than the first, rattled upon the glass. Sophie turned him from entering the chamber, which he attempted, paler than before. "I pray you remain," she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower tone, "and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our countryBordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity of France? And now," added she, "the excitement I have undergone-this fire, which is so warm-you will excuse me, if I step to the window a moment for fresh air." So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the curtains fall before her. "Stop!" she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining and handing him the rouleau of louis-d'ors-the price of her first book-"take this, and begone quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!" Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver covered with glasses, and bottles of wine. "At last we shall have a piano, Sophie," said she, turning toward her mistress to drink. "Not yet, my good Marianne," replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which contradicted her reply. BARBARA UTTMAN'S DREAM. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. In the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up among the cognize in her a gentle and loving companion. All Erzberges or Copper Mountains of Saxony, there the children of the hamlet loved her, and it was wondwelt, once upon a time, a gentle child named Bar-derful to see the little shy birds hopping about her bara. She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such feet to pick the crumbs which she always scattered long golden curls, and withal wearing a look of such for them in her wanderings. exceeding sweetness, that the people of the hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, called her by a name that signified the "Lily of the Mines." Barbara was an orphan, a little lone creature, whom no one claimed, but whom every body loved. Her father had been a delver into the depths of the earth, and when she was only a tiny little baby, he had kissed her round cheek, and gone to his daily labor at early dawn; but ere the shadows of the dark trees fell toward the eastern slope of the hills, he was brought home mangled and lifeless. The "firedamp" had seized him and his companions; or, as the simple peasants believed, the demon of the mine had arisen in his might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of his treasure-house. Barbara's mother did not long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined away, with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning a kind neighbor found the child sleeping calmly on the cold bosom of her dead mother. But Barbara was not a merry, light-hearted maiden. Cheerful she was and gentle, but not gay, for a cloud had fallen upon her earliest years, and a shadow from Death's wing had thrown a gloom over her infant life, darkening those days which should have been all sunshine. True, she had found friends to shield her from want, but never did she see a child nestling upon its mother's bosom, without feeling a mournful loneliness of heart. Therefore it was that she loved to steal away to the green foldings of the hills, and hold companionship with the pleasant things of earth, where, in the quietude of her own pure nature, she could commune with herself. She had early learned to think of her mother as an angel in heaven, and, when she looked up to the blue sky, gorgeous in its drapery of gold and purple clouds, or shining with its uncounted multitude of stars, she never forgot that she was gazing upon the outer gates of that glorious home, where dwelt her long lost parents. Yet she was not an idle or listless dreamer in a world where all have their mission to fulfill, and where none are so desolate as to have no duties to perform. She learned all the book-lore that the good pastor chose to impart to the little maidens of the hamlet, and no hand was more skillful than hers with the knitting-needle and distaff. Thus she grew up, delicate and fair, with eyes as blue as summer skies, and long golden locks, hanging almost to her feet, for she was as tiny as a fairy in stature. From that moment the little Barbara became the nursling of the whole hamlet. The good women of the village remembered that she had been born on a Sunday morning, and according to their tender and beautiful faith, the "Sabbath-child” had received a peculiar blessing, which was shared, in some degree, by all who ministered to her wants. So Barbara was the foster-child of many mothers, and found heartkindred in every cottage. But chiefly did she dwell, after she had grown beyond the swaddling-bands of infancy, in the house of the good Gottlieb, the pastor There came sometimes to the cottage of Father of this little mountain flock of Christians. Barbara Gottlieb, a dark-browed man, whose towering form grew up a gentle quiet child, rarely mingling in the and heavily-built limbs gave him the semblance of noisy sports of the villagers, and loving nothing so some giant of the hills. His voice was loud and as well as to steal away to some forest nook, where clear as a trumpet-call, and his step was bold and she would sit for hours looking out upon the rugged firm, like that of a true-born mountaineer. He was face of nature, and weaving dreams, whose web, the owner of vast tracts in the mine districts, and like that of the wood-spider, was broken by a breath. stores of untold wealth lay hidden for him in earth's Some said "little Barbara is moping for the lack deep caverns. Herr Uttman was stern of visage, and of kindred." Others said more truly "Nay, is she bold-it may be rough—in his bearing, but his heart not a blessed Sabbath-child? It may be that the was as gentle as a woman's. He loved to sit at Gottspirit of her dead mother is with her in the lonely leib's board, and, while partaking of his simple fare, places where she loves to abide; hinder her not, to drink in the wisdom which the good pastor had therefore, lest ye break the unseen bond between the learned in far-off lands. The wonders of Nature— living and the dead." So Barbara was left to the the mystic combinations that are ever going on in guidance of her own sweet will, and long ere she her subterranean laboratory-the secret virtues, or had grown beyond childhood she was familiar with the equally secret venom, which is found in her humall the varied aspects of nature in the wild and beau- blest plants-the slow but unfailing process of her tiful country of her birth. It seemed as if some holy developments, by which the small and worthless charm had indeed been bestowed on the little orphaned acorn grows into the towering oak, and the winged Sabbath-child, for every living thing seemed to re-seed lifts its broad pinions in the new form of leafy branches toward the skies-all these things Herr Uttman loved to learn from the lips of the wise old man. Therefore did he seek the pastor's cottage whenever he had leisure to listen to his teachings. Uttman's kindly heart had early warmed toward the orphan child of Gottlieb's adoption. He won her infantine love by telling her wild tales of the dark mines, and the fantastic spirits of the nether world. He had tales of the Fire-Demon, and the Water-Dragon, of the Mocking-Imp, who led poor miners to their destruction, by mimicking the voice of a companion, and of the dazzling Cavern-Queen, the flash of whose diamond crown, and the gleam of whose brighter eyes, lured the poor workman to a frightful death. To sit on his knee, twining her small fingers in the black curls which fell unshorn upon his shoulders to look in his great dark eyes as they gleamed with the enthusiasm of that half-poetic nature which is the inheritance of a high-hearted mountaineer-to feel herself nestling like a dove on his broad breast, and clinging to him half in terror, half in delight, as his strong words brought all those fearful shapes vividly before her eyes-these had been Barbara's pleasures when a little child. But Barbara could not always remain the petted child, and the time came when the budding maiden sat on a stool at Uttman's feet, and no longer leaned her head upon his bosom while she listened to his wild legends. At first Herr Uttman was troubled at the change in Barbara's manner, then he pondered over its meaning, and at last he seemed to awaken to a new perception of happiness. So he asked Barbara to be his wife, and though his years doubly numbered hers, she knew that she loved no one half so well, and, with the affection which a child might feel for a tender parent, she gave him the troth-pledge of her maiden faith. Nor was Barbara mistaken in her recognition of his real nature. A rough and stern man did he seem to many, but his heart was full of kindness, and his affections, though repressed and silent, yet, like a mountain stream, made for themselves only a deeper channel. He had an abiding love for Nature. He defaced not her fair bosom with the scars of the plough or the pick-axe, but following the course of the dark ravine, and entering into the yawning chasm, he opened his way into earth's treasure-house, leaving the trees to tower from the mountain's brow, the streams to leap down their rocky beds, and the green sward to stretch down the sunny slopes. Barbara was as a dove nestling in the branches of a stately tree. No wonder her husband worshiped her, for his affections were like a full, deep stream rushing through a mine, and she was like the star, which, even at noonday, may be seen reflected in its depths. She was the angel of his life, the bright and beautiful spirit of truth and love within his household. Years passed on and Barbara had but one ungratified hope within her heart. God had given her no children, and the tenderness of her nature found no vent save in her kindly charities. To the poor, and needy, and sorrowful, she was the friend and benefactress, but her heart sometimes thrilled with a vain Scarcely had she closed her eyes in slumber, when her couch was visited by a wild and wonderful dream. She dreamed she was standing within the porch, when a lady clad in shining raiment, emerged from the foldings of the hills and slowly approached her. The lady's face was hidden beneath a snowwhite veil of some transparent fabric, which though it seemed as translucent as water, yet, like water, gave an indistinctness to the object seen through it. But when the strange visitant spoke, her voice thrilled through Barbara's inmost heart, for it was the spirit-voice which she had so often heard in her childhood-the voice of her dead mother. It seemed to Barbara that the lady stood close beside her, and then, without fear Barbara laid her head on the stranger's bosom and clasped her arms around her tall form, while she rather felt than heard these words: "Daughter lift up thine eyes, and behold the children which the Lord hath given unto thee." Barbara raised her head and beheld a train of young maidens clad in the simple costume of the Saxon peasant, and linked together as it seemed by webs of the same transparent texture as that which veiled the lady's face. Slowly they passed before her wondering eyes, fading into thin air as they became lost in the distance, but still succeeded by others, similarly clad and holding webs of the same delicate fabric, until Barbara's brain grew giddy as the troop swept on and on unceasingly. Weary with gazing she closed her eyes, and when she re-opened them the maidens had vanished; only the strange lady in her shining garments was beside her, and she heard a low, silvery voice saying: "They who are called to fulfill a mission among nations must find their sons and their daughters beneath the roof-tree of the poor and the oppressed. Childless art thou, Barbara, yet the maidens of Saxony through yet uncounted ages shall call thee mother." Barbara awoke from her dream, but so strongly was it impressed upon her memory, that she could not banish it from her thoughts for many days. But it had done its work upon her gentle spirit, for from that hour she felt that Heaven had some recompense in store for her, and though utterly unable to interpret her vision, she endeavored by redoubling her charities to find for herself children among the needy and sorrowful. But year after year fleeted on, and the Herr Uttman's coal-black locks had become almost silverwhite, while Barbara's cheek had lost nothing of its smoothness, and her golden locks, though gathered beneath a matron's coif, were still as glossy and sunny as in her girlhood. (For time seemed to have spared her gentle beauty, as if in reverence for the gentle spirit which it had so long clothed in a fitting BARBARA UTTMAN'S DREAM. 45 garb.) She had long since forgotten her youthful re- | the roof, tinted the woven tracery with all the hues pinings, for from every cottage in the hamlet had of the rainbow. blessings gone up to heaven upon her who was the friend of the friendless, and, though her dream was still vivid in her remembrance, she fancied that she had already attained its fulfillment in the gratitude of the poor. "Come with me, sweet wife, and I will show thee a new wonder in the mines," said the good Herr Uttman, one summer's morning. Barbara looked up with a pleasant smile: "Have I not threaded with thee all the mazes of the dark mountains, and gathered the glittering spar, the many-tinted stone, and the rough gem? Are there yet more marvels in thy dark domain?" "Nay, don thy wimple and hood, and thou shalt see." So Barbara went forth with her husband, and he led her to the yawning mouth of a dark cavern in the mountains. Carefully enfolding her in a thick cloak, to protect her from the jagged points of the rocks, he took her in his arms, (for he had lost none of his gigantic strength,) and bore her like a child, into the cavern. For a time they wended their way in what seemed to her total darkness, and she was only conscious of being carried along winding passages, where she felt the spray of a subterranean torrent, and heard the dash of its waters in some unfathomed chasm. At length her husband, setting her feet upon a broad ledge of rock, lifted the cloak from her face and bade her look upon the scene before her. Barbara found herself at the entrance of a long gallery in the mine, in the roof of which an aperture had been made up to the outer surface of the mountain, and through which a flood of sunshine was pouring down into what seemed a glittering corridor, hung with festoons of the most exquisitely wrought tapestry. Never had Barbara beheld any thing so fantastically beautiful. The sides of the shaft were covered with a half transparent fabric, enwrought with patterns like rich embroidery, through which the gleam of the metal shone like gold, as the sunbeam danced into the cavern depths. It was a gallery in the mine, which years before had been closed up and forgotten. The workmen, while digging an air-shaft, had struck into the disused chamber. Cut in the solid ore, the pillars which supported its roof were carved into grotesque shapes, as the whim of the old miners had directed the stroke of their tools. During the years that it had been closed, the spiders had taken possession of its walls, and their webs, spun over and over again, for more than half a century, had produced a tapestry richer in design, and more airy in fabric than ever came from the looms of Ispahan. It needed but little stretch of imagination to behold the vine with its tiny tendrils and drooping fruit, the rose with its buds and leaves, the fantastic arabesque border, and the quaint devices of ancient emblazoning in that many-tissued yet translucent web. No where else could the same humble material have worn the same magical beauty, for the mingled colors of the ore which formed the walls, and the golden sunshine pouring in through Barbara stood entranced before this strange spectacle, but while she gazed, dim and vague recollections came thronging upon her mind. At length all was clear to her. In the webs which adorned the walls of the mine, she recognized the beautiful drapery which had veiled the face of her dream-visitant, and had linked fogether the band of dream-children in former years. A cry of wild surprise broke from her lips, and from that moment she felt that there was a mysterious connection between her fate and this haunted chamber of the mine. Now when Barbara returned to her home, and sat down amid her work women, she told of this wondrous fabric woven by the little fairy spinners in the mine. It happened that among the pensioners of her bounty was numbered a certain woman from Brabrant who had been driven from her home by the cruelties practiced by the Duke of Alva in the Low Countries. In her own country she had learned to weave a coarse kind of lace, and when she heard her lady describe the delicate texture of the spiders' webs, she drew forth some flaxen threads, and wove them into meshes resembling somewhat the drapery which Barbara had so admired. This was all that was wanting to give purpose and definiteness to Barbara's vague fancies. They who look with most pleasure on a finished work, are oft-times most easily wearied with tracing the slow footsteps of the patient laborer. The reader would tire of this faithful chronicle if called to watch the gradual progress of Barbara Uttman's schemes of wide spread good. By unwearied toil she made herself acquainted with the means of perfecting the new manufacture, which offered to her prophetic spirit a means of livelihood to the feebler portion of the poor. Going on from one improvement to another, she finally invented the cushion, the bobbins, and the pins, by which hand-woven lace is wrought with such perfect symmetry and regularity of fabric and design as make it, even now, the costliest of all the trappings of wealth. Then-when the invention was perfected-by offering premiums to those who would engage in the work, by establishing manufactories in her own domain, by precept and example, and all the varied means of influence which wealth and virtue had placed within her power, she established the weaving of lace as the especial employment of the women of Saxony. Thousands of maidens have found their sole support in this employment, and for nearly three hundred years the name of Barbara Uttman has been revered as the "mother" of many daughters, and the benefactress of the women of more than one nation in Europe. of hand-woven lace. With the far-seeing spirit of true philanthropy a woman thus solved for her country the problem which statesmen yet cavil over, and by affording the poor a means of humble independence, rescued the females of her own land from want and destitution. Yet how few of those who deck themselves with lace, only less costly than diamonds, have ever heard the name of Barbara Uttman! years, gave her the first idea of that beautiful fabric, | annually obtain their support from the manufacture which, under the various names of Mechlen, Valenciennes, and Brussels lace, makes the choicest of all additions to a lady's toilet. It is said that since her establishment of its manufacture in 1560, upwards of a million of women are supposed to have obtained a comfortable livelihood by this species of employment. Notwithstanding the general introduction of a much inferior kind of lace, which is woven by machinery, at least twenty thousand women in Europe, SUNSET UPON "THE STEINE-KILL. BY KATE DASHWOOD. [The Steine-Kill is one of the sparkling tributaries of our The gold-encrimsoned clouds melts into even. Ay, giant-clouds-from out the vestibule Of Heaven's vast, dark'ning dome, what mighty train A gorgeous couch!-rest captive conqueror ! American Rhine, the Hudson, and signifies "Stony River."] The deep-toned roar of Heaven's artillery! The shattered hosts rush fiercely to the fray! Yawns to receive them-for the darkness shrouds Thus, change the scenes of thy great drama, Life! Of restless energies, warring with the strife *It is known that the "hud-hud," or lap-wing, possesses the instinct to discover subterranean springs. |