Chapter II (4)

The mission of Valentines is one of the very few old customs not on the wane; and the streets of our metropolis practically bear evidence of this fact in the distribution of love-messages on our stalls and shop-windows, varying in price from a sovereign to one halfpenny. Our readers, no doubt, will ask for its origin, and there we are at fault to begin with. The events of St. Valentine's life furnish no clue whatever to the mystery, although Wheatley, in his "Illustration of the Common Prayer," absurdly disposes of the question in this way: "St. Valentine was a man of most admirable parts, and so famous for his love and charity, that the custom of choosing Valentines upon his festival, which is still practised, took its rise from thence." We see no explanation here in any way satisfactory, and must be contented with the hope that some of our antiquaries may hit on something more to the purpose.

It was anciently the custom to draw lots on this day. The names of an equal number of each sex were put into a box, in separate partitions, out of which every one present drew a name, called the Valentine, which was regarded as a good omen of their future marriage. It would appear from a curious passage quoted in the "Dictionary of Archaisms," that any lover was hence termed a Valentine; not necessarily an affianced lover, as suggested in "Hampson's Calendarium," vol. i. p. 163. Lydgate, the poet of Bury, in the fifteenth century, thus mentions this practice--

"St. Valentine, of custom year by year
Men have an usance in this region
To look and search Cupid's calendere,
And choose their choice by great affection:
Such as be prick'd with Cupid's motion,
Taking their choice as their lot doth fall:
But I love one which excelleth all."

The divinations practised on Valentine's day are a curious subject. Herrick mentions one by rose-buds--

"She must no more a-Maying;
Or by rose-buds divine
Who'll be her Valentine."

Perhaps the poet may here allude to a practice similar to the following, quoted by Brand: "Last Friday was Valentine day; and the night before I got five bay-leaves, and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then, if I dreamt of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out. _But, to make it more sure_, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk, and filled it with salt; and, when I went to bed, eat it shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote our lover's names upon bits of paper, and rolled them up in clay, and put them into water; and the first that rose up was to be our Valentine. Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abed, and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house, for I would not have seen another man before him for all the world." According to Mother Bunch, the following lines should be said by the girl on retiring to rest the previous night--

"Sweet guardian angels, let me have
What I most earnestly do crave,
A Valentine endowed with love,
That will both kind and constant prove."

We believe the old custom of drawing lots on this eventful day is obsolete, and has given place to the favorite practice of sending pictures, with poetical legends, to objects of love or ridicule. The lower classes, however, seldom treat the matter with levity, and many are the offers of marriage thus made. The clerks at the post-offices are to be pitied, the immense increase of letters beyond the usual average adding very inconveniently to their labors. Such is Mr. Halliwell's account of Valentine's day.

In "Poor Robin's Almanack," 1676, the _drawing_ of Valentines is thus alluded to--

"Now, Andrew, Antho-
Ny, and William,
For Valentines _draw_
Prue, Kate, Jilian."

Many curious customs are related by different writers in honor of this day; but, of all the quotations that could be made, none is more quaint and striking than the following from the Diary of the celebrated Pepys. On the 14th of February, 1667, is there entered: "This morning came up to my wife's bedside, I being up dressing myself, little Will Mercer to her Valentine, and brought her name written upon blue paper in gold letters, done by myself very pretty; and we were both well pleased with it. But I am also this year my wife's Valentine, and it will cost me £5; but that I must have laid out, if we had not been Valentines." He also adds: "I find that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my Valentine, she having drawn me; which I was not sorry for, easing me of something more than I must have given to others. But here I do first observe the drawing of mottoes as well as names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this girl drew another for me: what mine was I forget; but my wife's was most courteous, and most fair, which, as it may be used on an anagram upon each name, might be very pretty. One wonder I observed to-day, there was no music in the morning, to call up our new married friend (Peg Penn), which is very mean, methinks."

That Valentines were not confined to the lower classes in the days of Pepys, and were sometimes of a very costly description, may be judged from the following statement: "The Duke of York being once Mrs. Stuart's Valentine, did give her a jewel of about £800, and my Lord Mandeville, her Valentine this year, a ring of about £300."

And, in the following year, he notes down: "This evening my wife did with great pleasure show me her stock of jewels, increased by the ring she hath made lately, as my Valentine's gift this year, a Turkey stone set with diamonds; with this, and what she had, she reckons that she hath above £150 worth of jewels of one kind or other, and I am glad of it; for it is fit the wretch should have something to content herself with."

With regard to the origin of this festival in the calendar, there are many conflicting opinions. St. Valentine, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Claudius, was eminently distinguished for his love and charity; and the custom of choosing Valentines, or special loving friends on this day, is by some supposed to have thence originated. The following solution is, however, the more probable one. It was the practice in ancient Rome, during a great part of the month of February, to celebrate the Lupercalia, which were feasts in honor of Pan and Juno, whence the latter deity was named Februata, or Februalis. On this occasion, amidst a variety of ceremonies, the names of young women were put into a box, from which they were drawn by the men, as chance directed. The pastors of the early Christian church, who by every possible means endeavored to eradicate the vestiges of pagan superstitions, and chiefly by some commutations of their forms, substituted, in the present instance, the names of particular saints, instead of those of the women; and, as the festival of the Lupercalia had commenced about the middle of February, they appear to have chosen Valentine's day for celebrating the new feast, because it occurred nearly at the same time.

"MUSTARD TO MIX."

A RECEIPT FOR YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO SOCIETY," "BOARDING-HOUSE POLITICS," ETC.

"And the ice it isn't water, and water isn't free--and I can't say
that anything is what it ought to be."

_Cricket on the Hearth._

"_I feel as if I should fly!_"

No wonder poor Mrs. Bunker longed for the wings of a dove, if they could bear her to anything like rest. It was Monday--washing-day--and _blue_ Monday into the bargain. The parlor was in disorder (the Bunkers always sat in their parlor on Sunday, and held it sacred the rest of the week); the front hall tracked and littered up with the arrival of a visitor's baggage--the spare room was not ready--the clothes not counted out--the girl idling away her time at the pump--the breakfast dishes unwashed--and the baby screaming, as only a cross child can scream, in its mother's arms, showing not the least symptom of a morning nap, or, indeed, of _anything_ but colic.

Mrs. Bunker, as she sat in the midst of this confusion, and expressed her desire to fly, bore no resemblance whatever to an angel--except that angels are usually represented with loose robes and unconfined hair. We question if she had looked at a brush since the day before, and her morning-dress was of the style denominated "wrapper"--a not over-clean chintz. The room itself was cheerful enough, so far as sunshine and comfortable furniture would go; but nothing was in its place; and this disorder, added to the forlorn appearance of Mrs. Bunker, holding the baby in its sour, crumpled night-dress and soiled flannel, was anything but an inviting prospect to a newly arrived guest.

Mrs. Bunker expected her every minute--Aunt Lovey--her husband's aunt, who had brought him up, and had given him all those particular ways that were the bane of Mrs. Bunker's wedded life, she having very little idea of the necessity he attached to method in managing a household. Mrs. Bunker, only two years from school, had written very nice letters to this friend of her husband's orphaned childhood. She loved her Joshua, in spite of his unsentimental name, and was inclined to adopt all his family in her affectionate little soul. Nor was it unnatural that she wished them to think well of her in return; she particularly desired to gain Aunt Lovey's good opinion, and when the long talked of visit was decided on, had hoped to make a grand first impression. If it hadn't been Monday morning, and if baby hadn't been so cross--if the spare room had only been cleared up after her brother's departure--if the girl was "worth two straws"--in fact, if everything hadn't been exactly what it shouldn't be, Mrs. Bunker would have got up herself, her house, and her baby, to the best advantage. She had a very pretty face and figure, a fact of which she was well aware, and as a school-girl and young lady in society, had made the most of. Since her marriage, this was not so apparent to Mr. Bunker, however, as in the days of their courtship. _Then_, she never allowed herself to be seen without her hair in the most wonderful French twists and Grecian braids--or her dress put on to the utmost advantage. Now, "it wasn't worth while to dress just for Joshua"--or "baby was _so_ troublesome"--or "she hadn't a thing to put on." It _was_ worth while to dress for Aunt Lovey, and she desired to look her very best--only baby _wouldn't_ go to sleep. "Rock-a-by baby"--

(Mrs. Bunker had been considered to have the best voice in the Highville Seminary, but now her music was confined chiefly to that charming ballad writer, Mother Goose.)

"Rock-a-by baby, father's gone a hunting"--Oh, dear, she will be here before I can get him down! There--therey--did the drayman say his Aunty Lovey was a-goin' to walky uppy to the housey? Johnny shall ride, Johnny shall ride (you provoking little monkey, why _don't_ you shut your eyes!)--"Wid a white pussy-cat tied to his side!"--sang, and rocked, and trotted Mrs. Bunker.

"Where _is_ that Jane? Not a dish washed--and I don't believe the hot water's on for the clothes. Therey, therey, mother's baby, mother's only little man! Did the naughty colic bother mother's little son? Send the wind right up, so I would. Ride a cock horse to Banbury cross--therey, therey, don't cry so, mother's little man--'Had a little dog, sir, Banger was his name, sir'--Banger, Buffer, Kicker, Cuffer, _Banger_ was his name, sir! Jane! Jane! Where is that girl? I feel as if I should fly!"

At which remark--the energy of which we have endeavored to portray in the most crumpled italics--the door opened to admit, not Jane, but Aunt Lovey, and our history of Mrs. Bunker's tribulations began.

She gave one glance at her visitor, one to herself, and round the room. There was no help for it--she was obliged to deposit baby in the cradle, screaming as he was, and advance to make a "first impression." Aunt Lovey did not look shocked or disgusted--a little surprised certainly, for, knowing her nephew's orderly propensities, this was not what she expected to find his home, and the untidy, tired, fretted-looking woman who introduced herself as his wife, did not certainly answer to the lover's descriptions of his betrothed. However, she had been a housekeeper, and knew what Monday mornings were, with only one maid of all work, and a young child to see to. So she kissed her niece very cordially for the warm welcome she offered, and begging 'not to be minded, as she understood these little troubles,' sat down, laid aside her bonnet and shawl, and asked for the baby.

There it was again--hardest of all! Mrs. Bunker's personal vanity, in departing from her as a married woman, had rested and centred itself on the baby. Aunt Lovey had taken the utmost interest in its advent--knitted all its socks, the very blue pair, soiled and dirty, which he was kicking out at that moment--and in return, had been favored by rapturous accounts of his _beauty_ at three days old, his knowingness at three months. Mrs. Bunker had pictured herself presenting the baby in grand toilet to his great-aunt, and seeing her surprise, as the old lady confessed the half had not been told her--"oh, dear!"

But there was no help for it, and she was obliged to withdraw the poor little juvenile from its involuntary confinement, ready to cry with weariness and disappointment, as she tried to coax it into something like good-humor. Jane, drawn by curiosity where duty failed, arrived to complete the tableau, slamming the door, and slopping over the pump-water on her way to the wash-kitchen. She must have been experimenting on the principle that "the longest way round is the shortest way home," for there was a door in the work-kitchen leading directly to the street.

Good Aunt Lovey was no more discomposed by the bold stare the "help" fixed upon her, than she had been by the rest of the picture. It must have cost her an inward tremor to lay down her dove-colored cashmere shawl and split straw bonnet with its white satin ribbons, on the littered bureau, but she did so without invitation, Mrs. Bunker having fairly forgotten to offer one in the combined annoyances and embarrassments of the moment, and then, seated in the rocking-chair, from which her niece had risen, she spread the cradle blanket in her lap, and held out her hands for the baby.

It was really a very nice child, as babies go, in spite of its rumpled costume. Aunt Lovey's first proceeding was to "straighten it out," smoothing the uncomfortable folds of cloth and flannel from under its back, and thus covering its cold little feet. Her handkerchief was produced to dry the little face from the mingled effects of tears and teething, and then warmed on the stove--there was very little fire--the stove never _did_ draw on washing-day--to cover the mottled arms and hands. Baby thus smoothed, soothed, and comforted, presented a much more respectable appearance, and received a hearty kiss from its grand-aunt, by way of an anodyne. It seemed to have the desired effect, for, after staring with its round blue eyes in the old lady's face, as if endeavoring to recall the features, it gradually winked and blinked itself to sleep, certainly contrary to its most determined intentions.

Mrs. Bunker, who had excused herself as if to overlook Jane's operations, but in reality to take up the crying fit where the baby left off, returned, with eyes very much swollen in consequence, and tried to offer an apology for herself and her house, but broke down again into a little sob, and a clean pocket-handkerchief.

"Come, come, my dear, no excuse is needed," hummed Aunt Lovey, at the mother and the fast retiring baby, to the old-fashioned melody of "Banks and braes." "Just warm a pillow--there, that's right; now shake it up, and make it soft; have every feather smooth and light," unconsciously relapsing into rhyme as well as chime, while she deposited the placid Johnny in his accustomed bed. "And now, my dear, I see how it all is. Could you lend me a clean check apron?--never mind, this towel will do, and will wash up these dishes post haste. What's your girl's name? Jane? Jane, here, come and rake up this fire a little; there's nothing helps matters along faster than a bright, cheerful fire; it's like a lively disposition, which I'm sure you have naturally."

It was wonderful to see Jane's alacrity in obeying these instructions, given in a quick, inspiriting, and, at the same time, not-to-be-trifled-with tone. Mrs. Bunker, captain as she was, placed herself willingly under the orders of so skilful a pilot, and was steered triumphantly through the household difficulties that had gathered so thickly around her.

"And now, my dear," resumed that excellent woman, unpinning the towel that encircled her ample waist, and folding it smoothly before she laid it down, "what else is there to do this morning?"

The fire was burning cheerfully, the dishes put away, the carpet swept, the chairs set back, and the baby still sleeping soundly in the bright warmth that had diffused itself throughout the room. Mrs. Bunker already felt as if she had known Aunt Lovey for a long time; they had talked all the while they were busied about household affairs, and the new niece felt as if she could almost open her heart to the kind old lady, and consult her about those constantly occurring domestic drawbacks and trials. Joshua, good husband as he was, did not seem to understand. It was more effective than a week of formal visiting, and Mrs. Bunker's face and step brightened with the room. Now came the clouds again. "There was so much to be done, she didn't know where to begin."

"But what is it?" urged Aunt Lovey, stooping down admiringly over the cradle, for the baby looked very lovely in his quiet sleep, one little round hand pushed under his cheek--he was making as good an impression as his mother could desire.

"Oh, _everything_!" responded the baby's mother, in a despairing tone.

"Ah, I see, _mustard to mix_," and with these cabalistic words, the visitor took a deliberate survey of her hostess for the first time. "Consider me your grandmother, Sophia, and let me advise you to tidy yourself a little; that will be the first step towards it. A neat morning-dress and clean apron are next best, or perhaps better, than a good fire, in any house. I'll see to the baby."

Aunt Lucy certainly made herself at home. She put the tips of her prunella buskins on the stove hearth, and examined the hem of her skirts to see if they had contracted any dampness or mud stains in her recent walk, and then produced her knitting, as if she was settled down for some time. Mrs. Bunker took the advice, as she had former prescriptions, and found it to work as well. The morning's duties were accomplished with an ease and alacrity that astonished herself, even to making the great chamber as neat as Aunt Lovey's heart could desire, without the mortification of her knowing it had ever been otherwise.

It was not until Mr. Bunker had come from the store, and been duly astonished and delighted at his aunt's unexpected arrival, and the tidy appearance of the whole household--to tell the truth, he wondered how the last happened to be so--that Mrs. Bunker found time to seek an explanation of the significant sentence applied by the old lady to her state of despondency with regard to domestic affairs. Significant she was convinced, though she could not exactly make out the application, as her aunt had seen the mutton chops destined for dinner arrive from the butcher's, and she had never heard of mustard being taken with them. They had been duly served, praised, and eaten; the dinner dishes were washed and put away, so was the baby for his second diurnal nap, and Mrs. Bunker, notwithstanding she had company, found herself seated to her sewing by three o'clock for the first in a month, while Jane, like the unfortunate "maid" mentioned in one of the baby's favorite lullabies, was

"In the garden
Hanging out the clothes."

Aunt Lovey, looking thoughtfully over her spectacles, thought her nephew's description of his wife not so far out of the way after all, as she hemmed away industriously at a pile of new towels, the most fascinating work next to crochet one can undertake; it slips by so fast and evenly, and there seems to be so much accomplished.

"But, Aunt Lovey," said Mrs. Bunker, looking up suddenly, and finding those penetrating gray eyes fixed on her, "what did you mean by 'mustard to mix?'"

"Oh, I did not explain, did I? Well, when I was first married and moved out west--Utica was out west then, from Connecticut--I knew no more about managing for myself than you do now. I used to find my work accumulate, and I would get discouraged and go about a whole week, feeling as if the world rested upon my shoulders; and that made me mope, and your uncle John got discouraged, because I did, and there was no end of the snarl things would get into. Our only near neighbor was a nice tidy body, who always looked like wax-work."

"Something such a person as you," interrupted Mrs. Bunker, playfully.

"Well, perhaps so; but you never saw my house; her house was like a pin from one end to the other. One day I just ran in to borrow a little meal--ours had given out unexpectedly--and I found my good neighbor in a flurry, acting just as I used to feel sometimes."

"'Oh, she had _everything_ to do,' she said, 'and company coming to dinner.'

"'Everything? Well, what? As far as I could see, everything was done.'

"'Oh, the table's to set;' and up and around the room she went again.

"'But it was two hours to dinner--what else?'

"'Why!--well, then, _mustard to mix_!'

"That was every earthly thing, come to think of it; but she had been flurried by the sudden arrival, and did not stop to see that it could not possibly disturb any of her arrangements. So I went home, and found I generally had _mustard to mix_, when my flurries came on; that is, if I set myself right to work to clear up the snarl, it wasn't half so bad as I felt it was. Setting down to fret over matters only snarled things the more, and then poor John was troubled to see me worried, and things would go from bad to worse."

"But, aunty," said the young wife, with a half sigh, ending in a smile, "do you think I shall _ever_ make a housekeeper? I know Joshua is disappointed."

"Yes, yes, my dear; why not? Only you will have to learn how to _mix mustard_ to begin with."

INSTANTANEOUS FLOWERING OF PLANTS.

M. Herbert, a gentleman who has recently arrived from France, on Saturday exhibited to a few ladies and gentlemen his method of causing plants to blow almost instantaneously. The plants selected--a group of geraniums and a rose-tree--were planted in two rather deep boxes of garden mould, previously prepared with some chemical manure, and were then covered with glass shades. M. Herbert next proceeded to pour over the roots, from a small watering-pot, a chemical mixture, which, uniting with the ingredients already in the earth, caused a great heat, as was shown by an intense steam or vapor, which was evolved within the shades, and allowed to some extent to escape through a small hole in the top, which at first was kept closed. The effect upon the geraniums was certainly almost instantaneous, the buds beginning to burst in about five or six minutes, and the plants being in full bloom within ten minutes, when the blossoms were gathered by M. Herbert and distributed amongst the ladies present. With the rose-tree the exhibitor was less fortunate, M. Herbert explaining that it had only been in his possession about half or three-quarters of an hour, and he had therefore not had sufficient time to prepare for the experiment, thereby evincing that it occupies more time than would appear to the casual observer to be the case. The invention may prove useful where ladies require to decorate their drawing-rooms or boudoirs with the beauties of Flora somewhat earlier in the seasons than can otherwise be obtained. The experiments took place at the residence of M. Laurent, Onslow-house, Brompton. [How far does this account for the Chinese "magical" method?]

Poetry.

THE EVENING WALK.

BY RICHARD COE.

(_See Plate._)

Upon her head she gently threw
A veil of fabric light,
To shield her from the pearly dew
That mingled with the night:
Then with a motion light and free--
No proud and stately stalk--
The lady of the mansion rose
To take her evening walk.

Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars,
That nightly deck the sky,
Ye must not look in envy on
The brightness of her eye;
And you, ye babbling waters near,
That make my soul rejoice,
Ye must be silent when ye hear
The music of her voice!

Ye moon and stars and babbling fount,
Your choicest blessings throw
Across the pathway of my fair,
Wherever she may go!
And if I soothe her cares the while,
With fine poetic talk,
Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile,
In some sweet evening walk!

THE CHILDREN-ANGELS.

BY JAMES A. BARTLEY.

Seven bright ones in the angel-land,
With stars to crown each brow;
The mother spied them hand in hand,
Around the Saviour bow;
And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland,
That clothed their bodies now!

Seven bright ones in that sunny clime,
Hope would her tears condemn,
She blessed the eagle wings of Time
Which bore her nearer them,
Where she would join the seraph chime,
And wear a diadem.

Seven dear ones born of her heart's love,
Now safely housed in heaven,
She humbly sought that test to prove,
To every mortal given,
To labor for her King above,
Who keepeth these her seven.

And ofttimes, at her daily toil,
Seven bright ones would alight,
And each with sweet and holy smile,
Fill her with deep delight,
Until the very earthly wild,
To her, looked strangely bright.

And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high,
And silence reigned around,
She heard their pinions sweeping by,
A far, unearthly sound;
And then her spirit reached the sky,
At one ecstatic bound.

Seven bright ones in the land called Light,
And oft with her below!
Far fled the frighted shades of Night
From Faith's celestial glow,
Wherein she walked with humble might,
Till she lay humbly low.

Then her free spirit walked in Light,
And smiled, but wept no more,
And with her, seven, all dazzling bright,
Beheld all perils o'er;
The goal of which mysterious flight,
None living may explore.

WORKING AND DREAMING.

BY MRS. A. L. LAWRIE.

All the while my needle traces
Stitches in a prosy seam,
Flit before me little faces,
And for them the while I dream.

Building castle, light and airy,
For my merry little Kate,
Wond'ring if the wayward fairy
Will unlock its golden gate.

Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,
Just as all fond mothers do,
And for her, my thoughtful Lily,
Twining laurel leaflets too.

In the far-off future roving,
Where the skies are bright and fair;
Hearing voices charmed and loving,
Calling all my darlings there.

Through the distant years I'm tracing
Dewy pathways bright with flowers,
And along their borders placing
Here and there these pets of ours.

And the while my fancy lingers
In that hope-born summer clime,
Pretty garments prove my fingers
Have been busy all the time.

And I care not, though around me
Romp the little merry band;
Never could the spell that bound me
Break at touch of softer hand

Than the little hand of Nora,
Soiled in search of blossoms rare;
For she says they're gifts that Flora
Bade her bring to deck my hair.

So my summer days are flying
On their swift oblivious track;
But while love meets fond replying,
I would never wish them back.

But their precious fragrant roses
I would gather and entwine
In a wreath, ere summer closes
For the autumn's pale decline.

THE MISER.

BY CHARLES LELAND PORTER.

Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze,
In his damp and mouldering cell,
Away from the rustle of waving trees,
Alone did the miser dwell;
Around his wrinkled and careworn brow
Hung wild his hoary hair,
And the spectre look of death e'en now,
And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow,
Sat grim on his temples there.

He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,
And counts it o'er again,
And he envies the snuggling beam of light
That creeps through the broken pane;
And he starts at every passing sound,
And hastily turns the key,
And casts a hurried glance around,
And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground
To his god he bows the knee.

The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,
And moans a plaintive strain,
And grimly peers with his glassy eye
Over the golden gain;
And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls
Away from its mean abode;
It cannot rise to heaven, but falls
Adown the damp and mouldering walls,
And hurries beneath the sod.

Oh, I have thought that a mother's love
Was the fondest passion yet,
As she breathes the breath of her infant babe--
Still, a mother may forget;
But the miser's throne is his gold alone,
His passion is centred there;
His life, his love, his dearest one,
The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,
Gold, gold is his fondest fair.

The midnight moon looks lovingly down
On the sleeping laborer's head;
Hushed and still is the busy mill,
And the infant's cradle bed;
But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,
Like a wild beast from his lair;
He feels the poison of conscience stings,
He fears the robber a bandit brings,
And he creeps to his golden care.

The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,
And paused at the miser's stone,
Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare
To cross the word "_begone!_"
The wretch felt not for others' woes,
No soul in his body dwelt;
The trembling sprite took a final flight--
Though he seemed to live--on the dismal night
When he first to the gold-god knelt.

In a village near, his sister lay
At the door of the demon death;
_Starving_ was written on her brow,
And hot was her fevered breath:
"_Oh, give me bread!_" in accents low,
Was the burden of her prayer--
"_I'm dying, brother!_" 'twas even so;
While her eye was glazing, the miser's "_No!_"
Startled the chilly air.

Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells,
And from each hush'd abode
The aged sire, and the cheerful child
Moved on to the house of God;
While prayer was ascending towards the Throne,
The miser also prayed;
To his golden altar he bowed, alone,
And prayed from out his heart of stone
That his god would lend him aid.

He lieth upon the bed of death,
And alone he pines away;
As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,
And clay is mingled with clay;
No marble is there to mark the spot,
No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;
Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,
Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot--
The miser has gone to his doom!

Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth
Go to the poor man's home;
Comfort the sick--employ your gold
As gain for the world to come;
And the widow's heart shall leap for joy,
And the orphan upon your bier,
When the summons bears you from earth away
To dwell in the mansions of endless day,
Shall pour the sorrowing tear.

SONNET.--WASHINGTON

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise,
That they eternize may thy honored name;
Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise,
So blended with thy glorious country's fame.
Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field,
Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow,
Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield,
To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow.
Around thy lone and ever-honored grave,
The Muses of thy noble country sing,
While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave,
To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring.
Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage,
Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

I saw a smiling little boy,
Not to childish pastime given;
His countenance radiant with joy,
He seemed just ripe for Heaven.
I asked, "Where are thy parents dear?
Hast thou from them been riven?"
He said, "My parents are not here,
They have gone home to heaven."
A year had sped--I passed that way
On the eve of a balmy autumn day;
I asked, "Where is the charming orphan boy,
With face so radiant with joy?
Is he to the cold world driven?"
The answer was, "He had gone home to Heaven."

EDNA.

BY ELLEN ALICE MORIARTY.

Hear you not the night-wind moaning,
Sadly moaning all the time,
Like a spirit doomed to wander
O'er the earth for some dark crime?

Round the door it ever lingers,
Calling mortal aid in vain,
And with gaunt and spectral fingers,
Feebly knocks upon the pane.

Love I well to hear it wailing,
And I listen, pensively;
Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,
Mournfully it wakes in me.

Such a night did Edna leave us,
When she with Lord Ronald fled;
Better, ere she thus had grieved us,
She was numbered with the dead.

Yet my mother, we'd forgive her
Did she seek her home at last,
Kindly in our arms receive her,
Bidding her forget the past.

Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly;
She was young and sweetly fair;
Loved--and we were all forgotten--
When Lord Ronald tarried here.

Dost remember, mother dearest,
The sad day before she went,
How the fleetly passing moments
By thy side she fondly spent?

And I marked her, mother dearest,
When was said the soft "good-night,"
How her cheek so sadly faded--
Faded to a marble white.

To her door I followed gently,
Raised the latch, and in I went,
And the thoughts that so oppressed me
Found in gushing tears a vent.

"Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna,
"Weeping sister! Why is this?"
And she pressed with gentle fondness
On my brow a soothing kiss.

Spoke I not. My heart was breaking
'Neath some vague, uncertain woe;
Wept I, on her breast reclining,
Mother--and I slumbered so.

When from out that sleep, awaking,
I upon her pillow lay,
Through the half-divided curtain
Faintly streamed the dawning day.

Then we missed her. Oh, my mother,
Who our woe's excess can speak!
Not a father, not a brother--
Who the loved and lost could seek.

Mother dearest, you are weeping!
Why did I remembrance wake?
I should bear my grief in silence,
Oh, my mother, for thy sake.

Listen listen! on the night-blast
Heard you not a well-known tone?
Oh, it seemed so much, my mother,
Like my sister Edna's own!

There are feet upon the threshold!
And a hand is on the door--
Mother! mother!--it is Edna,
Coming back to us once more!

"Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!"
Thus my sister Edna prayed--
"Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!"
That was all my mother said.

But she oped her arms unto her,
Drew her upward to her breast,
And in fair and tearful beauty
Bowed that gentle head to rest.

"Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother,
Ay, far better than my life;
Home I come to thee," said Edna,
"Proudly his acknowledged _wife_.

"Cared he not for rank or station,
But a loving heart sought he;
Mother, sister, love my husband--
See, he claims it now of ye."

Turned we then. He stood beside us,
Bending low with manly grace,
With his soul's true love for Edna
Lighting up his noble face.

We are happy, I and mother,
Now that all our care has gone;
Ever seems it like a shadow
Scarcely cast ere it had flown.

VETERAN SAILOR'S SONG.

BY "CARYL."

The flag that floats above us, boys,
So proudly in the gale,
Old Neptune never yet had seen,
When first I clewed a sail;
St. George's cross flamed o'er the seas
With undisputed sway,
With English oak, and British tars,
Beneath it, in that day.

The Stars and Stripes above us, boys,
Since then have been unfurled;
In tempest tried, baptized in blood;
'Tis the pride of Ocean-world!
And freer, nobler hearts sustain
Your banner floating proud;
Than e'er before Atlantic bore,
Or wrapped in seaman's shroud.

The glorious flag above us, boys,
Was ne'er disgraced in fight;
No foeman ever saw it struck,
But dearly bought the sight;
Wherever prow has cleft the waves,
In every zone and sea,
'Tis known and honored as the flag
Of a nation brave and free.

REMEMBER THE POOR.

BY MRS. C. H. ESLING.

Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice,
As the shadow of evening grew dim,
And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down,
Benumbing each half-covered limb;

Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the child
Was as white as the thick-falling snow,
And my heart, how it readily aided my hand,
In the little I had to bestow!

A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye,
As she clasped the small alms in her hand,
And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours,
The wealthy might have at command;

To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart,
To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed,
To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face,
With a pittance that scarce would buy bread.

Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,
As ye sit by the firelight's glow,
Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,
Of the poor little feet in the snow.

Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,
With a light from the diamond's mine,
Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,
That else were as dainty as thine.

God fashioned thee both--the poor, shivering child,
Alone in the cold winter night,
Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who bask
Forever in luxury's light.

Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few;
Let thy _much_ but a _little_ insure
To the needy; the world will be better, by far,
When the rich shall remember the poor.

A VALENTINE.

BY CLARA MORETON.

Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold,
Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue;
Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold,
Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue.

The silken lashes of those violet eyes
Droop with a sunny curve from snowy lid,
Half shading all the purity that lies
Within their quiet depths so sweetly hid.

The matchless arching of thy coral lip,
The glittering pearl thy smile discloses,
Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip,
And redolent of sweets as budding roses.

Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace!
Never a poet could thy charms combine,
Nor artist draw thee in thy winning grace
Unless a monarch of his art divine.

For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire?
Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee,
No Persian worshipper of flaming fire
E'er bent his god a more devoted knee.

DYING

BY BELL.

Is this dying? round me gathers
Such a silent, countless throng,
Beaming on me smiles that beckon,
As if I with them belong.

This is dying! raise my pillow;
Come and kiss me, mother dear;
When I'm gone away you'll miss me,
But for me weep not a tear.

Is this dying? waters rolling
Bear me on to yonder shore,
Love to Christ my bark has freighted,
Not a billow surges o'er.

This is dying! pain, returning,
Shows how nature clings to earth,
While the prisoned soul is panting
For the clime that gave it birth.

Is this dying? strains of music
Seem upon the air to float,
Such could only come from angels,
And I almost catch the note.

Now my crown and harp are coming,
Borne by seraphs' hands along,
And a robe of whitest linen
Clothes me like the angel throng.

Is this dying? pain may writhe me,
But has Death not lost his sting?
And since Christ has gone to glory,
Death is but a conquered king!

TO THE GAND'HRAJ.[A]

WRITTEN IN INDIA, BY MRS. E. LOCK.

Oh! beautiful Gánd'hraj! sweet is thy breath;
Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death,
Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's[B] wing,
Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling,
Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun;
To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one!

Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer,
Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,
Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,
Then ours the blessings that ever endure.
Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,
Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!

The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!
The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;
The delicate tintings that vein thy array
Must be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,
And heavenly ones thy aroma will bear
Away to the gardens more pure and more fair.

As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast,
Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west;
Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes,
With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies,
Such peaceful and holy departure is thine;
Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Gardenia florida.]

[Footnote B: The Kokila, or Koil, is the Indian Cuckoo.]

DECORATED PARLOR WINDOWS.

(_See Plate._)

Our readers will notice that the models for parlor window drapery are, as usual, furnished by Mr. W. H. Carryl, who is rare authority in such matters. Draperies arranged by him are shutting out the cold air from northern firesides, and excluding the already fervent glow of a southern sun. His constantly increasing, establishment is filled with busy workmen; and the choicest materials that are manufactured abroad, whether in silk or lace, are to be found among his importations. Among the public calls upon his taste and skill, we notice particularly the fitting up of the La Pierre House, the new and model Philadelphia hotel; and, still more recently, the draperies of the State House at Harrisburg.

The La Pierre is situated on Broad, our finest street, and was opened to the public the past October. It is not one of the mammoth toy-shops now so much the rage, where everything is too fine to use, and comfort is swallowed up in carving and gilding. Comfort is, in fact, the distinguishing characteristic of the La Pierre, the rooms being of an inhabitable size, and furnished with united neatness and elegance, giving the traveller a cheerful welcome and a homelike feeling. To this the draperies of Mr. Carryl, which are found all through the house, even in the fifth story, contribute; for it is now an undisputed axiom in decorating, that nothing goes so far as curtains in furnishing a room. On the principal floor, we find the drawing-room windows draped with crimson, garnet, and gold brocatelle, finished by heavy cornices and the richest corresponding decorations, as will be seen in Fig. 1. which is nearly identical with the style. Of course, there are exquisite lace curtains, as in the plate, falling below. The reading and sitting-rooms, appropriated to the gentlemen, are made cheerful by crimson brocatelle draperies, while the tea-room is distinguished by the heavy green lambrequins, with their rich bullion fringe. It would take a practised eye to detect it from gold bullion, so perfect is the imitation. The effect, especially in the evening, is precisely the same. In the elegant suite of parlors on the second floor, Mr. Carryl has placed curtains of brocatelle, crimson, yellow, and green and gold, equally rich and suited to the style of the apartments, as in the drawing-room below (see Fig. 2); while throughout the bed-chambers, many entire suites, curtains of Paris stripe, in _satin laine_, give the cheerful aspect we at first noticed.

The bridal chamber--that modern abomination to good taste and common sense, yet demanded by the fashion of hotels--is, of course, the _chef-d'œuvre_ of the whole house. Mr. Carryl has chosen "celestial _rosy_ red, love's proper hue," instead of the pure white of the St. Nicholas, or the staring yellow of the Metropolitan, for the draperies of the apartment. A _rose_ red, be it understood, of the most delicate shade, softened still more by the pure transparency of the lace embroideries falling from the rich canopy above the bed, or shrouding the broad arch that divides the two apartments--a triumphal arch to Mr. Carryl's decorative art. The whole house is decorated in good keeping with the already far-famed character of this luxurious hotel, which may be justly regarded as one of the most fashionable and distinguished in the United States.

The State House at Harrisburg is fitted from drawings made expressly for it, in a style now become classic in public buildings. The deep crimson India damask of our grandmothers' times, lined with white India silk--the most judicious choice, as it never grows yellow by age--is disposed in full folds above the Speaker's chair; and from these, which take the place of a lambrequin in a modern curtain, falls a similar heavy drapery to the floor. The whole is surmounted by a superbly carved eagle in gilt, with expanded wings, done expressly for Mr. Carryl from a life model. The curtains of the windows are to be in the same rich and simple style, and the clock has also a decorative drapery. The whole is arranged with a classic taste far more appropriate to the hall than modern French fripperies, and will add much to Mr. Carryl's rapidly growing celebrity in this branch of domestic art. Mr. Carryl has also furnished the State House at Austin, Texas, with rich brocatelle hangings, diversified with emblems and mottoes of the Southern State of the Gulf, all finished in superb style.

Through the very extensive establishment of Mr. Carryl, No. 169 Chestnut Street, our Southern and Western merchants can conveniently fill their orders for curtains and trimmings, gilt ornaments, &c., being sure to get the newest styles and the best qualities. The height from _floor_ to top of _window-frame_, and width of frame at the top, should always accompany an order.

THE SALAMANCA AND THE MOSCOW WRAPPER.

[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]

The engravings presented this month are so very dear in the design, that any person at all conversant with the fabrication of garments can construct either of them without the aid of any special information. We, however, will merely say that

THE SALAMANCA.

Is composed of maroon or black satin. The skirt is set in box plaits upon the yoke in the back; it is plain in front. The yoke is deep, and is pointed in front. The sleeves are flowing. A trimming of very deep black lace (from ten to twelve inches) ornaments the skirt and the bottom of the yoke. The whole is finished by a neat ornament made of a succession of small loops of No. 6 satin ribbon terminating in streamers.

THE MOSCOW WRAPPER.

(_See Plate in front of Book._)

Consists of three three-quarter circular capes upon a circular skirt. The first is plain, the others full, and are of equal depth. The skirt, however, is about one-third less in depth below the capes than they are with each other. It may be constructed of cloth, but the one illustrated is of royal purple velvet, edged around each cape with royal ermine six inches wide. The bottom of the skirt, however, is wider, the fur there being eight inches. It is lined with white enamelled satin.

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

This dress, which is a combination of the "Polka Jacket" and ordinary dress, is exceedingly pretty and elegant, and well calculated to show off the figure to advantage. It is made up in silk or French merino, and the trimming consists of broad ribbon velvet, about an inch in width, of the same color as the dress, or one in good contrast. To those who are averse to wearing the jacket as a single garment, this may form a pleasing substitute.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS.

Fig. 1.--The front of body--the trimming to be brought up in the form of stomacher.

Fig. 2.--Back of body. Join _a_ to _a_ (Fig. 1), _b_ to _b_, _c_ to _c_, _d_ to _d_.

NOVELTIES FOR THE COMING SEASON.

Fig. 1, it will be seen, approaches more to the style of the pelisse than the mantilla, a fashion that bids fair to be quite general the entire winter for outside garments, or _pardessus_, as the French call them. This, however, is intended for the milder season of spring, being made of rich violet-colored taffeta, trimmed with bows of thick satin ribbon, the same shade in front, and encircled by two falls of black lace.

Figs. 2 and 3 are breakfast caps, Fig. 2 being intended for a bride or young married lady, being composed of lace and close bows of rose-colored satin ribbon; the cap fits close to the head, a fall of broad ribbon coming behind the ear.

Fig. 3 is more novel in shape, and intended for an older person, the trimming encircling the face.

EMBROIDERED SCREEN.

_Materials._--Black satin, three shades of green chenille, gold
twist, and gold beads.

Work the shamrock with the green chenille, veining the leaves with gold twist; the foliage in the background is also worked with green chenille. The frame-work of the harp is executed with beads, and the strings with twist. The wolf-hound is worked with brown chenille in embroidery stitch, as also are the stems of the shamrock and foliage.

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

BRAID PATTERN.

PETTICOAT TRIMMING.--IN BRODERIE ANGLAISE.

_Materials._--French muslin, with royal embroidery cotton, No. 30,
and Moravian, No. 24.

This engraving is on a scale just half the size of the original pattern. It is so strong that it is peculiarly adapted for jupons, which are worn, generally, most elaborately trimmed. The edge, which consists of a single scallop, is considerably raised; the Moravian cotton is to be used for this purpose. The wheels are all worked round in button-hole stitch, over a tracing of three threads, a rosette being in the centre of each. Indeed, if the entire pattern be overcast, instead of being sewed in the usual way, it will contribute much to the durability as well as the appearance of the work.

BRODERIE ANGLAISE FOR FLOUNCING.

(_See Blue Plate in front of Book._)

_Material._--French embroidery cotton, No. 20.

This description of work, now so extremely fashionable for every description of dress, is usually done on fine jacconet muslin; and, to prepare the pattern, either of the following methods may be used: Place the muslin over the pattern, taking care to keep it even and tight; then, with a fine camel-hair brush, and a solution of indigo or powder blue, mixed with gum-water, copy the outline of the pattern, and, to continue it, take care, after one length of the design is drawn, to place the muslin so that the pattern joins correctly. The other method, which is useful for thicker material--take the design, and, with a fine penknife or scissors, cut out the blue parts of the pattern, place it over the material to be used, and trace it round the cut-out parts as above directed; pierce the small eyelet-hole with a stiletto. When the pattern is prepared, tack the muslin on a piece of oil-cloth (green is the best color to work on for all descriptions of embroidery); run twice round the outline of the pattern with the cotton used double, and join the open spaces, cut a small piece out of the centre of the rounds and ovals, and, with the single cotton, work the edges in overcast stitch--the cotton run round, and the edges cut, forming the foundation. In the parts between the ovals and rounds, when there is only a small division of muslin, the whole should be overcast so as to form one bar between the open spaces. Repeat the same for the ovals which form the scallop round the outer edge, the diamonds of twelve ovals, and the rounds which form the Vandykes. The remainder of the pattern is worked in the same manner; but, instead of the overcast stitch, the open spaces are to be sewn thickly over. A small portion only of the pattern should be cut out at a time; and, should the design be worked on a fine material, use cotton No. 24 or 30.

EMBROIDERED COLLAR.