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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