Chapter 11

While Susan was thus left alone for a little season, she employed herself in writing the following letter to her mother--

"My Dear Mother: I have been so long without any one to speak to (you know what I mean), that I must write you, though I hope to reach home almost as soon as this letter. I am treated in the kindest manner possible. My uncle, I think, really loves me, and I certainly love him very much. His wife is a splendid woman. She was once, I doubt not, very beautiful, and she looks exceedingly well now when she is dressed. She is very polite to me. I am, I believe, a welcome visitor; and she desires me to stay longer than I engaged to when I left home. I have not been out much, except with my uncle to see the curiosities with which the city abounds. I have seen but few of my aunt's friends. In truth, I suppose I have pleased her not a little by not wishing to be seen. I am from the country, you know; though she thinks I am making rapid progress in civilization. I judge so from the commendation she bestows upon my attempts to avoid singularity. I remember you used to commend me when I made successful efforts to govern my temper: aunt commends me for the manner in which I govern my limbs, or rather when they happen to move to please her without being governed. Last evening (I had not seen uncle since the day before at dinner), I was glad to find him in the parlor as I entered it. Aunt said to me, 'If you could enter the parlor in that way when company is present, you would make quite a sensation.' I can hardly help laughing to think what a matter of importance so simple a thing as putting one foot before the other becomes in the city. I suppose, if I were to live here, I should learn to sleep, and even to breathe, by rule. I was going to say to think by rule; but thinking is not in fashion. So far as I can learn, the thinking done here is confined to thinking of what others think about them. Aunt was originally taught to do everything by rule. Custom has become with her a second nature. Her manners are called fascinating; but to me they are formal and chilling. I suppose they are perfectly well suited to those who desire only the fascinating. You have taught me to desire something more.

"I find myself deficient in the easy command of language which seems so natural here. I have been astonished to find what an easy flow of polished and tolerably correct language is possessed by some with whom language might rather be regarded as the substitute for, than the instrument of, thought. It must be owing to practice; though it is a mystery, to me how persons can talk so smoothly, and even so beautifully, without ideas.

"I have seen a great many new things. I will tell you all about them when I get home. I long for that time to come, though it be only two days off. Every one has so much to do here, or rather in in such a hurry, that, were it not for my uncle's mercantile habit of keeping his word, I should not expect to see home at the appointed time.

"I am glad I came, for many reasons. I did not know so well before how little the external has to do with happiness. As persons pass by and look through the plate glass upon the silk damask curtains, they doubtless think the owner of that mansion must be very happy. Now I believe my dear father is far more happy than my uncle. I do not believe that my uncle's magnificent parlors (I use strong language; but I believe they are regarded as magnificent by those who are accustomed to frequent the most richly furnished houses) have ever been the scene of so much happiness as our own plain _keeping-room_ has. I would not exchange our straight-backed chairs, which have been so long in the _home-service_, for the costly and luxurious ones before me, if the _adjuncts_ were to be exchanged also. I long to sit down in the old room and read or converse with my parents, by the light of a single candle. I prefer that homely light to the cut-glass chandelier which illuminates the parlors here. I love to see beautiful things, and should have no objection to possessing them, provided the things necessary to happiness could be added to them. Of themselves, they are insufficient to meet the wants of the heart. Instead of being discontented with my plain home, I shall prize it the more highly in consequence of my visit to this great Babel. Do not think I am ungrateful to my dear uncle and to his wife for their efforts to amuse me and make me happy. I should not be your daughter if I were.

"Aunt has just come in, and has sent for me to her room. Kiss my dear father for me, and pray for me that I may be restored to you in safety.

"Your affectionate daughter,

"SUSAN."

(To be continued.)

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SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN!

BY MISS E. BOGART.

Sing me that song again! A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain; And as its echoes on my fancy break, _Heart-strings_ and _harp-chords_ wake.

Sing to my viewless lyre! Each note holds mem'ries as the flint holds fire; And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play, Thought travels far away.

And back, on laden wings, The music of my better life it brings; For years of happiness, departed long, Are shrined in that old song.

Its cadence on my ear Falls as the night falls in the moonlight clear-- The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams, As I am lost in dreams.

Sing on, nor yet unbind The chain that weaves itself about my mind-- A chain of images which seem to rise To life before my eyes.

The veil which hangs around The past is lifted by the breath of sound, As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show The hidden things below.

I listen to thy voice, Impelled beyond the power of will or choice, And to those simple notes' mysterious chime, My rushing thoughts keep time

The key of harmony Has turned the rusted lock of memory, And opened all its secret stores to light, As by some wizard sprite.

But now the charm is past, My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last, And harp-chords, stretched too far, refuse to play Longer an answering lay.

The music-spell is o'er! And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore It is so old, 'tis time that it should die! Forget it--so will I.

Let it in silence rest; Guarded by thoughts which may not be expressed There was a love which clung to it of old-- _That_ love has long been cold.

Then sing it not again! The voice that seemed to echo back the strain Has filled succeeding years with discords strange And won my heart to change

And thou mayst surely cull Songs new and sweet, and still more beautiful: Sing _new_ ones, then, to which no memories cling-- _Most_ memories have their sting.

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COSTUMES OF ALL NATIONS.--SECOND SERIES.

THE TOILETTE IN ENGLAND.