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tures—they were both so young !
drew closer to each other; and Pa
trick’s arms were wrapped round Let
tice, as they* used to be when she was
a child. He whispered, “If I die, Let
tice, love me!
She pressed her cold lips upon his
forehead, and that was the only vow
which passed between them. The of
ficers began to search the garden, Da
vid Culderwood following, wringing his
feeble hands. “ Good friends, gin ye
seek till dawn, ye’ll no find ae thing
alive, save my puir bairn, if sae be she
is in life still. Lettice—Lettice, whar
are ye gane ?” cried the old man pite
ously.
“ Go to your father —go!” murmur
ed Patrick; but she was deaf to all
voices save his now.
“ I’ll help ye to seek in ilka bush
and brake, if only to find my puir las
sie ; and 1 pray our sovereign lady
Queen Elizabeth
“ Our sovereign lord King James of
England and Scotland ; that’s the
prayer now —so no treason, old man,”
said one of the officers, giving him a
buffet which made poor Davie stagger.
Patrick Ruthven saw and started in his
hiding-place.
“An owl in the bushes —Iloilo there!”
shouted the men.
Patrick, and Lettice scarcely breath
ee. In her frenzy she clasped her arms
passionately round his neck ; her eyes,
stretched out into the darkness, flashed
fire ; she felt that had she only a wea
on at hand, she would have committed
murder to save him. Vain—vain—all
vain!
A crash in the bushes, a rough hand
on Patrick’s breast—“Ho ! prisoners
in the king’s name !”
He was taken at last.
Whether she wept, or shrieked, or
prayed, whether they took any tare
well of one another or no, Lettice nev
er remembered. All that remained in
her memory after that awful moment
was one sight —a boat gliding down
the river in the moonlight ; and one
sound, or words which Patrick had con
trived to whisper, “The Tower—re
member the Tower!”
(.Concluded in our next.)
Cljt (BsMjist.
HOW TO MAKE HOME UNHEALTHY.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
11.
SPENDING A VERY PLEASANT EVENING.
By tlie consent of antiquity, it is de
termined that Pain shall be doorkeeper
to the house of Pleasure. In Europe
Purgatory led to Paradise; and, had
St. Symeon lived among us now, he
would havs earned heaven, if the police
permitted, by praying for it, duiing
thirty years, upon the summit of a
lamp-post. In India the Fakir was
beatified by standing on his head, un
der a hot sun, beset with roasting bon
fircs. In Greenland the soul expected
to reach bliss by sliding for five days
down a rugged rock, wounding itself,
and shivering with cold. The Ameri
can Indians sought happiness through
castigation, and considered vomits the
most expeditious mode of enforcing
self-denial on the stomach. Some
tribes of Africans believe, that on the
way to heaven every man’s head is
knocked against a wall. By consent
of mankind, therefore, it is granted
that we must pass Pain on the way to
Pleasure.
What Pleasure is, when reached,
none but the dogmatical can venture to
determine.* To Greenlanders, a spa
cious fish-kettle, forever simmering, in
which boiled seals forever swim, is the
the delight of heaven. And remem
ber that, in the opinion of M. Bailly,
Adam and Eve gardened in Nova Zem
bla.
You w ill not be surprised, therefore,
if I call upon you to prepare for your
domestic pleasures with a little suffer
ing ; n ■ when I tell you what such
pleasures are, must you exclaim against
them as absurd. Having the sanction
ot our forefathers, they are what is fash
ionable now, and consequently they are
what is fit.
1 propose, then, that you should give,
for the entertainment of your friends,
an Evening Party ; and “as this is a
scene in w hichyoung ladies prominent
ly figure, 1 will, if you please, on this
occasion, pay particular attention to
your daughter.
O mystery of preparation!—Par
don, Sir. You err if you suppose me
to insinuate that ladies are more care
ful over personal adornment than the
gentlemen. When men made a dis
play of manhood, wearing beards, it is
recorded that they packed them, when
they went to bed, in pasteboard cases,
lest they might be tumbled in the night.
Man at his grimmest, is as vain as wo
man, even when he stalks about beard
ed and battle-axed. This is the myste
ry of preparation in your daughter’s
case: How does she breathe? You
have prepared her from childhood for
the part she is to play to-night, by
training her form into the only shape
which can be looked at with compla
cency in any ball-room. A machine,
called stays, introduced long since into
England by the Normans, has had her
in its grip from early girlhood. She
has become pale, and —only the least
bit liable to be blue about the nose and
fingers.
Stays are an excellent contrivance ;
they give a material support to the old
cause, Uuhealthiness at Home. This
is the secret of their excellence. A
woman’s ribs are narrow at tile top,
and as they approach the waist they
widen to allow room for the lun<js to
play within them. If you can prevent
the ribs from widening, you can pre
vent the lungs from playing, which
they have no right to do, and make
them work. This you accomplish by
the agency of stays. It fortunately
happens that these lungs have work to
do—the putting of the breath of life in
to the blood —w hich they are unable
to do properly w hen cramped tor space;
it becomes about as difficult to them
as it would be to you to play the trom
bone in a china closet. By this com
pression of the chest, ladies are made
nervous, and become unfit for much ex
ertion ; they do not, however, allow
us to suppose that they have lost flesh.
I here is a fiction of at tire which w ould
induce, in a speculative critic, the be
lief that some internal flame had caused
their waists to gutter, and that the ribs
had a. 1 run down into a lump which
protrudes behind under the waistband,
i his appearance is, I think, a fiction ;
and to. my opinion I have newspaper
authority. In the papers it was writ-
ten, one day last year, that the hump
alluded to was tested with a pin, upon
the person of a lady, coming from the
Isle of Man, and it was found not to
be sensitive. Brandy exuded from the
wound ; for in that case the projection
was a bladder, in which the prudent
housewife was smuggling comfort in a
quiet way. The touch of a pin changed
all into discomfort, when she found that
she was converted into a peripatetic
watering-can —brandying-can 1 should
have said.
Your daughter comes down stairs
dressed, with a bouquet, at a time when
the dull seeker of Health and Strength
would have her to go up stairs with a
bed-candlestick. Your guests arrive.
Young ladies, thinly clad and packed
in carriages, emerge, half-stiffed; put
a cold foot, protected by a filmly shoe,
upon the pavement, and run, shivering,
into your house. Well, sir, we’ll warm
them presently. But suffer me to
leave you now, while you receive your
guests.
I know a Phyllis, fresh from the
country, who gets up at six and goesto
bed at ten; who knows no perfume but
a flower-garden, and has worn no band
age to her waist except a sash. She is
now in London, and desires to do as
others do. She is invited to your party,
but is not yet come ; it may be well
for me to call upon her. Why, in the
name of Newgate, what is going on ?
She is shrieking “ Murder!” on the
second floor. Up to the rescue! A
judicious maid directs me to the draw
ing-room : “It’s only Miss a-trying on
her stays.”
Here we are, sir; Phyllis and I.—
You find the room oppressive—’tis
with perfume, Phyllis. With foul air?
al), your nice country nose detects it;
yes, there is toul air; not nasty’ of
course, my dear, mixed, as it here is,
with eau-de-Cologne and patchouli.—
Pills are not nasty, sugared. A grain
or two of arsenic in each might be not
quite exactly neutralized by sugar;
but there is nothing like faith in a good
digestion. Why do the gentlemen
cuddle the ladies, and spin about the
room with them, like tee-totums ?
Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis! let me waltz
with you. There, do y r ou not see how
it is? Faint, are you—giddy—will
you fall ? An ice will refresh you.—
Spasms next? Phyllis, let me take
you home.
Now then, sir, Phyllis has been put
to bed; allow me to dance a polka
with your daughter. Frail, elegant
creature that she is ! A glass of wine
—a macaroon : good. Sontag, yes ;
and that dear novel. That was a de
lightful dance ; now let us promenade.
The room is close ; a glass of wine, an
ice, and let us get to the delicious
draught in the conservatory, or by that
door. Is it not beautiful? The next
quadrille—l look slily at my watch,
and Auber's grim chorus rumbles with
in me, “ Void minuit! void minuit /”
Another dance. How fond she seems,
to be of macaroons ? Supper. My
dear sir, I will take good care of your
daughter. One sandwich. Champagne.
Blanc-mange. Tipsey-cake. Brandy
cherries. Glass of wine. A maca
roon. Trifle. Jelly. Champagne.—
Custard. Macaroon. The ladies are
being taken care of —Yes, now in their
absence we will drink their health, and
wink at each other : their and our Bad
Healths. This is the happiest mo
ment of our lives; at two in the morn
ing, with a dose of indigestion in the
stomach, and three hours more to come
before we get to bed. You, my dear
sir, hope that on many occasions like
the present you may see your friends
around you, looking as glassy-eyed as
you have made them to look now. We
will rejoin the ladies.
Nothing but Champagne could have
enabled us to keep up the evening so
well. We were getting weary before
super —but we have had some wine,
have dug the spur into our sides, and
on we go again. At length, even the
bottle stimulates our w r orn-out compa
ny no more ; and then we separate.
Good-night, dear sir ; we have spent a
Very Pleasant Evening under your
roof.
To-morrow, when you depart from
a late breakfast, having seen your
daughter’s face, and her boiled-macker
el eye, knowing that your wife is bil
ious, and that your son has just gone
out for soda-water, you will feel your
self to be a Briton who has done his
duty, a man who has paid something
on account of his great debt to civilized
societv.
111.
THE LIGHT NUISANCE.
Tieck tells us, in his “History of the
Sehildburger,” that the town council of
that spirited community w as very w ise.
It had been noticed that many worthy
aldermen and common-councilors were
in the habit of looking out of the w in
dow when they ought to be attending
to their duties. A vote was therefore,
on one occas on, passed by a large ma
jority, to this effl-ct, namely—W here
as the windows of the Town-hall are a
great impediment to the dispatch of
public business, it is ordered that be
fore the next day of meeting they be
all bricked up. When the next day
of meeting came, the worthy represen
tatives ofSchildbiirge were surprised to
find themselves assembling in the dark.
Presently, accepting the unlooked-for
lact, they settled down into an edi
fying discussion of the question, wheth
er darkness was not more convenient
for their purposes than daylight. Had
you and I been there, my friend, our
votes in the division would have been,
like the vote in our House of Commons
a lew days ago, for keeping out the
Light Nuisance as much as possible.
Darkness is better than daylight, cer
tainly.
Now this admits of proof. For,
let me ask, where do you find the best
part of a lettuce ? —not in the outside
leaves. Which are the choice parts of
celery?—of course, the white shoots in
the middle. Why, sir? Because light
has never come to them. They be
come white and luxurious by tying up.
by earthing up, by any contrivance
which has kept the sun at bay. It is
the same with man : w hile w e obstruct
the light by putting brick and board
where gla s suggests itself, and mock
the light by picturing impracticable
windows on our outside walls —so that
oik houses stare about like blind men
with glass eyes —while this is done, we
sit at home and blanch, we become in
our dim apartments pale and delicate,
we grow to look refined, as gentlemen
and ladies ought to look. Let the
sanitary doctor, at whose head we have
thrown lettuces, go to the botanist and
SOUTIIE R N L 1 T ERARY GA Z
ask him, How, is this? Let him come
back and tell us, Oh, gentlemen, in
these vegetables the natural juices are
not formed w hen you exclude the light.
Ihe natural juices in the lettuce or in
celery are flavoured much more strong
ly than our tastes would relish, and
therefore we induce in these plants an
imperfect development, in order to
make them eatable. Very well. The
natural juices in a man are stronger
than good taste can tolerate. Man re
quires horticulture to be fit to come to
table. To rear the finer sorts of hu
man kind, one great operation necessa
ry is to banish light as much as possi
ble.
Ladies know that. To keep their
faces pale, they pull the blinds down
in their drawing-rooms, they put a veil
between their countenances and the
sun when they go out, and carry, like
good soldiers, a great shield on high,
by name a Parasol, to ward his darts
off. They know better than to let the
old god kiss them into colour, as he
does the peaches. They choose to re
main green fruit: and we all know that
to be a delicacy.
Yet there are men among us daring
to propose that there shall no longer be
protection against light; men who
would tax a house by its capacious
ness, and let the sun shine into it un
hindered. The so-called sanitary peo
ple really seem to look upon their fel
low-creatures as so many cucumber-.
But we have not yet fallen so far bad
in our development. Disease is a pri
vilege. Those only who know the ten
der touch of a wife’s hand, the quiet
kiss, the soothing whisper, can appre
ciate its worlh. All who are not dead
to the tenderes emotions will lament
the day when light is turned on with
out limit in our houses. We have no
wish to be blazed upon. Frequently
pestilence itself avoids the sunny side
of any street, and prefers walking in
the shade. Nay, even in one building,
as in the case of a great barrack at !St.
Petersburg, there will be three calls
made by disease upon the shady side
of the establishment for every one visit
that it pays to the side brightened by
the sun: and this is known to happen
uniformly, for a series of years. Let
us be warned, then. There must be
no increase of windows in our houses;
let us curtain those we have, and keep
our blinds well down. Let morning
sun or afternoon sun fire no vollies in
upon us. Faded curtains, faded car
pets, all ye blinds forbid ! But faded
faces are desirable. It is a cheering
spectacle on summer afternoons to see
the bright rays beating on a row of
w indows, all the way down a street,
and failing to find entrance any where.
Who wants more windows? Is it not
obvious that, when daylight really
comes, every window we possess is
counted one too many ? If we could
send up a large balloon into the sky,
with Mr. Braidwood and a fire-engine,
to get the flames of the sun under, just
a little bit, that would be something
rational. More light, indeed ! More
w ater next, no doubt! As if it were
not perfectly notorious that in the ar
ticles of light, water, and air, Nature
outran the constable. We have to
keep out light with blinds and vails,
and various machinery, as we would
keep out cockroaches with wafers; we
keep out air with pads and curtains;
and still there are impertinent reform
ers clamoring to increase our difficulty,
by giving us more windows to protect
against the inroads of those household
nuisances.
1 call upon consistent Englishmen to
make a stand against these innovators.
There is need of all our vigour. In
1848, the repeal of the window-tax was
scouted from the Commons by a sensi
ble majority of ninety-four. In 1850,
the good cause has triumphed only by
a precarious majority of three’. The
exertions of right-thinking men will
not be w anting, when the value and im
portance of a little energetic labour is
once clearly received.
What is it that the sanitary agita
tors want ? To tan and freckle all their
countrywoman, and to make Britons
apple-faced ? The Persian hero, Bus
tum, when a baby, exhausted seven
nurses, and was weaned upon seven
sheep a day, when he was of age for
spoon-meat. Are English babies to be
Rustums ? When Rustum’s mother,
Roubadah, from a high tower first saw
and admired her future husband Zal,
she let her ringlets fall, and they were
long, and reached unto the ground ;
and Zal climbed up by them, and knelt
down at her feet, and asked to marry
her. Are British ladies to be strength
ened into Roubadahs, w ith hair like a
ship’s cable, up which husbands may
clamber ? In the present state of the
mania for public health, it is quite time
that every patriotic man should put
these questions seriously to his con
science.
One topic more. Let it clearly be
understood, that against artificial light
we can make no objection. Between
sun and candle there are more con
trasts than the mere difference in bril
liancy. The light which comes down
from the sky not only eats no air out
of our mouths, but it comes charged
w ith mysterious and subtle principles
which have a purifying, vivifying pow
er. It is a powerful ally of health, and
we make war against it. But artificial
iight contains no sanitary marvels.—
W hen the gas streams through half a
dozen jets into your room, and burns
there and gives light; when candles be
come shorter and shorter, until they
are “burnt out” and seen no more;
you know what happens. Nothing in
Nature ceases to exist. Y our camphine
has left the lamp, but it lias not van
ished out of being. Nor has it been
converted into light. Light is a visi
ble action; and candles are no more
converted into light when they are
burning, than breath is converted into
speech when you are talking. The
breath, having produced speech, mixes
with the atmosphere ; gas, camphine,
candles, having produced light, do the
same. If you saw fifty wax-lights
shrink to their sockets last week in an
unventilated ball-room, yet, though in
visible, they had not left you ; for their
elements were in the room, and you
w ere breathing them. Their light had
been a sign that they were combining
chemically with the air ; in so combin
ing they were changed, but they be
came a poison. Every artificial light
is, of necessity, a little workshop for
the conversion of gas, oil, spirit, or cau
dle into respirable poison. Let no san
tary tongue persuade you that the
more we have such a process, the
more need we have of ventilation.—
Ventilators is a catchword for the use
of agitators, in w hich it does not be
come any person of refinement to ex
hibit interest.
The following hint w ill be received
thankfully by gentlemen who would be
glad to merit spectacles. To make
your eyes weak, use a fluctuating light;
nothing can be better adapted for your
purpose than w hat are called “mould”
candles. The joke of them consists in
this: they begin with giving you suf
ficient light; but, as the wick grows
the radiance lessens, and your eye gra
dually accommodates itself to the de
crease : suddenly they are snuffed, and
your eye leaps back to its original ad
justment, there begins another slide,
and then leaps again. Much practice
of this kind serves very well as a fa
miliar introduction to the use of glasses.
[To he continued.]
iflir jnrrri! altar.
HOURS Os PRAYER.
“ Evening, and morning, and noonday will I pray.”
Down, slothful heart! how darest thou say,
“ Call not so oft to pray 1”
Behold, the Lord’s own bounteous showers
Keep their appointed hours.
The forenoon saw the spirit first
On orphan’d Saints in glory burst;
At noontide hour t. Peter saw
The sheet let down, heavenward all earth to
draw ;
At eventide, when good Cornelius kneel’d
Upon his fasting day, an angel shone revealed.
Untired is He in mercy’s task,
Then tire not thou to ask,
He says not,“ Yesterday I gave,
Wilt thou forever crave V’
He every moment waits to give,
Watch thou unwearied to receive.
Thine Hours of Prayer, upon the Cross
To him were hours of woe and shame and loss;
Scourging at morn ; at noon pierced hands and
feet;
At eve, fierce pains of death, for thee He
counted sweet.
The blue sky o-er the green earth bends,
All night the dew descends ;
The green earth to the blue heaven’s ray
Its bosom spreads all day,
Earth answers heaven—the holy race
Should answer his unfailing grace.
Then*mile low world, in spite or scorn,
We to our God will kneel ere prime of morn ;
The third, the sixth, the ninth—each Passion
hour—
We with high praise will keep, as He with
gifts of power.
Lesson for Sunday, November 24.
PATIENCE.
“ For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done
the will of God, ye miiilit receive the promise. —Heb.
x. 36.
We have need of grace to entitle us
to the promise, laitli to rely on its
truth, pray or to plead its personal ap
plication, hope to animate us in the ex
pectation of its fulilment, and patience
and perseverance that we may receive
it. Patience is requisite, both on a
present and future account. We need it
For the performance of present
duty. “Doing the will of God” in
cludes
Active obedience.. As God does not
send any into the world, so lie does not
plant any in the church to be idle. His
will is our standard, and his grace is
our support in duty.
Passive submission. The life of the
believer here is continual exercise; there
are many tests by which God tries his
people. How hard is it to bear with
patience accumulated trials; and while
clouds gather thick around us, and bil
lows roll in rapid succession over us,
to preserve a calmness and serenity of
mind, which enables 11s to smile at the
storm, to kiss the hand that makes us
smart, and say —
“ Blest be that hand, whether it shed
Mercies or judgments o’er my head :
Extend the sceptre or the rod
Blest hand! ’tis still the hand of God. ’
For the enjoyment of future hap
piness. What is “ the promise?” It
refers to the hist promise, the grand
consummation of the whole. Thus be
lievers in glory are said to be inherit
ing the promises, ‘iliere are many
motives that should excite us to the
exercise of patience. Heaven is worth
waiting for, the period is not long, our
present comforts and provisions are
great, impatience ill becomes us, and
can do us no good; those who are
now inheriting, were once pleading the
promises.
A BLIND GIRL AND HER BIBLE.
Would you know the value of the
Bible, let me introduce you to a scene
of deep and thrilling interest, as re
lated by a minister an eye witness. A
young woman, completely blind and
deaf, was brought before a number of
eminent surgeons, to see if anything
could be done for her. 1 ler sad condi
tion had been produced by a violent
pain in the head.
The only method of communicating
with her was by tapping her hand,
which signified no, and by squeezing it,
which signified yes. The surgeons con
cluded that her case was incurable,and
in reply to her earnest inquiries, she
received the unwelcome tap. She im
mediately burst into tears and wept
aloud in all the bitterness of anguish.
“ What,” said she, “shall 1 never see
the light of day, or hear a human voice?
Must 1 remain shut up in darkness and
silence as long as I live?” and had she
again been able to see, she might have
been pointed to the promises of the
Bible, if to hear, they might have been
cited for her comfort, At length a
friend who was present took up the
Bible, and placed it to her breast. It
was a touching and beautiful act. She
placed her hands on it and asked, “Is
this the Bible?” Her hand was squeezed
in reply. She immediately clasped
the Bible in her hands and held it up
to her bosom and exclaimed: “This is
the only comfort I have left, I shall
never more be able to look upon its
blessed pages, but l can think of the
blessed promises I have learnt from it,”
and then began to repeat some of its
promises: “Cast thy burden upon the
Lord and he will su stain thee. Call
upon me in the day of trouble, and I
will deliver thee. My grace is suffi
cient for thee,” <fcc. She dried her
ters, became submissive to the will of
God, and was happy.
Spirit of Controversy.— For more
than twenty years my dear Master has
delivered me from a spirit of contro
versy, and I trust will deliver me to
the end. Let others disput” about sal
vation ; I will leave them and seek to
enjoy it. And I do, glory be to my
God; I am getting in my harvest while
others are only sowing the seed.
[ W. Romaine.
“Counsel your friend in private, but
never reprove him in public.”
(Original purtrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TAN Z AS.
Many a germ of heartfelt kindness
Dies before it is revealed ;
Human passion, in its blindness,
Breathes upon it ’till congealed ;
Impulse, warm with pure emotion,
Surviveth not suspicion’s touch,
Nor out-liveth the corrosion
Os reserve indulged o’er much.
Often when the heart is warmest
With affection’s kindliest flame,
Something acts as an alarmist,
And ’tis cold like ice again ;
If its thoughts, like evening radiance,
Seek to spread a halo round,
They are held in strict abeyance,
By some dreary, gloomy power.
0, strew no more upon life’s bosom,
Aught to doom one single joy,
All life’s hopes, like fragile blor-soms,
Soon enough will Time destroy ;
Let its germs of gen’rous impulse,
In affection having birth,
Meet no more forbidding repulse,
They are needed on our earth.
R. W. B.
Milledgeville, Ga.
(T'ljr ftarg (T’cllrr.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MUSICAL N EIGHBOUIIS.
“There is a house that would suit
me,” said Mrs. Grey, as, wearied out
with house-hunting,she stood and gazed
admiringly at a tall mansion in
street.
“Pray do not think of such a thing,”
said her con panion, fairly shuddering
with horror; “I was domiciled in that
house six months, and can assui'e you
1 have never ceased to regret it. Like
you, attracted by its imposing exte
rior, 1 engaged it without making any
enquiries regarding the habits of my
*
neighbours. Tripping over it admir
ingly, previous to taking up my resi
dence there, l asked not what musical
airs were the most likely to he wafted
to me through my open window, but
from which quarter of the heavens I
was to be the most indebted for those
airs which were to fan my warm cheek.
J little knew that I was settling myself
in the vicinity of muses, and that even
more than “the tuneful nine” were my
neighbours. Not far off lives a psalm
singing female. Oh! how she revels in
a sacred song, banishing entirely from
her musical vocabulary all with pro
fane names. When in one of those de
lightful reveries which sometimes steal
over the soul and carry it far into the
land of visions, perchance building up
“dreams for the fast-coming years,”
and erecting castles, which, like the
famous palace of ice, are destined to
be destroyed by the sun of reality, I
was suddenly startled by a loud voice
singing, “Awake ye saints, awake.”
My dreams vanished, I started to actual
life, and was “ myself again.” Yes,
that harsh voice banished the dreamy
sleep that rested so soothingly upon
my spirits —a slumber that would have
been scared away, had it been as deep
as that which scaled the eves of the
unfortunate Endymion. On the warm
est days she sung the loudest, “From
Greenland’s icy Mountains.” Then
again my ears would be greeted with,
the tidings that she was “Bound for
the promised land,” but day after day
Would wing its flight, and she would
give me indications that she was still
here, wandering about “like the unbu
ried dead on the lake’s side,” who
“ A hundred years they wander on the shore,
At length their penance done are wafted o’er.”
Next door live two damsels, in a state
of celibacy and music; at night their
warblirigs are heard breaking the still
ness that rested on the star-watched
earth. When disposed to be a little
romantic, I used to lean from my win
dow, watching the bright waves, as
they were kissed into smiles by “the
silver lip of the moon,” all my poeti
cal reveries were put to flight by hear
ing that
“ Miss Wrinkle Bftf, ii can't he denied,
And yet to be married she constantly sighed,”
thereby reminding me of my own close
approximation to that same Miss Wrin
kle’s despised condition. But “the
last pale hope shivered at my heart,”
when I was forced to listen to the un
welcome intelligence that
“ There is nobody coining to marry,
Nobody corning to woo,”
for you know, my dear Miss Grey, that
unlike many of my sex who have lived
to a rather advanced age in a state of
“single blessedness,” I do not say “1
will positively never marry,” for the
other sex can be very insinuating some
times.”
“Very,” responded Mrs. Grey, who
looked upon her friend with intense
pity, as she had been very fortunate in
burying three husbands, while Miss
Lucy Lane had never had even one to
inter.
“At last I could stand the dulcet
notes of these two nightingales no
longer, and bidding adieu to those
merry twinklers, the stars, would hie
me to my “sleeping dreams,” which
are said to be never as “fatal as our
waking ones.” Scarcely had sleep
waved her bunch of popies over my
eyes, when 1 started suddenly up. —
What was the matter? you ask. 1 had
been dreaming “love’s own delicious
dream,” when 1 heard what, to my half
awakened faculties, seemed to be some
deep-toned, manly voice, saying,—
“Meet me by moonlight alone.” “Yes,
I will meet thee,” came passionately
from my lips,and 1 gazed wildly around.
Alarmed by iny vehemence of manner,
sister Grace thinking me suddenly de-
ETTE.
mented, sunk almost fainting on her
pillow. Settled once more to my
dreamings, I would be awakened by,
“Behold how brightly breaks the morn,”
which intelligence would often be too
true. Opposite, in that crimson-cur
tained house, dwells a bevy of Madame
Anna Bishop’s, a perfect opera troupe;
all day long they tortured me with the
cadences of “Take them, I implore
thee,” and at night some “splendid
tenor” or “deep bass” would assist
them in swelling their notes louder. —
At that corner, in the house with the
green shutters, live two flute practising
youths; and next door an Italian, who
“vexes night’s drowsy ear,” and mine,
with the melancholy notes of a trom
bone. I could not remember half the
other musical annoyances of this neigh
bourhood ; gamuts run up and down by
the hour, until they are fairly worn out
with their own exertions; opera tunes
so sadly charged that their own parents
would not know them; and marches,
which never stop going. 1 could wish
my enemy no greater misfortune than
living in a musical neighbourhood,next
door to an Apollo, and opposite to an
Euterpe.”
“All the music 1 once had in my soul
is gone,” continued Lucy Lane excit
edly; “and like the war horse, at the
first note 1 am ready for battle.”
“Ah! what a pity,” observed Mrs.
Grey, as a friend once, in expatiating
upon the improved state of her voice,
remarked; “what a pity we must in
this world so often ride our hobbies at
the expense of our neighbours.” ‘Mu
sic’ certainly ‘hath charms’ from the
low sweet tones of some gentle voice,
singing to its own heart, to the delight
ful burst of melody that swells out in
the opera. But yet there are moments
when she spirit turns impatiently away
even from music; times of great medi
tation, when the rapt soul would have
no single sound come between it and
its dream; and times of heart-breaking
sorrow, when ‘ melody mocks at the
heart out of tune.’ Then as such times
came to all earth’s children, 1 will not,”
added Mrs. Grey, “reside in this Mu
sical Neighbourhood. E. B. C.
Charleston.
(Dur i'rttrra.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, Nov. 16, 1850.
The new play called “The Betrothal,”
by Boker, which has met with such
marked success at the Walnut-street
Theatre, Philadelphia, is to* be pro
duced here on Monday night at the
Broadway. I have little doubt that it
will go off as well here as in the au
thor’s native city. I hear from the
best authority that it is not only an
admirably w ritten play, classical in its
conception, terse and vigorous in its
dialogue, and abounding in brilliant
metaphor and delicate wit, but that it
has rare capabilities for the stage. You
might, indeed, take this for granted,
from the run it has had in the Quaker
city. The principal character is to be
played by Couldock, w ho has sustained
the part excellently well on its per
formance there. He enters into the
spirit of the play with great zest, and
as 1 am told, does himself greater jus
tice than in most of his personations in
playing with Charlotte Cushman. Mr.
Boker, I see, has been in town for a
few days, awaiting the result of Mon
day evening, with good hope and the
least possible nervousness.
The play of “ The Roman Tribute,”
bv Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, which I told
you in my last was to be played at the
Arch-street Theatre, came off, as was
expected, with quite brilliant success.
It was performed three nights in suc
cession to crowded houses. lam told
by a friend who was present on Wed
nesday night, the author’s benefit, that
the play is a rich and powerful produc
tion, strongly marked with the peculiar
genius of the writer, and filled with
happy touches finely suited to popular
effect. site representation had some
good points, but failed to give an ade
quate impression of the idea of the
author. The leading character, Anthe
mius, on which Mrs. Smith has laid
out a great deal ot’ strength, is a noble
compound of Roman patriotism, of
manly virtue, in the antique sense of
the term, and of romantic beauty of
character. He is portrayed with an
almost masculine vigor of language,
and in some passages leminds you of a
glorious piece of ancient sculpture.—
This part, however, was badly dam
aged in the doing, by Connor, who had
it poorly committed, and was obliged
to flounce and flounder, and help him
self out of the scrape the best way he
could. The feminine characters were
sustained with more ability, and, with
some exceptions, were rendered with
fidelity and effect. One scene, in par
ticular, where the two who had been
lovers in youth, met under circum
stances of despair, was given with true
dramatic spirit by all the performers,
end called down the house in a very
emphatic round of applause. A dag
ger-scene, which was played by Mrs.
Connor alone, was listened to with
breathless silence, and excited an in
tense sympathy. She looked the part
admirably, and her elocution was
impressive and beautiful. In spite of
the defects of the representation, the
play went off w r ell. The externals
were very brilliant and attractive, the
costumes, scenery and processions be
ing a feature in the performance which
could not but take effect with a popu-
lar audience. The rich, lesselated pave
ment, the night scene under the bright
starry canopy, and the luxurious ban
quetting hall, w ere got up in a quite
artistic manner, and were in fine keep
ing with the general movement of the
play. The contrast of the Christian
banners bearing the cross, and the rude
insignia of the Pagans, with their cos
tumes, rich in barbaric pomp and gold,
was very striking. I trust I shall be
able hereafter to give you an account
of the successful representation of this
play in New York, adding another well
merited tribute to the peculiarly origi
nal and creative genius of the gifted
author.
Archbishop Hughes sails to day in
the Baltic for Europe, intending to re
ceive the full credentials of his new
Episcopal authority from the hands of
the Supreme Pontiff. Ilis lecture on
“The Decline of Protestanism,” de
livered in the Cathedral last Sunday
evening, drew- together an immense au
dience, completely filling that spacious
edifice, and not by any means a thin
sprinkling of Protestants among the
number. The lecture was ingenious,
elaborate, eloquent, and 1 must add,
sophistical. One of his strongest points
to illustrate the caducity of the Pro
testant Church was the prevaling of
Rationalism in Germany. He made
far more out of this than the real facts
in the case would justify. No educated
man in Germany, he asserted, now be
lieves in the doctrine of the Trinity.—
But this is simply an erroneous state
ment. A great deal of the philosophi
cal speculation of recent times in Ger
many has been to illustrate slid sustain
the mystery of the Trinity, and to
place it on the ground of universal, in
tellectual analogies. Besides, the good
Archbishop greatly overrated the in
fluence of Rationalism in Germany.—
He forgot to inform his audience that
the most potent Rationalist of the day,
Professor Strauss, had called out a host
of scholars and theologians, in oppo
sition to his heresies. Nor has the
Protestant Church in other countries
been infected to any considerable ex
tent with the plague of Rationalism.
In the United States especially, to
which the Bishop’s remarks ought to
apply, if they had any force at all, a
Rationalist, as he described him, is a
rare bird, and would scarce be owned
by any flock. This was not the only
weak point in the discourse, but 1 have
no wish to dwell on them.
Still you may think from various
rumours that are afloat, that Catholi
cism is on the increase in New-York.
In certain quarters, perhaps this is the
fact. But it is merely nominal, I am
persuaded, as the hold of the Catholic
domination is greatly weakened on the
minds of its subjects. For instance,
you will see that Dr. Forbes and Mr.
Preston, both greatly beloved ministers
of the Episcopal Church, have quitted
that communion, and on Thursday last
were ordained by the Bishop, as Cath
olic priests. But this only shows that
certain minds have become tired of the
faith in which they w'ere brought up,
and yearn for the certainty and mental
repose which they fancy can be obtain
ed within the bosom of Catholicity.—
It does not show that the bulk of the
people are any nearer to Rome than
they were before.
The recent vote on the repeal of the
School Law, in this city, presents a
somewhat curious illustration of the
allegiance of the people to the rule of
the priesthood. The Freeman's Jour
nal, the leading Catholic organ in New-
York, left no stone unturned to procure
a repeal of the law-. It argued, ex
postulated, cajoled, threatened, and
mystified, leaving no word unsaid to
make the worse appear the better rea
son. But all to no purpose. The city
gave a large majority for the protection
of the law, of course, including a heavy
vote in its favour from the Irish Cath
olics. This fact means something, and
is worth a dozen such tirades as are
had from the Bishop on the decline of
Protestantism. On the same evening
with the Bishop’s performance, Dr.
Dowling, one of our most eminent
Baptist clergymen, was holding forth
to a big audience on the decline of
Catholicism.
T ou will find it stated in some of the
morning papers, that the bodies of
Margaret Fuller, her husband, and
child, have been recovered near Fire
Island. I suspect this is all gammon.
At least her most inti mate friends know
nothing about it. T.
The Anatomy of a Coquette. —A
coquette is a female general, who builds
her fame on her advances. A coquette
may be compared to tinder, which lays
itself out to catch sparks, but does not
always succeed in lighting up a match.
Men are perverse creatures; they fly
that which pursues them, and pursue
that which dies them. Forwardness,
therefore, on the part of a female,
makes them draw back, and backward
ness draws them forwards. There will
always be this difference between a
coquette and a woman of sense and
modesty, that while one courts every
man, every man will court the other.
\\ hen the coquette settles into an old
maid, it is not unusual to see her as
staid and formal as she was previously
versatile:—
“ Thus weathercocks, which for a while
Have turned about with every blast,
Grown old and destitute of oil.
Rust to a joint, and fix at last.”
Sure and Safe Remedy for a Fit
of Passion. —Walk out in the open
air; you may speak your mind to the
winds without hurting any one, or pro
claiming yourself to be a simpleton.
CfoßorlimfynsU
FASHIONS FOR dd p^l
The season is not yet sufiUjjl
vanced tor the appearance us,/ ■
in winter costume. It may i" Vt
be mentioned that almost all t'l”
des of dress recently made J* ’■
those rich deep tints suited aiik ‘"’m
present and coming season. TU
dresses in Paris for promenade ■
door neglige, are of decidedly /
hues. The materials are pi a ;j ■
figured silks, French cashmere'!, J
lencia and merino.
Avery fashionable illustratior I
this is a dress of Canton linen „ r ■
coutil; high body, ornamented ‘
embroidery in braiding, with **■
pardessus, short and fitted to the q .■
and embroidered like the dress
sleeves and under-sleeves, wU I
toons. In all toilets the collars andl
habit-shirts, which arc worn with !
bodies, and the dresses are ornain?
in the same manner as the sleeve!
Dress of Scotch plaid pop<qj n ‘
pardessus of the same, having a ’
behind. Dress of grenadine, ope,,
and trimmed with full braiding,carriw
down to the bottom of the skirt J
form an apron.
The bonnets for ttie season are I
dark satin or velvet. They arc trij
med with velvet flowers, ribbon JJ
lace, or with short feathers. Ainijß
the new bonnets one is a novelty,
is ot gray crape; the trimming eiin. H
of exceedingly narrow frills, three*
rose-colour ribbon with a seallo f I
edge and two of the crape doubled J
Ihese frills, which present in some]
gree the effect of ruches, are put on]
sets of five, one set being at the cdJ
of the bonnet, and the same repeat]
at equal distances, over the w hole]
Roquets of small pink mallows for]
the ins de trimming. Another bom]
of lilac satin is trimmed with two ft: I
of white blonde, much” spaced; on ea]
side of the bonnet is a bouquet ]
heart’s-ease, made of lilac and violet]
coloured velvet.
Dinner and Evening Costi me.—l
Dress of cerulean blue glace. The skirl
trimmed with seven rather narrow]
flounces, cut out in scallops and pinked I
at the edges. The low corsage, which I
tails off the shoulders somewhat morel
than fashion has lately authorized, H
plaited in the front, and confined rotn iH
the top by a band of silk, above whirl,l
there is a narrow lace edging. Th H
sieves are demi-long, that is to savl
just descending below the turn of tin I
elbow, loose at the ends, and furnished
with two narrow frills of silk, scalloped
and pinked to correspond with tie
flounces. Within them are loose j,
goda under-sleeves, edged with lacc.-
Round the waist is worn a ceinture c
blue ribbon, w ith a cluster of loops in
front of the waist. The hair is parte,
very near to the forehead, over whirl
the front hair is arranged in short clus
tering curls. Full drooping ringlet
hang over the ears. On the right side
of the head, just above the ear, is fixe,
a boquet of blue roses without foliage,
Demi-long gloves of xvhite or pale y.
low kid, and bracelets on the arms.
We have nothing to add to the in
formation that has of late been given
with regard to the make of dresses
Those destined for walking and morn
ing eosturne continue to be made high
to the throat, and they are sometime
fastened by a double row of fancy but
tons.
Ball Costume. —Dress of white tar
letane over white satin. The skirt lias
three deep flounces cut out at the edges
in large scallops, and each finished with
a double row of lace or blonde. The
corsage is low; and a shawl berthe,
composed of three or four rows of lace
or blonde, passes over the shoulders,
and is fastened down in a point in front
of the waist. The space in front of the
corsage is filled up by an e< helled’
rows of lace or blonde. Short sleeve-,
descending very nearly to the elbow-,
loose at the ends, and trimmed with
four rows of lace or blonde. A sash
of white or pink satin ribbon is fast
ened in front of the waist, with long,
flowing ends. The hair is in full ban
deaux on the forehead. Head-dress, a
demi-wreath, composed of water-lily
w ith its foliage, and on each sidedroop
ing sprays of pink laburnum. Demi
long gloves of white kid, and bracelets
on the arms. White satin shoes. Se
veral ball dresses, recently made, are
of w hite and coloured crape. A dress
of pink crape, to be worn over pink
silk, is trimmed with three double
flounces waved. The berthe is formed
of two frills of the crape, and the
sleeves are trimmed w ith the same.
THE HAT.
W e saw, some days since, in one ot
the city papers a notice that the artists
of Europe had prepared a memorial,
to be presented at the great Fair to be
held in London, praying fur a change
in the present style of dress among the
European nations. We would sug
gest, if such be the ease, that they be
gin at the head of the offence, and sub
stitute something for the Hat. the ug
liest dead-dress in Christendom. hy
it is that men manifest so great a par
tiality—l had almost said affection—
for a hat, has been a question with me
for some time. As this remark may
seem strange I will illustrate it.
the great fire in Second street, some
four months since,l was present. When
the explosion occurred theie was s sim
ultaneous rush among those near
escape from their dangerous proximity
In this crowd I remai ked one man m
particular, w ith anew “tile fresh b (, m
some “Emporium of Fashion, wl.o,
regardless of his personal danger, asm’
was carried along by the human tide,
seemed only intent upon the preserva
tion of his hat , which, to shorten a ! on S
story, was finally knocked from < lls
head. Poor fellow! I mentally eV
claimed; but what was my surprise.
when, with a herculean effort, he force
a passage through the surround' 11 ?
crowd “to the rescue.” He was suc
cessful, and with a happy eountenam 1
1 saw him repass me. Yet that sun 1
man, not five minutes before, pa- VM
over a prostrate companion, without a
much as offering a helping hand-
The schoolboy who for the first t 1 ■
has “mounted” this manly appeml<>J-“
you will see walking along with
feature speaking eloquently —”1 ‘ u ‘ l ‘
a hat” The dandy, with his “l*
Paris style” you may notice
Brushing each hair
With sludied care.
morning, noon and night. Then
- bachelor, “for whom no one c31 ‘