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♦ 11 U W V : P « JL^it^ature Jà WÄlf Æo'OTï&slI @ff Htew; rv ! S! '8 NUMBER 7. WILMINGTON, DEL., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1867. VOLUME I siring was of ♦1 learned iter SCHOOL A XI) A EM). m. »I NORTHERN 1.1 LITTLE BRIGGS AND 1. rather ring hv kite m on i.ri the grand boy's coriate learning sheets, like Fin going to give you a hit of autoMgra phy, and when I say that, I don't mean the usual kind. Most people who write their own lives make up for themselves an ideal of perfect living, to which they square their facts. The Rev. Mr. Rhodomontade does not tell how he pulled all the hairs out of his Greek professor's horse's tale, and the Hon. Simon Pure gives us no reminiscence» of the day when lie cheated at marbles. I've no •doubt that Payson got tight, and James Bralnerd Taylor stole sweetmeats off the top .shell of his mother's closet ; that Benjamin Franklin played hookey, and General Scott •cried when he got thrashed. Read their memoirs, and you won't And a stagger or a stained apron, a black mark or a blubber, hi the whole of them. If memoirs are meant for a personal puff, this is all very well. If they are for the generation to c Jt couldn't be w Many a trembling saint gets demoralized by contemplation of such inaccessible excel lence. He feels ns if ho were reading about another man's having got to Newport with out ever having passed through Massachu setts or Connecticut, Narraganset Bay or Long Island Sound. IBs Idol has the fruits of experience without the experience itself; and, naturally considering him an exception al case, he gives up the insoluble problem of resembling him. I don't think Rousseau's Confessions exactly the kind of book for boording-school reading, but for instruc tion in the conduct of huinnn life it's wortli of not latter nines aud for learned Little father, site I the of " years • after us, was dential Wt bad larly ally " was of kee still ence to man ed for she a dozen nmmoirs of any Mr. Optimus Para gon, written by himself. Let's know where the reefs arc, if you did get that ugly bump we have steered, keel ! Solar on y there's had it all the way, : ; hand y«mr log We, who have plenty of foul weather, busy with charts, and. when there's a «peil, find livelier reading in Robinson Cru don't like to tell how many •markably plain sailing: if you've 're in port *ry well, y rer to the ow fair i've l'vc made, how rash yc mistakes y« how mean—why, been, how mad, ev you've etymology on your side, for modern autobiography is derived from the fact thaU 's life as it ought-to-be, ami not ns it was. In that sense I'm ruled out of your company, for this sketch is no onglit ograpliy at all. lier were and at fue«: I'd hr ; is Ben Tbirwall, am! I the My ver bad of rich but honest pur«'nts. a wish ungratili«;d until I was twelve years of ago. My wish was then to stay on a two year-old colt which had never been broken. He did not coincide with me, ami a vast revelation of the resistances to individual will of which the universe is capable, also of a terrestrial horrlzon bottom upward, burst upon me during th<* brief space which I spent in flying over his head. Picked up senseless, I was carried to the bosom of my family on a wheelbarrow, and awoke to the consciousness that my parents had decided sending me to boarding school,—a rem edy to this day sovereign in the opinion of all well-regulated parents for all tangential abberrations from the back of a colt or the laws of society. The principal's name was Barker : and my only clue to his character consisted in over hearing that he was an excellent disciplin arian. I was afraid to ask what that meant, but on reflection concluded it to be a geogra phical distinction, and associating him with Mesopotamia or Beloochistan, expected to find him a person of mild manners, who .shaved bis head, wore a tall hat of dyed «beep's wool and did a large business in spices with people who visited him on camels in a 1'ront-yard surrounded by sheds, and having a fountain that played in the middle. Having read several hooks of travels, I was corroborated in my view when I learned that Mr. Barker lived at the cast, and still further, when, going around Point Judith the steamboat with my father, I became very sick at the stomach, as all the travellers had done in their first chapter. I need not say that the reality of Mr. Bar ker was a very terrible awakening, which contained no lineament of my purple dream save the bastinado. Without distinction of age or reason the youths who, as per circu lar, enjoyed the softening influences of his refined Christian home, rose to the sotiud of the gong at five A. M., which may have been very nice in a home for the early Cliris tains, but was reported among the hoys to have entirely stopped the growth of Little Briggs. This was a child, whose mother had married again, and whose step fattier had felt his duty to his future too keenly to deprive him of the benign influences of Barker any time in the last six years. After rising, we had ten minutes to wash our faces aud hands,—a period by experience of mankind demonstrably insufficient, where the soap is of that kind very properly de nominated cast-steel (though purists have a different spelling,) and you have to break inch of ice to get into the available region of your water-pitcher. Chunks; who has since make a large fortune on war-contracts, kept himself in pea-nuts and four-cent pies for an entire winter session, by selling an invention of his own, which consisted of soap dissolv ed in water on the stove during the day time, but in bottles hooked from the lamp by means of a false key, to be carried to bed and kept warm by boys, whoso pocket-money and deBire for a prompt de tergent in the morning were adequate, to the disbursement of half a dime a package. a lers be his to to I myself took several violent colds from having the glass next my skin during severe nights; hut this was nothing so bad as the ase of Little Briggs, who, from lack of the half-dime, often came down to prayers with a strip«* of yesterday's pencil-black side of liis nose, and a shaving of soap, which, in the frenzy of despair, he had gouged out of his stony cake, on the other. The state of mind consistent with sueh a condition of countenance did not favor cor rect recitations of the tougher names iu Deuteronomy ; so, it can lie a cause of sur prise to no one, that, when called on at prayers and prompted by a ridiculous neighbor, little Briggs sometimes asserted Joshua to have driven out the Hi vîtes and the Amorites, and the Canaan ites and the Jebusitcs, and the Hittites and the PcrizziteB, and the Moabites and the Musquito-bites, for which he sent to bed had no pocket-money to stop, his papa dc regularly Saturday afternoon, as he 12, as he siring him to learn self-denial y< was intended for a missio goodness knows that there wt of him to go round among many heathen. y: though t enough . From this specimen of discipline nuiv he learned the entire Barkcrian system of train about to say, " es uno diace omncs,"l)Ut, us it's the only Latin I remom iter from the lot which got rubbed into— or m. OLD rather over—me at Barker's, I'm rather spa ring of It, not knowing hut I can bring it in somewhere else with better effect. As with nth that of mail,—the the Word of God, grand Barkcrian idea of how to fix it in a boy's memory was to send him to tied, or ex coriate his palm, learning could hove been communicated by sheets, like chicken-pox, or Mistered into one like the stern but curative cantharides, Mr. Twenty the Aunt ter to cognize; for it "My she turned and the fortunes so mother Eunice placed could pressing her first was As ings, only iu the feared its haps, the more I have suôh erased equately tribute resent check times would Look grieved, check and his object prefer like second more note and polite If religii Barker's hoys would bave bec of mankind and the beloved of the gods ; but not even Little Briggs died young from the latter nines for his constitution. * the envy any other cuuse, which speaks vol Even at Barker's, boys grew up, somehow ; aud iu process of time I became fourteen I recollect, that epoeli well, for it was marked by my first sorrow. I learned to sympathize, at least half way, with Little Briggs. I lost a good and indulgent father, though I did not get one of an oppo site character, nor indeed any at. all. When I came back to Barker's, a few weeks after the funeral, little Briggs looked at peculiar interest, aud made me a timid öfter of baked chestnuts. " I had years of age. e with that, when I good clothes was in mourning,—real bombazine with jet buttons," said Little Briggs, waxing conti fish I dential during second recess. " r. Do you feel very in mourning Wt bad ?" My heart rose in my throat. "Of course you do. But l would'nt. I'm different, you know ; my dad's not the real thing,—only imitation. If lie should die I would't cry—no more—no more than—than" —Little Briggs cast about for some particu larly stern ami tearless comparison, and fin ally hit on the not very felicitous one of " that pump," which just at that moment was yielding water freely to the solicitations of Mr. Barker's hired man, Yankee. Y kee was pumping for the cook, between whom ami himself there were supposed to be still more romantic love-passages, wide cred ence having been given among Barker's boys to tile th«*ory that she was the daughter of a man with countless millions, who had turn ed her out of doors on accouut of lier iove for a pedler of humble birth ; upon which she and the pedlar, not lobe separated, had * to take service at Bark«*r's. Muturer 8elfishn«*ss than ours would have propitated lier with reference to her post-obit expecta tions, but the blandishments of Burker's boys were directed solely to tlio more immediate particular of pies. As we passed Yankee and the cook, the latter glanced at Little Briggs's threadbare knees, and said compas sionately to her companion,— thing! he don't look ns if lie was much sot fin by his family !" " Wall, drawl and twinkle, " I should say, to look at him, that they'd all on 'em sot on him to once, and tol'ble heavy tew !" Little; Briggs heard him, and made what within my experience was his first self-as sertion. He rushed at the pump, with his fue«: as pale us death aud his lip quivering, drew back his foot, paused, and— •'Sec; here, you old hogs," said Little Briggs, " if that wasn't the cook's pail, I'd— I'd kick it over!'' there "P< r," replied Yankee, ith a of to a I of his of to had felt any de a of kept an day lamp de the not and the counts bor, ous but "They're all hogs," he added» as he walked away with me, leaving Yankee pe trified by liis exceptional demonstration, "everybody'shogs at Barker's. Barker's the biggest ; he liaint got any more feeling than a bedpost. When your father died, the fel lers all signed a paper asking for a half-hol iday, and Pete Gilbert took it up to him ; and he really patch little but She uot blurt was do! upon she self ing liar had her she eut right with school just the . Don't I wish I was big enough to break his head ! I'd run away this minute —if I'd ouly got anywhere to run to !" In spite of all (I am not sure but tills may be a mixture of metaphors,) Briggs's legs turned a deaf ear to parental remonstrance, his upper frame at the the same time filling out to a degree which, taken iu connection with the stern simplicity of Barker's table, was a corroboration of the nutritive proper ties of oxygen, which must have satisfied the most s<;<;ptical physiologist. By the s«;a tliat we were both fifteen, he lacked but inch of the five feet six on which I prided myself; and six months after, wheu I begun to talk of goiug to college, lie was quite up to me, ami, but for a certain unmistakable air of never having any pocket-money, one of the wholesomest looking boys in sshool. Whether, as a result of Ills first hold stand or from the expansive influence of having found iu ground of human sympathy, Little Briggs, to tin; surprise of everybody, began grow ing ;—so rapidly, in fact, that within a few months he confided to me as many as three letters signed. Yours, T. Mixer," and writ ten in a stiff, invoicy hand, to complain of an extension» of legs which had defeated all T. Mnxer's calculations regarding the annual family demand for pepper and salt cassi mere ; and, moreover, if the mind might yield fond credence to T. Maxer sentative of Briggs mamma's opinions, given that lady gre.it solicitude from being an indication of the "tubiiereulous diathesis." "If I've got to have that.*' said Briggs, " I'd rather stay short—what is it ?" I confessed my ignorance, and advised him to ask Bar ker, ill which I did him an unintentional kindness, that worthy inviting him to amined the dictionary, which might have suggested itself iu the first instance, and as sisting him to fix it in his mind by writing it on a slate three hundred times after school hours. " say how and ■thing Hk*; a common for we we a repre lnit the > about this latter period, tbat introduced at Bar from the the with soap, had a cor iu sur at vîtes the dc It wt tonishing innovation w ker's. tabllsh a young ladies seminary in the vil lage of Mungerville, on whose outskirts own school was situated, bringing along with them, us the county paperstated, "that charming atmosphere of refinement and in telleeuality in which they ev and, wliat w tal of twenty girls to start with, sional politeness iuspired Mr. Barker to make a call on the fair strangers, which tlie personal fascinations of the younger Miss Moodie induced him to repeat. The atmos phere of refinement and intellectuality grad ually acted on him in the nature of an in toxicating gas, until ut length, after twenty five years of successfully intrenched widow hood, he laid his heart in the mits of tlie younger Miss Moodie, and they two became one Barker. Tlie two Misses Moodie came to es ed of more consequence, a capi Prol'es it he [to be continued»] and as " pillow . \ MRU f( 'A X It UIt A L LI EE. that speak of [ FROM HARPER'S MAGAZINE. \ OLD AUNT MATILDA. " pretty, crown, ward IN TWO PAKTS. NCLUSION.] r with PART II. Twenty years had made the woman's heart, though she was " old Aunt Matilda !" One day there came a let ter to her, perfumed, sealed with wax, and superscribed in a hand that she did not re cognize; she broke the seul with trepidation, for it was not often that a letter came to her. "My dear Miss Hastings," it was addressed; she did not know the hand, and curiously turned the page. " Ever and always y affectionate friend," were the closing words, and then it was signed Nathan Armstrong. There was nothing in the letter of special moment—it did not speak of the past nor of the future—made no allusion to private mis fortunes nor poisoned hopes or fears, except so far ns they referred to Ids child. His mother had informed him that his little Eunice (he did not say Lamsio) had been placed in the care of Miss Hastings, and lie could not deny himself the pleasure of ex pressing to lier his very earnest thanks for her goodness in receiving the child, in the first place, and for the care and pains she was bestowing on her education. As the twig is bent, yon know, Miss Hast ings, he said ; and then he said, witli the only attempt at playfulness and familiarity iu the whole letter, that in his feared the twig had been sadly warped from its first righteous bending ; " hut this, per haps, my dear Miss Hastings, makes me all the more solicitous for my child—all the more grateful for your generous painstaking. I have not the shallow vanity to suppose suôh services"—here services had been erased and benefits inserted—" can he ad equately returned, and I beg you wil not at tribute to me a notion that would so misrep resent me." This was the only allusion to the bank check the letter contained—a check for five times the amount which, at her usual terms, would have been due Matilda iu five years. Look at it how she would, she felt outraged, grieved, and offended. She would send the check directly hack, and with such biting and bitter words as should make him repent his cold charity. She was not exactly object of outdoor relief, and if she were, ire hands from which she would prefer to receive it. In her first proud in dignation, and with all her patience and quietude she was quite capable of being proudly indignant, she wrote something very like what we have set down for her ; hut second thought she saw that such a course betrayed a heart quite too sensitive to the past—she must word her refusal of the do nation. for she still considered it a donation, more cautiously. So she threw her first note iu the fire, and after some careful con sideration wrote another : difference with with low he I ing Aunt and of sleep. In being way her, son, and she dear," cloak the and ried said, then ma." she night was a or and her of the less there at Mrs. Hastings was greatly obliged to Mr. Armstrong ; but her terms of tuition were not so exorbitant as he seemed to suppose, turn and she begged, therefore, leavo the superfluous check, and would venture to suggest a preference for adjusting her ac counts thereafter with her friend and neigh bor, Mrs. Armstrong. She went so far as to inclose this note, together with the obnoxi ous check, and to subscribe the envelope ; but after all she was not satisfied—was this did ; really any better than her first angry dis patch ? She was forced to admit that it was better at all ; a little more deliberate, a little more attempt at concealment, perhaps, but in reality no concealment whatever. She had told all that she was most anxious uot to tell ; had she kept it all these years to blurt it out in tills way ? So the second note was sent to the flames after the first. She would simply inclose the check in a sheet of blank note paper—that was what she would do! and that was wliat she did, sleeping upon tlie resolve; but when the morning came and she thought it over once more, she was as far from being satisfied with her self as ever—as far from being satisfied with herself \ almost, as from being satisfied with Nathan. She would not betray to him any felling or emotion of any sort ; and wliat could she ('o that would not betray both feel ing and emotion, and both, too, of a pecu liar nature ? She was betrayed by what she had written and by wliat she had not written alike ! So at last, with Nathan's letter in her bosom, aud bitter tears randy to start, she went to Nathan's mother. it by " of all I'd as it "Foolish child!" says Mrs. Armstrong, " you had better just keep tin* money and say nothing about it. Natty never meant nothing but kindness, and he didn't know' how to do no better than he has done. The truth is, Tilly, men are just what they are, and we've got to take them at that : and no ever understood a woman, and no one great wonder, after all, ver uiHl«*rstoo«l herself! ever will ; and for vornan YVe're curious ureters, Tilly, tin- best of ns ; we stand in own light a good deal, and wliat is worse, we won't get out of it when fault—n«». not though we make pitch darkness all round us! I don't want to find fault, Tilly, and 1 don't y you hadn't strong pi e to 'oeation ; to met lnit you got into ) •il light twenty ago, and you have been walking in the shaders ever since ; and now that they just beginning to lift a little, don't draw them down onto your own head, not till you have thought a bit, any how!" Tlie <lcar woman had never even liint«Ml till now' that > she thought Matilda had bceu the least at fault ; and for my part. I think she was en titled to say thus much after s«t hing a si lence. And it would seem that Matilda thought so too, for she wiped her eyes, kissed her adopted mother, and, with little Eunice in her hand, went awa> wonderfully comforted. That night the child would stay and sleep with her. " I want to lay my head on the pillow close to yours." Matilda had carried lu r the last hit of the way, and when she undn ssed her she saw that her arms and head were burning hot. vil in to tlie Miss grad in tlie es tired," she said, "and capi " I wish papa were here ! «l«*n't you, Aunt Tilly ?" says the child ; and then she would have the picture them. "Oh the pillow' between " says Matilda, blushing though it was dark, "yourpapa w be smothered; \u> must put him in the drawer of tlie bureau where lie is used to 't like that he'd he," soft But Eunice insisted that she knew better, and that pictures could sleep in bed as any where else. " I know it," she says, " because papa sleeps with one under his pillow every night !" Matilda felt her brow contract elf el the dow, for little at that ; and then she said, forcing herself to speak the words, "It is your mama's picture, of course?" equal And it is " No ; not my old mamma's, pretty, with long dark hair all braided to a crown, like yours!" And then she says, laughing and paddling her fair neek lient to ward her, that she saw her papa kiss it a and till that then meant than the her ec! "Oh, you dreamed that!" says Matilda, with almost girlish delight. "No, I didn't; but papa tnought 1 was when I slept dreaming, may be. It w with him ; he took it from beneath his pil low and looked at it a long time, and then he sighed and turned his face from me ; but I peeped over ids shoulder and saw him kiss ing it ! And that «s just as true as can lie, Aunt Tilly, every word of it !" "Oh, you sly little darling!" cries Matilda, hugging the child close to lier bosom, picture and all, and so passing directly into the land of dreams, but not through the gates of sleep. In the morning Eunice still complained of being tired, and Matilda carried her half way to the school. But when she called her, half an hour afterward, to say her les son, she did not answer; her head was drooping asleep. It and when at last she was gotten out of it she seemed confused and as one still in a " three her vey not made " by aud it, with ty was cull ious It and her arm. mid she w fast a heavy, unnatural sleep, dream. "You need not say your lessou to-day,my dear," says the mistress, and she spread her cloak and shawl, and made her a bed on the school-bench. In the evening her face was like scarlet and lier arms hot as fire. And Matilda car ried her all the way this time— lier head drooping like a flower that lacks the dew. " We will rest here a little while," she said, when she reached her own gate, " and then I will carry you home to your grand ma." But the child, contrary to her wont, began to moan and fret. "No, Aunt Tilly," she said, " I want to stay with you, just to night !" So she laid her on the bed, and wheu she was quieted went herself to fetch the grand mother, hut the grandmother was not at home. She had been suddenly called to see a sick woman who was poor, having but few friends to visit her, and who lived ten miles away. " Please take care of little Eunice for a day or two," she said, in the note she left for Ma tilda ; " it will be a delight to her, I am and I hope not very troublesome to you. YVlien I coiue home I will let you know of it , but I may be gone a day «>r two." And then she said, with one of those pre monitions, perhaps, that seem to come some times ; " If anything happen to Eunice let her father know* at once." Here was a quandary^ and one that be came shortly more difficult of solution. The child tossed restlessly on her pillow all night, and in the morning, when the doctor was fetched, lie pronounced the of the most malignant character, and advised that her father should be made aware of her condition at "Oh, Aunt Tilly! dear, dear Aunt Tilly !" the child lay moaning all the while, her eyes following Matilda with such pleading, help less looks. What could she do ? Wlmt she it ing lias at at at to bo fever did was to put herself aside, and send by dispatch a message to the father—a message that was answered in person at the earlisst possible moment. But little Eunice, in the ipean time, had passed where there was al most hope. She had uot recognized her grandmother when she cume, and she did not know Matilda now, in know any thing. The doctor had shaken his head and said it was not worth while to annoy the poor thing with medicines any longer, and the grandmother at this had fallen to weeping and lamentation, swaying herself to and fro by the bedside, and talking of dear ones dead and gone, and of the other dear one tbat would so soon have left her too. Then Ma tilda dried her eyes and staid up her soul with courage, and comforted all about lier, taking the child in her arms, and soothing and nursing her with the tenderest care. " Who knows," she said, "what our good Father will grant to us ?" She was sitting thus, her eyes soft with the dew of tenderness,and her cheek flushed with the anxious beating of her heart, when Nathan came. Life and death were making their last struggle for the child,and there was no i for any thought but for her. They watched together that night, and the next, and the next, hushed almost to breathlessness by the awful shadow ; but in Heaven's own time it broke and parted, Mid the light came in. " She will live ! my darling will live ! cried the father, his voice shaken with emo tion ; " and, under God, Matilda, it is all owing to you." He had called her Miss Hastings till then, but his heart had spoken without his knowl eonsent, aud hers .responded nil edge against her will, by filling her eyes with tears. Then Im repeated the words—" Yes, , Matilda ;'' anil bespoke her name this time iu a whisper, and with ; it is allowing toy I his face very close to hers. When the child is quite out of danger, thought she to herself, 1 will give him back that bank-check that he had the audàcity to send me ; and she studied over in her mind a very graml little sp«'ech that site would make on tlio occasion. " He shall see that I can do without him," she said, •• and liis money to«), into tlie bargain." But one whil«; the child was asleep, another time she was fretful, and another the grandmother was about. So there seemed no favorable time for the placing of herself in her true positiou. Then, too, Nathan looked so old and s«;emed so weary that she could not bear to add a feather's weight to the burdens he al ready bore. Still she was fully resolved that when the fortunate hour really struck, why then she would relieve her mind once for all. And in due course of time the hour struck. Eunice was out of all danger, and, with a heap of expensive toys about her, was sit ting on the snow-white quilt, prattling of a thousand things with that halt-insane delight that comes to us with r«;turning health. Nathan had been away all the afternoon, and Matilda had taken the opportunity to set her house in order, lor she desired that things should shine at tlicir beftt. The dimity curtains were hung afresh ; the frill ed pillow'-cases were in use ; and flowers— just enough, and not too many—were placed here and there. Little Eunice was like a daisy in her pret ty night-gown, and with the ; in d at en si to hit she the to he'd her f«*et which she her soft wool socks elf had knitted. - The And when the house was set in order und the child dressed she arrayed herself and braided her long dark locks with unusual *. And when she sat down by the win dow, with the check in her pocket, to for Nathan, site felt calm, collected, ait «1 equal to her task. There wa* a little flutter of the heart, just and the door-stone, much a little, as liL steps rung o and looking up, she saw his face brighter en it d vounger than she had . The gladness in her own answered are. and till of that brightness before • she then she lowered lier eyi meant to be very quiet coldness. But Na than had caught the first look, and before the second was got ready for him he was by her side ami had her hand in his. •s with what, she candy. life— B.. of 23 days. "Matilda. ' lie said, with tender gravity, " where do you suppose 1 have been these three hours?' Matilda was sure she »lid not know, and her manner and tone were designed to con vey the idea that she did not care. He did not heed thi.-, hut kept her hand though she made an effort to withdraw it. " I have been sitting under the peach-tree by the bee-iilves, where we sat so long ago, aud saw the sun go down—do you remember lias never risen for it, Matilda? Tim me—shall it rise Still she was silent, her hand fumbling with the check. "It has been a long night, Matilda, twen ty years* is not that long enough ?" Still she said nothing : lier grand speech was all gone from her, and she could not re cull one word of it. "There is something for you," she stam mered at lust, endeavoring to got the obnox ious paper in his hand. "And her«* is something for you," he an swered, unlocking a small gold case and pro ducing a withered flower. " You relused it when I offered it last, will you have it now? It was fresh and young then like my life ; and it is like my life now—faded, faint, not worth your acceptance I know." She- did not lift her hand to take it. "Let steak $20 sugar $80 at ten less it !" adjust this matter first," site said at length, really making him see this time what it was she offered. " On one condition, Mutilda," still speak ing in the same tone of tender gravity. " What îh that?" " That you give me the hand as well." "And can >ou think yon deserve it, Sir?" " No, Matilda, I make no pretense of that sort. I deserve nothing—nothing at your hands, God knows! But whatever n y fault lias been, whatever my faults are now, look at my gray hairs, look through my eyes down to my soul that is empty of all delight, and tell me if you do not think LJiavc suf fered enough. If not, it is in your power, Mutilda, to add what more you will!" as • deep silence—the twilight wus gone, and the gray evening settling down with clouds and sighing winds. "And so you refuse my flower ?" he said, at last. " Then there will be tag, There in ed «.* moru r light f< " Oh, papa, papa ! did you say there ould never be any are •e light?" called little Eunice from where she sat among her heap of toys on the snow-white counterpane. "And will it always be night then, dear papa ?" And she b«»gau to cry. " I don't know, my darling. Perhaps y yet make a little light for world, but it is very, very dark He laid gone to the bedside in answer to her crying, and he had her iu his arms carressing and trying to soothe, though his voice as he did so was faltering and choked with tears. She had her two little hands in her eyes, and kept moaning and making piteous ado ; all at once she looked up and said, with eager gladness. "It will he light hy-and-by, won't it be, Aunt Tilly ? Come aud tell papa it will be light, anil make him glad, won't y Aunt Tilly ?" But Matilda only turned away her face, aud drew a long, long sigh. "She is crying, papa," whispered the child, "and I know what it is about? it is all about her finger-ring, bee little slender one. Oh, papa, it cost s«) much ! she told me so, and she said I niusn't • in the to of the the it l, «leur se it is such a he ed vill t«»ll you. But 1 will tell you ; and y give her a beautiful new one— papa ? Matilda had hidden her face in lier hands, . Then the child would be carried to lier, und plac«*d on her knees. "Don't cry, Aunt Tilly," she pleaded, twining her arms about her and kissing her. "Papa will give you a new ring, and then lie will stay here, and we will all liv«* together, and be so happy, Tell her you will, papa—tell her yourself, and then she won't cry." And keeping neck, she drew his fa«-e down «juile against hers with the other, and so clasping tlie two. waited. "Shall it be us « Nathan. "I you, and then sin; won't cry." crying in e and wt est >ck •omul Matilda's ! all nil r child says ?'' whispered mt answer," she said ** I can uot speak now." But somehow the hand with the dreadful paper in it had got into Ills hand, and was being held tlmro witli a close and •ed that with tender pressure, she should speak—he Ami Nathan c There was no the old * back to live place, and a fine new house was built in tin* maple grove at tin. 1 end of the lane, and Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong were the great people back to that liis the and to al that why all. a sit of a to that The frill placed a the of the neighborhood, he sure. And fro the day oflier marriage nobody ever thought of saying Aunt Mutilda, less Old Aunt Matilda ; and when the good mother unlocked the press, forth the long-preserve«t line ding present, there was not a happier woman in the whole county than she. unless indeed we must except the daughter, ter-in-law and brought for the wed d • a daugh •11 as in fact. [the end.] —A New Yorker failed three times in .v worth half a mil twenty years, and is lion. of Hiiinu i spirits — A "horse —A sigr laugh." —A designing character—An Architect. —"Pleading at the Bar"—Asking trust for a glass of whiskey. —The skeleton of the theatre—The dead head. —Wendell Phillips lias surrendered some account of of his lecture engagements, the sickness of his wife. —Three houses in Syracuse, N. Y., retail hundred and fifty thousaml dollars worth of oysters per year. —A Mobile paper writes the " Yankees" to come South and settle. And the Yankees writes the Southerners to come North and settle—Some of their unpaid debts. This and That. ' Rabbit* generally die game. - A bad spell of weather—W-h-e-i-t-h-u-r. —John ('. Fremont \* in Washington. Newark. N. J., 1ms ninety policemen. The New York "Great Exposition"— The Black Crook. and in ladies it street The rv unpopular General with the la dies—General Housework. —Literature I'o and Reviews. -A var times— Magazii —"Business is the salt of life." The "«alt of life" is very dull in si e places. tion, ter dress and —The sweets of childnood—Molasses candy. The only solution for the problei life— Dis- -solution. of It ladies —.Sueli a thing as a sleigh is unknown in England. But such a tiling as a slay is not. —Trees are colored in England while growing. —An unsuccessful Gift Enterprise—J. G. B.. Jr., Actuary. —The rays on five-ccnt pieces are to be omitted. We must " raise" some and —A Madrid correspondent calls the nuns of Spain black birds of pray. —Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburg, is 23 years old and lias $7".,000. a year. —The spring time of life—Our dancing days. in must al will jury j the that ways with plain of tons a —How to punish a hungry man—Drive a steak into him. —An icicle in Newark fell and smnshed a $20 bonnet. -Hypo-sulphite of Soda will cure inter mittent and remittent fevers. —'The salary of a bare-back rider in Ha is $000 per week in gold. —Unknown «juantitics—'The amount of sugar and jam we pilfer iu childhood. — 1 Teacher's salaries in Dublin range from $80 to $800 per annum. —Charles Elliot, the artist, is sojourning at the national capital. —Turkey has become so tender, says an «♦xehangc, that it is about to fall to pieces. —Cocheco Mills, in Dover, Mass., made ten million yards of cotton prints lust year. —Ristori's five night's receipts at Chicago, $20,700—her share $12,420. —According to liis-tory a '76 Tory was less popular than a '67 Ris-tori. —Prof. Agassiz commenced a course of lectures in New York, on Tuesday evening. —Anna Dickinson gave New York "Some thing to Do," on Tuesday evening. —A money, is resting —Powdered wigs arc wi New York ladies. girls, be tage very be the be is vho lives on the interest of his his owers. by fashionable ys the scalping Indians —Au exchange in the West are collecting their poll-tax. —The picturesque is to be forever despoil ed in Venice by steam gondolas ! —A. II. Lee is more famous just than R. E. Lee. Luck is above pluck. —The best conjunction for the country—a taiMff. —The flour mills at Georgetown, D. C., are temporarily stopped by ice. —Mr. Saulsbury authorizes a contradic tion of the report, of his intended resigna tion. He is not less resigned than we. —The pensions to the soldiers of the war and their families, will cost $33,000,000, this —Morgantown, in Monongalia county, is to be the capital of West Virginia, instead of Wheeling. —The Greeks at Liverpool have sent a telegram to Dr. Howe at Boston, returning thanks for American sympathy. —Relief committees for the Candian refu gees have been formed in Moscow, the ec clesiastics taking the lead. in respondent calls the Black Crook and Oendrilon a bad pair of spectacles. -A New York a it —An exchange thinks ferry-boats excellent models of temperance, because "touching a drop." they invariably stop —A Chicago young huly lias just with a circus actor. She had a vaulting ambition. —An Indian pony in Tej for a quart of whisky, he plenty in Texas, r —It is suicl ed with a receipt from a printer in liis pork 'ay my be bought Indian ponies must whisky very scarce, s ever found «Irown <>t. hoys in Chicago are to drum for the «•lmnipionsliip of the northwest. Both will beat. •wly burn Ottawa child has but iildlc of its forc - A eye, and that is in the head. It had better be born over again. —De Bow, the statistician of Secession, is pardoned. Andy wouldn't " hang up de fiddli* and D«* Bow." -We warn J. G. B., Jr.,—" or any other his " beautiful yacht," offer man"—not for we won't—decline il. —I Him »is has one thmisand men i penitentiaries, and many moi* thousands that its gill to he q^iere. •tbeastern counties of T«*xns •e brutally treated than A. J's Policy! —A lectnri-r who made nllusiou to Satan sowing tares, having spokei - Iown lias in red ink. The editor is determined to have his productions read. —Crosby has ina«le hundreds of persons Crons by not heaping an opera house "onto —In the the freedmen are in the days of slavery. vas reported in « paper as of •• the devil sawing trees." •wspaper print«*«! entirely them". —There is a ferry-boat on the Hudson riv er that carries sheep and hogs, what is term ed the " gentlenum's cabin." —A Pittsburg editor has been elected to the Board of Aldermen. Wonder what crime lie committed to he treated tlnisly ? —The New Orleans Picayune is thirty old. nn«l has made since its first issue ly two millions of dollars. —Natchez sends a saddle to Paris made of Mississippi leopard and native rattl«?-snake skins. —An exchange says "tlie first shad sold iu New York for six dollars." It must have , if it was the first shad, •asuring over seven feet from tip to tip of its wings has been shot near Lexington, Ky.. —Ristori, General Sherman and the Ital ian consul attended De Bar's Opera House, in St. Louis, last Thursday evening, to hear Camille, by Cecile Rush. The theatre was decorated in honor of the great tragedienne. in for ye* of been a pretty old 'i —An eagle and ,1 ' ♦J Fnuhlnus. " Jennie Jane* SHORT DRESSES. v short dresses there is no About the question it is the most admirable, sensible and useful fashion which lias been invented in modern time, and we hope sincerely that ladies everywhere will sustain it and make it permanent. A convenient dress for the street is just what has always been needed. The " Bloomer" was an effort in that direc to I the It The floor the tion, but it made caricatures of women, and liesides, did not originate in the proper quar ter to obtain recognition. Tin* gored short dress has all the advantages of the Bloomer, and •e, without any of its disadvantages. It is pretty, neat, expensive. It provides a costume in which ladies can walk, ride hall ent Mr. mal gro ing Yve and by the to .s I li, to his say t 'd , I a renient, modest and travel all the year gentlemen can round, with as much in their comfortable cloth suits. But it must be made well and tastefully, of materi al suited to the style, and of a quality that will stand w and exposure without in jury The prettiest short dresses we have seen j cut out in squares over the plaiting of the petticoat, or over a wide fiat plaiting that simulates a petticoat. The edge is al ways bound with colored braid or edged with heavy jet braid. Another style has a plain edge laid over the plaiting, with van dykes or scollops simulated by narrow lines of jet, Chenille cord or silk braid, with but tons to match, the trimming"occupying the spaces. Some short dresses are made with a double vandyked edge, the upper points finished with tassels. This will do for little girls, but it is altogether too fanciful for adults, and especially for a street dress, which should be plain and unobtrusive. In arranging a skirt of this kind be taked to have the points from which the tassels are suspended, placed between tin lower ones. A stiff lining between the ma terial and the facing is necessary to keep the points smooth and in place. Bands of velvet, or braid ot graduated width are sometimes put upon the betticoat instead of the plaiting, and have the advan tage of being newer ; they also look very well, but we prefer the plaiting so far as ap pearance is concerned. Ouly self colors, very narrow stripes, or small figures should be used in the composition of a short dress, large designs of any kind, whether plaid, stripe or set figure, being manifestly out ot place. The costume should also be generally made en suite , or as nearly so as possible. The short sack cut out or trimmed to match the skirt will bj the garment gc terally worn with short dresses during the spring season, aud will be very appropriate for milder skies und a less rigorous state of the atmospher«. Over such a toilette a waterproof cloak ma> be thrown as occasion demiiids it, completel) shieldidg it from possible injury. Nevei wear a wide cloak or a shawl with a short dress, either mony with the close, compact character ot the general design, and spoils its effect. Il is much better to have one neat, complete suit, than a dozen incongruous articles of dress. shoulu looks absurdly out of har A Woman's Habit. YVe find the following among the "Ne bulæ" in the last Galaxy : . The eyeing of women by women is one of the most offensive manifestations of super to be met with In society. have failed to ciliousness Few observant persons ce notice the manner iu which i woman, perfectly who is not perfectly well-bred kind-hearted, will eye over another woman who she thinks is not in such good society, and above all, not at the time being in so costly a dre everywhere : at parties, at church, in hotels, in the stre«;t. It is done by women iu all conditions of life. The very servant girls learn it of their mistresses. It is done in she herself is in. It is done instant. YVho cannot recall hundreds of instances of that sweep of the eye which takes in at a glance the whole woman and what she has on, from top-knot to shoe-tie ? It cannot be a new fashion of behaviour : but the daily increasing pretence of people to superiority, because they can afford to spend more mo ney upon their hacks than others can, makes it at one«* m« »re common and more remarka ble even than it was ten or fifteen years ago. Men are never guilty of it, or witli such ex treme rarity, and then in sueli feeble and small-souleil specimens of their sex, that it may lie set down as a sin not masculine, or at least epicene. But woman of sense, of some breeding, and even of soin«; kindliness of nature, will thus superiority upon the eanest of all pr«*tene«*s, and indict a wound er the most cowardly, because it cannot ho resented and admits of no r«*tort. isert is If they but only knew how unlovely, how positively offensive, they make themselves in so «loing, not only to tli«*ir silent victims, who ob •rous-hearti'd but to every g serves that manœuvre, they would give up a cruel, which •an and triumph at once is ohtuiued at such a sacrifice their part. • than this eyeing is needed he her birth or breeding, has a small and vulgar soul. No other evidei . wliatcv that a w« Low Dresses.— A erl saloon writes to A Question A no London eo singer i tlie Pall Mall Oazclte : "C you or any of vour readers t«*ll me why ladies of title are as allowed to wear dresses in society which the engaged manager of a music hall whore I as a singer, tolls me are too indecent for his stage? Like most other members of my pro fession, I buy all my dresses from a dealer !n fashionable cast off clothing. I find that they an* invariably well made, that no fault can be found with the quality ot the material, that they an- long «Miough, and oft«* the skirts, lurge enough round the waist, broad enough across the back,but always so low in the neck that I am not allowed to ever f«;« l inclined to w to of near Ital hear was long, in them them, ami without adding a deep band of lace or silk to y shoiihlers. My dresses come from ;es, duchesses, an«l other ladies who count«*? stand well in the Court Circular. How is it that these ladies ci ear dresses, sitting on leaning over them, ottomans with gentle that I cannot and am not allowed to wear the stage of a music hall with te yards space lietw A Sing : fifteen ne and my audience ? at TnK Alhambra." —The ladies in Paris are building the front hairs in immense mounds above the forehead. —If a woman wants her rights, let her edit a paper. She can then have her writes. —A lady is " local" of the Stark county (Mo.) News. The paper is very gossipy. MISCELLANEOUS. THE COLORED YOUTH OF PHILA DELPHI A. BY A MASSACHUSETTS TEACHER. Among many things that interested Philadelphia was a visit of three hour to au institute for colored people, of which I had never heard till about a fortni when I attended its exhibition in Hall. This institute ba9 been in existence about ten years. It was founded by two Quakers, who left money in their wills to form a school in which colored children and youth should be thoroughly educated from the primary up to the collegiate department. It has an excellent building, three stories high, with large halls for school-rooms. The primary departments are on the first floor ? the academic on the second ; and in the third story are recitation-rooms, with blackboards all round. The exhibition igbt ago, National in the second largest hall in the city. Next year it is to be in the great Opera Rouse. Every one of its pres ent teachers is colored. The principal is a Mr. Bassett, who was educated in the mal School of Connecticut. He is a broad faced, very dark mulatto, in whom the ne gro nearly puts out all trace of the white. Nothing can be more modest and unassum ing than his manners were at the exhibition. Yve had a Latan salutatory, a Greek oration, and several fine English essays and poems, by both males ana females, of ages from twelve to twenty years. The exercises showed wit, humor, pathos, admirable thought and eloquence, and livered. The primary classes recited simul taneously, first a poem, and then a psalm, making a really beautiful exercise. Nothing could have been more creditable than all the performances, and they received rounds of applause from an audience of two thousand people, all of whom went in by ticket. In the two days before these per formances, there had been most searching examinations before the trustees and some of the best educated gentlemen of the city. And the third day before, there had been a meeting of the alumni of the institute, on which occasion there were orations and . I understand that these were quite a marvel, and sufficient, as Mr. Turner said, to set at rest any doubt as to the equality of gro to the white ; for pure negroes did .s well as any white do on similar occasions. I was able to attend the meeting of the alum li, but I was desirous to see the school in undress ; so, after a week's vacation, I went to Mr. Bassett's. At my request he called his second Latin class, and heard the pupils say their last lesson, at which they had not looked since three weeks before. It page of Viri Romre which they had read, t analated and parsed. I never heard a se verer recitation, and I myself never tasked my class with such questions. Their appli cation of rules, theoretically and practically, was of the highest order. The class consist 'd of about twenty, half of them girls, and ive-sixths pure negroes, many of them very jgly and stupid looking ; but even these were marvellously keen-minded. After lig .ening half-uu-hour I went into a loom where a class in the Greek Testament was reciting to a Miss Jackson, a mulatto girl who had graduated at Oberlin College. She is in person of elegant form and man ners, with a most pleasing face. Hei man of teaching was a model, so courteous, miniated and encouraging was it, and such •vident mastery of the language did it show. It was the parsing which was most won derful. There were here also about tv»en'y , oung men and women, all prepared in L e iheory of the Greek moods and tenses. I Jo not believe that there was ever a moie thorough and brilliant recitation in any school or college. But the Latin and Greek classes had their respected grammars at their longues' ends, and thoroughly iu mind too. I next entered a mathematical room, where a class of about thirty boys, about twelve years old was examined in Colburn's Men al Arithmetic in a section in which the ope a tion was four and five-fold. The teacher of this class,a Mr. Alien, was as handsome and refined looking as Mr. Purvis must have been iu his prime, with an expression of sweet and of subtle intellectuality that 1 have hardly seen combined in any face I ever saw. He was a graduate of this very insti tute, and seemed to be very fond of his profession, and w r as evidently very much loved by the boys. They went through the exercises splendidly, repeating the question, then giving the theoiy of the operation ; and if there occurred the least slip every hand in the class was thrust out. Then a stranger who was present, a great mathe matician, explained to them some curious methods of analyzing numbers, which they eagerly attended to, and immediately caught and performed themselves. They multiplied such numbers as thirty-five times twenty-eight instantaneously, as it seemed to me, so quickly did they take the idea of the rule, although it was the first time that they had ever been tried. The questioner said that he had never seen a better arithmetical class. I next went into the room of the girls' primary class, taught by a Miss Douglas. She is a full-blooded, uncrossed negro. As the' girls were all sewing, I would not let her call them into class. To all doubters of the mental equality of he negro to the white, I would commend a visit to this school, on Shippen and Tenth streets, Philadelphia. There are always there from two to three hundred scholars. Those who go through four years academic course receive a diploma and a degree. Al though the school is an endowed oge, the primary scholars pay five dollars and the others ten dollars a year. There are at least six teachers, and French, Spanish and Ger man, besides all the English branches, are t light. borne of the students at the University of Pennsylvania told the following story to a young lady, who told it to me : One day three of them were disputing about the translation of a very difficult passage in Greek, which they could not make out, when a black girl, who was scouring the floor, rose up. and said with perfect modesty, " I can help you out ofthat difficulty,gentlemen, if you will allow me." They laughed, and, thinking she was crazy, they gave her the book, when, totheir amazement, shetransla ted the passage and explained the construe Nor well de po he a a They asked her how she knew. She saiil that she w *ry fond of the Greek classics. She had worked in the day-time to •y to g«> to a certain evening school, at which she had learned Latin and Greek. On Thursday and Friday I went to the Anti-Slavery Convention, where tlie).- were denouncing tlie Philadelphia barbarism of exchuling the colored people from the horse ears. A gentleman told me of a colored girl who was studying Greek with him in the intervals of a 'laborious daily life, and miles to get to him and recite, because she was not allowed to ride m the cars that uuuiit drunken Irishmen. On Thursday night I went to the annual meeting of the Freedmen's Education Coni who A to of rho had to walk his !n be so mission, presided over by Judge Chase, made a good speech. Lyman Abbot the report, and made a fine speech. So did Philip» Brooks. Gen. Howard and Judge Bond. They all insisted that universal suf frage was the one thing indispensable to the negro and lovai white of the South. Gen. Howartl said if tlie negroes had the vote, they would support the schools themselves. Already the negroes of Arkansas paid near ly five dollars a head for all the scholars that were taught : and Judge Bond said that th< negro children of Maryland paid ten cents a week under all their difficulties. But I have neither room nor time for more to-night.— Boston Commonwealth. : in to it on ; style of short dresses " mighty deceiviri." A benevolent old gen tleman.* a little near-sighted, came near into trouble over in Congress street lay, for remarking familiarly, " Well, sis, are your ears cold this morning ?" The party addressed, turned on the old fellow fiercely, with "insolent puppy," "brute," "old villian." &c., and he found that instead of accosting a school miss, he had addressed a lady in the full bloom of womanhood.— Portland Argus. —Additional discoveries of gold aud silver reported in Minnesota. -A freedmen's school In Kemper, Mis*., is taught by a Southern lady. —Tlie ? getting yesterd the the her '