The French Empire in Danger-Female Sove- Modern Cant in Old Guise-A Glimpse into an Old Periodical Modern Innovations - Victoria- Will she visit America ?-Plaything Cottages- Flimsiness and Shallowness of Modern Rural Architecture-True Aim of Satire-Charles Dickens and Charles Reade Compared-Human- ity of both these Authors-An Old Story Re- vived-The True Version-Advance of Liberal Views-Philadelphia Quakers on Music, Danc- ing, and the Drama-The Public controls the Theatre-Consoling Advice-The Hand-Organs -Napoleon's Letters to Josephine-Napoleon the Lover-Selfishness of Josephine-French Shakspeare and the Commentators-A New Anno- tator-Amusing Attempts to be Critical-Oil Paintings with Rich Gilt Frames-The Frames the Attraction-A wretched portrait of Wash- ington-To Politicians-Hardcastle's Opinion-- The Four Charleses- Anecdote of General Wayne-Broadway in Rhyme, fifty years ago- Tableaux Parties-Flowers and Thorns-The Minstrel's Curse-Directions how to get up Tableaux-Ladies on Horseback-Female jockies -Marriage of the Princess Royal--Shakspearean It was autumn, and one of those balmy, Indian-Sum- boughs, burying its golden ripeness among cool, green mer days that, if the eyes were closed, would remind leaves and buds of fragrant snow. Still, save in the one of Andalusia, when the orange trees put forth blos- delicious atmosphere, that autumnal sunset should not soms with the matured fruit still clinging to their have reminded you of any land but our own; for what Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the U. S., for the Southern District of New York. other climate ever gave to the white wings of the frost | stacks of quaint chimneys and heavy oaken doors bespoke the power to scatter that rich combination of red, a foundation far antecedent to the revolution. green, gold and dusky purple upon a thousand forests But in addition to these proofs of antiquity, were balin a single night? What other land ever saw the sun go conies of carved stone, curving over modern bay windown upon a world of green foliage, and rise to find the dows, which broke up the stiff uniformity of the origisame foliage bathed in a sea of brilliant tints, till the nal design; and along one tall gable that fronted on east was paled by its gorgeousness? the river, French windows, glittering with plate glass, Indeed, there was nothing in this calm, Indian-summer opened to a veranda of stone-work, surmounted with a twilight to remind you of any other land, save its still-graceful design in iron; and if these windows were not ness and the balm of dying flowers giving up their lives one blaze of gold at sunset, you might be certain that a to the frost. But the links of association are rapid and storm was lowering over the Palisades, and that the mysterious, and the scenes that awaken a reminis-next day would be a cloudy one. cence are sometimes entirely opposite to the memory Another gable facing the south was lighted by a awakened. broad arched window crowded full of diamond-shaped glow of a conservatory within. In short the mansion was a picturesque incongruity utterly indescribable, and yet one of the most interesting old houses in the world. Be this as it may, there was something in the land-glass, tinted through and through by the bloom and scape suddenly clad in its gorgeous fall tints-in the river so coldly transparent twelve hours before, now rolling on through the glowing shadows as if the sands and pebbles in its bed had been turned to jewels, which reminded at least one inmate of that old mansion house, of scenes long ago experienced in the south of Spain. The old mansion house which we speak of, stood some miles above that gorge in the Harlem River which is now spanned by the High Bridge. This region of Manhattan Island is even yet more than half buried in its primeval forest trees. Hills as abrupt, and moss as greenly fleecy as if found on the crags of the Rocky Mountains, still exist among the wild nooks and wilder peaks which strike the eye more picturesquely from their vicinity to the great metropolis. At the particular spot we wish to describe, the hills fall back from the Hudson, north and south, far enough to leave a charming little valley of some two or three hundred acres cradled in their wildness and opening greenly to the river, which is sure to catch a sheaf of sunbeams in its bosom when the day fires its last golden salute from behind the Palisades. Sheltered by hills, some broken into cliffs, some rolling smoothly back, clothed in variously tinted undergrowth and fine old trees, the valley itself received a double charm from the contrast of cultivation. It was entirely cleared of trees and undergrowth, save where a clump of cool hemlocks, a grove of sugar maples, or a drooping elm gave it those features we so much admire in the country homes of old England. Whatever might be said of its architecture, it certainly had a most aristocratic appearance, and bore proofs in every line and curve of its stone traceries, both of fine taste and great wealth, inherited from generation to generation. Time itself would have failed to sweep these traces of family pride from the old house, for every generation had carved it deeper and deeper into the massive stone, and it was as much a portion of the scenery, as the stately old forest trees that sheltered it. But we have alluded to one who sat in a room of this old mansion, looking thoughtfully out upon the change that a single night had left upon the landscape. Her seat, a crimson easy-chair, stood near one of the broad bay windows we have mentioned. The sashes were folded back, and she looked dreamily out upon the river and the opposite shore. The whole view was bathed in a subdued glow of crimson and golden purple; for the sun was sinking behind the Palisades, and shot sheaf after sheaf of flashing arrows across the river, that melted into a soft glowing haze before they reached the apartment which she occupied. The room behind was full of shadows, and nothing but the light of a hickory-wood fire revealed the objects it contained. She was looking forth upon the sunset, and yet thinking of other countries and scenes long gone by. Her mind had seized upon the salient points In the centre of the valley was a swell of land slop-of a history full of experience, and she was swept away ing down to the river in full, grassy waves, which ended into the past. at the brink in a tiny cove overhung by a clump of golden willows. Crowning the swell of this elevation stood the old mansion commanding a fine view of the river, with a glimpse of the opposite shore, where the Weehawken hills begin to consolidate into the Palisades. A score of picturesque and pleasant little nooks were visible from the numerous windows, for it was an irregular old place, varying as much as an American house can vary in its style of architecture. The original idea had undoubtedly sprung from our Knickerbocker ancestors, for the gables were not only pointed, but notched down the steep edges after a semi-battlemented fashion, while No, she was not young, nor beautiful even. The flush of youth was gone for ever. Her features were thoughtful, almost severe, her form stately and mature. No, she was not beautiful. At her age that were impossible, and yet she was a woman to fix the attention at a glance, and keep herself in the memory for ever-a grand, noble woman, with honor and strength, and beautiful depths of character, apparent even in her thoughtful repose. But this woman shakes off the reverie that has held her so long in thrall, and looks up at the sound of a voice within the room, blushing guiltily like a young girl aroused from her first love thoughts. She casts time? aside the remembrance of black fruited olive groves | there, should have seized upon them both at the same and orange trees sheeted with snowy fragrance, and knows of a truth that she is at home surrounded by the gorgeous woods of America, in the clear chill air inhaled with the first breath of her life. "Did you speak, James?" She turned quietly and looked within the room. Near her, sitting with his elbows on a small table and his broad forehead buried in the palms of his hands, sat a man of an age and presence that might have befitted the husband of a woman, at once so gentle and so proud as the cne who spoke to him; for even in the light produced by the gleams of a dull fire and the dusky sunset, as they floated together around his easy-chair, you could see that he was a man of thought and power. The man looked up and, dropping his hands to the table with a sort of weariness, answered, as if to some person away off— "No, I did not speak-I never did speak!" It was a strange answer, and the lady's face grew anxious as she looked upon him. Certainly he had uttered some sound, or she would not have asked the question. She arose and moving across the room, leaned her elbow upon his chair, looking thoughtfully down in his face. He started, as if but that moment conscious of her presence, and arose probably to avoid the grave questioning of her look. "Of what were you thinking, James?" she said almost abruptly, for a superstitious thought forced the question to her lips almost against her will. "I was thinking," said the man, resting his head against the oak carvings of his chair, "I was thinking of a time when we were all in the south of Spain." "Of your mother's death?" inquired the lady in a low voice. "It was a mournful event to remember. What is there in this soft twilight to remind us both of the same thing, for I was thinking of that time also!" "Of my mother's death?" inquired the gentleman, lifting his eyes to her face suddenly, almost sternly. I was not thinking of that, but of my father's marriage." The lady did not speak, but her face grew pale, and over it swept a smile so vivid with surprise, so eloquent of mournfulness, that she seemed transfigured. Her hand dropped away from the chair, and walking back to the window she sat down, uttering a faint sigh, as if some slumbering pain had been sharpened into anguish by the few words that had been spoken. Twenty years had she lived in the house with James Harrington, and never before had the subject of her marriage with his father been mentioned between them, save as it arose in the discussion of household events. She arose again, pale and with a tremor of the limbs. The balmy air grew sickening to her his presence an oppression. For the first time she began to doubt if she were not an object of dislike to her husband's son. He saw her pass from the room without turning a glance that way, and followed her with a look of selfreproach. He felt pained and humiliated. After a silence of so many years, why had he dared to utter words to that woman-his step-mother-which could never be explained? Had all manhood forsaken him? Had he sunk to be a common-place carper in the household which she had invested with so much beautiful happiness? Stung with these thoughts he arose and sought the open air also. An old man sat in a room above the one just deserted by its inmates. He was watching the sunset also, with unusal interest, not because it brought back loving or sad memories, but with an admiration of the sense alone. With tastes cultivated to their extremest capacity, and a philosophy of happiness essentially material, this old man permitted no hour to pass by without gleaning some sensual enjoyment from it, that a less egotistical person might never have discovered. An epicure in all things, he had attained to a sort of self-worship, which would have been sublime if applied to the First Cause of all that is beautiful. His splendid person was held in reverence, not because it was made in the image of his God, but for the powers of enjoyment it possessed-for the symmetry it displayed, and the defiance which it had so long given to the inroads of age. As a whole and in detail, this old man was a selfworshipper. Like all idolaters he was blind to the defects of his earthly god, and if defects would force themselves, upon his notice the conviction only rendered him more urgent to extort homage from others. The room in which this old man sat, was a library fitted up expressly for himself. It was one of his peculiarities that his sources of enjoyment must be exclusive, in order to be valuable. He would not willingly have shared a single tint of that beautiful sunset with another, unless satisfied that the admiration thus excited would give zest to his own pleasurable sensations. Thus, with the selfishness of an epicure and the tastes of a savant, he surrounded himself with the most luxurious elegance. The book-cases of carved ebony that run along two sides of the apartment, were filled with rare books, accumulated during his travels, some of them worth their weight in gold. Doors of plate glass protected their antique and often gorgeous bindings, and medallions of rare bronzes were inlaid in the rich carvings of the cornices. Her marriage with his father, that was the subject of Over the mantle-piece of Egyptian marble, carved to his gloomy thoughts. Had she then failed to render a miracle of art, hung an original by Guido, one of him content in his home? Had she in anything fallen those ethereal pictures in which the figures seem to float short of those gentle duties he had received so grate-through the glowing atmosphere, borne onward only by fully from the mother that was gone? Why was it a gushing sense of their own happiness. that thoughts of Spain and of events that had transpired The French windows opposite were filled, like the book-cases, with plate-glass pure and limpid as water, | crimson drapery flowing in loose folds from its gilded and two bronze Bacchantes, thrown into attitudes of rods, and gave the whole room a tent-like seclusion. In riotous enjoyment, held back voluminous folds of crim- the rich twilight thus produced, the old man walked son brocade that enriched the light which fell through to and fro angrily and thoughtful. At last he took his them. A variety of chairs stood about, carved like hat and left the house. the book-cases, cushioned with crimson leather and embossed with gold. The ebony desk upon which the old man's elbow rested, as he looked forth upon the river, was scattered over with books and surmounted by a writing apparatus of malachite, whose mate could hardly have been found out of the imperial salons of Russia. Everything was in keeping, the luxurious room and the old man whose presence completed it. If the two persons we have just described seemed imposing in their moral grandeur, while they sat thoughtfully watching the sunset, this man with his keen, black eyes, his beard flowing downward in white waves from the chin and upper lip, which was curved exactly in the form of a bow, took from the material alone an interest almost as impressive. The old man saw his wife pass down in front of the house and descend toward the river. The black dress and scarlet shawl which she wore, rendered her a pic turesque object in the landscape, and as such the old man was admiring her. Directly after, his son followed, and another stately figure was added to the view; but his walk verged toward the hills, and he was soon lost among the trees. The old man was vexed at this derangement in his picture; but directly there came in sight a little boat, ploughing through the golden ripples cast downward by the sun, and half veiled in the glowing mists of the river. He watched the boat while it came dancing toward the shore, and smiled when his wife paused a moment on the bank, as if awaiting its approach. "She is right. A figure upon the shore completes the whole thing. One seldom sees a picture so perfect! Claude Lorraine !-why, his sunsets are leaden compared to this! Oh, she turns off and spoils the effect by throwing the willows between us! Why will women be so restless? Now a female caprice-nothing more has destroyed the most lovely effect I ever saw; just as I was drinking it in, too. But the boat is pretty-yes, yes, that enlivens the foreground-bravo! Capital, Ben, capital!-that stoop is just the thing; and the youngsters, how beautifully they group themselves! Hallo! upon my honor, if that young scamp is not making love to Lina! I don't pretend to know what the attitude of love-making is!" The old man fell back in his chair, and drew a hand over his eyes with a restless motion, muttering uneasily, "Ralph and Lina? upon my word, I have been blind as a bat. How far has the thing gone? Has Mabel encouraged it? Does she know? What hand can James have had in bringing this state of things about? These two children-why, the thing is preposterous!" The old man left his easy-chair, as these unpleasant conjectures forced themselves upon him, and, as if sickened by the landscape he had just been admiring, shut it out by a jerk of the hand, which brought the CHAPTER II. THE HILL SIDE ADVENTURE. RALPH HARRINGTON and Lina French had been out upon the river, since the shadow began to fall eastward upon its waters. The day had been so calm, and everything their eyes fell upon was so luxuriantly lovely, that they could not force themselves to come in doors, till the twilight overtook them. Old Ben-or rather our Ben, for he was not so very old, after all-who considered himself master of the little craft which he was mooring in the cove, had aided and abetted this truant disposition in the young people, after a fashion that Mr. Harrington might not have approved; and all that day there was a queer sort of smile upon his features, that meant more than a host of words would have conveyed in another person. Never, in his whole life, had Ben been so obliging in his management of the boat. If Lina took a fancy to a branch of golden rod, or a cluster of fringed gentian upon the shore, Ben would put in at the nearest convenient point, and sit half an hour together in the boat, with his arms folded over his oars, and his head bowed, as if fast asleep. Yet Ben Benson, according to my best knowledge and belief, was never more thoroughly awake than on that particular day. They were gliding dreamily along at the foot of the Weehawken hills, with their boat half full of fall flowers and branches, when Lina saw a tree so brilliantly red, that she insisted on climbing to the rock where it was rooted, in search of the leaves that were dropped sleepily from its boughs. Ben shot into a little inlet formed by two jutting rocks, and Ralph sprang ashore, holding out his hand for Lina, who scarcely touched it as she took her place by his side. "Now for a scramble !" exclaimed the youth, grasping Lina's hand tightly in his own; and away, like a pair of wild birds, the two young creatures darted up the hill. The rock, behind which the tree stood, was scattered over with leaves of a deep crimson, brightening to scarlet on the edges, and veined with a green so deep, that it seemed like black. Among the endless variety of leaves they had discovered, these were the most singular, and Lina gathered them up in handfuls only to scatter them abroad again when a more tempting waif caught her eye. "Wait a moment-wait, Ralph; ob, here is a whole drift of them; see how bright they look, quivering over the fleeces of moss that slope down the rocks. If I could but take the whole home, just as it is, for mamma!" Lina was stooping eagerly as she spoke. A quick, |