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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 ‘