342 hold in the village of his birth. You, Josephine De Valville, were the heedless creator of all this misery!" With a groan Josephine sank down, despairingly. "Forgive, forgive!" she murmured. "I knew not you were his brother." "Revenge has come to me unsought for," resumed the lieutenant. "It was through no deliberate design that I crossed your path. No one can accuse me of seeking to gain your affections. I have never overstepped the limits of frigid respect in my intercourse." 66 R. SMITH has just been to dinner. Shall I give you the bill of fare? Salmon, fresh and delicious, the first of the season; parsnips, potatoes, lettuce, with just enough somnolence in its composition to make one comfortably drowsy, pickled lambs' tongues, delicious morsels, which little Lena Smith tasted, with the naive remark, "These tongues never told lies." The bill of fare was commine.pleted by the richest and rarest of puddings, and a glass of sparkling ale, and topped off with a cigar of choice brand. 'True, most true!" sobbed Josephine. "It was in my madness that I accused you. Your conduct has been generous, noble, and the opposite of But forgive me-say that you forgive me!" "I do, Miss De Valville, most unreservedly. Rise, I beseech you; and now that you have found that you yourself have a heart let me hope that you will manifest some consideration hereafter for the hearts of others." "Oh, fear not I shall put myself again in the way of temptation," sighed Josephine, "but make this allowance for me, sir, when you recall this unhappy meeting; remember that I was bred a sceptic in love and never believed in it till I felt too painfully its power. Enough! You have forgiven me. I have but one favor to ask-it is that you forget me." The lieutenant bowed, and Josephine, beckoning her attendant to her side, leaned upon her for support. Then, nerving herself for the effort, she murmured, "Farewell, sir," and turned to depart. "Farewell, Miss De Valville," returned the lieutenant. "We part in kindness, do we not? Trust me, if I have harbored a thought of rancor toward you, it is effaced from my heart. I wish you all happiness." 66 'Happiness!" sighed Josephine, in a tone of bitter incredulity. "But should I thus resist my fate? Once more, sir, farewell!" And, dropping the veil over her face, she leaned upon the shoulder of her maid, and with a crushed and humble spirit quitted the room. The lieutenant paced the floor for a couple of minutes after she had gone, and then, simply muttering to himself, "She will get over it soon," he resumed the labor upon which he had been engaged. He left the next morning for the north. The ensuing summer he married Miss O'Neil to whom he had been for some years attached. Soon after the news of his union reached Josephine De Valville she was the inmate of a convent. Quarrels, like thunder storms, would end in sunshine if it were not for the determination to have the last word. If you are scolded or criticized just bite your lips and keep still, and it will soon be over; but if you retort you are in "for three years of the war." Many a man pours himself in torrents of rain for five minutes and then breaks out into the sunshine of good temper again will settle down into a three days' dismal drizzle if he is weak enough to insist on having that last word. What wonder then, that Mr. Smith sits so complacently in his arm-chair, at peace with himself, and all the world? There is much moral suasion in a good dinner. The time is coming when reformers will take in hand this suggestion. Our alms-houses, jails, and prisons, will be provided with the choicest edibles, and good living will be the foundation of the programme, which would lead up to reformation from the lowest depths of crime. Sit for a few moments, in one of the coffee-rooms in this metropolis, at the hour of lunch; watch the anxious, care-worn faces that come in, and observe their contented expression as they go out. If you sit in the centre of the room, you must be very careful of your hat, especially if it is a saloon for "Ladies and Gentlemen." Look at that businessperplexed man, hurrying in, and placing his hat carelessly upon the floor; he rings the bell, violently. A sweep of crinoline sets the hat on a tour of observation down the room; he pursues it with wrathy countenance, and places it exactly where it was before! Another voluminous skirt rolls it under an adjoining table; he becomes resigned and desperate, don't care if he never sees the old hat again, and lets it remain. Dinner comes, juicy veal cutlets, and rich Mocha; he begins to be mollified, and in a pause between the courses, magnanimously restores the hat to its former position. This time, the folds of a rich silk dress, set it bounding to the further side of the saloon; he observes the scene with complacency, and so far from feeling malice toward the fair delinquent is he, that he rather enjoys her confusion, and condescends to make mental comments upon her pretty face, and stylish spring suit; such a charm does a good dinner have upon his tried nerves. Mr. Smith sits in the front parlor, and watches a certain performance in another room, through the folding-doors. Tom Smith and Cora are measuring their respective heights; they stand back to back, till their heads are nearly on a level; Mr. Smith observes Tom's slippered feet rising on their toes, and hears the surprised exclamation of Cora: "Oh, Tom, you are standing on tip-toe!" There is Bob Sawyer, nineteen years of age; salary, six dollars a week; wears lavender kids, and goes without stockings; sports rainbow neckties, and only owns three pocket-handkerchiefs; lives at No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very home, and can't afford to pay his board; smokes, miserable. when the old man can't see him; goes to bed early, bidding an affectionate farewell to the family, kissing them good-night all; mind-Bob is very affectionate then climbs out of his chamber window, and goes to the theatre, displays a gold-mounted opera-glass, which he levels frequently at the rich and beautiful Araminta. His aristocratic air and dashing appearance takes her fancy. A few drives in an open barouche, a few bouquets, and evening calls, then Araminta finds he is only pretence, and dismisses him. The poor fellow couldn't be expected to stand on his toes all the time; he fails elsewhere, and is snubbed by his comrades, who have larger salaries and higher connections. There is Arthur Melville, a man of good family and prospects. His affairs are a little involved, owing to youthful dissipations and extravagances. He is paying attention to Miss Bella Barnes, with an eye to her fifty thousand a year. She evidently looks favorably upon his suit; but she is as good and pure a creature as ever walked the earth. He tells her he has been a little wild, but is endeavoring to turn over a new leaf. Thanks to her gentle influences, she looks kindly at him with her radiant dark eyes, and talks to him. He does not relish her preaching, but preserves a discreet silence, when he don't know what to say, and uses his pocket handkerchief when she becomes pathetic. She invites him to go to church. Arthur detests churches; but he goes, nevertheless, carrying the gold and velvet bound prayer-book for Miss Bella, and talking only Sunday talk in the short walk there. Her calm, sweet face is upturned to the preacher. He fixes his eyes in that direction, with desperate energy, aims glances at the eyes, nose, and chin of the speaker, and finally settles upon his mouth as a point of view. He wants very much to look at the rows of pretty faces on his right hand, but that would not be decorous. The words he hears have no charm for him; he was out late at the card table last night; he has " stood on his toes" as long as he can. A few last idiotic stares at the preacher's mouth, his head drops on his breast, and he is soon asleep. He wakes up at the last hymn, ashamed and confused. Miss Bella is calmly serene on the homeward walk. The next day he receives a note, informing him that if he is insensible to the beautiful words of Rev. Mr. B, he will be incorrigible under her" gentle influences." A volume of sermons accompany the note, which he is requested to read when he can keep awake. There is fashionable and fussy Mrs. Harrington. The strategy and energy which she employs to keep her position, stamp her as a woman of genius, with requisite ability to plan a campaign in army life. Did you know that she closed the front blinds of her house last summer, and gave out that the fam-ily were spending a few weeks in the country, when they were dragging out a miserable existence in the kitchen, and back rooms? Every flounce on her dress, every wave of the feather on her bonnet, has a history. She does not tell you all the manœuvres. You don't know the piles of work which her sewing machine throws off, or the washings that come in at the back door. What would Miss Araminta say, If she knew that the pretty embroidered white skirt which she displays at Papanti's, was done up by Fred Harrington's mother, who bows to her grace fully, and becomes her partner in the next set? Mr. Smith begins to think of himself, also, and here his reflections become more profitable. Don't he cause reports to be circulated that he is worth a round one hundred thousand dollars, when he knows he can scarcely call himself the owner of twenty thousand? On the strength of that, is he not gaining credit, influence, confidence, and planning a brilliant career? He scorns forgeries, and preaches vehemently against tricks in trade. Is his conscience quite easy? Don't he subscribe large sums to the City Missionary Society, and treat with heartless neglect the complaints of his servants, and those depending upon him? He is a constant visiitor to Orphan Asylums, and the tears stand in his eyes, as he sees the poor unfortunates in their pleading helplessness. It establishes his reputation as a benevolent, and large-souled man, a person of public spirit and enterprise. There will be a berth for him, by-and-by, perhaps, in some office of public charity. Then all hail to nicely carpeted, luxurious rooms, rich dinners, and wines at government expense, little trips down the harbor, and a jolly good time, with other fellows like himself. Mr. Smith is standing very much on tip-toe now. How long will it last? He sighs a moment, and takes another view of the subject. Ought one to stand on tip-toe at all? In some respects, does not a man sink down sluggishly, where he ought to rise, and exert every energy of his being? What of those things so high, and exalted, and pure, that we must reach for them? He glances for a moment at a bronze statue of Mercury, on his mantel, and as he sees the winged feet, wishes for a moment, that he were free to follow the impulses of his higher nature, and rise above the cares and entanglements of earth. THE CHILDREN'S WISHES. CHARLES. I would I were a star, In the firmament to shine; Or, perhaps, the gentle moon, With its light so pure and fine. MARY. I would I were the little brook, CHARLES. I would I were the south wind, MARY. I would I were a violet, The sweetest of all flowers; Fanned gently by the breezes, And watered by the showers. CHARLES. I would I were a ship On the stormy winds to ride; And when the sea was calm, With gentle force to glide. the gleaner is pictured as one of the principal accessories to a harvest-scene. Artists, too, delight in portraying the gleaner in the golden corn-fields, for does she not help to give animation to the bright scene he is endeavoring to realize? Those, however, who may enter the fields after the sheaves are carried away, and will watch the eager work of the poor gleaners, of both tender years and of decrepid age, will feel more inclined to pity them, notwithstanding we may admire them in a picture. Still, our artist has given us the gleaner as his fprincipal subject for the month, hence we must first turn to harvest-time for our descriptive matter for August. This is perhaps the most splendid month in the year. Now the leaves, waving in billows in the storms of early autumn, show the first inclination to change from green to yellow, red, purple, russet, or black; the yellow corn-fields blaze with scarlet poppies, blue corn-flowers, white campions, and purple corn-cockles; the sky overhead is at sunset one gorgeous display of color, at night a blue depth illumined with countless stars; but no sooner does the summer reach its prime than the harbingers of decay appear; the mornings are chilly and damp, the evenings draw in, a few of the birds have left us, and the summer flowers are gradually but surely giving place to the fruits of autumn. In the woods we now see the stately fox-glove and the autumnal orchids; in the pastures, the grass of Parnassus; and on the surface of the waters, the noble white and yellow river-lilies. By the end of the month insects will become lazy and less abundant, and animals will make preparations for their winter's sleep. But our artist has given us another subject to dwell upon the fruit in season; and here we cannot do better than cull a few verses from Eliza Cook's song of "Fruits :" The roses are bright, in their summer days' light, The fruit that hangs round us is beautiful too. The apples' round cheeks, with their rose-colored streaks, And the pears that are ready to melt on the spray, What lip can deny they have beauties that vie With the daisy and buttercup spread in our way? "The apricot yellow, so juicy and mellow, Is tempting as any fresh cowslip of spring, And the currants' deep blushes light up the green bushes, Or hang in white bunches like pearls on a string. Then the ripe nut that drops as we push through the copse, While busy as squirrels we hunt and we eat, The woodbine's fair leaves and clematis that weaves Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers. Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, Sing, dance, and play, "Tis holiday; The sun does bravely shine On our ears of corn. Rich as a pearl Comes every girl, This is mine, this is mine, this is mine; Let us die, ere away they be borne. Wind, jolly huntsman, your neat bugles shrilly, Hounds make a lusty cry; Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freelys Then let your brave hawks fly. Horses amain, Over ridge, over plain, So ho ho! through the skies Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring. And now in conclusion, we must allude to "Harvest Home:" The harvest moon is in the sky, The west seems all on fire, From every field the wagons come, With sheaves piled fast and high; The barn is full, the feast is spread, Fancy Dreams of a Young Lady. Some young ladies regard marriage as a fairyland, where violets and roses perpetually blossom -where the cedar-tree and the cinnamon-tree ever flourish-where the waters of tranquility and sweetness ever flow. Tell them there are thistles and briers in that state, though they do not contradict, yet they do not credit you; for they believe that their love, their devotedness for each other, will exempt them from the cares, the vicissitudes, the anxietics, which generally pertain to humanity. All lovers before marriage conceive their destiny will be an exception to the general rule. Could you give them a sketch of the pages in their future history, they would not believe a word; they would set you down as a misanthrope, a painter of gloomy and unnatural scenes, an inimical represser of the hopes and aspirations of youth. The dark spot which the telescope of your experience might discover, they would regard but as shadows or molehills in the moon. If they would but reflect a little, how much misery they might avoid. "What," asked Professor Miller of the smart bad boy in the history class, "what did the Pilgrim fathers first do aft r landing at Plymouth Rock?" "Licked a hackman," replied the smart bad boy, who went to Niagara Falls with his parents last vacation. A Board of Supervisors in a western county lately resolved, first, to build a new court house; second, that the materials of the old court house should be used in building the new, and then, third, that they would occupy the old court house until the new one was ready. THE THE WEDDING DAY. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. HE gray, dewy light of a soft summer morning was stealing faintly up the eastern verge of a sky so cloudless and transparent, that it could give promise only of as fine a day as ever shone over the green fields and gay hawthorn hedges of England in the olden time. The rich and liquid carol of the nightingale had not yet ceased, although day had already dawned, for so dense were the old thornbrakes on the hill side, and so massive the shadows of the great limo trees in the valley, that the bird of night was there often heard to sing the whole day long. But now he sang not alone, for from every leafy hedgerow and young coppice the music of the blackbirds and thrushes flowed out in gushes of clear melody, not unpleasingly blended with the shrill alarums of the village cocks, and the twittering of the swallows under the cottage eaves. It was in the neighborhood of a pleasant Kentish village that all these sweet sounds were so rife on a June morning of the year 16—, that last century of the good unsophisticated times of old England. This village, like many others of that date, and some even to this day have resisted the progress of improvement, was not built in two long straight lines on either side of a dull, dusty, treeless turnpike road; not one house in it glittered either with bright red brick, or flaring white paint-it had no park, no courthouse, no lyceum. woodland park, or chase, parts of which were still thick with almost primeval forest, which parts were opened to the sun in grassy glades and broad velvet lawns. The manor house was not visible, either from any point of the road, until it scaled the brow of the hill under the very shadow of the old keep, which had been erected probably to command it. If he paused there, the wayfarer could just discern the glimpse of a gray, slated roof, and the tall stacks of curiously wrought chimneys among the thick black woods, and the quiet waters which surrounded the hall. At about a mile's distance from the house a pair of heavy, rustic gates, flanked by a lodge or gatehouse, as it was then termed, gave admission into the grounds; but even there the eye gained little access to the interior of the demesnes, so suddenly, and with so abrupt a turn did the avenue disappear amid the woodlands. Everywhere else the chase was encircled by an old wall of brick so old, indeed, that it had lost every shade of its natural hue, with a heavy parapet and battlement, all overrun with masses of ivy, which must have been growing there for centuries ere it could have attained such a degree of luxuriance. Other entrance there was none to the guarded precincts, except by one small postern door, which opened into the church, and was flanked on the right hand, as you looked northward to the hill, by the dark woods of what is called the home-park. Early as was the hour, even for those industrious and mututinal days, when the very magnates of the land were not too luxurious to rise nearly with the sun, the village was astir. Almost before it was light the old sexton had been seen halting across the green towards the church-yard gate, folhun-lowed by the half dozen handsome, athletic youths, who were known through all the country round as the bell-ringers of Melcombe Regis. In a word, it was as unlike as possible to a modern village anywhere; but most unlike of all to a New England village. For its houses, or cottages rather, not one of which but had counted its dred years, of rough hewn sandstone, with thatched roofs all overgrown with moss, and yellow flowering stone crop, were scattered, here and there, irregularly over a wide common of short, elastic greensward, among huge oaks that might well have witnessed the march of Cæsar's brazen legionaries. There were little gardens, gay with common flowers, the rose, the sweet pea, and the honeysuckle, attached to every cottage; and to one, in no way distinguished from the rest, except that it was a little larger, and boasted an arched porch of curiously carved stone work, there seemed to belong nearly an acre of shrubbery laid out with taste, and tended with unusual care. Still, had it not been for the square ivy tower of the old gray, weather beaten church, which rose hard by it behind a screen of aged yew trees, which almost hid its wolf-toothed, Saxon archway from the traveller on the narrow and little frequented road, there would have been nothing to mark it as the vicarage, so humble was it if regarded as the abode, which indeed it was, of a gentleman and scholar. Beyond the common and its straggling village, covering all the level ground to the foot of a bare, downlike green hill, the highest summit of which was crowned by the ruins of an old tower of the Norman era, which had probably been dismantled during the bloody war of the Roses, lay a wide, And ere the first rays of the sun had tinged the few fleecy clouds, which floated motionless in the still atmosphere, with gold and amber, the quick and merry chime of a festive peal had aroused the heaviest of the village sleepers from their protracted slumbers. When the light streamed down long and level through the gap in the eastern hill top, and changed the panes of the cottage lattices into so many glit tering diamonds, the villagers might be seen collecting in little groups, some in the gardens, or under the rustic porches of their humble homes, and others on the green under the fine old oaks, all in their best attire. Clearly it was a festive day-a day of joy to many. Yet such, alas! is the very nature of human happiness, that what brings bliss to one, and the crowning of hopes, and the full fruition of fond promises, is often fraught to another with grief, with despair, with heart-break. Such is-such, despite all the theories of dreamers and Utopians, must be while the round world endures, and the law of Him who made it the condition of humanity. And of this was that joyous morn, that day of thoughtless, inconsiderate mirth to the many, a great and notable example. While the merry bells were yet ringing, "in the |