Well, this author, man or woman, as the case may be, is coming out with a new book! I am not authorized to give the name as yet, and it is to be most ardently hoped that when it does appear, that the writer will make himself or herself known to the public. There is a fade less wreath to crown the transcendant brow of genius. Now, as a personal friend, I have been admitted into the sanctum sanctorum of Biddlecome & Hazenburg, and the superlative privilege has been mine of reading the advance sheets of this magnificent novel. In this age of love and murder stories, when the public taste is continually nauseated with highfalutin poetry and bombastic prose, it is unspeakably refreshing to find something calm and pure and true to nature. And this novel is so true to life that, if possible, it is more perfect than nature herself. My friends, the celebrated Biddlecome & Hazenburg, have given permission for me to let you have a brief, delicious extract. I entreated for a longer one; in tears, almost on my knees, I besought for one chapter entire. But Biddlecome was as inexorable as a granite boulder, and Hazenburg, heartless autocrat that he is, laughed at my passionate petition. However, aside to you, reader, it is a piece of unprecedented good luck that you are to obtain this brief extract. It will put you on the tip-toe of expectation and keep you there until the book appears. Here is the extract. Isn't the scene of the rescue thrilling and sublime? no poverty of invention is displayed here, no grouping of common-place characters and events. And then the reconciliation of the lovers-but read: O, how pitifully changed was the peerlessly beautiful Celestina! her heart was completely crushed by the avalanche of woe hurled upon her from the frowning height of her cruel father's tyranny. His stern, relentless mandate was, never more to behold her adored Alphonzo Orlandino. "She wandered down by the river, which softly, sweetly, soothingly sighed, as it flowed through the silent vale. She called aloud the name of her beloved Alphonzo Orlandino!' but naught answered; not even a forest warbler twittered a musical reply to her plaintive call. "This awful thought pierced her soul and wrought her to frenzy. Perhaps he had deserted her-perhaps he believed her willingly obedient to her cruel father's commands. She might never behold him more! "She would die! She thought of the river for a resting-place for her broken heart, but shrank from disturbing its placid, pellucid waters. She recalled the heroic death of Cleopatra, but no venomous viper lurked in the velvet verdure beneath her fairy feet. O, how could she still this unendurable anguish, in the deep leep of death? Through that quiet valley there ran the track of the mighty steam engine, and in that desperate moment she heard his fierce and furious snorting, and then his shriek, like that of a fiend let loose from Pandemonium. as he rushed toward her, fleeter than the lightning. "How easy she might die! She could fing herself beneath the flying hoofs of the panting, palpitating iron horse, as the heathen victims fall before the car of Juggernaut. She stood upon the narrow track of death, but, O, in that awful moment, the rescuer was near! "Alphonzo Orlandino, while wandering disconsolately upon the brow of yonder hill, had heard the melting, mellow voice of her he loved, as she called his euphonious name, and on the wings of adoring love, he had flown to her side, just in time to save his heart's idol from death. He seized with one strong, supple, sinewy arm, the flying iron steed, and with the other, lifted the helpless, heart-broken maiden, unharmed, upon the dewy grass! "As though frantic and enraged at the instant's delay, groaning and puffing wildly, the engine sped on, while the restored lovers fell into each other's arms in extatic transports. Alphonzo Orlandino,' murmured the maiden, 'I wished to die, because I feared you loved me no longer-forgive me, O, forgive me!' "And Alphonzo Orlandino replied, 'By the brightness of yon cerulean vault above: by this flashing, flowing river; by the glory of the golden sun; by the immutability of my love, O, angelic Celestina, I forgive you!'"' TO CORRESPONDENTS. I wish to say a word to correspondents, on the subject of economy in paper. In these days of great scarcity and high prices of this article I would suggest to the writers for the Repository, to write on both sides of the sheet. It will save both paper and postage, and I am informed by the publishers, that in a monthly paper it is quite as well.--[ED. "There is no European language so rich in words that echo the sense and feeling, as the English." LOWELL. THE LADIES' REPOSITORY. APRIL, 1863. THE NAMELESS BABE. BY MINNIE S. DAVIS. In its rosewood cradle, upon downy pillows, beneath a silken spread, the baby lay sleeping. The baby of all babies to the idolizing parents. To them it was a miracle of infant graces, an ever increasing delight, a perennial fountain of joy. And truly it was a child of rare loveliness. Its limbs were perfectly moulded, and its features exquisitely delicate. It lay sleeping in an attitude at once graceful and full of repose. One tiny, curled up hand, like the petals of a flower, was placed beneath one rounded cheek, and the other, palm downward, was spread upon the innocent breast. Around the pearly, blue veined brow, soft tendrils of golden hair clustered; the parted rosebud of a mouth, through which the pure breath flowed noiselessly, disclosed one milk white tooth, and over the whole face was the soft reflection of a smile, as though baby's dreams were of pleasant things. The young mother glided into the nursery chamber, looped up the curtains and let in the light upon the luxury there, meet for the apartment of an infant princess. Then she turned to the cradle, and bent over the tiny sleeper. "How beautiful! how beautiful!" she murmured, clasping her hands as if in ad oration. One could see by looking upon the mother from whom baby inherited its loveliness. And now her face seemed transfigured with ecstatic love. Her azure eyes were wells of tenderness flowing out in streams of light upon her child. Her heart was throbbing with unutterable joy. She could have knelt, not in gratitude to the Giver of this treasure, but in blind homage to the child. 66 How beautiful!" and she pressed her lips upon baby's brow. That touch broke the light chain of slumber, and the baby suddenly opened a pair of wondering blue eyes; they had a half surprised, half inquiring look, such as only the little innocents wear when they are thus quickly brought from angel-land, (which they must visit in slumber,) to this world of The questioning blue eyes met the mother's smile, and gladly accepting it for heaven itself," baby smiled back again, softly, sweetly, tranquilly, the smile of perfect innocence and confidence. ours. 66 Mrs. Howard clasped her child in rapture to her bosom, baptising it with passionate kisses, and calling it every fond name in the mother's vocabulary. 66 Always in the nursery. O, what a foolish mother!" Mrs. Howard turned at the sound of her husband's voice, and as he advanced, held out the child, and imitating his half playful, half chiding tones, repeated, "Always in the nursery; 0, what a foolish fath er !" Mr. Howard took the child, crying, "Come, little blossom!" and little blossom leaped and cooed in her father's arms, and snatched at his watch-chain, and then thrust her fingers almost inextricably into his close, curling beard. Yes, of course, a hundred such names; but truly, now, Edwin, ought we not to decide upon a name? I dream about it almost every night, and puzzle my head continually, but can't find a name quite pretty enough for baby." "I'd like to call her Mary; that name sounds well to me," said Mr. Howard. Mrs. Howard smiled with heartfelt pleasure. She loved to hear her husband say, "Call the baby Mary;" still she could not quite consent. She wanted some rare, charining name for her child; something worthy of its matchless graces. The subject of a name was of daily occurrence, but weeks passed away and it was still an open question, "What shall we name the baby?" Mrs. Howard devoted herself exclusively to her child; it seemed to absorb every thought and energy of her mind, and she was easy and happy only in its presence. The intensity of her affection was such that i became almost morbid in its nature. Her husband urged her to leave it at times to the care of its excellent nurse, and seek rest and pleasure abroad, but she invariably assured him that her rest and pleasure was at home. Her mother and sisters, all proud, fashionable women, remonstrated and chided in vain. They wanted to see Mary shine in society as a lady of her wealth and position might easily do. er. But no one understood the young mothIn her childhood's home, while her body had surfeited in luxury, her heart had starved. Her worldly mother had no time to cultivate the acquaintance of the little girl, and her dashing sisters, seeing she was unlike them, snubbed her as an odd little thing." The "odd, little thing," the shy, shrinking maiden, grew up a beautiful woman and early won the love of Edwin Howard, a rich bachelor, whom the dashing sisters had vainly tilted at year after year in Love's mock tournament, Even when the indulged wife of him she loved, and the mistress of a lordly up-town mansion, Mary's exacting heart was not quite satisfied. She asked for a great deal. Her husband was fond when at home, but he was a business man, and had little time for the society of her who loved him for himself alone. A heavenly gift was granted to the young wife's yearning heart; a babe slept in her bosom. She found herself the object of redoubled tenderness on the part of her husband, and a sweet, ineffable gladness inantled her soul. She was a mother! there was nothing to repress the outgushings of love now-no sensitive fear of repulse; but a thousand springs of joy and tenderness, unsealed by the wand of this baby enchantress, sprang forth to the light, sparkling and musical, as chained fountains sleeping in the bosom of mother earth, leap upward in the sunshine, wildly gushing and gurgling, as if for very joy that winter's icy spell has passed. She was a mother; every other love was dwarfed beside this new and blissful relationship; every old tie seemed weak compared to the silken cords which bound the child among her heart strings. She was a mother only a mother, with every thought and feeling subordinate to this one consideration; a mother, pouring out her whole soul upon her child, with no higher love reserved for God, and loving her hus band and friends as it were, in the child. Mrs. Howard's health was delicate-her husband saw that the intensity of her motherly devotion wore upon her frail constitution, and strove to win her out into the gay world. But his efforts were fruitless, for the young mother's world was centred in the immortal bud expanding in beauty in her home. She had but vague ideas of her duties, in forming the mind and heart of her child, and contented her self in the love and delight she experienc ed in its presence. She had been so fortunate as to obtain an intelligent American woman for a nurse. Mrs. Simmons had hal the experience of years and the discipline of trial and sorrow. She had a pleasing, serious countenance, a low, and gentle voice, and manners that would have well become one in a higher position in life. Mrs. Howard greatly respected this woman, and as she became more acquainted with her, grew to regard her in the light of a friend instead of a servant, They were not unprofitable hours which she spent in the nursery, alternately prattling to her babe, and chatting with the nurse. Mrs. Simmons had a deeper insight into human life, higher motives, and larger sympathies than the vain, fashionable women, Mrs. Howard had hitherto called friends. She felt her superiority to the shallowbrained triflers flitting in pleasure's bower, and took greater pleasure in her society than she would have been willing to acknowledge to another. Mrs. Simmons was a Christian, and through tears she had learned to discern the bow of promise; in the darkness of sorrow she had found her Father's supporting arm, and Faith had comforted her heart, only after despair had been fairly expelled. Sometimes, very gently and modestly as became her position, she would speak of spiritual things and Christian obligations. But Mary could not or would not understand her. The young mother's love, so absorbing, so idolatrous in its manifestation, needed to be refined of its selfishness and exclusiveness; not that she should love her child the less, but the Infinite Father more; and that holy, filial affection coming in to take the rule of her heart, would have purified and ennobled the mother within her. One day the precious baby was pale and its blue eyes were heavy. How quickly Mary Howard observed the change in her darling. "Nurse, the baby is pale to-day; is she sick?" "A slight cold affects her, but I think she is not really ill," was the nurse's reply. "Ah! but she droops and I am frightened! What should I do should harm Yes," continued the nurse, came from heaven, she is pure as the dwellers there, and heaven is her native home." A troubled, frightened look swept over Mary's face, like a cloud across the sunny sky. She strained her baby tighter to her breast, and cried out reproachfully, “Why do you remind me of that? I tremble at the thought; no, no, here is my darling's home, in my loving arms ! "Its home while God is willing, but you know she is his gift and at his disposal." "I know it, but try to forget it, for such thoughts remind me that He may recall his gift. No, no, my bird; here is your nest on mother's bosom. Oh, never, never fly from here!" Tears trembled in Mary's eyes, and the baby, laughing, reached up and caught them in her lily fingers. "Dear madam," said Mrs. Simmons, "it is the greatest comfort I can feel to believe that God holds all things at his pleasure, for his pleasure is to do his chil dren good." But the lady shook her head and waiyed the subject with a smile. Mrs. Sim mons sighed only and took up her sewing with a sober mien. "Ah, poor heart,' she thought, "how can she bear the sorrows that may come! dear God, lead her gently, very gently, until she finds thee!" One day baby had a guest; a noble boy a few weeks older than herself. They sat upon the carpet surrounded with playthings, but they seemed most interested with looking at each other, and cooing and gooing in chorus. Some unobservant people persist in say ing that all babies look about alike. They are capable of seeing that some are dark and some are fair, that this one is pretty, and that one not so; but, on the whole, to them, a baby is an expressionless lump of humanity, destined to be something or nothing as the case may be. Now I know that babies don't look alike, and furthermore believe that points of resemblance may be greater when time and contact with the world has moulded them into men and women. Mrs. Simmons was watching the infants with a smile of great satisfaction. Truly they were a beautiful sight. But the baby girl looked too fragile, like a spring flower or a stainless snow flake. Her blue eyes reminded one of heaven, so serene, so unfathomable was their expression, as though she looked upon things beyond mortal ken. If the girl was angelic, the boy was pure earthly, and of the noblest type of humanity. His fine head betokened a future character of intellectual force; no weak, poor spirit looked through those dark, beaming eyes, and the straight nose and proudly curved mouth, now quivering with laughter, each told a tale of them selves. He was plainly dressed in white cambric, with corals on his neck and arms, so plump and fair. Mrs. Simmons heard the step of Mrs. Howard on the stairs and started in trepidation. She had not expected her return from a morning ride for another hour. The door opened. "How is my bird?" cried a clear, gushing voice. And birdie plumed and fluttered as though to take flight to her mother's arms. "O, who is this?" and Mrs. Howard stopped in surprise. "Whose babe have you here, nurse? He is a splendid fellow, isn't he? what beautiful eyes!" and she knelt before the children, looking admiringly from one to the other. Who is he, nurse? 66 Mrs. Simmons had risen to her feet in evident agitation, and she replied, confusedly, "He is nameless." Like my own precious baby?" asked Mrs. Howard; "can't they find a name good enough?" "O, no, not like yours, madam; yours has the good name of Howard, and there is no name sweet enough to go with it for such a child, but this poor child is homeless and nameless." Puzzled and displeased, Mary Howard snatched up her child as if from some contamination. "What do you mean?" she demanded; "why do you bring such a child here? and what is he to you?" 66 Wounded and humbled, Mrs. Simmons stooped and took the boy in her arms, saying, He is nameless, but innocent." Please explain this mystery," said Mrs Howard, more gently, yet still maintaining an air of dignity. 66 The nurse looked down in thought a moment, then stroking the boy's curly head, began her explanation. This is the child of my dear cousin Emily; we were like sisters to each other when we were girls. We were married about the same time; I, to a poor shoemaker, she, to a wealthy manufacturer. My husband died, but hers lived and grew richer and prouder. Emily was an invalid much of the time and I lived with her and took care of the children. Of course I was only a poor relation and not worthy of much attention on the part of my cousin's husband; the two boys grew rude and unmannerly to me, and even Emily was changed at times, but I bore much for the sake of the little girl. O, I loved Anna better than any other human being! I took her right into my sad, lonely heart; poor, dear Anna!" "Well," said Mrs. Howard, inquiringly, and with a touch of impatience. "This baby is hers-my dear Anna's, and I love it for her sake. Cousin Emily died when Anna was about ten years old and I was no longer needed in that home. I came to this town my native place, and earned a good living by sewing. I never thought to go out to service again. I seldom heard from Emily's children for seven or eight years, but at last I learned that Anna was married to a travelling artist, and had gone to Europe. Her father and brothers had bitterly op posed the marriage and had declared that she should be a stranger to them henceforth. One stormy night a woman with a child begged at my door; I asked a few |