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A broad smile illumined the face of the wo
man at this suggestion of Maj. Barton, but his
eyes were fixed upon the carpet, and he did not
see that she was amused.
••Now, there are only two persons at present,
who are aware of the facts in the case. One of
ties3, your butler, I believe I may safely trust
The other has proven tne goodness of her heart
in such a generous way, that I can not believe
she would expose a harmless old man to rid
icule." „ .
“Indeed, Maj. Barton,” she replied, with a
voice which expressed the compassion which
she felt for him, “so far as I am concerned, or
any one whom I can control, your confidence
will not be violated. The incident shall never
be mentioned by me or mine.
“A thousand thanks, Miss Howard. Oh, I
knew you would add this greatest of tavors to
the already infinite obligation I owe to you, and
if it please Providence to give me an opportu
nity to serve you in any way, you have only to
command me.”
“Thank you, Major Barton,” she replied, “I
have no occasion for friendly aid at present.”
“And now, Madam, since you have relieved
mv mind upon this subject, I do honestly be
lieve that this same night-ride of mine is the
most ridiculous adventure that ever happened
to mortal man.”
And Major Barton laughed, till the tears ran
down his cheeks. The good woman could not
fail to join him in his merriment with hearty
good will.
“Just to think of it!” he exclaimed ; “but Hb
useless —words can not portray this ridiculous
affair. It reminds me of a scene witnessed a
few years ago, in the city of Havana. But I
w .‘ary you, Madam. I was about to tell one of
my stories.”
She saw that it would be a kindness to allow
him to tell his anecdote. Besides, she began to
have a slight suspicion that the old gentleman
was not of perfectly sound mind. Weakness it
might be, but the sudden transitions of his emo
tions from pain to pleasure—the morbid sensi
tiveness he exhibited suggested mental aber
ration.
Bertrand, “she is the fairest, the most divine
ereature I ever beheld !”
“Ah, Bertrand, according to my creed, all wo
men are beautiful."
“Nonsense, man. don’t talk folly—you, the
wise, sedate, truth-loving young moralist—you
know that there is not one woman in a hundred
that has any pretensions to beauty.”
“Perhaps not, as you define beauty, for you
look only at the outward form—1 look at the dis
position, the mind, the heart of woman, and I
say all women are beautifal!”
“A truce to mind and heart, what do they mat
ter if the 'outward form' as you term it, is ugly
and repulsive, as you know hundreds and thou
sands are ? Who can love an ugly woman? and
if they are not made for love, they are good for
nothing!”
“Yours is a dismal creed. Bertrand, if, as you
say, only one in a hundred has pretensions to
beauty, and yet without it the ninety-and-nine
are worthless. My friend, woman is God’s best
gift to man, and if she ever becomes ugly and
repulsive it is because man by his cruel deceit
and heartlessness makes her so. By nature she
is soft and gentle, easily moulded to any shape
that man chooses, and we have ourselves to
blame if she becomes a curse instead of a bless
ing."
“There you are again, Herbert, with your code
of chivalry, and your knightly crest aloft as gay-
ly as that of Dan Quixote de la Mancha ! I, too,
love, honor, and respect women—but only the
pretty ones! By Apollo, I cannot bend the knee
to a turned-np nose, nor worship a vinegar face
if my life was at stake! Good enough for black
smiths and haymakers, carpenters and draymen,
doubtless they may be, but ugly women are my
aversion. If I should ever marry ’’
“Which you will never do,” interposed Her
bert.
“Possibly not, but rich or poor, my wife must
be as beautiful as a princess, or she will never
enslave me.”
“\ery, good, but I fancy there are many prin
cesses in this world born to royal households,
whom you would strike oif the list of toleration,
for physical beauty is not a monopoly of courts
•Well,” he resumed, “I was one of a party of 1 and palaces,
pleasure some three years ago. We left this city “That is true, my friend, but your doctrine
in the Isabella, and arrived safely at Havana. | of moulding the softer sex to the ideal of man,
The second night after our arrival, we had a ter- allows the education of the form and features,
rifle storm, which lasted all the night. Next *° r example, surround the plastic child with
morning I was awakened by loud talking under i objects of grace and scenes of pleasure-give
• » i3.: -it
my window. Being well acquainted with the
Spanish language, I heard enough to satisfy me
that an American was involved in the affair. On
looking out of my window, I saw a man lying
on his face on the pavement, in the midst of a
wagon-load of segar boxes, and almost covered
up with segars of all kinds and sizes. Hastily
dressing myself, I went down, and learned that
the storm the night before had torn a sign fas
tened to a segar booth, out of its position, twist
ed the frame of the booth into an odd shape,
and tumbled the cigars into the street. Under
the pile lay a man apparently dead, or seriously
wounded. The policemen not having arrived,
no one would touch the body, but I, seeing that
he was an American, and possibly not dead,
seized the man by the arm—and as sure as you
her pictures of symmetry to look upon, and train
her thoughts to harmony in early infancy, and
the features of the face, will reflect the lessons
of grace and beauty which first impressed her.
But away with philosophy! Tell me, do you
know anything about this young princess, now
a prisoner at the gloomy old nunnery of Howard
Hall ?”
“How should I, Bertrand ? She has just ar
rived, and this is her first visit to Orglethorpe,
and 1 have never been to Europe.”
•‘Well, I do not suppose you have the honor of
her acquaintance, and, to tell you the truth, my
candid young friend, I am heartily glad yon do
not know her, and I hope you never may, until
at least ”
“Oh ! whatare you saying, Bertrand? what do
and I live, Ma’am, that fellow was sound asleep ! : you mean ?”
How be came there, can only be left to conject- “ ’
ure. He had been beastly drunk, and notwith
standing the wreck of timbers of all sizes around
him, he had escaped almost without a scratch.
As soon as I could get him thoroughly awake.
Mean ? why that I feel a strange, marvelous
interest in that same young princess, and I do
not covet you as my rival, that is all.”
“Alas! Bertrand, do not make sport of me.
You know that this young lady, if she be truly
I found that he was an old friend of m‘ine -that ; the niece of Howard, will be a great heiress, and
is, not exactly a friend, but an acquaintance of I am poor—far too poor to tempt a daughter of a
mine in former years, one Gaston, Henry Gas- • P rou< i and haughty aristocrat.”
ton, whom I knew as a wild, reckless sort of man “Now, Herbert, my good fellow, I did not in-
in his vounger days.” tend awaken any melancholy reflections. I
“Gaston! Henry Gaston?’’ exclaimed the old am a giddy scapegrace, and do not deserve a
la1y, and the color left her face, until it was as wifa, but you sir, you are the equal of any wo-
wliite the snowv locks noon her head. were a fl ueeD ’ •”
“‘Which you cannot reciprocate, I know.”
“I did not mean that, Bertrand, but my friend
1 cannot flatter any man."
“You certainly have never flatterd me.”
“And yet, Bertrand, you have not a truer
friend on earth nor one tuat loves you more
dearly. But you are fitted for a nobler life than
you lead. My friend, have done with sowing
wild oats, and allow the glorious gifts which God
has bestowed upon you to come to fruition in a
career of honorable usefulness. You are wast-
ng precious years which you can never recall.”
“O ! Herbert, wh t is the use of it? What do
white as the snowy locks upon her head.
world. A goed hearted, thriftless, intemperate
man, who wasted his fortune- for he was once
rich—and broke his constitution.”
“And a noble woman’s heart!” exclaimed Miss.
Howard.
“Very likely, Ma’am, he did. He was well
qualified to do that, or any other wicked act.
And since you mention it, I believe I did hear
that he had deserted his wife and children,
like a mean, pitiful fellow that he was. How
ever, the man was not altogether a brute. He
bad some good qualities.”
“Major Barton,” said Miss Howard rising and
approaching him with an expression on her conn-; I care f° r fame? The laurel crown is steeped
tenance that the poor gentleman never forgot as 1 in poison, and as to usefulness, what thanks
long as he lived. “Major Barton, I have a favor j does any man receive who serves his race or
to ask of you, now.”
“Name it, Madam, and I am at yonr ser
vice. ”
“Not now—not now.” She pressed her hand
upon her temple, covering her face, and was
silent.
“I hope I have done nothing wrong, Ma’am ?"
he asked, for at that moment, for the first time,
the light broke upon him in scattered rays. In
some way this Henry Gaston was painfully
as sociated with the trembling form before
him.
“No, sir, but perhaps it is my turn, now to be
under lasting obligations to you. But I cannot
speak to you now. Come to me this evening,
at 8 o’clock, in this room. I will give orders to
admit you without formality of any kind. You
will be expected. In the meantime--not a word
of this occurrance. Allow me to bid yon good
morning,” and she hastily left the room. The
old gentleman took his departure with a feeling
of more consequence to himself and the world,
than he had known in many days.
CHAPTER III.—About the Beautiful
“Magnus Apollo ! what a beautiful woman !”
The speaker was a young man, possibly five
and twenty years of age, but at first sight he
seemed two years older. The footprints of dis
sipation were deeply graven upon his handsome
face. But his step was firm and graceful, his
form strongly built, and his manners polished.
A scion of a wealthy house, he had received all
the vices of cultivated society. His companion
was a man near the same age, but in most
respects a perfect contrast. Left an orphan in
childhood, defrauded of his property by cun
ning and heartless guardians, he had early tasted
whatever there may be of nectar in the cup of
poverty. As often happens in this world, the
sorrows that harden and degrade some dispo
sitions, had purified and elevated that of Her
bert Gordon. He had known want, and yet he
did not worship wealth—he had been betrayed
and plundered under the guise of friendship,and
yet he did not lose faith in human virtue, nor
strive to become a cynic because early experience
had brought him into contact with treason and
traitors, where he should have found protectors
and faithful guides.
They had paused only a moment in front of
the iron gate at Howard Hall—the old Tabby
House. The door of the mansion was open, and
Ellen was standing in the portico, her lia&Is
full of dewy flowers, and her face radiant with
the full flush of a balmy spring morning. Her
fair brow, white as the lily, contrasted with her
rich brown hair, cheeks that bloomed with rose
ate health, lips that defined a mouth eloquent
in expression—a form above the medium height,
a hand of perfect symmetry; these, at a glance,
the practised eye of Bertrand Montmollia saw
and he exclaimed:
“Magnus Apollo! what a beautiful woman!
Who can she be ?”
“A relative of the Misses Howards arrived
yesterday from Europe, I am told, and I pre
sume the fair lady is the new arrival,” answered
k Herbert, as they resumed their walk.
‘By ail the gods of Greece and Borne,” replied
country ? Hosannas to-day, slanders and curses
to-morrow; this is the experience of the politic
ian. What art is there that envy does not rob of
all the hard-earned rewards ?” Give charity, and
you are hated because you have power to give.
With hold it and ^you are cursed as a miser. Be
a friend in need, and ten to one you have plant
ed the seed of revenge, or treason to your own
interests. Oh ! Herbert, there is nothing real in
this world but pleasure, beauty and wine!”
“Your pleasure is a child of beauty, and dies
before her mother—and wine is a mocker.”
“But pleasure while it lasts is real—when it
is over—dead—all that life has to give is given-
then submit to Providence and die.”
"It is possible to survive pleasure, to live on
and on, when beauty can yield no more delights
and remorse plants the pillow with thorns, sharp,
poisoned thorns, that wound, yet do not kill.”
“Then, Herbert, take counsel of Cato, and close
the scene.”
“And what of the hereafter, Bertrand ?”
Now, Herbert, my patient philosophic, pious
friend, you had best divorce yourself from Chit-
ty and Blackston, and turn to divinity—upon
my word you would make a noble Methodist
parsan, and would grace a campmeeting splen
didly. ”
“I wish I were fit to be even ‘Methodist par
son,’ Bertrand, for a good conscience is the on
ly key to happiness, and he who does his duty
well, though he may not win admiration from
his fellow men, obtains the honor which on
ly heaven can give.”
“Well, well, as you will, Herbert, but, my
friend you will marry, and I tell you now, what
ever else she may be, let her be beautiful, or, by
all the gods in the patheon, or out of it, I will
cut your acquaintance for having lost your
senses! Look at that old vixen, the Rector’s
better-half! Tricked up with glossy curls, not
her own, sweeping over lantern jaws as tawny as
a buck’s hide—nose like a fisherman—hands big
enough for a plowman—feet! bah! Number
ten, or twenty, if they make ’em that far—and a
gait as clumsy as a cow ! How, in the name of
reason can a man keep his appetite with such a
fright at his table ? ”
“Come, Bertrand, that is a most awkward, un
grateful speech of yours. Do you know that
t lere are people in this city to whom that repul
sive face that you have painted is as beautiful as
an angel ? For an angel of mercy and blessing
she has been to many. Sitting up in the hovel
of poverty—nursing the sick with her own hands
—those large ‘plowmen’s hands of hers—making
the sick man’s cup of tea, chasing away the
demon despair from the bed of death ? Oh ! Ber
trand ! she has not studied grace in the ball
room, but she has made music in the huts of
wretchedness and want, and ministered to
human sorrow until a heavenly halo clothes her
features with the sunlight of the Eternal City !
Talk not to me of that woman! I have seen her
when she was a princess indeed—her throne was
but a broken stool in the midst of rags and dirt,
but the angels of God were her attendants, and
the stairway of Paradise was planted at her
feet!"
“Come, now, Herbert, upon my word! You
are growing eloquent; I did not mean to offend
you—the fact is, I happened to think of her as
one of the ugliest women I ever saw.”
“And I as one of the most beautiful spirits
that walk this lower word ! ”
"Pardon me, my friend, mine was a most un-
gallant speech, I admit—for it is certainly no
business of mine if the good Rector sees anything
to admirein his wife. She may be all that you
say. We’ll confess judgment on that case, or
I will, and crave your Honor’s forgiveness.”
“Ah ! Bertrand ! we look at things from a dif
ferent standpoint. You may live to change your
i opinion, and see that gentleness, sweet charity,
| and changeless affection are the attributes of
j woman’s beauty—and liny never die ! ”
! “I pray you mercy, Master Brooke—but let
us change the subject. Do you visit the Hol
lands to-night?’
“ I had not determined the matter Bertrand.
It seems to me, that this is scarcely an oppor
tune time for a party of pleasure. The whole
city desolated by a fearful Btorm, and so many
people overwhelmed with sorrow.”
“Yes, my good fellow—that is true. But the
Hollands sustained no damage, and what’s the
use to lament over other people’s misfortune ?
Besides ’tis only a family party, and has been
‘down on the bills' for a week or more. I know
they will expect you.”
“ I may possibly go, but I have little heart
for it. ”
“By all means, go; I wish to introduce you to
the Belle of Brookline—a famous beauty, but
proud as Lucifer.”
| “Well, if I can reconcile myself to parlor small-
| talk in the midst of thisscene of devastation and
; ruin, I may go. Good morning to you.”
“Mu revoir, at the Hollands, to-night! ”
“ Tne friends separated. Herbert perplexed
: and musing over the follies and frivolities of his
i companion, and Bertrand tossing in an air from
the best opera, all remembrance of Herbert’s
counsels and conversation. Humming his fa
vorite tune, he sauntered by the gate of Holland
j Hall, but the front-door was closed, and the
j princess had disappeared.
CHAPTER IV. At the Hollands.
The party at Holland House consisted of a
. score of gentlemen and about as many ladies,
i The prominent theme of conversation early in
1 the morning was the storm, as a matter of
course. The various sensations, experiences,
terrors, accidents, and heroic feats were rela-
i ted, discussed, and dismissed at last for matters
of deeper interest to the little groups that had
gradually formed themselves during the even-
! ing into exclusive audiences.
Among these, Herbert Gordon and Bertrand
! Montmollin drifted into the same coterie, when
the great sensation of permanent interest, the
, arrival of the heiress of Howard Hall, became
I the theme of conversation. Few of the persons
I present had ever been under the roof of that
j strange old building, and now that a change
had come over its fortunes, great cariosity was
j felt by the younger part of the assembly to as
certain anything concerning it.
Bertrand was very enthusiastic in his praise
i of the young princess, us he was pleased to call
her.
“And you intend to add her to the list of your
conquests, Mr. Montmollin,” said one of the
young gentlemen.
“Shame upon you !” said the Brookline beau-
! ty, “gentlemen never make conquests ; that is
; the province of the ladies, sir.”
“But love is a battle in which both parties
may be victorious, Miss Belle,” replied the
young man.
•‘Or make itadrawttfattle, now and then,” said
she, archly glancing ?jt Mr. Montmollin. who
seemed oblivious to t* r meaning, although it
was evidentlyqcjjui. “When ‘Greek
-say." ifii *
“As for instanc? . the Queen of Beauty
and Prince Monti .iirt‘take the field for mas
tery,” remarked fc littlelolack-eyed coquette who
felt no very great admiration for the Belle of
Brookline.
“Whoever may be the Queen of Beauty,” re
plied the Belle, it is very certain that the Prince
is not a novice in the accomplishment of break
ing ladies’ hearts, if I am to credit public opin
ion," and she turned to the black-eyed coquette
with a look that plainly meant that she of the
black-eyes was one of them.
“Out upon the broken hearts,” said Bertrand,
“they are like glassware mended with Japanese
cement, stronger and sounder after breaking
than they were before !”
“Ah ! but it is not every diamond that can
write upon the glass, Mr. Montmollin,” replied
the Belle. There must needs be a sharp edge
before it will cut.”
“I surrender at discretion,” said Bertrand,
“when wit and beauty unite in the same person,
even genius cannot invent a foil for such a war
rior’s sword—no, not being a genius, there is no
dishonor in an unconditional surrender.”
“Mr. Montmollin is a passionate admirer of
beauty, Miss Belle,” said Herbert Gordon, “and
he has no patience, and hardly any respect for
any man who can love a plain face.”
“And he,” replied Montmollin, “actually as
serts that every woman is beautiful — what say
you to that, Miss Belle ?”
“Nay, I protest,” said Herbert, seeing that his
theory of beauty would find little favor among
the fair ladies themselves. “I do not mean the
physical beauty which he admires so much
nor do I mean the abstract quality in itself,
much less as it appears to women themselves ;
but I mean that beauty of the heart which lives'
in words and acts of kindness and mercy.”
“Now, do you mean to say, Mr. Gordon,” re
plied the Belle, “that we women are either in
sensible of that beauty in each other, or that
we are incapable of placing a proper estimate
upon it ?”
“I certainly do not believe either, Miss Belle,
but it is so natural to women to perform works
of charity and mercy, that they are unconscious
of the merits of their performance.”
“That is the way with you gentlemen,” said
the Belle, with a smile that was intended to be
very winning, “you always escape from a quan
dary by means of a compliment. You never
give us ladies credit for understanding logic,
and when we defeat you at your own game, you
say over so many pretty things that you suppose
we love to hear, because flattery condones all of
fenses. Now, Mr. Gordon, it is perfectly clear
to my mind that if our good deeds are involun
tary, because they are natural, we must be more
or less insensible to them, anu that is the very
proposition you have both denied and defended!”
“Good logic ” exolaimed Montmollin; “now,
Gordon, escape from the toils, if you can— the
net is well drawn !”
“I confess,” said Gordon, a little confused,
“I am in a difficult position, for it is impossible
for me to explain, unless Miss Belle wiil credit
my assertion that I esteem the ladies too highly
to’flatter them. ” J
“Ah ! candid Mr. Gordon,” she answered, in a
very commiserating tone, as if he had excited
either her pity or her sympathy, “that is pre
cisely what every gentleman says, at the very
moment he is uttering a sentiment which he no
more believes than he does in the inspiration of
Mohammed!”
“Then I must risk my defense at the peril of
its rejection,” replied Gordon; “I do believe
most devoutly, that gentleness and tenderness
of heart are instinctive in woman — that if she
obeys her nature, kindness is the law of her life
—that she acts charitably because it is right in
itself, and needs no argument to justify it Now
this very goodness, by instinct, causes her to do
those deeds of mercy which men only perform
from a variety of motives. Thus she acts right
ly by a law of her nature, and cannot see the
merit of her actions, as it appears to others who
see not only the good deed, but the unselfish
motive. Do I make my explanation intelligible ?”
“Perfectly, sir,” she replied, “by robbing our
good deeds of all merit, because we are mere
machines, and cannot help doing good !”
“So be it, then,” replied Gordon, “so long as
the music of the spheres is the product of di
vinely organized machinery, I greatly prefer the
harmony of goodness by intuition to the hazard
of a discord by the agency of capricious mo
tives. ”
“And as he has made ns all angels,” remark
ed the black-eyed coquette “I wonder what
has become of our wings?”
“LoBt them in Paradise” said Gordon, glad
of an opportunity for one victorious Bally, at
even the expense of his consistency.
“Quite a stupid debate," drawled out a dan
dy, in an under tone, as he sauntered across the
room.
The belle of Brookline felt very certain that
she had vanquished her antagonist, and sat toy
ing with her fan, and sending a very earnest
and a very searching glance at his face. To
say the troth, she was doubly pleased with her
self. First, because Bhe had won a triumph in
the argument—and secondly, because she could
not elp admiring the chivalrous sentiments of
the young lawyer. True, she would have been
much better pleased, if her conscience had re
sponded favorably to the enquiry whether she
had ever performed any really unselfish action
—and she would have been still more highly
pleased, if the good opinion he entertained of
the whole sex, had been monopolized by a single
individual, namely, the Belle.
The circle was broken up soon afterwards,
when Gordon and Montmollin found themselves
in a recess of a window, removed from observa
tion. It was not in Gordon’s nature to feel
piqued at a game of dialectics, much less did
he narbor the slightest resentment, when his
conqueror was a lady. He was not, in fact, ve
ry favorably impressed with tho Brookline Belle,
and the certainty that she had never performed
many works of charity, either bj intuition
or by volition, caused him to relapse into a
gloomy silence.
“Now, Gordon,” said Bertrand, “there is a
case in point, my good fellow. That woman
can no more understand what you meant by
deeds of charity and mercy, than she can inter
pret the dialects of Ashantee and Dahomey. She
is beautifal, and she knows it. She lives upon
flattery, and despises nothing so much as a
truly candid man. Be careful not to say that
you are in earnest, and never flatter, and she
will believe any extravagant statement you may
make about herself, provided it be complimen
tary.
“Yes, I admit it,” replied Gordon, “but who
made her so ? Not the God of nature! She is
a perfect artificial being. Society, as it is call
ed, has educated her out of herself, and noth
ing but some terrible life-long affliction or ca
lamity, will ever restore the disposition she
lost in the nursery.”
“What she is now, she will remain forever,”
answered Bertrand; “she cannot unmake her
self, and as to the thing you call affliction, it
only hardens the heart, never melts it. Now, I
know you too well, to suppose that you will ap
prove of my design; but, by Apollo, I mean to
humble that proud beauty, betore many moons
shall wax and wane.”
“Surely, Bertrand, you do not mean—”
“To fall in love with her? No. Nor by any
possibility do I mean that—still less do I intend
to marry her.”
“Then I cannot understand you. Surely you
would not—”
“I will do just what I have said—so much,
and no ly'o.re. I happened to very
at this very moment to be aware thatnar proud
father was on the eve of bankruptcy—(Aid that
she knows it also. This tour to Ogleihorpe is
“No more questions if you please,” said Mr.
Holland. “Supper is announced—permit me,
Major Barton, to place my niece under your
escort."
And the party was soon arranged into couples,
with Mr. Montmollin leading the Brookline
Belle, and Mr. Gordon escorting the black-eyed
coquette in due form to the supper-room,
blazing with lights, and glittering plate of ster
ling silver.
To those people who understand how to edu
cate an appetite, by breaking the usual order of
their daily life, a fast of four or five hours be
yond the usual evening meal, is a matter of no
consequence. Ladies regard such matters with
an air of pious resignation. Custom requires
them to listen for long hours together to sense
less badinage, compared with which the conver
sation of the nussery is profoundly wise and in
structive. In spite of all theories, and all pro
fessions to the contrary, the average tea-table
talk of young people at this day is as bold and
barren of thought as that which prevailed in
the days when woman’s intellect was bounded
by a treatise on etiquette, or the study of the
“Complete Letter Writer.” Why this is true,
it is not necessary here to mention, for, unless
some great authority among the queens of socie
ty shall initiate a resolution, the whole world
seems likely to be swallowed up in a deluge of
“slang.” Grave judges, martinets and manni
kins, Presidents and Congressmen, Lawyers,
doctors, ministers, the bench, the bar, the forum
and the pulpit, everywhere, by everybody, the
rage of quips and quizzes, the grotesque in spel
ling, the absurd collocations of our noble Eng
lish words into sentences which make a ghostly
parody upon wit and humor; all persons, and
all places have given adhesion to the reign of
slang.
It was not so in the days commemorated by
these early annals, but very little of profitable
conversation was heard, even then, in the draw
ing-room, or at the dinner table. With slaivsh
subjection toforeigu fashions, which often make
a masquerade of beauty, and degrade the human
form into a mere dummy for the milliner and
mantua-maker, Americans have not imitated
always the best examples of cultivated society
among their English ancestors. Neither the
breakfast table, nor the dining hall has become
a fixed institution in Anglo-American society.
We live a hurried life in the United States, and
only the very large cities can furnish materials
for a literary club. People who have engage
ments in the counting-room, the office, or the
exchange at nine o'clock, are not prepared for
intellectual exercise at breakfast. After a day
of battle between hopes and fears, profits and
losses, correspondence and settlements, men
are too tired and weary to spend an evening in
the drawing-room among men and women who
know how to think and how to communicate
their knowledge. As for the dinner, or the
supper—people eat to live, and drink to quiet
restless nerves, and as a duty to be performed
as rapidly as possible, we sow only the seeds of
indigestion and dyspepsia, to reap a harvest for
the medical profession. Thus it has ever been
I in the nineteenth century in America; perhaps
the twentieth century will inaugurate the era of
Reform.
The midnight supper at Holland House was
sc ircely an exception to the ordinary rule. Even
j M tjor Barton, whose thread-bare stories had fur
nished entertainment in their very tediousness
I for many years, seemed to be beset by the genius
of melancholy and reserve. A few frantic at
tempts at wit were ventured by the red-faced
{ gentleman, who essayed an enquiry into recent
: improvements in the construction of flying ma
chines, and went so far as to ask a neighbor if
j he thought it possible to imagine the sensations
of a man in a balloon, but the old Major either
! did not hear, or did not catch the drift of en
quiry, and the host raised his finger with an
,——■»=> vunc, snea^^i <ue i^au xjf ♦ic eai-j-
countenance, and diverted his attention to his
empty wine-glass.
Mr. Montmollin was studiously attentive to
*"¥•*“ piratical cruise. St,, is s.iliug ’iiS.’u’Sli.-
black-eyed beauty, and the man with the red
speculations have reduced to baseless fabrics of
a vision.”
“But stay, my friend, you cannot be so un
just, so ungenerous—”
“As to braak her heart? Not a bit of it.
She has no heart capable of breaking. I intend
to capture her—to play fast and loose in such j translating
tashion as to lengthen out the period of her 1 -
face announced with great gravity to the lady on
his left that the Athen;eum was engaged
for Forrest during the coming season.
This remark was heard by the dandy
who uttered an exclamation of delight, and
it into his own vernacular,
«"*•- W | JSttl prteti *. ,S"mfdn?gh 7 . b/£
And an< i pickles at a lamons boarding school, in the
wee sma’ hours.” Lest this remark might lead
ruptcy takes charge of her father’s estate,
then—her fortune gone, mine shall not
low it.”
fol-
“Mv dear friend” said , , , to misconstruction, it is proper to say that the
shocked, both at the 'tone of Bertrand’ and the ? apl -H a * .\ he . Hi « h Flyer Collegiate Institute
duplicity which he had so plainly avowed “re! - tnru ' shed their ° wnbam and pickles for mid
member that she is a woman-let hervery help- ^* t sa PP er °’ ha , ull , n « the “ by the coal
lessneas be her shield and defense. It cannot ' ^^ worked bymeans of a rope and
be that you would take such bitter revenge for I V l , s P? nded lro “ * he *™rth story of that
the mere witticism of thoughtless woman ” 1 d Slate pencils,
“Not I, Gordon; there is more between us two ‘““J?' Briod " , of at b>H s . cen * womanhood,
than you can possibly know. It is an old score
that 1 intend to settle. I have waited long for
an opportunity, and it has come !”
“But listen to reason. You can win her love
—you can breatc her heart if you will. You
have the talent—you have accomplishments—
you have fortune—you are a man of the world,
and know how to ensnare this beautiful butterfly
of fashion. But, my friend, consider what an
unworthy, ignoble—pardon me, Hartrand, it is
a despicable deed “
form favorite articles of diet for gregarious
maidens addicted to hard study ; but these are
expensive, and appetites desire a change now
and then, bo ham and eggs were engineered
into the establishment in the manner before
mentioned.
The host, Mr. Holland, was a famous eater.
He was in good condition, had ample capacity,
and performed the manual of knife and fork
with his usual dexterity. The company follow
ed his example, and thus the entertainment
retribution . Do not argue with me, nor pity j their several occupants to their homes and* some
LI, Un "° rthy °‘ ^•sympathy, or I ; to dreams, pleasant and otherwise
would not confide my purpose to you.
With these words, Bertrand arose, and left j [ T0 BE continued.]
the window, and as he departed, Dr. Physick, a ,,,
popular physician, whose presence had not j 4
been noticed by either of the young men, ad- | If 0111 III© AUtllOrS.
vanned to the recess, and sat down beside Her- 1
bert Gorden.
Yes,” said the Doctor, in a low tone, “I . “^hat though we fail; we feed the high tradi-
heard your conversation. You were speaking
too loudly for secrets, my young friend; but
never mind that. (Jan you call at my office to
morrow at noon? I have something of impor- i Mind.”—[Lord Byron
tance to communicate !” “Recollect that trifl
tion of rhe world and leave our spirit in our peo
ple’s breast.”—[George Eliot.
“The power of Thought — the magic of the
“Concerning them ?” asked Gordon, vacantly. ! perfection is no trifle.—[Angelo.
“No, no—I have nothing to do with them—a j “Thought expands
trifles make perfection; and
well-matched pair, believe me. But another
matter. To-morrow at twelve?”
“Yes. ”
A loud burst of laughter at this moment rang
through the sumptuous parlors, and was as sud
denly hushed, by the pantomimic gesture of the
master of the house.
“He is comiDg up stairs now,” said a rather
shaky voice, in something more than a stage
whisper. “A harmless old man, and it is cruel
in us to make sport of him.”
“So it is," said a lady of decidedly uncertain
age, but clinging to youthful roses on her
cheeks, with the help of a little friendly rouge.
“But the story is too good to keep—it must
come out, and he is bound to hear it,” said a
gentleman, upon whose rubicund face the
brandy spots were distinctly visible.
“That may be so, but he must not hear it to-
night,” replied the senior Holland; “he was my
father’s friend, and I will not allow a breach of
hospitality. Ah ! welcome, Maj. Barton ! why
so late ? my dear sir, you had nearly missed the
supper!”
“I beg pardon, Mr. Holland; I was detained
•n business of importance; ah! I see, you
doubt that the old Major can possibly have im
portant business, but it is true—true as the
gospel!”
“Business of the state—an affair of honor—or
of pleasure ?” queried the red-faced gentleman.
[Goethe.
harmless
action narrows.”-
“Laughter — the world’s stock of
pleasure.”—[Johnson.
“It seems not so much the perfection of fancy
to say things that have never been said before, as
to express those best that have been said oftenest.”
—[Pope.
“Next to the originator of a good saying is the
first quoter of it.”—[Emerson.
“Law is whatever is boldly asserted or plausibly
maintained.”—[Aaron Burr.
“The principal end of poetry is to inform men in
the reason of living.”—[Johnson.
“A strenuous soul hates cheap successes”—
[Emerson.
“Passive submission is the law of hell ”
[Bickersteth. ~
“Worth makes the man, and want of it the
fellow.”—[Pope. ’
“Poetry is the grandest chariot wherein Kin*
Thought rides. —[Alexander Smith. K
“Take away the sword; States can be saved
without it; bring the pen.”-[Lord Lytton.
or^i5“.T"-[M.^d h ' rt0 * '“ Ur
° f ,0 ’ P'"
The last wards of the late lamented Muhlen-
not the v? g ithaif maet * but
STitS’i&'s “ ,nblem of "j