and sensitive woman; and he crushed her with foul words. Leonard was a delicate, vain, and sens

vengeance on these two persons. It might have cooled him a little h

ound, pale as ashes, and tr

t, against a tree, and holding it wit

at the palm of her hand, high raised, confronted Leonard. I am thus particular because it was a gesture grand and terrible as

house as naturally as a scared animal for its lair; but, ere she could reach it, she tottered under

t of the grove, but only heard a rustle; and then saw her proud mistres

ce of mind. She instantly kneeled over Mrs. Gaunt,

rched over and clawing the r

she saw something very serious had happened, and she felt sure Mrs. Gaunt would say something imprudent in that dangerous period when the patient recovers consc

the first thing she saw was Ryder leaning over he

woman close to her, and being a little kind to her; so what did she do but thro

shed a tear or two with her,

she justified Ryder's forecast by speaking ungu

so the first "insulted" seemed to come from a broken-hearted child

g on that faithful creature's shoulder, to her own bedroom. There she sank into

at Rose cried for fear, and never forgot the scene all her days; and Mrs. Ryder, who was secretly a mother, felt a genuine twinge of pity and remorse. Curio

d calmer; and then, in soft, caressi

expressible dignity, "My good girl, you have done all you could for me; now

retired, burning wi

gone raving mad, and fled the country. "O lasses," said he, "if you had seen the poor soul's face, a-riding headlong through the fair, all one

s was h

d, and went off in hysterics, and betrayed her lawless attachment to

ions was followed by a s

e servants consulted together, and sent little Rose to knock at her

me, mamma,"

a trembling voice; and so R

oon Mrs. Gaunt and Rose came down stairs; but

om she led by the hand. Mrs. Gaunt's face was pale, and sad, and

me for good; and friends called on Mrs. Gaunt to

excuses were made. "My mistress sees

ying formula: "There is an unhappy misunderstanding between my husband an

but secretly she writhed. A wife abandoned is a woma

her intrigues. But her elastic nature soon shook it off, and she felt a certain satisfaction at having reduced Mrs

d not visit the house; nor could she even d

ss told her to put on her ha

ands. Ryder no sooner got out of her sight than she proceeded to tamper with the letter. But to h

nd it contained forty pounds in gold and

d with a tender emotion he

and he seemed to suffer agony. He would not even open t

without

But I will write,

I am sure my mistress is wearying for yo

am," said the priest, "n

d despairingly on his hand, and

ols," said she to hers

eicester caught her alone,

wrong time, young man," said she. "Marriage is put out of countenan

ke this for an answer,

; but I couldn't leave my mistress in her trouble. Time t

e he is away. You care more for his little fin

o s

d all the

nt you for themselves; t

ip the ground you walk on. Take a thought, my lass. What good can come of your setting your heart on him? I'm young, I'm healthy, and not ugly enough to set the dogs a-barking

ove, that Mrs. Ryder pitied him, an

ell you the truth. I have got one in my own country, and I've promised him. I don't care to break my word; and, if

game that tw

hand in it. And-don't you be angry with me, To

ing, she hit the mark at last.

sh ye both many happy days together, and well spent." With

all, and she advised him to change the air. "You have been too long

ould travel to-morrow, if he could but scrape

in several quarters,

ummoned courage to lay hi

him into the drawing-room, and bade him wait there. By

ir, and began to stamm

ftly. "I am sorry for you; and I will do what you requ

said she would look him up a few t

ney to advantage; and, one day, he called

sent for him, and gave him a gold thimble, and a pound of tea, and sev

n hand, married or single. My heart is heavy at leaving you. But I m

rds had made her cry. "My good Thomas," said she, at last, "yo

id Leicester,

r bosom and drew out a bullet wrapped in silver paper. "You will never lose this," said she. "I value it more than go

yhap you will fall in with our master. If ever you do, tell him

and weeks, nothing occurred to break

and confessor, Francis; and, after some dela

ether, and spoke so low that

onard; and the final result of these v

d; and it was Mrs. Gaunt's hourly prayer that G

than he had intended; but, at length, he was obli

t; but the very next day the postman broug

ess Carol

t with Griffi

, called Her

Wigeo

unty of C

with s

hand. Ryder opened it in the

le throats opened up

r into her pocket, and, soon after, slipped away to her own

rein I lost my wits for a time. And, on coming to myself, I found them making of my shroud; whereby you shall lear

, most fitted to manage the inn, and I the farm. You were always my good friend; and, if you be so still, then I charge you most solemnly that you utter no word to any living soul about this letter; but meet me privately where we can tal

ening, be the same wet or dry, prithee come t

aithful

unhappy

fith

he grave. Would

. Griffith alive and well, and set against

he soon read Griffith's in this letter. It was no love-letter; he really intended business; but, weak in health and broken in spirit, and alone in

nts under her instead of being one herself. And then, if Griffith and she began as allies in bu

n herself; and all her fellow-servants re

never did hours see

ere was no moon. Ryder opened the window and looked

, at the last moment, went and made up her mistress's fire, and put out everything she thought could be wanted, a

red, her black eyes, flashing in the starlight

d, she stole out, with noiseless foot and beating

SYMP

ss old hat, which I put on as Prince Lutin in the fairy tale puts on his chaplet of roses; I join to this a certain coat ve

change in the man's appearance, so signal that he trusted to it as a disguise? What was there in hat and coat thus to eclipse the whole personality of the man? There is a certain mystery in the philosophy of clothes too deep for me to fathom. The matter has been descanted upon before; the "Hávámal, or High Song of Odin," the Essays of Montaigne, the "Sartor" of Thomas Carlyle, all dw

out; but something must be done, so I made up a load of fruit and vegetables, took them to the city to market, and sold them. While I was busily occupied measuring peaches by the half and quarter peck, stolidly deaf to the objurgations of my neighbor huckster on my right, to whom some one had given bad money, and equally impervious to the blandishments of an Irish customer in front of me, who could not be persuaded I meant to require the price I had set upon my goods, my friend Mrs. Entresol came along, trailing her parasol with one gloved hand, with the other daintily lifting her skirts out of the dust and dirt. Bridget, following her, toiled under the burden of a basket of good things. Mrs. Entresol is an old acquaintance of mine, and I esteem her highly. Entresol has just obtained a partnership in the retail dry-goods house for which he has been a clerk during so many years; the firm is prosperous, and, if he continues to be as industrious and prudent as he has been, I do not doubt but my friend will in the cou

nd exclaimed in the gayest voice: "Ah, you eccentric man! What will you do next? To think of you selling in the market, just like a huckster! You! I must tel

an excellent joke, and was rather glad when at last she went away. I could not help wondering, however, after she was gone, why it was she should think I joked in retailing the products of my farm, any more than Mr. Entresol in retailing the goods piled upon his shelves and

who that

-a paragon cook, in fact, who seems to have strayed down into her kitchen from that remote antiquity when servants were servants. No, none of these things keeps the pious wife at home. None of these things restrains her from taking that quiet walk up the aisle and occupying that seat in the corner of the pew, there to dismiss all thought of worldly care, and fit her good little soul for the pleasures of real worship, and that prayerful meditation and sweet communion with holy things that only such good little women know the blessings of;-none of these things at all. It is Mrs. Tom Pinch's bonnet that keeps her at home,-her last season's bonnet! Strike, but hear me, ladies, for the thing is simply so. Tom's practice is not larger than he can manage; Tom's family need quite all he can make to keep them; and he has not yet been able this season to let Mrs. Tom have the money required to provide a new fall bonnet. She will get it before long, of course, for Tom is a good provider, and he knows his wife to be economical. Still he cannot see-poor innocent that he is!-why his dear little woman cannot just as well go to church in her last fall's bonnet, which, to his purblind vision, is quite as good as new. What, Tom! don't you know the d

themselves his slaves," says that Great Mogul of sentences, Dr. Johnson; and in this sense Mrs. Belle étoile is a slave indeed. The fetters gall her, but she has not courage to shake them off. Her mistress is her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Colisle, a coarse, vulgar, half-bred woman, whose husband acquired a sudden wealth from contracts and petroleum speculations, and who has in consequence set herself up for a leader of ton. A certain downright persistence and energy of character, acquired, it may be, in bullying the kitchen-maids at the country tavern where she began life, a certain lavish expenditure of her husband's profits, the vulgar display and profusion at her numerous balls, and her free-handed patronage of modistes and shop-keepers, have secured to Mrs. Colisle a sort of Drummond-light position among the stars of fashion. She imports patterns, and they become the mode; her caterer invents dishes, and they are copied throughout the obeisant world. There are confections à la Colisle; the confectioners utter new editions of them. There is a Colisle head-dress, a Colisle pomade, a Colisle hat,-the world wears and uses them. Thus, Mrs. Colisle has set herself up as Mrs. Belle étoile's rival; and that unfortunate lady, compelled by those noblesse-oblige principles which control the chivalry of fashion, takes up the unequal gage, and enter

examples of what I call "bad symptoms" in any diagnosis of the state of the social frame. They indicate, in fact, a total absence of social courage in persons otherwise endowed with and illustrious for all the useful and ornamental virtues, and consequently they make it plain and palpable that society is in a condition of dangerous disease. Whethe

ND LITERA

ain Mayne Reid. Bos

Edmund Routledge. London:

ointments and Laws. By R. Fello

port Croquet Club. By one of the

ur have usually learned the rules from four different manuals, and can agree on nothing; while the rest have never learned any rules at all, and cannot even distinctly agree to disagree. With tolerably firm wills and moderately shrill voices, it is possible for such a party to exhibit a very pretty wa

has some representative value for American players. Mayne Reid was the pioneer, Routledge is the most compact and seductive, Fellow the most popular and th

very ball, during each tour of play. It is a formidable privilege, and accordingly Reid and "Newport" both forbid it to all but the "rover," and Routledge denies it even to him; while Fellow alone pleads for universal indulgence. It seems a pity to side with one poor authority against three good ones, but there is no doubt that the present tendency of the best players is to cultivate the roquet-croquet more and more; and after employing it, one is as unwilling to give it up, as a good billiard-player would be to revert from the cue to the mace. The very fact, however, that t

port" decree that, if a ball "flinches," its tour terminates, but its effects remain; while, according to Fellow, the ball which has suffered croquet is restored, but the tour continues,-the penalties being thus reversed. Here the sober judg

where the interruption left it, or to place it where he thinks it would have stopped, if unmolested. This again is a rule far less simple, and liable to produce f

gencies so inevitable. When more difficult points come up for adjudication, the difficulty has thus far been less in the conflict of authorities t

ms to do for croquet, making it severely simple, and, perhaps we might add, simply severe. And yet, admirable to relate, this is the smallest of all the manuals, and the cheapest, and the only one in which there is not so much as an allusion to ladies' ankles. All the others have a few pages of rules and a very immoderate quantity of slang; they are all liable to the charge o

where two distinct points were made by any stroke,-as, for instance, a bridge and a roquet,-the one or the other could be waived. The croquet, too, could always be waived. But to assert boldly that "a player may decline any point made by himself, and play precisely as if the point had not been made," is a thought radical enough to send a shudder along Pennsylvania Avenue. Under this ruling, a single player in a game of eight might spend a half-hour in running and rerunning a single bridge, with dog-in-the-mangerish pertinacit

me by concussion,-"but only one (not necessarily the first) contact is a valid roquet." (p. 34.) But how can a player obtain the right to make a second contact, under such circumstances, unless indeed the first was part of a ricochet, and w

Is it that it is possible to go too deep into all sciences, even croquet? But how delightful to have at last a treatise which errs on that sid

he Civil War. Selected and Edited by Richard Gr

ot know how strong a case could be made against it. The effect is perhaps not altogether intended, but it shows how bad his material was, and how little inspiration of

s" to have been written nearly a score of years ago; though he seems to have been altogether ignorant of "The Washers of the Shroud," a poem by the same author actually written after the war began, and uttering all that dread, suspense, and deep determination which the threatened Republic felt after the defeats in the autumn of 1861. As Mr. White advances with his poetical chronology of the war, he is likewise unconscious of "The Commemoration Ode," which indeed is so far above all other elegiac poems of the war, as perhaps to be out

mps. It seems hard to complain of an editor who puts only two of his poems in a collection when he was master to put in twenty if he chose, and when in both cases he does his best to explain and relieve their intolerable brilliancy by foot-notes; yet, seeing that one of these product

ry of the war. "Bully," he tells us, was used as "an expression of encouragement and approval" by the Elizabethan dramatists, as well as by our own cherished rowdies; which may be readily proven from the plays of Shakespeare. But what the author of the poem in which this word occurs means by "hefty" Mr. White does not know, and frankly makes a note for the purpose of saying so. Concerning the expression "hurried up his cakes," he is, however, perfectly au fait, and surprises us with the promptness of his learning. "As long as the importance of hurrying buckwheat pancakes from the griddle to the table," says he, with a fine air of annotation, "is impressed upon the American mind, this vile slang w

core of other poems we might name. We have already noted the defectiveness of the collection, in which we are told "no conspicuous poem elicited by the war is omitted"; and we note it again in Mr. White's failure to print Mr. Bryant's pathetic and beautiful poem, "My Autumn Walk," and in his choosing from Mr. Aldrich not one of the fine sonnets he has written on the war, but a jeu d'esprit which in no wise represents him. Indeed, Mr. White's book seems to have been compiled after the editor had collected a certain number of clippings from the magazines and newspapers: if by the blessing of Heaven these had the names of their authors attached, and happened to be the

yard Taylor. New York: G. P

burdens himself with an element utterly and hopelessly unpicturesque, like modern reformerism, nor assumes the difficult office of interesting us in the scarcely more attractive details of literary adventure. But we think, after all, that we owe the superiority of "The Story of Kennett" less to the felicity of his subject than to Mr. Taylor's maturing powers as a novelist, of which his choice of a happy theme is but one of the evidences. He seems

ool and timid wooer, and a weak, selfish, spiritless man, of few good impulses, with a dull fear and dislike of his own father, and a covert tenderness for Gilbert. The last, being openly accepted by Martha, and forbidden, with much contumely, to see her, by her father, applies himself with all diligence to paying off the mortgage on his farm, in order that he may wed the Doctor's daughter, in spite of his science, his pride, and his riches; but when he has earned the requisite sum, he is met on his way to Philadelphia and robbed of the money by Sandy Flash, a highwayman who infested that region, and who, Mr. Taylor tells us, is an historical personage. He appears first in the first chapter of "The Story of Kennett," when, having spent the day in a fox-hunt with Alfred B

n that it is solved. Then it is dissipated, when Gilbert's mother, in presence of kindred and neighbors, assembled at the funeral, claims Alfred Barton as her husband; and after this nothing remains but the distribution of justice, and the explanation that, long ago, before Gilbert's birth, his parents had been secretly married. Alfred Barton, however, had sworn his wife not to reveal the marriage before his father's death, at that time daily expected, and had cruelly held her to her vow after the birth of their son, and through all the succeeding years of agony and contumely,-loving her and her boy in his weak, selfish, cowardly way, but dreading too deeply his father's anger ever to do them justice. The reader entirely sympathizes with Gilbert's shame in

ness on a deceit was so heavily punished, have disciplined her to the perfect acting of her part, and all her past is elevated and dignified by the calm power with which she rights herself. She is the chief person of the drama, which is so pure and simple as not to approach melodrama; and the other characters are merely passive agents; while the reader, to whom the facts are known, cannot

pirit of Martha, the theories of individual action under special inspiration have created self-reliance, and calm, fearless humility, sustaining her in her struggle against the will of her father, and even against the sect to whose teachings she owes them. Dr. Deane had made a marriage of which the Society disapproved, but after his wife's death he had professed contrition for his youthful error, and had been again taken into the quiet brotherhood. Martha, however, had always refused to unite with the Society, and had thereby been "a great cross" to her father,-a man by no means broken under his affliction, but a hard-headed, self-satisfied, smoot

lities, that we are glad to have a book in which there is great courage in this respect. Honesty of this kind is vastly more acceptable to us than the aerial romance which cannot alight in any place known to the gazetteer; though we must confess that we attach infinitely less importance than the author does to the fact that Miss Betsy Lavender, Deb. Smith, Sandy Flash, and the two Fairthorn boys are drawn from the characters of persons who once actually lived. Indeed, we could dispense very well with the low comedy of Sally's brothers, and, in spite of Miss Betsy Lavender's foundation in fact, we co

of the whole fiction is clear and simple, and, in the more dramatic scenes,-like that of old Barton's funeral,-rises effortlessly into very great strength. The plot, too, is well managed; the incidents naturally succeed eac

of Travel and Observation in Georgia and the Carol

r up to Reconstruction with a noble and self-denying fidelity. It would have been much easier to give us studied theories and speculations instead of the fac

gh which Mr. Andrews passed seem to have an adequate conception of the fact that the South can only rise again through tranquillity, education, and justice; and some few of these men have the daring to declare that regeneration must come through her abandonment of all the social theories and prejudices that distinguished her as a section before the war. But in a great degree the beaten bully is a bully still. There is the old lounging, the old tipsiness, the old swagger, the old violence. Mr. Andrews has to fly from a mob, as in the merry days of 1859, because he persuades an old negro to go home and not stay and be stabbed by a gentleman of one of the first families. Drunken life-long idlers hiccup an eloquent despair over the freedmen's worthlessness; bitt

of foreign capital and industry, and place it first in the line of redemption, though the temper of its people is less intelligent and frank than that of the South-Carolinians. In North Carolina the difficulty see

Customs and Opinions, etc. By Rev. Justus Doolittle, Fourteen Years Member of the Fuhchan Mission of the A

sign him to any such class, for there is no reason to suppose that he would have made his book amusing, if he could possibly have helped it. But th

ll have sore eyes"? A people among whom unmarried women who have forsworn meat are called "vegetable virgins," and married women similarly pledged are known as "vegetable dames,"-among whom a present of sugar-cane signifies the approach of an elder sister, an

tion to the reader. To say that he for one instant makes the individuality of a Chinese conceivable, or his human existence credible, or that he can represent the whole nation to the fancy as anything but a race of idiotic dolls, would be saying far too mu

the late lamented "institution" in America; shows that the religions of that land, taken at their worst, have none of the deified sensuality of other ancient mythologies, and that the greatest practical evils, such as infanticide, are steadily combated by the Chinese themselves. Even on the most delicate point, the actual condition of missionary enterprises, the good man tells the precise truth with the most admirable frankness. To make a single convert cost seven years'

, a Story of Life in Holland. By M

and profit by their elders. The scene is laid in Holland, a land deserving to be better known than it is; and the writer evinces a knowledge of the country, and a

or. We all know the main features of Dutch scenery; but they are seldom brought to

neighboring bulrushes is nearer the stars than she. Water-bugs dart backward and forward above the heads of the chimney-swallows, and willow-trees seem drooping with shame, because they cannot reach as high as the reeds near by.... Farm-houses, with roofs like great slouched hats over their eyes, stand on wooden legs with a tucked-up sort of air, as if to say, 'We intend to keep dry if we

to get in, and the lakes pushing to get out, and all the canals and rivers and ditches, there is, in many districts, no water fit to swallow; our poor Hollanders

one, and speaks to the fancy of chil

t, and grow suddenly alive with boys and girls. The sly thing, shining so quietly under the noonday sun, was

them into the sunshine. Latin, arithmetic, grammar, all were locked up for an hour in the dingy school-room. The teacher might be a noun if he wished, and a proper one at that, but they meant to enjoy themselves. As long as the skating was as perfect as this, it m

eelings and aspirations of the actors. A young lady, for example, has been on a visit to aid and console a poor peasant-girl, whom, having b

day for returning late to school afte

en she had gone back to her lessons. What wonder that she missed them! How could she get a long string of Latin verbs

ays and peculiarities and homely virtues of its inhabitants; and then, interwoven with these, a simple