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[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
LITERARY WOMEN.
BY A LADY.
The literature of the present century bears
more distinctive traces of the mind and pen of
woman, than that of any previous era. It is no
longer considered anomalous for a female to
write; and the question, “ Who reads a woman's
book?” is not so often sneeringly asked. The
doctrine promulgated by the Quakers, a century
ago, that the weaker sex were, by reason of
moral dignity, entitled to an equal culture, and
as free exercise of their gifts as man, is at present
generally admitted by the enlightened world.
Laying aside the detestable theories of Women’s
Rights’ Conventions, and ignoring every pre
tension that would over-leap the bounds of
modesty and common sense, it may safely be
asserted that woman’s sphere does not revolve
wholly around the kitchen and pantry, nor cen
tre exclusively in the nursery. The wit which,
in the time of the prince of dramatists, led him
to write : “ Make the doors upon a woman's
wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that,
and ’twill out at the keyhole; stop that, and
'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney,”
seems now to find its legitimate vent even as his
did—on paper.
And there are “ lords of creation” not a few,
who smile upon and encourage this thing, else
it would be a Quixotic enterprise to undertake
its defence.
The holy horror of a literary female, which
fixed on her the' appelation of 11 blue stocking,”
and rendered the term synonomous with slattern,
calling up visions of ah untidy person, ill-fitting
garments, unkempt hair, and inky fingers; of a
neglected house, mismanaged servants, and un
governed children; of husband with coat out at
the elbows, buttonless shirt, and undarned
stockings, is now almost dissipated, save that
now and then one meets a man of cynical visage
and dolorous tone, who like his forefathers
believes that woman’s only duty is to spread a
generous board and kebp the house clean, and
mind her children; while he deprecates that
march of opinion which has raised her a step
higher in the scale of existence.
But how would we define that so much abused,
so much praised character, a literary woman?
Where should we fix limits to the term ?
If we apply it indiscriminately to all the ladies
who have ever published a piece in the corner
of a country newspaper, who have ever indited
poems on any of the thousand and one common
trifles of life, or contributed pretty tales to our
periodical literature, then verily their name is
legion.
If wo reduce our estimate, and number only
thoso who have sent forth their lucubrations
from the press, in delicate hot-pressed volumes,
we might still reckon ad infinitum.
Should we draw the line a little closer, and
include only those whose learning is profound
and abstruse; who, like Elizabeth Browning,
deal, even in their poetry, with grand metaplysical
ideas; or, with Mary Somerville, explore the
arcana of physical science; -or, like Harriet Mar
tineau, study the unseen and the spiritual, and
in misguided, though hearty zeal, strive to
climb the “ palace gates of Heaven;” then, the
lachrymose gentleman just alluded to may spare
his lamentations.
There are very few such—barely enough stars
scattered through the intellectual firmament to
make a small, yet exceedingly brilliant constel
lation, if gathered together; enough to redeem
the sex from the charge of shallowness and in
capability—not enough to mark the majority as
savans.
But it will not do to be so very exclusive. In
an age when so many write, and so many write
well, though neither on natural and moral phil
osophy, or on any of the alogies or ologies, we
must give a far wider scope to the appellation,
“ literary women,” and allow it to embrace all
the accomplished and intelligent fair who, by
appreciative study, earnest effort after mental
improvement, and more or less use of their pens,
for the edification or amusement of others, have
honorably earned the title in the estimation of
the public.
“But why,” it is often asked, “do women
most frequently seek for. distinction as writers
of fiction ?” This inquiry is sometimes pointed
as a sneer at the mental powers of the sex.
As such, it is barbless. There are authoresses
without number whose names are recorded
high in other and nobler departments of intel
lectual exertion.
Perhaps one reason why so many choose to
clothe their thoughts in light fantastic garb is
that such dress suits best the popular taste.
A novel will behead where a more solid work is
rejected with disdain, and those who write for
fame and bread piust accomodate their style to
the public want, vitiated though its demands
may be.
Again, woman's quieter sphere, warmer
heart, and mind whose logic is not so penetrat
ing as it is persuasive, her deep religious faith,
all lit her, in a peculiar manner, to be the
chronicler, either in the re.. 1 or ideal, of do
mestic life, of human affections, of the holier,
tenderer emotions ot the spirit.
Nor is it so easy a task to produce a good fic
tion—not the pointless tales that issue in yellow
covered backs from our printing presses by the
hundred ; but one that while, it captivates the
imagination, will improve the heart, and elevate
the intellect at the same time.
To produce a first-rate novel, requires talent
of no mean order. The writer must possess a
deep insight into character, and subtle discrimi
nation, a keen sympathy with the beating pulse
of humanity, a genius which can “ wreath with
bays, the crossbones of mortality.” She must
with the practiced eye of observation seize, and
with the steady pencil of truth delineate, the
distinctive traits of the society or individual she
attempts to portray. She must possess a fancy
which can invest its scenes with a fervid, living
reality, as if each had occurred in the reader’s
own experience, and which, by alchemy all its
own, can transmute the commonest incidents of
life into new and pleasing forms, educing from
bare fact, choice lessons clothed in the rich dra
pery of fiction.
In short, the true novelist sweeps the harp bf
Nature with a hand that, without altering the
original tones, so'strengthens and blends them,
that the perfected symphony falls upon the ear
with the feelings of a new born strain.
Is the talent to accomplish this a mere every
day possession?
It has been observed, and justly, that the
works of our most talented female writers are
pervaded by a minor key, ready at the slightest
touch to utter a wailing sound. It is too true
that the gifted are often the mourning ones —
bruised, if not broken reeds. Yet, it may be
that they suffer not more than others ; but they
have deeper power of expression, and to them
it is given not only in individual isolation to
grieve, but to pour forth in burning words,
which spring from and flow to the heart, the
heaven-ordained lessons and consolations of
these their darkest hours.
TWK SOVXKKRSr SFXS&S AMD JM8.3531D38,
Mrs. Hemans, the gentle poetess of sorrow,
wrote:
“ Genius, a hard and weary lot is thine,
The heart thy fuel, and the grave thy shrine;”
but there are many brows crowned with im
mortal sadness which have never borne the
wreath of palm, many a soul that never felt the
afflatus of intellectual power, which yet writhes
in the furnace of trial, burning though uncon
sumed. In their temperament, their circum
stances, their principles, not in their objects of
pursuit, except as they rely on them exclusive
ly for happiness, must be sought the cause of
this melancholy strain.
Without asserting the claim of superior ge
nius for every woman who wields a pen, it may
with just pride be asserted that the group of fe
male writers which America displays is one of no
ordinary talent. It might, undoubtedly, be en
larged, but its stars could not shine with purer
radiance, or more genial beams, nor be eclipsed
by the rising of other luminaries, because al
ready they are of the first magnitude. In those
pages where
“Fancy chequers settled sense.
Like alternation of the clouds
On noonday's azure permanence,”
the facile sketches, graceful essays, gem-like
tale 8, and glowing verses, with which our litera
ture has been enriched from the pens of a Si
gourney, Kirkland, Mclntosh, Cary, Neal, Hentz,
and scores of others, too many for enumeration,
we may read the promise of a bright future for
literary women in the annals of American in
tellect There is room for improvement; there
are heights, breadths, and depths of mental at
tainments yet to be scaled and fathomed, but as
the world spins downward the “ringing grooves
of change,” female minds will be developed ca
pable of the achievement, and the sex that two
centuries ago was deemed incapable of compre
hending, much less of advancing, new ideas,
will find ample appreciation and encouragement
in their loftiest flights of aspiration—impressing
the stamp of their genius on the age in which
they live as “distinctly as the fossil flower is
stamped in clay.” This is not improbable ; it is
at least possible.
As the vine twines round the oak, and grows
upward, too, so may woman’s mind, uniting to,
and ascending wiih that of man, finally reach
with it the culminating point of earthly knowl
edge and intelligence.
As already hinted, there are some who deny
literature to be the proper pursuit of woman,
who contend that it interposes an obstacle to the
strict performance of those duties which belong
to her sphere, as the light of home, and the
blessing of man.
Were this objection founded in truth, there
would indeed be occasion for war to the
death against all scribbling pretensions. The
moment that woman is less a woman because
she is an authoress, that moment let the' latter
character be dropped immediately and forever.
But this is not a necessary consequence.—
There is no good reason why a single duty, either
of wife, mother, or friend, should be neglected
by the female writer. All things are beautiful
in their season, and in thoso frequent interval s
of leisure that, independent of the claims off
household and society, occur in the daily life o.
every female, are furnished invaluable opportu
nities for the acquisition of intellectual treasure;
and, if she have the talent and disposition to do
so, she may also avail herself of them to com
municate of her mental wealth to others. Might
she not be as well employed in giving utterance
to the pure, gentle emotions of her better na
ture, as in filagree work, embroidery, crocheting,
or any other of the hundred elegant nothings
the sex are reputed to delight in ?
“ Thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou
be so shrewd with thy pen;” but it might be
better for a man to get even one of this descrip
tion than one who is shrewd at nothing.
Human frivolity changes not in the course of
centuries ; and the comparison which a certain
literary lady of nearly two hundred years back
drew between herself and less mind-engrossed in
dividuals is striking enough. Says the Duchess
of Newcastle : “instead of running, like other
wives, from church to church, from ball to ball,
from collation to collation, gossiping from house
to house, I dance a measure with the muses,
feast with the sciences, and sit and discourse
with the arts. Our sex takes so much delight
in dressing and adorning themselves, as we, for
the most part, make our gowns our books, our
laces our lines, our embroideries our ldlters, and
our dressings are the time of our study ; and
instead of turning over solid leaves, we turn our
hair into curls.”
Down to our day these remarks hold good ;
and surely it takes less time, attention, and mo
ney, to write sometimes in the seclusion of a do
mestic library, than to dress as a woman of fash
ion, and flaunt in the great world. And the
mental gain is far richer.
An illustration, however, is better than a
homily. Was Charlotte Bronte , while tending
her poor, infirm father, nursing the sick servant
Nabby, or superintending the internal adminis
tration of her domestic affairs, as related in her
biography, at all incapacitated for these various
duties, by the fact that she had written “Jane
Eyre,” “Shirley," “Villette,” or indulged in the
countless dreams of a powerful imagination and
swelling heart ?
Was she a less true-hearted mourner at her
sisters' graves, a less devoted woman to the
calls for sympathy and charity, made upon her as
the “parson’s daughter," for having earned the
title of “Authoress?” No. The same pages
that bear the record of her proud public triumphs
witness, too, to the spotless tenor, the earnest de
votedness, the simple kindness, with which she
walked the household routine of private life, and
plucked the flowers of contentment in its lowly
vale.
A few years since, there appeared a work of
fiction from the pen of an American female,
which had the charm of fascination to all who
perused it. Open the volume, and you could not
lay it down till its denouement was reached.—
Yet that book, with all its spell of Circean beau
ty, was composed while watching beside
the sick bed of a beloved brother, was read to
him, chapter by chapter, as it progressed, was
laid aside to devote to him more exclusively the
fleeting moments, and when all had proved vain—
prayers, tears and watching—when the fire of fe
verish hope had died out, and the earth had fall
en on his coffin, the sister—compelled by the
necessity that knows no law, resumed the pen,
mechanically finished the, seemingly, so heart
full work, and laid it, a votive offering, on the
grave of his form and her hopes. Her literary
pursuits never for one moment drew her from the
straight path that duty and affection bade her
pursue.
Again, we will visit, in thought, an English
home. View the neatness of its cottage pre
cincts,the well-trimmed shrubbery, the gravelled
walks, the blooming parterres. Enter within,
and see the systematical order, the scrupulous
i neatness, the’ excellent taste, that leaves their
mark on everything. All this simultaneously
i existed in the household of a literary woman, a
f “blue stocking” of the first water, whose works
have been translated into more than a dozen
language?, and who, in her lifetime, gathered
around her, often, the admiration of the talented
and the noble. Yet, she found time to practice
all the gentle amenities of social life, to rule
well her own common affairs. She worked in
her garden, tended her poultry like a good
housewife, as she was, and was never more the
true, soul-devoted woman than, when her labors
were over, she retired to her little boudoir, and
composed the books wliicli have made the name
of Charlotte Elizabeth dear to thousands of hearts;
and by which, being dead, she yet speaketh, and
gathers gems to adorn her heavenly crown in
the final day.
Authorship never unsexes a woman, or re
quires her to leave the sphere assigned to her
by the Creator. Still, is the prerogative hers
to labor, love, and grieve, in the atmosphere of
home; to be what her Creator made her, “ fair
minded woman, adorned with modesty and sub
limated by purity, as inaccessible to praise as
crystal to lightning; herself the best story of
her worth.”
One thing is certain, very few of our literary
ladies are so unencumbered by domestic cares
that purely intellectual employments bring their
lives to an untimely end. On few tombstones
could be inscribed the quaint epitaph J>y Lady
Newcastle:
“ Her corpse was borne to church on gray-goose icing,
Her sheet was paper white to lap her in.
And Cotton dyed with ink. her, covering black
With letterl tor her 'scutcheons print in that”
If a woman has intellect, then let her culti
vate it to the uttermost, nor hide her talent in the
earth, lest she be held not guiltless in the hour
of judgment.
But not alone to win fame should she do this.
If she be not actuated by higher motives, bitter
will be her disappointment. She may gratify
her ambition if she succeeds, but fail to satisfy
the cravings of her deepest affections. No ap
plause can quench the thirst of immortality, or
furnish a fountain of living waters where the
soul can slake its thirst. She will learn it is
better to pluck violets in the vale, than to brave
the mountain steeps in search of laurel branches
which she must wear alone. Reputation is in
deed barren of anything round which the ten
der spirit can cling, that yearns, and famishes,
and dies, for that sweet flow of mind into mind
which is the secret of all sympathy. Therefore,
we say that the woman who writes simply for
fame, while she, may win it, will yet have one
day to exclaim from a passionate beating heart,
“To have ray book
Appraised by love, associated with love.
While / lit lorelese 1 it is hard, you think,
At least 'tis mournful.”
Nor is literary fame always attendant upon ef
forts to attain it. The chances are slender
when we reflect on the multitudes of books
published to be lost, floated away on the sea of
neglect to the fathomless ocean of oblivion. Jn
Germany alone it has been computed that ten
millions of volumes are issued annually, and in
England, six thousand new works. Os all these,
how many authors secure either a name or com
pensation ?
To prevent, then, the loneliness of isolation
attendant on a successful self culture, and ap
plauded literary career, woman must take for
her chief aim, in writing, the glory and worship
of Him who formed her mind for a name and
praise.
To mitigate disappointment, if it comes, she
must look upward still, towards the eternity
that with “ Grand, dim lips murmurs evermore,
God 1 God!! God! I! ” and find there the most
sublime and limitless of motives for patient en
durauce. Thus fortified in either event, let our
literary women go forth on their mission, work
ing with heart within, and God o’er head,” striv
ing to indite something better than the ephemer
al productions of a day.
Frothed syllabub is very pretty to look at, but
a hungry man desires something more substan
tial ; so a beautifully composed piece of trifling
may charm at first perusal, but the earnest
spirit of the age calls loudly for solid nutriment.
Let them read as well as write. Study his
tory and biography—for these lay bare the secret
springs of human emotions and actions; poetry —
for the poets are nature’s true interpreters;
science, philosophy, and above all, the book of
books—for they who profess to instruct others
should be the last to neglect the heavenly
teachings. Such application will bring forth
legitimate fruits, in a class ot literary women
whose existence will prove a blessing to the
latest posterity, whose names will reverberate
in grateful accents along the line of ages till
time shall be no more.
—
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
NELLIE MAYFIELD.
" «
A SKETCH OF SCHOOL-LIFE.
BY COUSIN JESSIE.
“ Oh, dear!” sighed Nellie Mayfield, “ how I
hate Algebra I I shall never get this sum right!
There sits that stupid Bet Heyward giggling in
her silly way, and holding up her slate with
“ Pons Asinorum," written upon it I I hate her
worse than Ido the Algebra! To think of her
having the impertinence to tell me that I could
copy from her slate, if I liked! Thank good
ness ! there goes tlio recess bell, and she and
her dear friends will be racing out like a herd
of savages, and I will be alone.” “ Now, just see
what a fever I have worked myself into,” she
continued, half repentantly, “I ought to be
ashamed of myself; Bet Heyward with all her
stupidity, is not so much to be pitied as I afli
with my bad temper,” and, laying her head up
on her slate, poor little Nell burst into tears.
Mrs. Mayfield was a widow lady, who, on ac
count of her ill-health, had moved into the
pretty quiet village of Summer HilL She had
married when very young a lawyer of high
' standing in the community, wealthy and tal
ented. Two years after they were married,
while Nellie was yet an infant in arms, he was
brought in to her one bright afternoon dead. As
he was riding home,his horse started at something
in the road, threw his rider among a pile of
stones, and killed him instantly. From the
shock occasioned by his death, Mrs. Mayfield
never recovered.
Nellie, her daughter, was a bright, warm
hearted, impulsive girl of sixteen, impatient of
restraint, but always ready to acknowledge her
faults, and the very soul of honesty.
Thinking that it would be better for her to
pursue her studies with girls of her own age,
than alone with her, Mrs. Mayfield had placed
her at the village academy for young la
dies, which was kept by Mr. Ashton, a gentle
man of cultivation and refinement, who, on ac
count of the pleasant situation, was spending
some time at Summer Hill. At the earnest so
licitation of the patrons of the school, he had
taken charge of it—but only until the former
teacher, who was spending a year in Europe,
would return. Being on terms of intimacy with
i Mrs. Mayfield, they had often talked over Nellie’s
peculiar characteristics, and he understood her
■ fully.
i Nellie did not know that after Mr. Ashton had
i rung the bell, he had come down from his
high desk, and was standing beside her; neither
did she know how searchingly his grave, dark
eyes were resting upon her. Finding that she
was not aware of his presence, he laid his hand
upon her slate, and drew it away gently. “What
is the matter, Miss Nellie ? Ah 1 I see ; your
Algebra, your old trouble 1” and a kind smile
Mghted his fine features. “Perhaps, I can help
you, let us see 1” and tuking the pencil from her
fingers, he sat down by her, and led her, step by
step, until the problem was solved, and Nellie
smiled through her tears, as she saw the book
closed, and she knew that she was mistress of
the sum.
“And is your trouble over, now ?” he asked,
and again his eyes rested upon her as though
he could read her most secret thought
Nellie’s head drooped, and the bright tears
fell quickly upon her little white hand, which
was nervously picking to pieces the fringe upon
her dainty blue silk apron. But our NeU, as we
have said before, was the soul qf honesty, so
she shook back her wayward ringlets, and lifted
her tear-stained face to her teacher, but as she
met his keen glance, her head drooped again, as
she answered, “No sir.”
“ I think that I can guess what is the matter
with you,” he continued gently, “and I cannot
promise to cure you of your quick temper as
easily as I made you understand that problem;
but I think that perhaps it would help you if you
would allow me to watch over you, and tell you
when I thought you wrong. Is it too great
liberty ? shall I do so, Miss Nellie ?”
“Oh, sir 11 would consider it a great favor; but
Mr. Ashton, you do not know what a temper,
mine is. Sometimes lam in such a passion that
I have no control over myself, and I am afraid”
here, she stopped, and the little apron
was in imminent danger of coming, fringeless out
of the discussion.
“ Afraid of what?”
“ Afraid, that while you are pointing out to
me how wrong I am, I might forget myself, and
not care to listen to you; and then, of course, after
my behavior .you would have to give up the
task you have undertaken, and so it might end
in my being worse than ever,” she continued
painfully.
“ But lam not afraid,” said he, smiling; “ let
us shake hnnds over our contract;” and as he
rung the bell to assemble his scholars, he added,
gravely, “but, Miss Nellie, remember that if we
trust to our strength, we lean upon broken reeds.
I shall ask God to help you, and I trust that you,
too, will make it a subject of prayer."
So saying, Mr. Ashton went up to his high
desk, leaving the usually gay, careless Nellie
Mayfield more sober than she had been for
months.
When school was over, she did not stop, as
was her custom, to amuse tlio girls with her gay
witty sallies, for Nell was the life and pride of
the school—but she walked quietly home, and
going up to her own especial “sanctum sancto
rum,” sat down to think over the events of the
day.
“ I wonder what makes Mr. Ashton so kind ?”
she said to herself. “He will have a hard task to
rein me in—I, Nellie Mayfield, who never knew
what was the meaning of the word restraint,"
and her aristocratic lip unconsciously curled.—
“ But I suspect that is the reason why my tem
per is so bad, because for sixteen years I have
been letting it increase in strength, instead of
trying to control it But how grave Mr. Ashton
looked, when he told me about asking God’s
help. I-will do it now;” —and Nellie knelt down, ■
and for the first time in her life prayed earnestly
for a blessing on her efforts.
Weeks rolled on, and Mr. Ashton had the sat
isfaction of seeing Nellie rapidly improvo. He
watched her closely, when she did not dream he
was near, and noted with pleasure her efforts at
self-control. Even Bet Heyward one day told
her mother, confidentially, “that there was no
fun now in teasing Nellie Mayfield, for, instead
of flying into a passion, she only laughed, and,
though sometimes she could make her lips quiver
and her eyes flash, she could scarcely ever pro
voke an angry retort”
One day, about six months from the time when
we first made her acquaintance, Nellie was seat
ed at her desk. It was about half an hour before
the time for school to close, and she had her
history book open before her. But we fear her
mind was on anything but her lesson, for the
deep casement was open beside her, and she
watching the brown and red leaves falling from
the trees, and the squirrels jumping about the
boughs, collecting the hickory nuts.
“First history class I” called out Mr. Ashton;
but Nellie did not hear him, for she was quite
absorbed in the observation of a little brown
squirrel, with funny white spots on his tail, who
was trying with all his might to'tear the hard
rind off of a half green nut.
“Miss Nellie, we are waiting on you 1” again
sounded from the high desk.
Poor Nell; she did not know a word of her
lesson, but she took up her book, and with a
crimson face, hurried to her place. In spite of
all her efforts to the contrary, her thoughts
would go back to the busy little squirrel and his
unavailing efforts. “I wonder,” she said to her
self, “whether he has got that rind off yet.
How funny he looked, screwing up his quizzical
little face;” and Nellie laughed.
“ Miss Nellie,” said her teacher, “you seem
strangely inattentive to-day 1 I have called
upon you to recito three times, but you seem to
tie so amused by something, that you cannot pay
any attention to me 1"
Nellie made a desperate attempt to collect her
scattered wits, but in vain ; so she pettishly
threw her book out of her lap to her desk, and
rose to follow it.
“I don’t know the lesson, Mr. Ashton, so it’s
no use to wait on me any longer 1 I don’t see
how you can expect any one to learn such a hard
lesson in such a short time as we had to-day.”
“The lesson is not more difficult than usual,"
rejoined her teacher, “and you had more time
than usual to-day. I rather suspect you were not
studious.”
“Well,” said Nellie, “1 can’t help it, and I
don’t care 1” she added, angrily, seeing the
girls all aghast at her ebullition of temper.
"School is dismissed,” said Mr. Ashton, ring
ing the belL “Miss Nettie, I would like to speak
to you a moment. According to the rules of the
school, I should detain you half an hour; but I do
not think that you could study in such an angry
spirit. I cannot tell you how grieved I am. I
had been hoping so much better things of you,
lately;” and as he spoke ho looked at her gravely,
but sorrowfully.
But Nellie was in no mood to be restrained
by a glance, so she hurried from his side with
the same angry flush upon her cheek, crushed
down her gipsey hat, with its bright green rib
bons, over her tangled curls, and literally rushed
home. Throwing herself upon the sofa, she
crouched down among the cushions, whero her
mother found her gn hour afterwards, sobbing
bitterly.
“Do you think I should tell him I’m sorry,
mama ?” she asked; “I expect he’ll hate me
now.”
“ I certainly think that you should express
> your sorrow for your fault, my daughter,” re-
Mrs. Mayfield, and she added, as a rather
peculiar smile wreathed her lips, “you will hare
to find out for yourself whether he hates you.”
The sun was drooping behind the western
hills, and as Herbert Ashton watched the glo
rious sky, looking like a mass of burnished gold
he fancied that he could see attendant angels,
drawing aside the gates of pearl, so as to give
the travellers of earth a glimpse of the glory
beyond. He had como to the school-room to
read, but the book lay closed upon his knee.
His head was resting upon his hand, and his
fingers were buried in his loose wavy hair. His
thoughts had wandered to his wayward, but
favorite, pupil. “ I wonder” he said to himself,
“at her out-break to-day I I, thought she was
gaining so much self-control. To-morrow, if I
find her in a tender, gentle mood, I will set the'
matter fully before her. I expect the experience
cf to-day will have a strong aud lasting effect
It is very hard for me to talk to the little gipsey,
when I know that my words are. giving her
pain, and when her pretty head droops so sor
rowfully, and her eyelashes are weighed down
by the bright tears, I can scarcely refrain from
gathering her to my breast with these strong
arms, and kissing them away and Herbert
Ashton’s frame trembled and the love-light
shone in his eyes. A shadow crossed his book.
He looked hastily up, and Nellie stood before
him. She tried to speak, but her lips quivered,
and her eyes filled with tears. The angry flush
was gone, and in its place was a look of genuine
sorrow.
“I am very glad to see you; sit down,” said
he gently.
The look and tone were too much for Nellie’s
already overburdened heart, and the tears came
thick and fast. Herbert Ashton watched her
until he could restrain himself no longer. He
rose, and stood before her, his voice trembling
with eagerness.
“ Nellie! months ago, you gave me leave to
watch over you as long as you were under my
tuition, and now will you give me the right to
watch over you for life ?' Say, Nellie I I know
it is a great boon; but will you grant it?”
“I am not good enough 1” she answered
humbly.
“ I will trust you,” he said, “will you come,
Nellie?" and he held out his arms. Nellie’s
only reply was to put her hand on his, and creep
up to him.
Herbert Ashton folded her close to his great
loving heart, and kissed away the blinding tears.
“God bless you for this, my precious one I
my own little Nellie! God helping me my wee
flower, I will be unto you a loving and a faithful
husband.”
And they sat there in the closing twilight
with his strong fingers clasped over gentle
ones, with a happiness too deep for words, and
when the moon all silently rose up in the
heavens, “ walking in brightness,” he folded her
light scarf aTound her, and led her home into her
mother’s presence.
Mrs. Mayfield needed no explanation of the
relation in which they stood to each other, so
she rose up and joining their hands, prayed
God to bless them.
Years have rolled over the heads of Nellio
and Herbert Ashton, and in adding to their joys,
have also added, to their sorrows. Death has
entered their home twice. The first time he
breathed his icy breath upon the mother they
both loved so well, and, with many tears, they
consigned her to the grave. But his last visit
was the one most keenly felt. This time, he
bore from their loving embraces the “ Benjamin”
of the family—their youngest born, a boy with
bright bluo eyes and flaxen curls. But the
parents submissively clasped their hands to
gether, over his lifeless form, and gave him up
to God. Aud now, when twilight comes, Hor- -
bert Ashton leads Ills gontlo wife through the
church yard until they stand before a little tab
let and ho has never yet regretted, but thanks
God for the time, when he showed Nellie May
field “ that hateful algebra sum.”
«■ > •
EXTRAORDINARY STORY ABOUT THE DAU
PHIN OP FRANCE LOUIS XYH.
There are stranger things than fiction, even
in modern times, but people will hardly be pre
pared for the startling announcement which
was asserted at a Coroner’s inquiry, held yester
day, before Mr. Wakley, Coroner for West Mid
dlesex, that the Dauphin of France, the unfor
tunate son of Louis XVI.. did not, as history
states, die “on the 9th of June, 1795, in the
prison of the Temple, after a miserable confine
ment of three years,” but that he expired in a
London street cab but a few days since, and that
the deceased, upon whom the inquest was being
held, was no other than that Dauphin, Louis
XVII., of France. Such was the marvellous
story made public yesterday, at an inquest held
at the Lord Wellington, University street, upon
a person who, under the name of Augustus
Menes, has for some years past resided with his
family at thirty-four University street, Totten
ham court road, where he followed the avoca
tion of a professor of music. It appeared that
the deceased, who was in his seventy-fifth year,
was suddenly taken ill wuen near his own resi
dence, and as medical assistance could not be
immediately procured, he was conveyed with
out delay in a cab to the University College hos
pital, close by, but he was dead before arriving
at that institution, the cause of the death being,
as the post mortem, examination distinctly proved, -
disease of the heart. The jury returned aecord
dingly, and so far the judicial part of the pro
ceedings terminated; but upon inquiring further
into the peculiar statements that had been made
by the deceased’s family, and the rumors that
got about in the neighborhood causing no little
excitement, it seems that the deceased’s conver
sation for the last thirty years, when he first
made his family acquainted with the strange
story, has been to the effect that he was the
Dauphin who was supposed to have died in the
Temple; and while the deceased bore a strong
likeness in the face to the Bourbon family of
France, his family further assert that he had
certain marks on his person which the hapless
infant king had. He had always himself desired
to keep the matter secret from the world, but
his family have now expressed their determina
tion to publish the whole facts connected with
his marvellous bistoiy. — London Herald.
n> ■■
Unselfishness. —I found the Battery unoc
cupied, save by children, whom the weather
made as merry as birds. Everything seemed
moving to the vernal tune of
“Oh, Brienall banks are wild and fair.
And Greta woods are green."— Scotfs Rokeby.
To one who was chasing her hoop, I said,
smiling, “You are a nice little girl.” She stopped,.
looked up in my face, so rosy and happy,
and laying her hand on her brother’s shoulder,
exclaimed, earnestly, “And he is a nice little
boy, too 1” It was a simple, childlike act, but it
brought a warm gush into my heart. Blessings
on all unselfishness! on all that leads us in love
to prefer one another! Blessings on that loving
little one! She made the city seem a garden
to me. I kissed my hand to her, as I turned off
in quest of the Brooklyn ferry.
75