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RENOUNCEMENT.
I must, not think of thee; and, tired yet
strong,
I shun the love tliat lurks In all delight—
The love of thee—and In the blue Heaven’s
height,
And In the dearest passage of a song.
Oh Just beyond the sweetest thoughts that
throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden
yet bright;
But it must never, never come In sight;
I must stop ohort of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep conies to close each dlflieult
day,
When night gives pause to the long watch
I keep.
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—
With the first dream that comes with the
first sleep
I run, I run, 1 am gathered to thy heart.
ALICE MEVNKLL.
A Double Mistake.
“'A letter for you, Aunt Thankful. - ’
A bright young face, like a gleam of
April sunshine, Hashed into the room
where Miss Thankful Moore sat knit
ting—a pretty girlish face,‘with a
saucy dimple in either cheek, and a
merry sparkle in the laughing eyes.
A mammoth blue check apron, much
too kirge for her, quite enveloped her
slender fomi, and both sleeves were j with her.
week or two. It’ll be a change for her,
and like as not she’ll be more contented
after she gets home again.”
“A letter for you, mother, and the
very superscription is as good as a
photo of the writer, lean imagine a
prim, dignified spinster of uncertain
age, to ^liom the least shadow of in
decorum is an unpardonable sin. Mrs.
Mehetable Morton! Why little
mother Hetty, your very name lwoks
unnatural, is so painfully precise. I
wonder if she accepted your invitation
to make us a visit, T hope not, for
we’ll have to drop all pet names while
she is here. She’ll Mehetable you
and Nelson me. I wouldn t wonder
but that she considers it altogether too
familiar to address people by their
given names, and we’ll be at once pro
moted to Mr. and Mrs.”
“Ho let me fake the letter, Nel. I’m
so anxious to read what she has writ
ten. She used to be my dearest friend
years ago, when we were little girls.
I haven’t seen her for a great many
years. Ah! just what I thought.
She can’t leave home for any length
of time; hut she writes that Peter’s
child—Peter was her brother, two or
three years vounger than herself—is
She thinks that the child
fastened up above the elbows, display
ing two plump, snowy arms, the sight
of which would have sent thrills of
envy to the heart of any Ball room
belle.
“Lay it on the table, child, and go
back to your morning’s work.”
‘‘Who do you suppose it’s from?”
questioned the girl, turning the letter
over and viewing the superscription
curiously.
“I’ll see soon’s ever I’ve knit to the
seam-needle. I make it a po’nt never
to lay things aside all in a muddle, no
matter what happens.”
The girl colored consciously.
“Oh, that everlasting seam needle
I believe sometimes you knit past it
just to keep me waiting.”
“Harriet.”
Miss Thankful never used this name
In addressing her neice except when
■extremely displeased. She folded her
work together, and then wiping her
spectacles on her spotless apron, she
adjusted them in their proper position
across her nose, and took up the
letter.
Meanwhile, Harriet had flewn back
to the kitchen, where she gave vent to
her impatience by making the dishes
• clatter.
“She’s the dearest old auntie in the
world!” she said ; “but she does try
me so with her awful precision. She’d
like to have me spend the rest of my
life in the unvarying routine of the
old family clock on the mantel yonder.
I want something new, and, dearly as
I love her, I’d like a change once in
awhile. Aunt Thapkt'ul and the old
clock are alike. The tick, tick, tick
of the clock, and the click, click, click
of her knitting needles, are about the
only sounds I hear, except the occa
ssional racket I make just by way of
variation. The clock is a peifect
model of accuracy and promptness; so
is she. They never make a mistake
or go wrong.”
In the next room, Miss Thankful
Moore had taken the letter from the
■envelope, and had read it through
twice before commenting upon it.
Then dropping it into her lap her face
assumed a thoughtful expression, her
' eyes took a dreamy outlook; and no
wonder, for she was gazing far back
into the past—full forty years.
“Strange, strange!” she murmured,
meditatively, “that Mehetable should
have writ to me after all these years.
She moved to Brambleville quite
lately, and wants to renew our ac
quaintance, she says. Only twenty-
five miles from here, an’ mine too.
Seems ’most like bein’ neighbors.
She’s a widow, poor thing! an’ her
children are all dead but Nell. I’m
right glad that she hasn’t any boys.
Her Nell must be quite a girl. Mebet-
able is every bit as old as I am, aud
Nell’s her youngest, she said. I
would not wonder if she’s about Har-
Tie’s age. Dear me! how that girl
does fret. Shels so lonesome. I don’t
know as I bfofcne her, either. I was
young aud chipper once myself. Me
hetable writ an invite to me to come
and spend a week or two with her.
couldn’t think of leaving home for so
long a time. Things would go to rack
aud ruin ifl did. But it would be a
real treat for Fame, and I could run
down and stay a couple of days and
not half try. It Is a blessed thing that
she’s only got a dailfehter. If she had
grown up sons, I’d never think of
lettln’ Harrie go; for j^e is pretty,-
there Is uo u£e denylh’ tlBfe. Yes, I’ll
Mehetabie's lei
ler If Harrie
is lonely, aud needs a change quiet
badly. If it will not be a bother to
us, she will send Harrie down for a
week or two, and she will come at the
end of that time and make me a short
visit.
Nel puckered up his lips and gave
vent to a long, expressive whistle.
“A little boy’s next thing to an old
maid. What will we do with the
small tornado, mother ?”
“Oh, Nel, you’ll have to amuse him
in some way ! As for me, I rather like
the idea of having a child about onee
more. I’ve lost my little boy, you
know,” with a fond, upward glance.
“Speaking of that lost boy of yours
reminds me that I’ve an old chest of
tools in the garret, and I’ll win his
everlasting friendship and bring the
condemnation of Aunt Thankful down
on my devoted head, by presenting
them on the very day of his arrival.”
“I’ll have Bridget fix up the little
room next to yours for Harrie. She
can make it so cozy and pleasant, and
you must take him out on the lake in
your sail boat occasionally,” said Mrs.
Morton, whose kindly heart was in
stantly filled with plans for the com
fort and pleasure of the expected
guest.
“What a pity that the depot isn’t
nearer,” said Nel, reflectively. “I
guess I’ll take the horses instead of
the carriage when I go to meet him.
The little fellow will be delighted with
a horseback ride. Who ever saw a
boy that wasn’t?”
“Of course he will, the poor little
dear. I expect he’s ' ad rather a sorry
time of it, with only Thankful for
company. He shall make all the
noise he likes for the next two
weeks.”
Mrs. Morton instantly answered
Miss Moore’s letter, setting an early
date for Harrie’s visit.
The day arrived, and Nel, with one
of the carriage ponies and his own
handsome horse, started for the depot.
Iu a few minutes the train came thun
dering in, and the usual bustle and
hurry ensued.
Np 1 vainly searched among the new
arrivals for his little charge. There
was k little boy with his nurse, and a
big boy with his father; but no boy
answering the description of the one
Nel was in search of.
“Dear me, I hope he hasn’t been
taken on with the train,” he said.
At that moment he espied a young
lady, whose wide, blue eyes wore a
very anxious expression, as she search
ed the faces of those about her in a
vain attempt to find the one for whom
she was looking. Stepping to her
side, Nel lifted his hat politely, and
asked if he could assist her in nny
way.
“I expected a young lady to meet
me at this train, but I fear that some
thing has occurred to detain her,” she
said, with tears of vexation in her
eyes.
“And I came to escort a little boy,
who has failed to put in an appear
ance, to my home,” he said, smilingly.
“If you will tell me the young lady’s
name, perhaps I may assist you in
finding her residence.”
“Her name is Miss Nell Morton,”
she answered.
“And the little boy I was to meet at
this train wa^Iarrle Moore!” ex-
claimed N^|^^HBk^eatures went
a tortious,
a vaii^^^^^^^H^A^merri-
Harrie looked up at the tall, hand
some, broad-shouldered young man
in bewildered surprise, scarcely know
ing whether to laugh or cry at the
mistake.
“My name is Nelson, but mother
always calls me Nel,” he explained,
pityiug her evident embarrassment.
“And you must be Harrie, whom
mother sent me to meet. I shall have
to take you into the waiting-room
while I make some changes In my
arrangements for conveying you
home.”
Procuring a hack, he pla :ed her in
it, and after giving the direction to
the driver, he mounted his horse, and,
taking the pony’s bridle, rode by the
side of the hack, so that he might
reach home in time to introduce Har
rie to his mother and relieve her from
further embarrassment.
“It is all on account of the names,”
said Mrs. Morton, laughing heartily,
as she kissed Harrie’s flushed cheek ;
“but I am ever so glad that you are
not a little boy, dear! I shall enjoy
your society so much better.”
“I shall not break my heart over
the disappointment,” thought Nel, as
he cast admiring glances at the bright,
animated face opposite.
“Oh, what would Aunt Thankful
say, if she knew?” said Harrie, as she
stood before the mirror, letting down
her long, golden-brown hair, in the
lovely guest-chamber where Mrs.
Morton had left her with a good
night kiss still warm upon her lips.
“Such a lovely tie !—and I brought
it to Nell,” she said viewing the dainty
article of lace and embroidery admir
ingly. “Just imagine this ornament
ing his shirt-front! Oh, dear, it is too
funny!” aud she laughed merrily.
“I wanted it myself when I purchased
it, only I could not afford two, and
now I ean have it. I shall not write
one word to Aunt Thankful about the
mistake. I mean for once to enjoy
myself. Mrs. Morton is such a dar
ling old lady, and Nel is just splendid,
if he is a man!”
The next two weeks were the bright
est, happiest of all Harrie’s experience.
There were such nice, long talks with
Mrs. Morton, while Nel was at his
office, which I am sorry to confess he
neglected shamefully during those
two joyous weeks.
There were carriage rides and boat
rides, picnic and music, until Harrie’s
foolish little head was nearly turned
with the pleasures she enjoyed ; but
the two weeks drew to a close at last,
bringing a letter from Aunt Thankful,
stating that she would be with them
on the fifth.
Mrs. Morton and Harrie rode over
to the depot iu the carriage, to meet
her and came back with her between
them.
“There’s no use askin’ how you
have enjoyed your visit,” said Aunt-
Thank ful, on seeing Harrie’s bright,
happy face. “I am afraid that you
will not be contented with me again.”
“Oh, yes I shall, for I know you are
the dearest friend I ever had,”
“Where is Nell?” asked Aunt
Thankful, after they had entered the
parlor, aud Mrs. Morton had seated
her guest in a large easy chair.
‘Nei was obliged to be absent thi*
afternoon, and will not be at home
until tea-time,” said Mrs. Morton,
sending a mute dispatch across to
Harrie, who was obliged to leave the
room instantly, while a convulsive
tremor shook her whole form.
Harrie was coming down the stairs
as Nel opened the door, and their
voices came floating down the long
hall and in through the parlor door,
which stood ajar, to where Aunt
Thankful was sitting.
“Mehetable, who is that man talk
ing to Harrie?” she asked.
At that instance Nel aud Harrie en
tered the room together.
“Oh,” exclaimed Mrs. Morton,
smiling complacently, “it’s only Nel.
Mias Moore allow me to make you ac
quainted with my son Nelson. You
didn’t know that I had such a great
boy, now did you?”
“The mischief’s done!” cried Aunt
Thankful, sinking helplessly into a
chair. “But then, ‘whit can’t be
cured must he endured,' ” she added,
philosophically, while Harrie blushed
rosy, and Nel laughed merrily.
“You thought 1 was a young lady,
didn’t you, Miss Moore ?” said he
coming over and seating himself be
side her, aud entering into conversa
tion in an easy, attracts e way, that
quite won her heart.
Aunt Thankful proved a true
prophet in regard to the nu^phlef
which those two happy weeks iWd ac
complished ; but she ofteta remarks
that since Harrie mus^^rry some
body (aud prettv^u^^^^Mal ly do)
she is glad young
Is He a Lafayette ?
Remarkable Story of a Man Confined in
Bellevue Hospital—Fondled by the Mar
ques De Lafayette, yet Suffering form
Poverty and Sickness in New York,
A remarkable story was told last
evening by an old man claiming to be
a nephew of Lafayette, which, if true,
would seem to open to those revering
the name of the French Marques an
opportunity for rescuing from poverty
and Avant a direct descendant of the
illus’rious Frenchman. Francois
Charles Lafayette, as he gives his
name, is confined in the cells of Belle
vue Hospital, where he was seen by
the Rev. Father Brown, of St.
Stephen’s Church, whose interest was
aroused by his name and his story,
and who reported the case to the
Herald. Lafayette is a venerable
looking man, witli long, white beard.
He gives no outward indication of
having been addicted to drink or
other evil habits, and has the speech
and manner of an intelligent, superior
workman. He speaks French with a
decided German accent, but explains
this by having received his education
from his fourth to his twelfth year iu
Germany. He also speaks German,
but with such a strong dialect as to be
hardly intelligible. He says that
although he is a son of Alexandre
Joseph Lafayette, a brother of General
L ifayette, he has been passing under
(he name of Louis Elizabeth Biilen
(his mother having been a CouDtess
von Billed), rather than expose Lafay
ette’s name to shame. He was born
in 1811, in New Orleans, while his
father, he says, was in command of
one of the ships of the French fleet.
After the war, during which his
father was killed, he was taken back
to Paris, where he and his mother
lived at General Lafayette’s house,
and where General Lafayette often
took him on his knees. He called the
General “uncle.” These scenes, he
said, he remembered vividly, although
lie'was then only four or four and a
half years old. He has no recollec
tions cf General Lafayette after that
time. His mother having died, and
he having been placed in charge of a
lady in Germany, the latter, he says,
robbed him of all his money, so that
he was apprenticed at the age of-
twelve to a sculptor in ivory, meer
schaum, etc., iu Paris, whither he
was sent at that age. At eighteen he
entered the French army, Fifth regi
ment infantry, as a common soldier,
remained in it till 1849, and then came
to this country, where he has sii ce
worked at his occupation in New
Orleans, St. Louis and other cities,
and been a tr ipper and an Indian
trader on the Plains. He has been in
New York for the last fifteen months,
living mostly in cheap lodging houses
and finding no work to do, so that he
suffered greatly and was compelled to
Bleep in hallways. For a week he
hardly touched food and was in such
a starving condition that he asked a
policeman to arrest him, which was
done. Being committed to the Fifty-
seventh street police station as a va
grant, he became very ill and was sent
to Bellevue Hospital, aud fee,
complained that while oui^Rnno
the hospital on account of illness, he
had been committed to the drunkards’
cells. His wife died five years ago,
his two sons have gone to Chili, since
which time he has heard nothing
from them, and his two daughters are
married, one to a drunkard and ihe
other to a gambler, so that he can
hope for no aid from them. When
asked if he had anything to show
proving his relationship to Lafayette,
he replied, “Nothing at ail.” He
was also asked how it was that the
Lafayette family did not take an inter
est in his education and prevent his
entering the army as a soldier, but ex
plained that his removal to Germany
at such an early age had severed his
relations with the other I^afayettes.
If a little subscription was j^fcten up
for him, he declared, it woulc^^ble
him to obtaiu again a foothold fonWp-
portlng himself, he it In ever so hull*
hie a fashion.—N. Y. Herald.
Lace and Lace-Making.
In the production of Point de Ve-
nisemhere was no ground or net, the
flowers being connected simply by
threads overcast, or worked on with
pearl loops. “ Bpanish point” was
made much in the same manner, aud
was oliiefiy used in connection with
ecclesiastical purposes, such as altar-
clothes aud vestments. Venice point
is now made principally by the in
mates of convents, and what Is sold iu
the English market is generally spuri
ous aud au inferior imitation. “Greek
point ” and “ Turkey point ” are now
lut litlb^uiowu.^jiiiierudlfcikiauish
lace” is mostly limited to mantillas,
of wnich it sometimes covers the
whole surface, and sometimes only a
border. The “ Aleucon ” lace of France
it owes to Venice, aud the imitation
first equalled, and then i y new pro
cesses and pa ! terns excelled the origi
nal. The “ Point d’Alencon ” i3 now
the only French lace which is made
entirely with the needle. The designs
are printed from copper plates on col
ored parchment. The late Emperor
Napoleon presented to the Empress
Eugenie a dress of Alencon which cost
£8,000, and this she afterwards pre
sented to the Pope to be used as a
trimming for his rochet or surplice.
A flounce of the same material was
comprised in this royal lady’s wed
ding trousseau, which cost £900, and
took thirty-six woq^en eighteen
months to make it. Ac the Paris Ex
hibition of 1867, a dress of this lace,
consisting of two flounces and trim
mings was exhibited. Its estimated
worth was between £3,000 and £4,000
pounds. It was a most exquisite pro
duction. And, there having been no
pressure in regard to time, as iu the
case of a marriage trosseau, it took
forty women seven years to complete
it. Alencon is still the most costly of
all kinds of lace, although Brussels is
trying hard to equal it. “ Irish point”
is the name given to the Irish imita
tions of foreign lace. One description
of it known as “ Curragh point,” has
sprigs made separately of flax threads,
on a ground which is sometimes
worked by the crochet-needle, and
filled in with stitches by an ordinary
needle. This product was at one time
in high favor. About 1855 it employed
many thousand women and girls;
but, unfortunately, the demand has of
late much declined At the Queen’s
drawing-room, in 1864, an Irish lady
wore a train, corsage and petticoat
trimmed with Carrickmacross lace,
and it excited universal admiration.
The number of lace-workers by hand
in Europe is roughly estimated at 500,-
000. Of these there are 250,000 in
Eranee. The Belgian and Flemish
workers number 150,000. Those of
the Midland counties of England,
amount, as we have already said, to
25,000. Of other counties we have no
statistics. '
Nearly every kind of lace is now
made by machinery, and such excel
lence is attained that it is often diffi
cult even for a practiced eye to dis
tinguish between the two ktndB. But
experienced persons say that the most
finished productions of the frame
never possess the touch, the finish, or
the beauty of the laces made by hand.
It is therefore the fact that, while
machinery has brought lace within
the reach of a large number of persons
who were formerly unable to buy it,
the demand for the finer products of
the pillow aud the needle has been
but little, if at all interfered with.
Pearls. \
A fire discovered by itS^^^
so is virtue by its own excellence. i
A disbond is <as precious in the hand
of a Vetrgarpa nJll" brow of a king.
,re people who are almost in
love, almost famous and almost happy
. Character ts like shaded silk; it
must be seen from all sides* or it will
deceive us.
Travel improves superior wine and
spoils poor; it is the same way with
the brain.
Calumny spreads like an oil spot:
we end^fcmr to cleanse it, hut the
mark remains.
If idleness do not produce vice or
malevolence, it commonly product*
melancholy. J
Brain is the impelHtigs force of^ne
world, and thought is the symbo I of
progress. \ I
Manners are the hypocrisiek~-of na
tions ; the hy pocrisies are more or } jss
perfected.
It is with happiness as with watches
—the less complicated the less ta-q.Vy
deranged.
Man cannot dream himself into a
noble character ; he must achieve it
by diligent effort.
To acquire a few tongues is the task
of a few years, but to be eloquent in
one is the labor of a life.
A quaint historical procession is to
take place at Berne in May, represent
ing the development of the oity.
Beginning with the Lacustrine age,
the procession will be composed or
fourteen groups, foremost being the
founder of the city, Berthold von Zah
riugen (1191); the laying of the cor
ner stone of the Minster in 1421
Reformation and the Peasan
In 1663, and Berne In the p
—a tableau of national
costumes. Berne in t
year 2,000—will cl