A has other friends-C, D, and E; personages of shady complexion and not absolutely pure antecedents. By virtue of the civilities he has shown that facile, limp-backed B-who, if he had possessed either common sense or manly self-respect, would never have got himself into such a position-A holds himself entitled to demand his acceptance of the shady contingent, on the plea of their being also his friends, and that B's recognition will be pleasing to himself and accounted a graceful "set-off" against the many kindnesses already received. So that luckless B, who has weakly allowed himself to be patronized, has to make his choice between the charge of ingratitude-according to the ethics of his patron-or admitting to his hearth men and women of doubtful character, whose presence he feels degrading, and from whose intimacy he would willingly fly to the other end of the world. But if he were to hint the faintest echo of his thoughts, his friend A would denounce him as an ungrateful scoundrel, with a heart as hard and a soul as barren as primeval granite; wherefore, nine times out of ten, to secure the good opinion of the man who "has been so kind to him," poor weak-willed, limpbacked B consents, and goes down into the mud, with a train of nameless disasters to follow, out of gratitude to a man who designed to use him as a stepping-stone from the first. This, too, is making one's self an âme damnée unnecessarily, and from a mistaken notion of a useful virtue.

On a review, then, of all the dangers and disasters attending it in any exaggerated development, we have to come to the conclusion that gratitude, like everything else, has to be held in hand to be kept wholesome, and that excess here, as elsewhere, leads to mischief. To be lovingly, honestly grateful for kindnesses, and not to be ashamed to say so, belongs to the class of virtues which every man should maintain; but to make one's self an âme damnée, to lose self-respect and true moral feeling, to call crooked things straight and evil things good because one has been patted on the back or civilly dealt with, is indeed to render hateful by excess that which is one of our best feelings when kept in due subordination to honor.

He who murmurs at his lot is like one baring his feet to tread upon thorns.

THERE is nothing that needs to be said in an unkindly manner.

WISDOM and virtue make the poor rich, and the rich honorable.

IN trivial matters second thoughts are always the best.

LATE hours and anxious pursuits exhaust the nervous system, and produce disease and premature death; therefore the hours of labor and study should be short.

ALICE'S FAREWELL LETTER.

LETTER XI.

VALLEY HOME, May 7, 1876. DEAR MR. GODEY: I have been here in my very dear old home since the 20th of April; and now that. I am about to leave it, it is dearer than ever to my heart. Blessings are said to brighten as they take their flight, and I think it is true. At least we think more of what we are going to lose than when it was an actual possession. I love the rapid, picturesque, poetical little river, with the thousand lovely nooks familiar to my childhood; I love the beautiful glen, through the cool depths of which the mill-stream frolics and dances, outward to the light; where the speckled trout leaps up to catch the unwary insect, and the rocks are carpeted with emerald velvet; where the sweet-fern and maidenhair nestle lovingly beside the dark pools, and the rhododendron and azalea and laurel bloom luxuriantly. No matter where I may go, or in what grand scenes of nature, I know I shall never see a livelier spot. Then the "castled crag" behind the house, fringed with ferns and draped with American ivy-how beautiful it is! And the old seat half-way up, where I dreamed the hours away over my fairy stories; and where, when my "Prince" came, we so often sat together, and built castles more lovely than a world of sin and death can ever realize. how beautiful they are! Even the honeysuckle bower, below the spring, and the old oak by the river, and the distant "Ward's Peak," and the parallel mountains that fence us in from the world-all of these are lovely beyond compare, now that I am bidding them adieu.

Ah,

our summer cottage, and father will see that the building shall be done just as it ought. As our home will be so near them, they anticipate much pleasure in the future. Then, mother is so self-sacrificing in her nature, that she would not make me feel badly anyway by lamenting over my departure. She says it will be hard enough for me to be sea-sick, and to go among new relations, and endeavor to please them. She knows that, no matter how happy I may be, some bitter drops will be there for me to drink; and she will try and make me happy while I am with her. Dear mother! so weak and yet so strong. Will earth ever give me so pure, so unselfish a love?

Cousin Jeb says he wishes I'd never gone to Washington, and then I'd have settled down here in the valley and married a good country fellow and lived like other girls. He doesn't see what a woman ever wants to travel forany further than to visit her kinfolks. not to be wondered at that boys want to go out into the world! but he thinks it all wrong for girls.

It's

Poor old Abe Harmer! whose rueful face used really to make me sad, has found consolation in an apple-cheeked Dulcinia, who is sufficiently strong to bake his bread, scour his floors, and wash his clothes, while he is working on the farm. He seems delighted; and met me with a glowing face, and no sign of a broken heart. Jeb, who has caught a little slang from the far-off world, says he "didn't pine worth a cent;" and that I may "button my eyelids," as it won't pay to mourn over Abe's inconstancy. How soon we are forgotten! Yet, I really believe the poor boy loved me as deeply as his capacity went. Jeb and several other cousins are going with us to the city. To-day Aunt Jerusha is over, helping to get things packed, and preparing many nice eatables to take to the wedding. I cannot persuade them that it is more expensive to take things up, than to purchase them there; so I am obliged to give up trying to do so.

May 10th.

We reached Washington last evening, and Alphonse whispered something about never letting me leave him again. I was quite weary, but am much improved in health by my visit to the country. Many things have occurred since I left, but I do not know that I will have time to record them.

A large and delightful entertainment, called the "Author's Carnival," was held during three evenings, the week after I left. Of course Nat and Lucy took characters and assisted in preparing for the affair. And of course Lucy overworked herself, and was sick. She always says she won't, but always does. Aunt Hitty, being much better, was persuaded to act "Mrs. Partington" for them, a character she understands, and acts to the life. Lucy insists I

shall not record her part; so I will mention a few of the characters and omit the actors. They had a Dickens booth called "The Old Curiosity Shop," a Scott booth, "Kenilworth Castle," a "Burns Cottage" thatched with straw; and Irving booth (being the old Inn in the town of Catskill, made famous in "Rip Van Winkle"), "Lalla Rookh's Tent," "The House that Jack built," and others, all admirably fitted up. Of Shakspearian characters, were Hamlet, Ophelia, Othello, Desdemona, Romeo, Juliet, Falstaff, Mistress Page, Perdita, Portia, Jessica, Shylock, and others. Of Longfellow's, were Evangeline, Priscilla, Miles Standish, Hiawatha, Minnehaha, and others. Of Scott's, were Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, Queen Berengaria, Fair Maid of Perth, Annie of Gierstine, Amy Robsart, Lady of the Lake, and many others. Of Irving's, were Rip Van Winkle, Gretchen, Wilhelm, Nina, and the Landlord. Moore was represented by Lalla Rookh and others, and Dickens had numerous representations, among which were Little Nell, her grandfather, Dick Swiveller, the Marchioness, Pickwick, Sam Weller, the Fat Boy, Lady Dedlock, Mrs. Jellaby, Miss Flit, Guppy, Barnaby Rudge, Dolly Varden, Captain Cuttle, Paul Dombey and Florence, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Squeers, Oliver Twist, Fagin, Betsy Trotwood, Mr. Dick, Uriah Heep, and many more. Both Nat and Lucy say it was the most intellectual feast ever given in the city, or at least more intellect was represented than at any other.

At the last meeting of the Literary Club Mrs. South worth bade her friends farewell for the season, as she is going with her son to Yonkers, N. Y., for six months. Her literary labors will still go on.

The artists' last reception of the season also took place during my absence. It was an elegant affair, and was attended by a thousand people. Art has grown to a giant's size at the Capital within the past few years.

My dress is here and it is very beautiful. The veil which accompanies it is also exquisite, and the presents sent at the same time, from the parents of Alphonse, almost make me dizzy. These are a necklace and ear-rings of diamonds and rubies, of almost priceless value, and a reception dress of cream silk and cardipal velvet. What I shall ever do with any of them I do not know; I had so much already. And the pearls Alphonse gave me will be all the jewels I ever will need. I look upon these things in amazement, and, shall I say it? dismay. I know I will never wear them. They are too elegant entirely for one so young, and would better suit a lady of rank than a young Virginia girl. After all my talk of simplicity, I shall go away with the trousseau of a princess almost. Well, well! I draw a real sigh of uneasiness whenever I look at these jewels. It is funny to hear Aunt Hitty and Jeb dis

cussing them. Jeb remarks, "Whew! I never seen anything like them yet; but then if any woman wears 'em, why shouldn't Allie? She's jest about as good as they make 'em anyhow." And Aunt Hitty replies, "Yes, yes, if them French folks hasn't any other use for their money, it's their own business, I reckon. And there ain't a furrin lady in Washin'ton can git much ahead o' Allie now, I'm a-thinkin'. But laws a-me! She'll never want them things in the Valley. She'll have to keep 'em for her winters in Washin'ton after she gets home. She'll not be able to wear 'em a travellin' around. Maybe, while she's in Paris, she'll be invited to a ball at the President's, an' then she can wear 'em."

So they arrange it for me, and I am content. Nat has ordered many flowers for the reception; we will only have a few at the church. My dress looks like fairy work, with its creamy tint and its lovely lace trimmings, bordered with the lilies-of-the-valley which Nat insisted I must wear. The veil is like gossamer, decorated with frostwork. It is a perfect gem of art. Aside from all sentiment, it is a real pleasure to an artistic eye to gaze upon it. It seems as if all the fairy dreams of my life were suddenly realized. I had read of laces like cobwebs, and often, when still a child, had watched the dewy gossamer hung with frost in the first winter morning, and wondered if that were not the way the laces of Princess So-and-So looked; and if Prince So-and-So were not somewhat like the minister at Bethel, with dark, deep eyes, and raven hair. Now I have my dark-eyed prince, and here are laces more lovely than my young imagination ever pictured. Life opens out before me like a vision. O my heavenly Father! grant that I waken not! that the vision may not vanish! that the fairies flee not, leaving my life a blank desert; that my Aladdin's Lamp go not suddenly out, leaving me in utter darkness!

"There is even a happiness which makes the

heart afraid."

"If it were now to die,

'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear, My soul hath her content so absolute, That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate."

NEW YORK, May 15th.

"There's a whispered vow of love,

As side by side they stand,

And the drawing of a snow-white glove
From a little trembling hand;

And the glitter of a ring,

And a tear that none may chide

There, these have changed that girlish thing, And she is now a bride.

"No shadow dims her brow,

She feels without a fear

The trusting love that all may know

Who wed in their own sphere;

And he who clasps her now,

All flushed with love and pride,
Has breathed to her his holiest vow,
And takes her for his bride."

We were married at six o'clock, P. M., on Thursday, the 11th. I do not know how the church looked, but Aunt Hitty says the flowers Anna Perkins was my only were lovely. bridemaid, and there was one groomsman, with ushers. I thought little of accessories. It was the saddest as well as happiest day of I felt my life, if any one can understand me. no fear for the future; only hope and joy. But to leave all the loved ones at home, and go out into the world among utter strangers, made me sad. Nat, Lucy, Aunt Hitty, and all, said I looked beautiful. I know they always tell brides this, and yet I am sure they thought so. The service was beautiful and impressive, but I trembled like an aspen leaf, and was utterly relieved when safely ensconced in the carriage again. I did not mind the reception so much. I knew every one, and it was all so informal, the time passed before I knew it. We took our dinner, I changed my toilet, and then came the parting. I sobbed bitterly at leaving mother and father and the others, but was relieved and happy when it was all over and Alphonse whispered, "My own, my own!"

The rooms were brilliantly adorned with the rarest flowers; Lucy wore her cream silk and pearls; Aunt Hitty her lavender silk and pretty laces; and my country cousins all looked "sprucy," as they would have expressed it. As for mother, she could not be induced to wear anything but black silk, as she never does for her best. Among the guests were the President and his handsome daughterin-law, several of the Cabinet Ministers, nearly all the Members of the Foreign Legations, and a number of Senators and Representatives, with ladies. Many presents of silver, China, lace, and bronze were sent me; but were immediately packed, and not displayed.

We passed the 12th and 13th at the Continental in Philadelphia. We visited the Centennial grounds and the Art Department of the Exhibition. It is an immense show, and would weary one to death to make any endeavor to see much of it. I did not care for any but the Art Department anyway, and this is really magnificent. Hundreds of large paintings from the Louvre and other galleries of France, Italy, and Germany, with a great many art works from our mother country, besides the vast array of paintings and statues by our own artists, make a display such as I never dreamed of seeing. And I enjoyed it so much the more, as Alphonse had seen nearly all the foreign paintings, and could explain them to me, while I am personally acquainted with dozens of our American artists, and have before seen most of their best pictures and

statues. Among the latter, I noticed our little friend Vinnie Ream's "Spirit of the Carnival,” in marble, and Theodore Mills' statue of "Eve," in plaster, which last was recently exhibited in the Corcoran Art Gallery.

Philadelphia is a lovely city, driving around the more quiet part, and away from the Centennial grounds. They look what they are-a grand bazar; yet some of the buildings are marvels of beauty. The Memorial Building is especially noticeable, amidst so much of lightness and fragility, for its strong, massive, and solid look, as well as for its fine architecture. We met quite a number of Washington people here; yet, of course, few, comparatively, as so many came over to the opening and returned almost immediately. Mrs. Bouligny, the charming lady who presides over the Women's Department for this district, with quite a number besides, were to be seen in the Art Buildings.

We came to New York yesterday, and drove around all the afternoon, and to-day I begged my own dear husband to leave me for two whole hours, so that I could write my good-by to you and your readers. To all who have followed my simple recital of life among the mountains, and a girl's experience in Washington society, I will say I hope you are not too glad that I am through with my gossip. I would even be pleased if it were possible to believe that I should be missed, ever so little, as in the journey of life the circle of our friends widens out, and we cannot spread out with them and be in many places at once. It is gratifying to our love of approbation, and really balm to a heart that truly loves all friends, to feel that the place we leave vacant will not, cannot, be filled in a day, or a week, or a month. I shall still see the dear old LADY'S BOOK, the companion and friend of my childhood and youth; and Aunt Hitty promised faithfully that, if she does spend next season at the Capital, she will write me of all that transpires. I believe she will come, though she shook her head ominously when I said so.

You wonder if I am very happy, and if I do not dread the ocean. Yes, if ever human being was happy upon earth, I know that I am, and ought to be. I am starting out on my "voyage to the Fortunate Isles," with sunny skies and prospering breezes; yet I am stepping out into the great unknown, and condemn me not if I whisper, with Mrs. Piatt, if "that which is strange is sweet," may it not at last be that"That which we know is sweeter yet?

Do we not love the near earth more
Than the far heaven? Does not regret
Walk with us always from the door
That shuts behind us, though we leave
Not much to make us grieve?"

But I do leave much; yet I go with hope, and faith, and love. For old ocean, I have always longed to float upon his bosom; it has been a dream of my life; and, though he may

ATTAR OF ROSES.

BY ADA ALGERNON.

WHERE love's eternal summer glows,
Through lanes, and dales, and leafy glooms,
Where lavishly the bramble blows,
And brier sweet and musky rose,
We walk amid the ripe perfumes.
Within this fragrant atmosphere

Life's darling joys are all our own;
No thought of danger comes, nor fear;
Each matin hour with hopes is dear,
All realized ere day is flown.

The ruby morn in peach-blow light,
The golden noon all smiles we see,
Through veil of pearls still, timid night.
Oh, ever in a rainbow bright
Doth yesterday remembered be!

DOMINUS REGIT.

BY MARION COUTHOUY.

OH! think'st thou that when the bird sings,
The song is his own?

When June's sweetest symphony flings
A rainbow of tone?

Ah, no! for the time is a tune,
He hears and he feels,
The voice of the spirit of June
His music reveals.

Think'st thou that when summer appears
In time's golden zone,

The brightness the season enspheres
Is a light of its own?
Ah, no! it is nature supreme:
She smiles on the hills,
And, glad in the joy of her dream,
The universe thrills.

And think'st thou that nature's vast store-
Things lovely and grand-
The infinite ocean and shore-

Are works of her hand?
Ah, no! for in thunder and song
Vaster harmonies peal;
The beauties that glitter and throng
God's glories reveal.

All streams have an ultimate source,
In sunlight and snow;

And each has its musical course,
Its oceanward flow:

Each chord's separate melody rings
In the lyre of time,

And God's hand is sweeping the strings
To music sublime.

THE ORANGE GIRL OF SORRENTO.

BY MRS. SKIPWITH H. COALE.

WE had come to Italy in February, my wife and I, newly-married Americans, who had spent the summer in Switzerland, the autumn in Germany, and at the coming of cold weather had crossed the Alps to find sunshine and warmth greeting us in the soft Italian valleys. Still the wind often blew keen and cold from the mountains, and even in Rome the great marble-floored palaces were cold and dreary enough at times to people who had memories of bright fires and thick curtains in their brains as they warmed their chilled hands over the tiny charcoal braziers that were all we had in the way of artificial warmth in our great frescoed chambers. The lazzaroni grouped themselves picturesquely on the sunny side of the carved marble walls along the streets, getting all the benefit they could from the bright rays of the sun, and wrapped their graceful ragged cloaks around them more closely as a keener breath than usual came down from the snowcapped Apennines.

So, after a month in the famous old city, we determined to go on to Naples and see Vesuvius, who, at all events, always kept up his subterranean fires to welcome his visitors. We scaled the mountain, boiled eggs on the sides of the crater, and came racing down the sides again in the hot ashes, as all tourists do, laughing at our enforced haste, yet compelled to run, and jump, and skip by the steep sliding descent. Then, having seen the great volcano, we mounted into our little "curricola," and, followed by the shouts of innumerable picturesque little beggars, off we started for Naples again.

We made excursions to Herculaneum and Pompeii, to the Sibyl's Cave, Procida, and Lake Avernus; we saw the frescoes, the pictures, the statues; and then, one sunny, balmy morning, we started for far, blue, distant Capri, lying in a melting haze out on the lovely violet-tinted bay, bathed in the soft Italian sunshine.

Helen laughed merrily as my head came very near receiving a great thump against the top of the aperture which admitted our boat into the famous grotto which Hans Andersen has described like a dream of enchantment.

I

am a tall fellow, and somewhat stiff and formal, so my little wife thinks, so that she is greatly delighted to see me, "for once," humble myself in her presence, small Titania that she is.

We watched the wonderful metallic light flickering about the grotto as the blue waves dashed up against the fluted rocky columns, our faces flooded with the azure reflection as in the weird, tinted flame of some dropping

rocket. The exquisite sapphire clearness of the water gave back so distinctly each waveworn column, and the vaulted hollow roof, that it was as if we were suspended in mid-air, save for the rocking of the boat as we lay upon the gently-plashing tide. When we came out again, the azure was all changed to rose, the sky was aflame with the deep glow of the southern sunset, the sea was like wine, the light fading away on the distant mountains into rosy violet, the snow-capped summits gleaming in softened pink.

So through this flood of color, over this shining sea, we were rowed back to the shore again, the oars dipping into the water with a measured cadence, keeping time to the clear, sonorous voices of the boatmen, and leaving showers of dripping diamond drops as they flashed into the air. On the shore rose the steep cliffs of Sorrento, with its white, irregular houses climbing along the old Roman wall, or leaning over toward the glittering rosy sea as if they loved it, and were ready, Sappholike, to throw themselves into its embrace.

Those who once go to Sorrento stay there. There is a subtle charm in the languid air, in the softly-heaving sea, in the purple distances, in the perfume of the orange groves, in the silvery grayness of the olive trees, as the sweet sea-breeze ruffles their dusky branches. Something intangible, indefinable, inexpressible, I know not what, that enchains one as with a spell. Perhaps the Sirens, whose islands I could see afar off in the sparkling water from my window high up on the cliff, still weave their spells of enchantment, and, having decoyed us to these beautiful shores, keep us here as they did the wandering mariners in ages past.

At all events, there we stayed for a month. Each night we said on the morrow we would go, and still we stayed. We bade farewell twenty times to our fellow-loiterers at the villa among the olives and orange orchards high up on the rocky precipice that overhangs the sea, and which is now turned into a hotel. And each day we laughed at each other as we met again at the breakfast-table, and found that our hearts had failed us at the eleventh hour, as usual. We went out again on the terraced walk, and leaned over the old vine-draped wall to watch the boats lying on the white sands below, where the orange girls were stepping down the steep rocky stairways cut in the face of the cliff, carrying on their heads the flat baskets full of golden fruit. On the deck of the largest vessels the oranges would be poured out in a shining heap, growing momently larger as each basket was emptied, and the swarthy captain paid the graceful girls with a few copper coins. These dark-eyed girls made charming pictures as they stood on the shore, with their dark bodices, where the white cotton chemise rose against their clear