alice Cathcart!” murmured the young man. Miss Cathcart went up to the side-door and rang the bell, which was answered by Jennie, who drew back with surprise as she saw her visitor, and exclaimed: - “Is it really you, Miss Cathcart? and at this hour of the night?” “ It is really I, Jennie. I cannot come here in broad daylight. I have a word to say to Rube; but generally, I wish to keep away.” “ Oh ! you are right. If you only knew how I slitter!” “ Poor girl!’’ “But I am in hope that I may soon be free.” “ Why so?” “Do you not remember my telling you of a man who wanted to marry me ?” “Oh ! yes, I remember; but look out for him, child.” “He is good and kind, Miss Cathcart.” “I warn you, however; he may be a detective. Be careful that your father does not suspect.” The young girl shuddered. “ Where do you see this man?” ‘ ‘ Everywhere. He seems to guess where I go. But are you afraid ?” “ No, not exactly. But I have a favor to ask: never speak to him of me.” “ I will not. You are easily frightened.” “ Ever since that fatal night I have been so. We must both be careful, as we were both nearly compromised. But whom do you think I saw yesterday ?” “ I don’t know.” “A man whom I have not seen since the day of the crime—a detective.” “ Was he watching you?” “Yes; but that is not all. Yesterday the de serted house up town seemed to be inhabited.” “ Impossible!” “I saw a feeble light through the shutters — just as it was five years ago.” “ Perhaps it was the janitor ?” “ I was terribly frightened, and hardly slept a wink last night. But I must hurry; is your father in ?” “He was talking with some one a short time ago, ’ “ Have they gone yet ?” “Wait here; I’ll find out.” Jennie was about to enter the store, when a door opened, and Rube appeared. “Ah!” he exclaimed gruffly, “you want to speak to me ?” “ Yes,” answered Alice, “ but I hear you have company.” “I had, but he’s gone now. It was only a young man who wanted me to do something for him.” “ Do you know his name ?’’ “No.” “And yon allow him to come here?” “D’ye fear anything?” “There is always something to fear,” said Alice seriously. “There is in New York at present a man who may prove our fortune or our destruction.” “Eh? Who is he?” “He calls himself Philip.” “ What does he look like?” “He is twenty-two years old, tall, slender, with bronze complexion, and dressed like a sailor.” Rube started. “I’ll bet it’s the fellow who just left me !” “ Was he here ? Great Heavens !” “Yes; and he questioned me, and wanted me to do something that I was afraid to do. ” The lady hesitated for a moment, and then, as if to herself, said: “ He may become dangerous.” “He looks sharp,” assented Rube. “Yes,” said Alice, as she had suddenly de termined upon a course to pursue which, to her mind, promised to settle the difficulty, “ but he is young; we can arrange matters. Now, listen: To-morrow this Philip will pay me a visit. You must promise to be there.” “I promise, of coarse; but there is another thing that may prove troublesome.” “ What is it, Rube ? Don’t keep me in sus pense,” and the young lady tapped her foot nervously upon the rough, uncarpeted floor. “ Do you know who is this young fellow’s best friend ?” “Who?” and- Xube saw by the convulsive motion of his visitor’s face that he must not de lay his communication. “ George Huntington !” The words fell like a thunderbolt. For a .mo ment the young woman stood as one deprived of speech or motion., and it was evident that whatever her relations were to George Hunting- ton, they were of no pleassnt nature. ‘, Then more than ever must we be careful,” she said at length. “Come and see me to-mor row without fail. We are in a bad position, Rube, and we must and shall get out of it. Now, good-bye.” With these words, Alice turned and left the house. " » « —* * « Upon awaking the next morning, Philip lay some time in silence, thinking over the various events that had transpired since his arrival in New York. From the Red Inn his thoughts turned to Rube and Alice. What connection could possibly exist between these two, so wide ly separated in every social respect ? The young man had heard stories of people bound by a common chain of infamy. Was this the case with them ? From this perplexing subject his thoughts wandered to the .deserted mahsion up town, whose gloom and silence seemed to accuse the power of justice. But had Philip’s emotions no other refuge thon these sombre speculations? Had this young heart never beaten for something sweet and endurable ? Did he not carry in his breast the memories of delighted love ? In truth, he was in love, and he loved pas sionately. The object of his affection was a young girl whom he had met in Italy, but whom be had never since seen. He had worshipped her in the silence of his heart from the first moment he had met her. He had made her ac quaintance, it is true; but, upon leaving her, he had hoped that he would forget what seemed to him a hopeless love. He tried to banish from his mind the image of her pure, sweet beauty, but his efforts were useless, as he soon perceiv ed, for his heart was irrevocably conquered. Upon arriving in New York, he had experienced a thrill of joy at tbe-idea of being near her; but this was soon followed by an aching pain of de spair. He felt that she could never be anything to him, for she was rich, and he but a poor sailor. Besides, there were still grave reasons, which we will not at present explain. While thus pre-occupied, he heard a knock at his door. “Come in !” he cried. At this bidding the door opened, and a man entered. Philip recognized him as the janitor of the deserted mansion. “Sir,” began the man with a smile, “I have come to ask you if you still wish to see the house ?” “Certainly,” replied Philip, in surprise. “ I refused yesterday, you see, because I didn’t know you; but I know who you are now. I’ll do for Lieutenant Philip what I wouldn’t do for a stranger.” Philip was not a little surprised at this am- biquous speech, but he thought it best to ask no questions, and contented himself by saying: “ When can I come ?” “To-night, if you wish.” “I shall be on hand.” “All right, sir; I’ll expect you. Good-morn ing.” And the janitor almost scraped the floor with his head as he tried to make a polite bow previous to his departure. “Well,” exclaimed Philip, when he found himself alone, “that man is rather a queer stick, but for all that, things are working smoothly. Now if I can maku Ikabo speak, perhaps I shall be able to accomplish something before long.” Note.—“ Under a Cloud ” is founded upon facts which have occurred in this city. The Red Inn still stands on Cherry street, although now occupied as a dwelling, and the stone building in its rear was, two years ago, discovered to contain an illicit still. Mother Dixey is a picture of a woman by that name who was killed by her husband, three years ago. The idea of an association of thieves, in which women are active agents, is taken from the statement of detective Applegate, U. S. S. S„ and the convict Murray, last month. As to the deserted house, there are three buildings now unoccupied in this city, because of murders committed in them, the most interesting of which is the one on Twenty- Seven til street, which has been closed since ISC!). The murder which was committed in the De Vere Man sion is precisely my theory of the Nathan’s murder. The Author. (This grand story will be continued in The Sunny South from February 1st.) For The Sunny South.] LOVED AND LOST; —OB,— The Valley Mystery. BY MRS. M. B. NEWMAN. CHAPTER VIII. At supper, while seated ’opposite Kate and Mr. Fontaine, he carefully noted the change in her manner. Her face had lost its bright animation, and a dissatisfied look was plainly perceptible; she replied in curt monosyllables to the questions, or listened to the smooth-flowing language of her escort; He was evidently determined to be agree able; and Fred could scarce)/ restrain a smile, notwithstanding the unrest at his heart, when lis tening to her cutting, ironical answers to his ques tions. He secretly wondered what this man could have done to incur the dislike of one usually so amiable. Kate could scarcely have answered this question herself. She had met this man in Vir ginia, while she was governess to Mr. Grantley’s children, where he spent much of his time. He was a favorite cousin of Mr. Grantley, and was a privileged visitor, often extending his visits into days and weeks. Feeling from the first no par ticular interest in him, she asked no questions, and only knew that he was wealthy and lived in Lynchburg, about twenty miles from Mr. Grant- ley’s country home. Thus commenced an acquaint ance which resulted in his conceiving for her a passionate love, that met with no response in her heart. She treated him with the same gentle courtesy she extended to all; but when he pre ferred his suit, she kindly yet firmly rejected him. Mrs. Grantley encouraged his addresses, and he lingered, hoping in time to win Kate's affections. They were sitting one evening together quietly conversing on indifferent topics, when one of the children came running in with an open miniature in her hand, and ran up to Mr. Fontaine, saying- “Cousin Wade, only look what a beautiful mamma Miss Sefton had,” and gave it into his hand. He looked at it curiously, and then turned deadly pale, and in his agitation would probably have let it drop from bis trembling fingers had not Kate caught it from him, saying in a per turbed tone: “ How careless of me to leave this on my bu reau !” In her haste she did not notice his emotion, and soon in a calm, even tone he inquired: “ That is a lovely picture, Miss Sefton; is it a likeness of your mother!” “ Yes, it is a picture of my mother, taken in her youth, before sorrow had changed her,” she replied, softly, and to prevent further question ing, excused herself and left the room. Afterwards, he alluded to the picture several times, and by adroit questions, learned a few facts connected with the history of the girl, but she was too reticent for him to gain much information from her answers. He renewed his efforts to win her, and became so persistent in his suit, aided by Mrs. Grantley, who had hitherto only quietly ap proved his addresses, that the indifference with which Kate had before regarded him, turned into dislike. She began to see him in his true charac ter, as one who would not easily be thwarted in his wishes, and who recognized no law but his own sovereign will, before which every obstacle, in his career of luxurious indulgence, must bow. With an instinct of dread, for which she could give no definite reason, she determined to leave the home where she was forced to meet him; and seeing Mrs. Gordon’s advertisement, immediately applied for the situation. In this family, where genuine worth was appre ciated, she found not only employment, but a home; and it was with a keen recurrence of her feelings of dread and dislike that she again met the man she had said to herself was her evil genius. He was apparently perfectly satisfied with his reception, and after tea, carried her to a sofa in the parlor, and quietly sealed himself by her side, where he continued talking in a low, even tone, receiving cold replies, that must have secretly angered him. His face showed no sign of any inward disturbance, as he spoke of the pleas ant days spent in her society in Virginia, and the sorrow he felt when he learned she had gone. “Your extreme coldness is a poor return for all my devotion,” he at last said; “what have I done that you treat me as an enemy, and will not allow me the smallest token of regard ?” “You render me miserable by pursuing me with attentions you know are distasteful. Your instinct as a gentleman should make you see this and cease your persecutions and leave me alone,” she replied with haughty frankness. “My great love for you should excuse my per sistent attempts to win your favor,” he answered calmly,” “you are my destiny, and every thought, feeling and hope are merged into the one great de sire to make you my worshiped wife. I cannot re sist the impulse that draws me to you and you must, you will love me in time.” “I cannot stay and listen any longer to such sen timents,” she said, wrought up to a pitch of re sentment utterly foreign to her nature. “If you say another word of this kind 1 will leave you and allow the company present to draw their own con clusions. Already I have noticed several regard ing us in wonder.” “Stay then, and you will have no cause to be come so angry again, though I must say, your pres ent mood is infinitely becoming,” heanswered with provoking coolness, and with a face as impassive as though he had uttered the most commonplace words. Frank Merton read the vexation in her coun tenance and came to her relief, saying : “Miss Sefton, is there not a song called ‘Valley of Chamouni?’ ” “Yes,” answered Kate, experiencing a feeling of great relief; “the verses describe a Swiss valley, situated among the snow-capped Alps, and in some respects it is a good description of our own beauti ful valley of Laurens.” “If Mr. Fontaine will excuse you, will you sing it for me? We are ail sighing for some music.” “I must beg pardon for monopolizing Miss Sef- ton’s company so long,” said Mr. Fontaine, rising, “and if Mr. Howe will kindly introduce me to that golden-haired blonde with whom I saw him con versing just now, I will not be guilty agaiu of such high treason to the young men present.” “ Certainly,” said Mr. Howe, coming up to where the three were standing. “ I had forgotten the fact that you were an entire stranger to all present except Miss Sefton. Come,” he added, leading the way to where May was sitting. Soon the gentleman introduced was bending over the fair girl, conversing in his low, persuasive tones, apparently oblivious of every one present, but in reality covertly glancing at Kate and listen ing to the clear, liquid tones of her voice as it tilled tho room with melody. Many whispered comments on the grace and ac complishments of the young teacher passed among the guests while she was seated before the instru ment. Evelyn Mosley heard the remarks, and when a lady near her, who was unacquainted with the girl’s position in the family, inquired, “ Who is she?” she shrugged her shoulders, and iu a contemptuous tone replied : “She is only the governess of Mrs. Gordon’s children—a nobody, though she gives herself such airs.” “ Ah ! really. I imagined she was some wealthy relation of the Gordon family on a visit here. One thing is certain—she sings well; and young Mer ton is struck with her; and only notice how that dark, Italiau-looking gentleman watches her every movement. She is a born coquette.” “ Yes; but uo nice young man would marry a governess.” “And why not marry a governess, Evelyn, if she is in every respect worthy of affection?” in quired Fred Gordon, who, coming up unperceived, heard the last remark. His clear, gray eyes were bent on her with an expression of displeasure, and with evident confu sion she replied : “ Why, Fred, of course a governess is never taken into good society and treated with the same courtesy that wealthy, well-bred people receive.” “ You mean a society composed of people who receive their heritage by birth, and who have only their fathers and grandfathers to thank for their success in life—those who have not the moral courage to face difficulties and follow the com mands of God given to our first parents, and who despise those who are compelled to labor. I am truly republican in my feeliugs and I believe in awarding merit where it is due, without regard to casto. I shall never be governed by public opinion when it would lead me to refuse the fellowship of any individual on the ground that he happens not to be so fortunate as others in being high-born and wealthy and if I am ever so fortunate as to find the woman possessed of the grace of mind and per son that constitute my ideal of a perfect woman, be her station in life ever so lowly, if she consents I will lift her to mine.” This was an open declaration of his intention to disregard the wishes of their respective families, and for a moment she was completely stunned, scarcely comprehending that he considered it his right to make his own choice of a wife; but soon the full import of his words fell on her like a knell of doom. She turned livid with rage and mortification and sank back heavily in her chair, from which in her excitement she had partly risen. Pride came to her aid in this trying moment, and by a mighty effort of will she recovered her com posure and said, indifferently: “I wish you joy, if you succeed in finding your ideal, but 1 do not believe one so perfect will ever spring from the lower ranks of life, so your parents will be spared the mortification of receiving a daughter from the dregs of society.” He did not hazard a reply knowing that in her present mood he would only add fuel to the flame of anger that he saw was inwardly consuming her, but he continued standing by her chair in embar rassed silence, secretly wishing that one of his friends would come up and relieve him from his painful position. Evelyn was sitting in one cor ner of the large room and when Fred came up and began talking with her, others moved off, leaving them alone. A short time after Frank Merton passed near the silent couple with Kate Sefton leaning upon his arm. She looked very lovely in her white dress of cool translucent muslin, outlining her slender, graceful figure. Frank’s gaze was fixed on the re- reating pair, and when he could no longer see them he unconsciously heaved a sigh. Evelyn read his heart’s secret in that sigh and ’said, maliciously. “I think it is evidently Mr. Merton’s intention to try and lift Miss Sefton to his station in life, and judging from the pleasure she receives from his attentions he will be successful in his suit, but,” she added pointedly, “I am not in love with him, and have no objection.” “I do not think he could find a fairer, more gen tle, more gifted bride, and her virtues will ennoble and elevate his character,” he answered, his fine eyes glowing with the generous magnanimity that stifled personal disappointment and rose above en vy of a favored rival. (TO BE CONTINUED.) [For The Sunny South.! Fashions of the Fast. In The Sunny South of December 10, is print ed an account of bow a fashionable lady in the middle of the last century dressed and spent uer time. But as she was an English lady, per haps the fair readers of The Sunny South would like to know how the fashionable ladies and gen tlemen of America dressed about the same pe riod. This information will show that all the frivolity was not confined to the ladies, while the contrast with the fashions of to-day will pos sess an interest for the descendants of the “brave men and fair women ” of more than a century ago. The fashions in this country in the middle of the last century were somewhat curious, and certainly more splendid than might have been expected at that time in a distant colony ot Great Britain. In general, however, they were said to be a pretty exact imitation ot those ot the mother country. The following account is taken from an old book printed nearly half a century ago: “Seventy years ago, cocked hats, wigs and red cloaks were the usual dress of gentlemen. Boots were rarely seen, except among military men. Shoe-strings were worn only by those who could not buy any sort of buckles. In winter, round coats were used, made stifl with buckram, which came down to the knees in front. “Before the revolution, boys wore wigs and cocked hats; and boys of genteel families wore cocked hats till within about thirty years ago. “ The ball dress for gentlemen consisted of a silk coat and an embroidered waistcoat, and sometimes white satin breeches. Buckles were fashionable till within fifteen or twenty years, and a man could not have remained within a ball-room with shoe-strings. “It was usual for the bride, bridegroom and maids and men attending, to go to church to gether three successive Sundays after the wed ding, with a change of dress each day. A gen tleman who died not long since appeared the first Sunday in white broadcloth, the second in blue and gold, the third in peach-bloom and pearl buttons. Till within about twenty years, gentlemen wore powder, and many of them sat from thirty to forty minutes every day under the barber’s hands to have their hair creped, suffer ing no inconsiderable pain most of the time from hair pulling, and sometimes from the hot curling-tongs. “ Crape, cushions and hoops were indispen sable in full dress till within about thirty years. A sailor walking in one of the streets of the city met two ladies whose hoops entirely occupied the pavement, and seeing no way by which he might pass them without going into the street (there being no pavement), he, with no small agility, sprung completely over the hoops and through a vacancy made by their extension, to the infinite diversion of the spectators. At the elbows, the ladies wore from four to six rows of rufties. They wore no bonnets whatever, and the head-dress consisted of a large quantity of wool laid on the head, with the hair hipped fan cifully over it; these were denominated cushions, and were generally six inches high. Another kind of head-dress, which was called a calash, was made in the manner of a gig-top, and was drawn over the face when the heat of the sun became too oppressive. No parasols were in use then, and a gentleman who brought a large um brella from England was, in consequence of it, considered a great fop. The ladies wore shoes with sharp toes and large silver buckles set with brilliant stones. Silk stockings were worn by ladies and gentlemen, cotton ones not being known then. Ladies’ gowns generally had a train from two to three feet long. Some ladies were dressed the day before the party, and slept in easy chairs to keep their hair in fit condition for the following night. Most ladies went to parties on foot, if they could not get a seat in a friend’s carriage or chaise. Gentlemen rarely had a chance to ride. “The latest dinner hour was two o’clock; some officers of the colonial government dined later occasionally. In genteel families, ladies went to drink tea about four o’clock, and rarely stayed after candle-light in summer. It was the fashion for ladies to propose a visit, and not wait for an invitation.” The Farm the Place to Make Men. In glancing over the list of successful business men, the larger portion of them will be found to have received their early training for life-work on the farm. Our leading professional men generally were trained in the common schools of the country, and there learned habits of in dustry and frugality, which is the groundwork of their success. Country boys—farmers’ sons—that labor on the tarm during the summer months, go to school five days in the week in the winter, and work at home on Saturdays, think their lot a hard one, in comparison with that of their city cousins. But did they but know it these lessons of labor give them an appreciation of education that city boys never possess. The country boy delights in going to school, whilst the city chap hates the monotony of the school-room, and this accounts for the fact that a large majority of the successful men in the various walks of life spent their early boyhood on the farm. Boys just verging into manhood in the city feel that they have more requirements than those in the country, and therefore spend more and acquire habits of improvidence diametric ally opposed to success. When once bred in the bone, it requires but a few generations to spoil the stock, and new importations have to be made from the country before business or pro fessional life can regain its strength. Business men in the city forget to what they owe their success, and in their desire to give their sons the best ot advantages do that which enervates instead of strengthens. The boy may be stuffed with such advantages, but it takes self-denial and a sprinkling of hardships to make the man Let not the sons ot farmers, therefore, deplore their lot or look with wistful eyes on the imagi nary advantages ot their city cousins whilst their own chances of success are many per cent higher than those of city boys. No/i s P it neces sary to success that farmers’ sons should follow the vocation of their fathers. If they have talent ^ tr l e °H rpr0 e nr- aI Ufe ’ let them embrace f£?*Wfch smts their inclination, and never Slf dcni^r/T h .t y WOrk hard and exercise th^, al ^ a Ju theyare never to rise above frnfa w / c, odhoppers. Such trials are in truth but advantages of a more substantial order, nTwT.. 6 sterl1 ?? men of those who make the most of them.—Baltimore Sun.