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Iiõ;;:: A WOMAN'S WILL;j ,…
Iiõ; A WOMAN'S WILL; OR, ENE II G Y REWARDED. -t'n.- CHAPTER XVIII. A MAlillOW ESCAPE. OH, Ifarry, NOW it"- IS over lam so frightened! TIe cried Annsta-i«, dinging to her lover. "I want to So back, Harry." "2SO, my darling, that is iIT.possible. Don't yon Seethe worst is over? !>e I'm# out of the window ^'as the worst. But now we aie at the station it's ^'as the worst. But now we aie at the station it's right and jolly." "Will the traui hr. l.;n: Ilarry? 1 "Duo in bvo minutes. Hark! there it is." "Harry I iVoi K0 wretched," cried Anastasia. bursting iuto tears. i o you think mamma will ever forgive me '{'' ''I can't tell, and I don't care much," replied Barry, counting the sliver in his pocket. Because, oh, I'm afraid 1 have done wrong. H 18 so strange, and I ;im so frightened. Harry, shall yo hack "_Xot for a thousand worlds," replied Harry, decisively. While Harry took the tickets, Anastasia sat Shivering al( i trying on the platform. Hie first &|ush of her libcitv was not quite so enchanting as she expected. Ep earn the train, shrieking and whistling. "Now then, be quick'" mid,Harry, in rather a tciemptorymanner. •^nustitsm, stood "witli 1'icr foot on th.e stop of tlie triage. Her lieart beat faster that it had ever dorio in }ler life before. Let me go back, Ilarry," she whimpered. I 'Want (o go back to mamma,' added she, crying. ''Non.<en-e Get in, and don't be a gcosc," a^ed, Harry, checking himi elf. Anastasw,' 1 remblins; all over, g?t into the carria-e. •~atry followed. No one was there, and Anastasia ^UUnk into corner, weeping bitterly. It was the terrible crisis that had ever befallen her. Nothing happened as she had expected. Harry not dry h- r tears, or kneel before her, or call her all manner of endearing names. No, hG sat at the opposite window, looking out a little time. Then he said— "You won't mind a cigar, Anastasia ? > Anastasia did not answer. How truly wretched she felt? Irom peace, and ?a. ]' n,s, and friends, and home, she had plungeu ILto thi, bertha and ITildebrand, it seemed, were no Ci'iierions whatever. Hildebmnd could not possioly have done as Harry was doing. On, on, they went. Trees, villages, and towns seemed to iiy pas<- the window. Every mile was carrying her farther and farther from her home. What would become of her ? Escape was impos- sible. She muot marry, as they had ]Imned, and live in the cottage, and do all the romantic and im- possible things talked about. But woiud the cottage be a failure, too ? Perhaps Harry v. ould run away and leave her in the heart of London What should she ^do then i t>lie must beg her bread, or, perhaps, cue m_the Streets star. ed to death. Or, perhaps, Harry might star, (.d to 01-, turn out a bad husband, and be as cruel as Sir W Ifgan- was io his bride. Alas '"alas She saw no end to the miseries that might befall her, Still the train pushed on its way. It only stopped Once b'tween Show berry and Lonoon. 'then when it did slop, Anastasia crept up to BaITY, her poor face red and swollen, and putting her cold, trembling lingers into his, whispered— Harrv, plouse let me go l ack." ""Whyi Anastasia, what nonsense You cannot ^0 back now. "What w uld people say? Bless me. your character would be taken av- ay for -ever Anastasia shrunk back, as if she had been stung. Her eyes llaslud, and her teeth wer<5 firmly set together. Harrv jumred out on the platform. I shall bring you something to drink,' he -said. 0 "011, no no no:hing cried Anastasia. I shall. You are to do as I bid you now. Presently he brought her a glass of wine. Anastaafa. could not drink it. "Neyer mind, I will." And Hai'i'■'to-sad it <iil' m a moment. lie came back from returning the glass, he •seemed excited and began to talk very fast and very l°ud. The old woman," he said, could not keep le.in 'Out of his wife's money, he should take care or that, ^d a jollv time he meant to have of it. we It be ofr to the Continent as soon as 'Amen has been |a,d," added he, jocosely. It was evident tnat Harry's natural coarseness was getting the better ot him.. Anastasia did not speak or stir. She felt as if a. Sudden blow had stung her. Then the love scenes of the past years, the gngarcd yi'i'ds, the loving epithets, the promises, the delusive ^pes that had"bewitched her, rose up before liei ^'•nd, and again tears gushed forth. Her home" too-her beautiful home-her peaceful J^plovments, her girlish pleasures, her companions, tor happy day?,, her freedom from all care and •ojrow—ah! all these things seemed to Ha\Q slipped away from her for ever. Life had "been a pleasant dream, and this was tne AWAKENING.. In her ignorance of the world, she gave hcrselt °ver as comp'etelv doomed. There seemed no more escape for her than for the bird when it is caught. 11l the snare of the fowler. She could but struggle ■and flutter till she died. ■T1jnw i- And now Harry looked again from the wmdo Scr', there is London," he cried. Tendon it JHto last time Anastasia had been ^London* ^aswith her mother and a party of }Oun3 > and light-hearted as herself. The sight" of that volume of smoke--those ?°noTeg,ted house-tops-made her feel sick heart. Hai rv looked at his watch.. <<T f "We are in capital time," he said, joyfully- |er^ as if I must have a sine k somewhere. Are you breakfast order, Anastasia ? iQnat Anastasia did not answer. She felt as if the least "^el of food would choke her.. ,n -fl(1 Harry handed her from the carnage, and hurried ei into the refreshment-room. "Now, then, what will you have? Here,^P,or er» to Hanover-square, immediate, adc e r 'Yes, sir," replied the porter, lespe!))- Porter was running o;f to fetch the m i, q aa stopped by a policeman, and the at once into conversation. TTarrv ««T Hullo, you there, make haste en g a 1 want to bo off." And ho went back to d her hands folded in her la £ ?he w'hole expression of her face was ch^ed. ^^ocent, happy look was gone. She might he ten older since yesterday. •, Jnni, larry wint on with his pigeon-pie, ^'al glasses of wine. Then he went out, but •"flerrtl'tofh'pofatUng. Cm H fairtUw. I can," fcltcrcd nc,H U's the worst of womcn lhc}-f iU or »othing;, Kruml)led Harry. However, sit still, o you had better go into the waiting-room. What 8 ^?rtle over you" added be, you're as glum as glum." J „ will go into the waiting-room. I am tired, Sd4 ru t^t'1 aS: There'll to a eg to fcttiy. I'll blow that fellow up in the air for lng them all gooff." v0. e, astasia sat on the sofa in the waiting-room, hei '8TJix( d on the ground. «_i, tpf, ^1;,t happens to people," she thoiig^ are so very wretched? Ho they die JT J? bad ceased to weep. She was whole k r ace looked pinched and ghastly- i.or for of the thing was becoming apparent to v1-0 ru<^° blow had knocked her romantic o shivers. We think the poor child could iftlong 6 survived the agony she experienced. It le expiation of her folly. Harry was standing about outside—whistling t. and then, and now and then swearing with nn vU 'cn(-< once, bursting in, crying out they shou be too late. 8 41 ^'i-stagia heeded nothing now. It seemed as I ere could bo no depth lower than the one into '°h she had fallen. at this moment, in darted Harry, callm0 [ Here's a cab in now. Isn't it lucky P Wo shall get maxiicd after all." Ana»tasia got up; but she did not iorward. She felt bid. and faint. The world seemed upside down, and all things gone to rack and ruin. "Como along," "he said. "You had not need h'nder one." Ana-tasia uttered a wail of anguish, like some creature in its deavh hour. (i]i have pity on me she cried. Just at that moment there was a little confusion outsid- and two women rushed into the room. The foremost was Wiiii;red. CIIAl'TEIi NIX. THE TIDE TURNS. THE sixteenth of iiiie came in. crowned with roses, and sparkling with sunbeams; but no wedding pro- cession moved from Lady Whit.tlesea's door—-no fair girls in white raiment clustered round the bride—no btdls were rung or feast prepared. The lovely head that should have wo; n the orange- blossom, lay upon the pillow. Trie sweet lace was thin and sharp-tue .blue eyes dimmed of their lustre. Poor Anastasia was having an illness —the re-ult of her f s apade with Harry. Unused to fatigue or excitement of any kind, her delicate frame naturally succumbed to a tension of nerve more severe than she had ever yet ex- perienced. No sooner was slie brought palely home than her bodily powers gave way, and she had kept her bed ever since. She lay still and quiet, feeling utterly weak and helpless, exceedingly ashamed of herself, yet most tru'v thankful. Her deliverance from Harry was a circumstance ever to be remembered with the liveliest gratitude. Winifred nursed her with the utmos-t tenderness. Her capabilities in this respect so far exceeded those of Alts. Horace, that the invalid was tacitly made ovei7 to her It was astonishing, in spite of her lorutv preten- sions, how helpless Mrs. Horace really was. Anastasia, much as she loved her mother, never turned to her for any of the good oKr-.es naturally devolving on a nurse. It was Winifred who smoothed her pillows, and ministered to her continually. During the time when she was at her worst, Winifred never left her day or night. She was rallying now from the shock. Phe could bear the light to be admitted into her chamber sho could sit up in bed, propped by she could talk a little, and take notice of surrounding objects. On this particular day Winifred was sitting working by the window, when her patient, waking from a refreshing sleep, seemed inclined to enter into conversation. "Come and sit hv me, Miss Godfrey I want to ask you something." What is it, my dear ?" And Winifred came, and tcos the thin white hands in hpl's. What day of the month is it, Miss Godfrey ? "Th"six):fcnth,mydea.r." Is it really ? And a faint blush came over Anastasia s pale countenance. „ 1 was to have hern married to-day." Winifred was silent. This topic had beon a pro- hibited one. Presently Anastasia said, in a low, faltering voice, and with another blush of carmine— Do vou know what has become 0a iiarry r Yes." What has ? And Anastasia looked up eagerly. My dear, the doctor said you were not to excite yourself." "I am not excited at all. But I have wondered many times. It would do mo good to know." Well then, he is gone to sea." Gone to sea! Yes. 1 think it was the most sensible thing he could do." ::> Anastasia was silent. She lay as if thinking very intently. Presently she said— I know what I mean to do, Miss Godfrey. Well, my dear! I don't intend to marry ai all, now." Oh said Winifred, incredulously. ?\ 0, I don't. I meant to visit the poor, and do Dorcas work, and be a sifter of charity." Oh repeated \Vinifred, Yes I do. t-ingle women often are of a great deal of use in the world, are they not, Miss Godfrey? Oh, dear yes. I hope so. And, as Perkins says I shall have a large fortune when I come of age, I mean to build a house with it and let the sisters of charity live in it, and be the head of them, as Lady Sinclair is, in that house on th''Exactly," replied Winifred, with the utmost gravity. And now it is time I think to take your medicine." In a week or two, Anastasia was down-stairs, and considered to be convalescent. It was even hinted that she might be removed home. Then a curious turn happened in the anairs of Mrs. Horace invited her to V> liittlesea Manor. My poor child cannot do without you, she said by way of explanation, "and Lady W hittlesea has kindly promised that you shall go." Beneath the hard crust of selfishness there lay the never-failing instinct of a mother's love. Winifred had reached this, and gamed illrs. Horace, at least f°It wasThe middle of July when Winifred accom- nanied her young charge to W hittlesea Manor. P £ was the first visit she had ever paid to the C° WiiSred had all her life been a denizen of tovrns and cities. She had never passed through such a mlmy period as that which now lay before her. P It IvL a period of complete enjoyment-of wau- de in- among' fields of new-mown hay, of rural drives down |reeu and grassy lanes, of sitting in cool 2d shady nooks, of rest from cares, anxiety, and Winifred's enemies even seemed at peace with her. "Let her be what bhe may," thought Mrs. Horace, << sho has saved my child." Not that Mrs. Horace was in the least degree de- monstrative—sh e preserved, in a great measure,_ her maenificient hauteur; still, it was an acknowledged f ot that Winifred's position was established, and « nos were to bo bygones. w,-th regard to Winifred herself, it must be con- 1,11 hat her character was improving. The mtere-t 1 t-il-en in Anastasia's fate had softened her f bad ,tr ']ei;1a- ,oun. and lovely creature depend- heart. I nastasia did, and looking up to her, ing upon hcV "r fJwSred's existence. The hard, Sm'ZA, ««**»Iifo f",had f hlfcci toTmacb her ealtas; now leg.E to grow more genial and sensitne.^ thought much of In these peacefu ) >> },a(] happened to her husband, and wond. red "»d written to mquiro ,f £ :Tctter addressed to the house of to grarf- reMve-Wimircd bad no rc'™?t unopened. He was noo there, and his pres. ^WinifrecT' was net in a position to follow up her • • c i She let the matter drop for the present. "When l" am better^oii: she said, I will hunt f° Me^tiL1, h« wh^-o attention was devoted to Anastasia. Sir Philip since the day V#re her ui^ucky elopement. The^fect produced him by this event may better be imagined "I10* J scribed. Whatever he felt, however, he made no outward sign. He went about as usual- CalmiT^i'h'ful man' but much too old for Miss A d;;ll^h;tflip T)0T)Upir opinion inShowberry. l^s £ :s,i°and as'iin t0 Sir Philip with a kin been devoted to a Inlh.I».lo»r.*J"S Harry, «ueh more intimate t!iem3elves into her thoughts as these had lorcea hC<<dsir Philip would not have done so Sir Philip would have been tender and considerate. P is of a different nature to Harry li-ing- 1 "sCMnoUrelriterHarry. She toplyl And. ieS^e £ StTat been a onlek sudden process. A few minutes had sufficed to rend the veil from her eyes. Then it did occur to her, down in the depths of her soul, that it was possible she might have made a mistake—that she might have caught at the bit of shining tinsel, and let the jewel go. The cloud which interposed between herself and a fair contemplation of Sir Philip's virtues being removed, these virtues began to sbine with a tranquil lustre. She found out he was good, and wise, and kind; and that, in spite of his age, which did not exceed eight-and-thirty, she would have had a rea- sonable chanco of happiness. Anastasia's cloud-land being utterly dispelled, and her castles in the air shivered to atoms, for the first time her feet were planted on the solid and matter- of-fact earth. Poetical ballads and real earnest life were not always synonymous. Winifred's practical mind, and strong, clear, judgment helped matters forward in^k remarkable degree. She never mentioned Sir Philip, save as a creature of the past with whom, of course, all relations of friendship were abandoned-a sure way to invest him with interest in the eyes of the woman who had lost him. One day, as she' and'"Anastasia were sitting together under a tree in the park, Anastasia began timidly to allude to the subject. "Miss she said. Well, my dear." "I should like to know-,I don't quite—that is, I feel. unwilling to mention- To mention what, my dear ? Anastasia hung her lieid. "Do you ever hear anything of Sir Philip ?" asked she, her heart beating very fast. "Yea," replied Winifred, boldly. Anastasia looked up inquiringly. What have you heard ? said she, quickly. That ho is going abroad." Anastasia's countenance fell, and her lips quivered. She did not say another word on the subject. Two days passed, during which she was unusally grave and quiet. Then it chanced that she and Winifred were sitting in the self-same spot, under the tree in the park. Miss Godfrey," said Anastasia, timidly. Yes, my dear." Are you quite sure that what you told me on Wednesday was true ? What did I tell you, my dear ? I forget." "Youtold me that—that he was going abroad." Oh! Sir Philip. Yes, he is," replied Winifred, as if the matter were settled. Anastasia sat silent, her eyes on the ground. Then she said with a little sigh— "lamvery sorry." My dear, what can it matter to you ? Sir Philip knows that you won't marry him." Anastasia sighed again. "Miss Godfrey, do you think—I should/like just to know, though I shall never see him any more— do you think he has forgiven me?" Indeed, my dear, I cannot say. He is not of a disposition to bear malice." Anastasia sighed again. He is a thorough gentleman," said Winifred a minute after. Anastasia sat pulling up the grass by handfuls. Many women would have thought they had found a treasure in Sir Philip." Noreply. And as for his age, he is only just in his prime." Anastasia went on pulling up the grass, as if intent on nothing else. "At all events, he is vastly too good to trifle with, said Winifred. She said no more and the two sat on in silence- a silence unbroken, save by the hum cf hoes, or the rattling of the leaves overhead All at once Anastasia turned her face round. Miss Godfrey, I am very sorry. I should like Eom.1 one to-tell Sir Philip that I am," added she, dropping her voice to a whisper. Very well, my dear. But I dare say he has tarted for Rome." Then Winifred got up and walked towards the house. Anastasia remained under the tree, to have a good cry-which was just what Winifred hoped she vould. (To be continued.)
JILTED.
JILTED. CCAUDE MNR.NER, a young artist, sat in his studio in Kensington, one morning, putting the finishing touches to tlie life-size portrait of a young lady. He was un- doubtedly talented but, as the saying goes, his father was Lorn leforc him." Melner, senior, was a well- known and apparently well-to-do portrait painter, whose p-etlires fetched handsome prices. The son inherited a certain share of his father's artistic genius, but had not vet been compelled to struggle with the world like the iatter to fully develop the gift. He had never known the up-hill work of the friendless aspirant for fame. His life bad hitherto been smooth and uneventful. The father's surplus business had quietly flowed into the son's studio. Claude had thus managed to get a name among a certain class, which true judges of art would not have awarded him and to make enough to keep him afloat—■ when his own earnings were added to the frequent pre- sents that came out of the too ready purse of doating parents to their only, and in some respects spoilt, son. So Claude painted leisurely. He was never in a hurry to push a picture, or to demand payment for it. His brrad and butter were sure, even if they were not the fruit of his own exertions. He had only himself to care for. There was no wife and child in the background, clamouring for food, clothing and shelter. As yet he regarde i his palette and brush more as playthings than as instruments by which to carve his way unaided to fame and fortune; neither of which held out any attrac- tion for him. Appreciative of industry in others, he I disliked it himself. He was genial. and much liked by his brother artists, who considered him a lucky fellow, likely to inherit wealth, even if he did not attain his father's professional success. Several of them envied him for Lucy l!lake, one of the prettiest girls of his acquaintance, was his betrothed. Indeed, it was her portrait that he was then completing. But though Claude was deeply in love, he had not the divine afflatus and devotion to his work which marks the true master, and ultimately makes him tower above his fellow-students in the world of art. His was more the occasional dilettante pencilling of the amateur, than the steady application of the professional. And parties and the Row claimed a considerable share of his time, especially since his engagement to Lucy. While thus employed on the portrait of his fiancee, Claude was mentally busy in building—not art-but love-castles in the air and thinking of his appioaching wedding and marriage-tour with his bride, over the art galleries of the Continent; for he knew that Lucy—her- self of a literary turn—was as anxious as himself to revel in their beauties. A telegram for you, sir," said a boy in uniform, open- ing the door suddenly after knocking. "Wait a moment," said Claude, annoyed at being in- terrupted in retouching a delicate flesh tint. It's marked in haste,' sir and I think you'd better read it," continued the boy. This made Claude take and open it. It was from his mother, and ran thus: Your father is dead. Dropped suddenly in the street an hour ago from apoplexy. Come home immediately. I am distracted." To his disappointment, and the great surprise of every- body, the old gentleman died very poor leaving only a comparatively small sum in the bank, and a littl« real estate; barely enough to support his widow for the remainder of her days. Claude was thus thrown suddenly on his own resources. But what of that ? With Lucy to cheer and spur him on, lie believed that he could do wonders, and, at least, earn enough to keep them ii> jnodcnite comfort. But misfortunes seldom come alone. He had been reckoning without his host. The course of true love is often rugged and unpleasant. As Claude sat in his studio one forenoon a month later, somewhat busier than before-for he had now his own bread to win, and often found it hard work to make both ends meet, especially as he had no father to send him stray customers—a tap came to the door which made him start, for he knew the knock, and rushed towards it as it was opened by Lucy Blake. I'm glad you have come, Lucy," he said, "as I so much want you to see this head. It is purely ideal —the Infant Jesus,' I call it. What do you think of it?" It is very good. But, like most artists, you have made the face old-fashioned, and too full of expression for a baby's." Well, Lucy," asked Claude after a time, when is it to be ? Have you decided yet? Two months ago you said-soon." Our marriage, do you mean ? Yes, Lucy. How can yoa pretend to misunderstand me?" I must take time to think over it," replied Lucy, evasively. And this was all the answer he could get from her. So she departed, leaving her lover in as great doubt and anxiety regarding her and his own future as ever for the two, as he thought, were now indissolubly con- nected. After she had gone, he could not help thinking that her manner appeared colder and more reserved than usual; and he puzzled himself with thinking why. Next day brought a solution of the difficulty in the form of a small note, in which Lucy desired that their engagement should be at an end. It was not her wiih, she said, but her father's. Her love, she declared, was unalterable but she dare not disobey her parent; and positively declined seeing or hearing from him in future. In more wavs than one the future was now a blank before him; and the world not quite so sunny and joyous. For a. time he thought that life was scarcely worth the care we bestow upon it, and that the sun of his happiness had for ever set. But, though heartlessly jilted, he never once thought of dying of despair, or of committing suicide. In spite of all his faults, he had a fair share of good practical common sense. At length his innate self-esteem and hope-those twin blessings, without which thousands would go to the wall-came to the rescue made him take a healthier and more manly view of things, and nerved him for the real battie of life before him. With God's help and his own right arm, he saw no reason why he should not do what others have done, and attain equal success. So, his mother being comfortably settled, he determined to forget Lucy and love, if he could, and m.ke Art his mistress. And, bidding London farewell, though with a still heavy heart, he left for Italy. Before reaching Rome, his final destination, Claude visited all the great galleries and famous pictures in the various capitals and churches of the Continent. The Eternal Citv was at length reached and there he settled down to steady work. His imagination and soul fired with a praiseworthy ambition to become, like his father, a leader in the artistic world. Throwing the unhappy past as much as possible behind his back, he looked forward to a brighter future. The heart must have a shrine, and Claude now knelt before that of his noble profession. And in the end his love cross, instead of marring, was the means of making him. But for that, he would never have soared above the ranks of mediocrity. As it was, his latent talent, fanned by a healthy competition, and aided by applica- tion, soon made him conspicuous and in a few venrs wafted his name to England as one of the most promising artists in Rome; thereby bringing him valuable com- missions, and ultimately a pressing invitation to settle in his native country, and make London his home. This he finally accepted. In the metropolis his success was great. Work and wealth poured in on him. His society was courted, his opinion valued, his advice much sought after, and his position apparently an enviab'e one. But all this time he hadn't forgo.ten Lucy. He had tried to banish her image from his heart, but found it impossible. He could not bring himself to believe that she was to blame for discarding him. And now that misfortune had overtaken her, he felt more drawn to her than ever, and longed to discover her whereabouts, and cheer or aid her if necessary for her father, after Buffering a crushing reverse in business, which ruined him, had died, leaving his daughter in poverty. She had since then left town and no one that he knew could inform him whither she had gone. One day a well-known publisher consulted him regard- ing illustrations for a volume of poems, and left the manuscript for perusal. What do you think of' Musings among the Moun- tains ? asked he, a month afterwards. Have you had time to look them over ? Yes. The sonnets are particularly good and also some of the lo.iger and more ambitious pieces. Alto- gether, it is unquestionably a first-class production. But here and there it betrays the hand of a novice in poetical composition. I should say it is by a female. Her de- scriptive power is wonderful, and will materially facilitate the illustration, which I can undertake but I should first like to meet the author or authoress. So you shall, if I can prevail on her to let you into her secret. She writes under a nom-de-plume, and wishes her name to be suppressed. If possible, I shall arrange a meeting." ° Ere long Claude had an invitation to meet the unknown authoress at dinner, at the house of his friend, the pub- lisher. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Claude Melner," said ha, as the latter entered the parlour, and found himself vis- a-vis to a young lady clad in deep mourning who started violently and blushed deeply in evident astonish- ment, as the name reached her ears. Nor was Claude less surprised to find that the fair authoress was his former friend andjiande, Lucy BIa.c. She met him frankly, and lie was only too pleased to see her again, especially under such circumstances, to be un- forgiving. Mutual explanations followed, and their friend, the worthy publisher, at whose house she was staying, was soon let into e secret of their former in- timacy. Claude seieed an early opportunity to have a private interv.ew with her to ascertain her feelings towards him. Lucy," he said, may I ask if it was 3 our wish to have our engagement broken off ? In a sense it was. Still, I was true to yoa and loved you but did what I then considered my duty, and yielded to my father's judgment;" "You say loved me, Lucy. Don't you love me now ? She made no reply, but only crept closer to him, to be folded to his heart, and loved and prized more than in times of yore, in his younger and more thoughtless lays.
MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS.
MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. THE RED INDIAN AT IImm.Before long we found ourselves making a slight ascent, and suddenly came to the edge of a steep bank, overlooking a small lake. Here we found the tent we were seeking—so placed as to enjoy the shelter of the trees, and also com- mand a view of the lake. The snow around was so deep that the tent seemed half-buried, and might almost have been passed by unnoticed but for the iiard-beaten path that led up to the entrance, and the blue smoke that issued from the top. It was round in form, constructed with several tall poles placed I on end in a large circle, and brought together at the top. Over these were placed several pieces of coarse canvas—a hole being left at the top to serve as the chimney. On the side facing the lake an opening had been left for an entrance, over which hung an old blanket weighted with a stick, which you pulled aside to enter, and allowed to fall in its place again. The inmates of the tent heard the clatter of our snow-shoes as we approached, and soon the blanket was pushed on one side, and the bright firelight gleamed forth, and several faces peered out inquisitively into the twilight. Vt e were soon recognised and warmly welcomed and, creeping through the narrow doorwav, we took oar seats with the rest, cross-legged around the fire. The door of the tent was tlnckly strewn with pine-brush, which formed quite a comfortable carpet; and in the centre roared a huge fire, which flung its yellow glare all around, and sent a shower of sparks up through the aperture at the to]).—The Quiver. THE DEATH OF MRS. PROUDIE.—One of the chief characteristics of Trollope's conversation was the vehement enthusiasm he was able to get up with a sud- denness which was even startling. He would maintain his own opinion almost with -violence yet no one more thoroughly enjoyed an argument, or put up more de- lightedly with flat contraeliction -so fully able to enter into the other side of the question, that in the genuine joy and hurry of the tight he would sometimes forget which was his own. It was seldom that lie constituted himself the hero of his own story, but on one occasion the merits of his novels coming under iscussion, and he giving his own verdict decidedly in favour of The Last Chronicle of Barset," one of his friends remarked that, contrary to his usual smooth-going style, he had actually fallen into tragedy whilst describing the death of Mrs. Proudie. "Ah I that was not 'altogether my doing," he replied, jumping up from his chair and putting himself on the hearthrug in the attitude which will be so readily recalled by all who knew him, This was how it happened. I was writing a note at a table in the Athenaeum, when two men came in and settled them- selves at each side of the fireplace one had a number of 4 The Last Chronicle of Barset' in his hand, and they began discussing the story. Trollops gets awfully prosy,'snid one of the critics; 'he does nothing but u repeat himself-Mrs. Proudie, Mrs. Proudie, Mrs. Proudie-chnpter after chapter.' 41 quite agree with you,' replied the other it is Mrs. Prou lie ad naustam I am sick to death of Mrs Proudie.' Of course they did not know me, so I jumped up and stood between them. Gentlemen.' I said, I am the culprit-I am Mr. Trollope-antl I will go home this instant and kill Mrs. Proudia. In the very next page, accordingly, the weak and persecuted bishop is made actually to pray for the removal of the masterful partner who had brought so much grief and humiliation upon him, and hardly has the tragic prayer been uttered than he is made aware of its fulfilment.—Slackwojd's Jf. rauzine _Jo' THE JL\].A.AR. OF CALCUTTA.—The bazaars are a characteristic feature of most Indian cities, br t those of Calcutta are for the most part wretched congeries of mean shops, without the covered walks usually met with elsewhere. The Tirheta Bazaar, cove ring four square acres in the very heart of the city, dis; lays an abundance of almost every kind of food to be met with in India. Each class of vendors is separated with minute preei ion the mutton stalls and beef stallsarc away from each other. Vendors of pork and veal form another class. The pcui- try bazaar, with its thousands of live geese, turkeys, deck and pigeons, present* a curious scene. In the wild-fowl ba -aar are snipe, moor-hens, and plovers, and almost every species of live duck and teal. The various departments lor r.sh, vegetable-, fruit, butter, milk, rice, sweetmeats, and various other classes of food, are all well supplied. Before sunrise thousands of natives may be seen coming along the streets from ail par s uf Calcutta to the Tirheta Bazaar. Rich and poor, some in line robes and turbans, j others in almost nothing at all, gossiping servants in livery. Englishmen, Greeks, Tuiks, Arabs, Chinese, and men of numerous other nationalities, in their vaiied costumes, and Hindus of every caste, all help to make up an incongroas and interesting scene. Hundreds of coolies stand waiting with broad baskets oil their heads to take home goods for any one. and besides the avenues 1 -ading to the market are the money-changers, with piles of pic-, who for a slight consideration s-.?pplv intending pur- chasers with small change for their silver money. By nine a.m. all is over, the avenues are deserted, and the gates closed, and trailic practically ceases, until next morning again rou-es the district into life and animation. —Cirit.i of the World. T THE SURF JIIDI its OF HAWAII.—Owing to the entire absence of coral reef, 11,e surf at all times breaks on these shores with prodigious violence. But in stormv weather this is, of course, increased tenfold, and tiie great green billows come rushing in with overwhelming force. These are the delight of the surf riders. Each carries a surf board, which is simply a wooden plank, and raiment is, of course, almost nil. Blunging Leneath the ilrst wave, they rise beyond it, and swim out to sea till they meet another, and then another, in each case diving just at the right moment, to allow the billow to PL-8 over them. If they miscalculate by one second, the surf catches them and dashes them shoreward, when they need to be good swimmers to escape being battered on the rocks. But. long practice makes perfect, and many of the surf riders dire safely beneath each suc- cessive wave, till they reach the comparatively smooth water beyond the ..well. Then laying themselves flat on their board, they prepare for their exciting ride. Their first care is to select a winnii-g sea horse. They calculate that every third wave is larger than the rest, and rushes higher on the beach so their aim is to mount the bigtest billow, which carries them shoreward at almost lightning speed. The ride has all the excitement of a rave; for, should the rider fail to keep his plank at exactly the right angle on the crest of the green billow, he will be overtaken by the breaking surf of the wave which follows, and to avoid this, must again dive beneath it, and swim out to sea to make a fresh start. Should he L.il to select the right wave as his courser, and iind himself on one of the lesser waves, the result is the same, as it will break ere he reaches the shore, and he must a-ain do battle with the pitiless surf and swim for his life. But the man whose skill and luck are alike good has a wildlv exhilarating race. He lies poised en the rushing wave, apparently in perfect security, with the tumultuous waters and the dashing surf raging on every side. If he can direct his course towards the sandy beach, the wave will carry him right on to it; but there is always daneer of be ng swept on to the cruel black rocks, where the ablest steerer finds it hard to discern the narrow pas- sages through which the seething waters rush so madiv and often he is compelled to abandon his trusty surf board, and again turning seaward, plunge beneath the wave and make his way to some point where he can swim ashore in eafety. His surf board is probably re- duced to splinters in a few seconds—a loss which is to him as serious as that of a favourite 1 at to a cricketer. The boards most in favour are made from the wood of the Viri-viri, which is very light. Itgrowsinthe mountains, and is much used for making fences, as it is a kindly shrub. You have but to stick one of its branches in the earth, and it takes root, and soon is covered with a blaxe of scarlet blossom. A good surf board is about an inch n(i a half in thickness, about eighteen inches wide, and eight feet long, and should be slightly hollowed down in the centre, and rounded at one end. It is stained black, frequently rubbed with cocoa-nut oil, and preserved with the greatest care, being wrapped up in cUtli and hung up in some safe corner of the house. It is called papa, he nhlu—which means wave-sliding board -anI is so named from the a pa or sledge formerly used in a game called horua, which exactly answered to the toboggiu of the Canadians.— Miss C. F. Gordon CUfl/ming, CHINA IN AMERICA.—Parts of San Franeiscc are as Chinese as IT "ng- Kong itself. There are Joss-houses, with a I ig, stolid-looking idol sitting in state, the temple gay with tinsel and china, me al-work and paint, smell- ing faintly of incense, and strongly of burnt paper. There, are Chinese restaurants by the dozen, from the high-class dining-rooms, with balconies, flowers, small banners and inscriptions, down to the itinerant restaura- teur with his charcoal stove and soup-pot. Then ther' are Chinese theatres, smelling strongly of opium and tobacco, where the orchestra sits at the back of the stage, which is curtainless and devoid obscenerv. The o. the performers arc gorgeous in the ex c. When anv new arrangement of properties, &c., is required on the stage, the changes are made before your eves; as, for example, placing a table to represent a raised balcony, or piling up some boxes to form a castle, and so forth. Their dramas are often almost inter- minable, for they take the reign of an Emperor, for example, and play it through, night after night, from his birth to his death. In details they are very literal, and hold" the mirror up to nature f ullv. If the said Emperor had special vices, they are displayed on the stage. The music is, to European cars, fearful and wonderful a mixture of discordant sounds, resembling tlio.-c of ungreased cart-wheels and railway-whistle", mingled with the rolling of drums and striking of gongs'. Some of the. streets are lined with Chinese shops, ranging from those of the merchants in tea, silks, per elain, and lacqured ware—a dignified and polite class of men, who are often highly educated, and speak English extremely well-to those of the cigar-makers, barbers, shoemakers, and huntlrv-men. Half the lauedrv-work in San Francisco is performed by John Chinaman. There is one Chinese hotel, which looks as though it might at a stretch accommodate 200 people, in which 1200 men are packed and there are many others where something nearly as bad exists.-Tlie Sea: its Stirring &tori/ of Adventure, Peril, and Heroism. TilE LITERARY INFLUENCE OF DEMOCRACY. Some of the artistic, as well as many of the social, peculiarities of the United States may, doubtless, be traced to their form of government. After the obvious wants of life are provided for, democracy stimulates the production of books. An intellectual world, where the utility if not the beauty of knowledge is universally recognised, rises on the ruins of rank. There is a rrce in which the prize is to the swift, and everyone tries to draw the eyes of others by innumerable impe'rfect efforts. Malta non multum. Art is abundant and inferior- whitewashed wood and brick pass for marble, puerile buffooneries for humour, and rhythmical spasms for poetry. Antiquity presents only apparent exceptions to this rule. Athens ultimately attained the utmost democracy consistent with the institution of slavery, but her citizens had previously inherited, from a past so vague that they claimed to have originally sprung I' from their narrow soil, a set or prescriptions in pre-estab- lished harmony with the Hellenic mind. The ideas of limit and order were paramount in their stage; they never knew when they bad done enough, but they always knew when they had said enough. Their most agitated assemblies were still critical, and no orator ventured to address them in the style of a Western member of Con- gress. Formality is the prevailing defect of aristocratic literature they are apt to be precise and restricted. A democratic literature runs the risk of lawlessness, inac- curracy, and irrreverence. From either extreme the Athenian and Florentine Elizabethan classics were preserved by the artistic inspirations of a flexible tradition. The one is displayed in the so- called Augustan age of le s, in the France of Louis XIV. and the England f Qurcn Anne, when men of .genius, caring more to cultivate style than to establish truth, more to captivate the taste than to stir the passions—moved, with clipped wmgs, in a charmed circle of thought. The other is most conspicuously developed 111 Amenca-a country which is not only democratic, but youthful without the modesty of youth, unmellowed by the past and untrammelled by authority; where the spirit of adventure is unrestrained bv feelings of personal loyalty where order and regularity of all kinds are apt to be misnamed subservience; where vehemence, wit, and vigour are common good taste, profundity, and imagination rare—a country whose untamed material imparts tamelessness to the people, and diverts them from the taste of civilisation to the desire of conquest. We speak « their average mind and average literature, which reflects the glitter and rush of Broadway or the impetuosity of frontier life, for the more reflective minds among them aim after a higher standard.—John Nichol,.LLJ).
_J-LADIES' COLUMN.
_J- LADIES' COLUMN. DRESS AND FASHION. The spring toilettes already completed, and those in tour.se of pivp n ation, partake of iliy necessary charac- teristics for Lo.ii the weather we hope f or, au.l that we may have. Dresses are being made of tlick materials and daik colours, suitable for cold and wet davs, as well as of light. r shades and thinner fabrics, to be worn when tha sun does condescend to shine and reniii.cl us that summer is coming. The sensible fashion of making very hand- some pattern materials quite plainly, so as to show both the beauty of the ucs ga and the richness or the tissue, 6till obtains, such fabrics beii'g used for bodices, trains, pancls, front breadths, or plain skirts, trimmed with a large ruche, or some lull trimming at the bottom only. One of the most ciegant styles of thedav is s princessc over- dress of phunve] vet, fastening on ti:e cra.s to the wai ,t. and opening from thence to make a very elongated the whole length of the skirt and a little at one siile. This tunique priucesse is worn over a fussejupe edged with a full ruche; the opening of the skirt is occupied by a di fferent material, which, if with a pattern, may be without tny trimming or drapery; while, should it be of a plain fabric, it may be arranged in putling- Lilting5, folds, pli,3.ei, according to taste. A scarf drapery of different lUlteria1, to the tunique, or a shawl tunic arranged gracefully below the hJps is a great finish to this style. Such a dress may be made to serve several purposes, as it Ciin be worn with more than one underskirt, and, if open at the throat, different plastrons may accompany it, corresponding with those skirts; while, for evening wear, a charming toilette is made by adding a lace fichu to the corsage, and tilling the o;eni:;g of the skirr, with lace flounces, sewn on a net toundation. This arrangement may be carried out e jually well 111 velveteen, with silk, satin, or woollen trimmings. Black will be very fashionably worn this season, both in thin and thick materials, and many elegant evening dresses are being made in this sombre hue, enlivened bv a profusion of jet beads, gold braid, or coloured bowers. An immense quantity of lace is worn as trimmings, and the bea ed garnitures become more elaborate every diiy. The taobed bodices are still in great favour, aud will so ccc- tinue, pointed basques, narrow at the sides, are much worn withpaniers or the deep pulls at the top of the skirts: and the round basques are decidedly shorter than of late. Two of the newest bonnets are the Chapeau "Corday" and the Chapeau "Bonne Mannan." The "Bonne Manaan is a small capote, with two or three rows of pleated lace on the passe, giving it much the appearanceofacip. One lately shown us was of violet velvet, with a passe three fingers wide of the same at the edge were two rows of pleated Cieim lace; pouf of cream feathers with aigrette at the side. The Ciiapeau Corday is much the same shape, but has a loose crown. Dinner or theatre dress, of bleu de lac, Ottoman velvet, and white la e. Round skirt, edyed with a plisse, over which falls a wide flounce of slightly gathered lace ibis is headed by leaf-shaped pattcs of Ottoman velvet; a second flounce trims the front and sides, and the pattes arc repeated above this, a third floance completes the trimming of the skirt, without the velvet tabs, as tiie top of this flounce is hidden bv the bacqr.e of the bodic. A pleated scarf commences a little at the right side of the waist, croesea the tablicr diagonally, and ends in numerous folds, fastened lyider a fiot of ribbon velvet, at the left side, between the two lower flounces of lace. The back drapery is formed bv a long and wide breadth of velours Ottoman, pleated to the waistband, and draped to the side-scams, a ca»c»de of lace hiding the edge on the rght side; the centre of this draperie is raised to form poufs. Corsage, with round basque cut in leaf-shaped scallops; the neck is open square, with a fall of lace round; the sleeves are entirely of lace, without any ornament, and reach to the elbow. A blue velvet waistband emerges from the side seams, passing under the back of the bodice, and over the front, fa-toning at the right side with a diamond buckle. Diamond pins in the hair; blue shots, with diamond buckles on a velvet bow, in a nest of lace. Ball diess of pale pink satin brocade, with large raised shaded roses and velvet leaves. The round skirt is edged with a plisse of plain satin, beaded by a bread ruche coquilLe of pink sltin plisse, edged with lace. A point of lace is draped across the tablier, hanging full length on the. right side, and disappearing under the train breadth it is drawn in folds across the front, leaving the left side of the tablier uncovered. The long train of brocade is pleated to the skirt a few inches below the waist, and drawn together at the bend of the ki.ee, to form a hang- ing pout beneath this it is arranged ill a yery long and wide box-pleat, with flat pleats turning away on each side; the si les of the train only touch the ground, the increase in length being very accentuated at the back. Low bodice, with deep points at the front and back of the basques; the shell sleeve is a full buillonHe of brocade, set in a shoulder strap the corsage is open in a very accentuated print, over a plain pink satin plastron, covered with lace, braped paniersof brocade come from under the bodice, and the ends form a twist at the back, over the top of the pouf. A long trail of roses of various shades falls over the side of the train at the right side, where this meets the lace point. Pink satin shoes, with roses painted ou the front.
USEFUL HINTS. ^
USEFUL HINTS. t NiXFL.vr.rMAni.E MCSLIN. — ou can make muslin uninflammable by steeping it in a solution of tungstate of sodium. The saline film left upon its surface is so smooth that the fabric can be ironed without ditiiculty. -II'll,t/w!d Words.. RELAXED THROAT.—Cet one pennyworth of pure Stockholm tar; place it in a jug and pour over it one quart of boiling water, stir it well with a piece of stick, cover over, and let it stand all night: then bottle and coriv it tight. Use it as a gargle night aud morning, swallowing a small portion if possible. The above is an infallible remedy.—Girl's Own Paper. COOKIXC; LENTILS (GERMAN WAV).-Soak the lentils (the whole ones) for twelve hours, then put them in a saucepan and well cover with meat sto.k, boil for three hours, then add a pat of butter and a little flour and vinegar according to taste.—Correspondent of the Queen. MINCED FOWLS.—Remove from the bones'all the flesh of either cold roast or boiled fowls. Cicanit from the skin, and keep covered from the air until ready for use. Boil the bone" and skin, with three-fourths of a pint of water, until reduced quite half. Strain the "ravy, and let cool. Xest, having first skimmed off the fat, put it into a clean saucepan with a half cup of cream, three ounces of butter, well mixed with one tablespoonful of flour. Keep these stirred until they boil. Then put in the fowl, finely minced with three hard-boiled eggs, chopped, and sub.cient salt and pepper to season. Shake the mince over the fire until just ready to boil. Dish it on hot toast, and serve. PANCAKES AND FITTERS.—Mix eight ounces of the finest flour very smoothly with a pint of milk. Ilalfa gill of good beer may, if liked, be used, the same quantity being deducted from the milk. In order to keep the batter smooth, mix the flour with the milk into a stiff paste at first, and gradually add the remainder of the liquid, beating thoroughly. Beat up the volkfl of three eggs lightly, then add them with a pinch "of salt to the batter. If there are any lum; s, strain it. When ready to fry, stir in the whites of the egirs beaten to a stron" (roil,. Put s dessertspoonful 0[ E.ol^d b° Uer oflanl into an eight-inch frying pan, and when it is as hot as it can be without burning, pour in quickly four table- spoonsfuls of the batter, previously measured into a cup e 1 run v>e over the pan, which hold over a brisk re, ant s ia .e gently until the underside is brown and the upper set. Toss it, and let the other side brown. Turn the pancake on to a hot dish, sliding one half out of the pan and turning the other on to it, so as to make it into an oval shape. A kind of apple fritter is made in exactly the same way as the above by the addition of good cooking apples cut up very small. For these, rather more batter and frying fat should be used, as they must be a little thicker in order that the apples mav cook. Currants, previously swelled in boiling water and dried, are used by some people in pancakes. Plain fritters are made with water, oil, or dissolved butter, instead of milk, and fried like pancakes. Mix smoothly a quarter of a pound of finest flour with a pinch of salt and half a pint of water, stir in one table»poonful of oil or of dissolved butter, and the yolks of three eggs. When ready to fry, add the whites of the eggs beaten to the strongest possible froth finish like laileakes.Ilozise- hold Words. How TO SELECT FLOUR.-In selecting flour first IOOK to the colour. If it is white with a yellowish straw- colour tint, buy it. If it is white with a bluish cast, or with black specks in it, refuse it. Next examine its ad- hesiveness—wet and knead a little of it between your fingers if it works soft and sticky, it is poor Then thrpw a little lump of dried ilour against a smooth surface; if it falls like powder, it is bid. Lastly, squeeze some of the flour tightly in your hand if it retains tha shape given by the pressure, that too is a good sign. It is safe to buy flour that will stand all these tests. These modes are given by all old flour dealers, and they pertain to a matter that concerns everybody.-Enginur and Banding Iradcs Almanack, CHEESE BiscuiTs-Take equal quantities of butter, grated cheese, and flour use cayenne pepper to taste mix with water to a light dough, cut out, and hake in a quick oven ten minutes.