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given by us to some New-Yorkers, who brought us letters. I made unusual efforts to procure fresh cream, and had succeeded so well, that dishes with ladles stood at the head, foot, and centre of the table; enough indeed for a housekeeper's measure, which is, to make every one help freely, without looking round to see how far a thing will go. My sensitiveness was perfectly satisfied with the display, as I saw the thick white volumes poured over the rich red raspberries and strawberries, but as quickly I detected a change in my guests; here a half look of disgust, there a glance of concern, in one quarter unusual eloquence, in another unusual taciturnity. Every one knows that the lady of the house is the last person to taste at table of her own delicacies, and so confident was I in the perfection of the cream, that I would have volunteered to stand in Hebe's place with it, as cupbearer to the gods. Edward's turn came before mine. “Bless my soul, my dear,” said he, with a wry face, “what is the matter with the cream ?”
I dipped my spoon in the compound which has furnished the poet with so exquisite an illustration of beauty,
“ Her lips looked like strawberries smothered in cream."
“When fondly thinking to allay
Or, to be less Miltonían, I tasted, and would wil. lingly have thrown from my mouth a nauseous mixture of salted cream.
Lyddy, who, as is not unfrequently the case, had doffed her cook’s habit and acted as waiting-woman, perceived, in helpless ignorance of wrong, the consternation that prevailed. I had tact enough to know that to question her would be worse than useless; but Edward, forgetting her deafness, asked her, as she stood near him, s what was the matter with the cream ?"
" Very sweet and fresh, sir,” said she, in the guttural tone peculiar to very deaf people;“ kept down the cellar all the forenoon."
This malapropos answer came in very well, and turned mortification to mirth, which was increased when Edward said, in a louder tone,
“But, Lyddy, what have you done to the cream ?" and she answered,
“Yes, sir, very fresh; Miss Hatch was spoke to aforehand for the best, and I thought I would salt it to presarve it, as Miss Packard telld me.”
This grave answer let loose the flood-gates of wit and laughter, and we finished our dessert with attic salt, as a substitute for poor Lyddy's mistaken mixture.
But while I thus detail circumstances which, if taken by the housekeeper in a right spirit, produce at worst but a passing shade over the brightness of her régime, let me stop a moment to pay a tribute to Lydia's unpretending virtus. Happy shall we be if, like her, we only mistake our duty. Through her long days of toil, her onward course was calm and steady, unruffled by passion, studious to please, contemplative
and prayerful. Her study was to serve God and her fellow-creatures. Peace to thy memory, my humble friend! When the lords of this world are summoned to the test of a high tribunal, will they not envy thee?
THE HELPLESS BRIDE.
For the maist thrifty man could never get
In short, 'twas his fate, sir,
Goldsmith's Retaliation. A LETTER which I have recently received seems so appropriate to my recollections, that I hope I shall be excused for presenting it in these details. Its writer, Emily Lawrence, seemed never made for a coarser implement than a No. 12 needle. Before her marriage she breathed the very atmosphere of indulgence, the acquisition of various accomplishments being the only discipline she was called to endure. Her hands were white and soft as infancy, her step untroubled and elastic, her spirits joyous and gentle, her smile delicate as moonlight; she was