TO STAND GODFATHER. THERE are everywhere social customs which may be regarded as so many snares laid for the incautious inhabitant or the ignorant foreigner; but no country is so rich in this respect as la belle France. Having been lately the victim of one of these traditional traps, I will describe it here, in order to warn others against it. Being a bachelor of a certain age, I occupied a snug little apartment on the third floor of a nice house or hôtel, as the concierge used to call it, in the Faubourg St. Honoré. The first floor, a very splendid suite of rooms, was occupied by M. and Madame de Poupart, an interesting young couple, whose acquaintance I had the honor of making through a common female friend, Madame de Grandville. Having once or twice dined at their table, madame was thereupon kind enough to bestow on me the agreeable title of an ami de la maison; and I was at the time rather proud of this circumstance, little thinking how much the distinction would cost me. One evening I was comfortably seated in my fauteuil à la Voltaire, perusing one of those papers which are read with as little attention as they are written by the journalists themselves, and which Lamartine has described as cet écho du matin que le soir on oublie, when the bell rang at my door. On opening, I recognized my first-floor neighbor, the amiable M. de Poupart; and after the usual salutations, the following conversation took place between us : "Excuse me, sir," said M. de Poupart, "for interrupting you at so late an hour; and an apology is the more necessary, because I am about to commit an indiscretion." "I am glad to hear it," said I; "for I was afraid at first some misfortune might have happened to madame." "Oh, no, thank you; she is as well as can be expected in her situation; for I have come to say that since the afternoon I have had the good fortune to become the father of a most beautiful baby-a chubby, rosy little fellow." "I am glad to hear it: pray accept for both madame and you my best congratulations and most sincere good wishes." "A thousand thanks," said my obliging neighbor; "and in connection with that happy event, I have just something very trifling to ask of you. My good wife, as you must be aware, is a little inclined to superstition, and the convent education she received has not done much toward lessening that disposition. You may imagine with what anxiety she pondered over the future destinies of our expected first-born, and touching them she consulted a famous somnambulist, who predicted that the baby would be very fortunate if it had a happy godfather. We have been on the lookout ever since among our friends and acquaintances for the most prosperous. But this is difficult: one has too many children; another none at all; a third has a cross wife; a fourth has speculated in the funds; in short, there is not one in the whole circle who would exclaim, with Candide's metaphysical pedagogue, that all is for the best in this best of worlds. At length it struck Madame Poupart that you are a true child of fortune-a thoroughly lucky man."-I acknowledged the compliment by bowing in silence."Yes, you-a bachelor, without cares or anxieties of any kind, enjoying good health and a fine independence you stand in the very sunshine of fortune; and, therefore, I ask you, in my own name and that of my wife, to stand godfather to our child." At first I declined politely, thinking the request a little curious; but M. de Poupart called it a trifle-although he should feel much obliged; and there is always something so touching even in maternal weakness and superstition, that I assented at last. As Roman Catholics are accustomed to baptize their children as soon as possible, the ceremony was fixed for the next day but one, and was to take place at the venerable church of St. Roch. There was no time to be lost, and, being altogether ignorant of French manners and usages, I applied the next morning to Madame de Grandville, and begged her to tell me what I was to do. She was exceedingly kind; assured me that the invitation was a token of high consideration on the part of M. and Madame de Poupart, and said there was nothing at all to do but to make a few trifling presents. Besides, I was to enjoy the good fortune of having one of the most elegant and beautiful young ladies of Paris--that is to say, her own dear niece -as partner in the ceremony, for she was to stand godmother. The obliging lady immediately wrote a memorandum of what was wanted, addressed to the director of La Belle Jardinière, a very fashionable establishment of nouveautés, as the Parisians call it. She would look after the rest herself. I returned thanks, took the billet, and drove hastily to the elegant shop. A very engaging demoiselle de boutique (at home we call her a shopwoman) read the letter, and showed me at once a charming godchild's basket. It was lovely indeed, but it cost 100 francs. Nothing else would do, said the pretty demoiselle, and so I took it. Then she herself chose a beautiful box, the perfume of which was exquisite, and filled it gracefully with two dozen pairs of fine gloves, two fans-one a precious antique, and the other an artistic módern one-several vials of essences, and a necklace of Turkish pearls. She handed me at the same a handsome bill-written on glazed paper, adorned with an engraving in gold-and the different items, amounting to 400 francs. I did not dare to raise an objection, as this pretty box was destined for my elegant partner, and I took, reluctantly, I must confess, twenty-one napoleons out of my purse. I thought this was behaving pretty well, and went triumphantly to Madame de Grandville, who did not look absolutely delighted. "The box," she remarked, "though not at all rich, is handsome, and I hope your fair lady will receive it with pleasure. But see, here are the beautiful little presents I have bought for you to give the accouchée: fifty francs worth of bonbons and sweets of the best description, to fill the basket and divide among the guests; a bronze night-lamp by Cain, and a silver bowl engraved by Froment-Meurice-the two for twenty louis: you could not offer less to a lady of fifty thousand francs a year; for the nurse, a cap of real lace, five louis a mere nothing; for the nursery-m a id, this French shawl -that is enough for her. I should have liked to buy something besides for the baby, but we must do things as simply as possible." sexton, the choristers, the suisse, the sacristan, the doorkeeper, the giver of holy-water; besides alms for the poor of the parish, the wants of the church, the missions, the convents, etc. I thought it would never come to an end. At last the baby was duly received into the Christian community, and we went away, the suisse preceding us with great pomp, and striking his cane against the pavement of the holy building in a masterly way. I hung my head, for my purse was empty; and, besides, I had the mortification to see that another name than mine was entered in the parish register, because I did not belong to the Catholic persuasion, and to hear that my godchild did not even bear my name: for who in France would consent to have a son called Peter ? DésiréEugène is much prettier and more modern. So I had spent about seven hundred dollars for a compliment from Madame de Poupart, a courtesy from the nurse, a nosegay from the godmother, and a flourish from a suisse with a cocked hat. I found these rather expensive honors, and declared inwardly, like the poor raven in La Fontaine's fable, Mais un peu tard, qu'on ne m'y prendrait plus. The happy day THE RISE OF THE HOUSE OF HOHENZOLLERN.-INVESTITURE OF FREDERICK VI. AS A SINGULAR fish is found in great numbers in the coast rivers of Alaska. It is about eight inches long, transparent, and the most fat of all the finny tribes. This fat, however, has not the oily, rancid taste of other fish, but is like fresh lard. When these fish are dried, the Indians often turn them to a novel and practical account-burn them in place of candles. They give a clear, brilliant light, and are not liable to be blown out by the wind. The tail should be lighted instead of the head, and each fish will burn about fifteen minutes. CHEERFULNESS is an offshoot of goodness and wisdom. In the midst of such a gathering, the nameless girl felt like some humble wayside weed cast among hothouse ́exotics. round throat. Long gloves concealed the imperfections | see and not be seen. Ah, the appointed hour was striking at last! The white-robed rector stood ready to perform his office. Sir Gervase and his best man were already in their place; but the bride's party had not yet appeared. All necks were being craned toward the door, and all ears were on Mercy Poole opened the door, and surveyed the girl for the qui vive for its approach. a moment in utter silence, then she said, dryly: "Fine feathers make fine birds, Polly. The Greylocks have sent a carriage te take you to the church-it's waiting at the door. Dr. Vandine begs to see you before you go. He's in a high fever this morning. A doctor, I notice, has no more patience in affliction than other folks. Poor fellow! It's pretty well known that he loved Miss Greylock." Polly's face fell. "Yes," she faltered, and went down to the chamber below, where Vandine lay, with his broken leg and haggard face, a helpless, irritable prisoner, upon this, Ethel Greylock's wedding morn. Heaven only knows what battle he was silently waging now with himself. At sight of Polly, however, his eyes brightened, "Marvel of marvels !" he cried out; 66 what_metamorphosis is this? A new version of Cinderella! 'Pon my soul, Polly, you had a very narrow escape from being positively handsome. I can scarcely believe my own eyes!" She had never been admired before. A sudden great embarrassment fell upon her. "Do you like the-the dress?" she faltered, smoothing down the shining folds with her gloved hands. He looked at her as at some new revelation-which thing, in truth, she was to him. For the first time he saw that her eyes were grandly cut, and like darkest velvet-that she had the skin of a Spanish girl, and that her crown of hair was such as a princess might envy. "The dress?" he echoed. "Yes, of course. It is a wonderful tone to so transmogrify you that you seem no longer to be Polly. Or have I been blind all along? And so you are going to Miss Greylock's wedding? Ah," and he writhed, "how this wretched limb pains me today! Well, go, child, and get your first look at grandeur. And," with a groan, "take my congratulations to the bride. I wish her unlimited happiness. Sir Gervase is a downright good fellow, with no nonsense about himyes, by Jove! he is as worthy of her as-ah-as she is of him !" Polly put on the hat and wrap, which campleted her pretty costume, and entered the Greylock carriage, feeling, indeed, like Cinderella on her way to the ball. The church, a quiet, gray edifice, stood but a few blocks distant on the main street of Blackport. A most unusual stir and bustle pervaded the sacred building this morning. Splendid equipages dashed up to its open doors. Rich carpets stretched from the entrance down to the shabby sidewalk. Within, costly flowers made a mass of splendor all about the chancel, hung from the roof, and filled the baptismal font-orchids, myrtles, orange-blossoms, jasmine and waxy camellias, tube-roses, with their overpowering odor, and the uplifted cups of roval lilies. Crowds of elegant people occupied the pews-invited guests. The purple and fine linen, the wave of gorgeous fans, the flash of jewels, the smart ushers flying up and down, with wedding favors in their buttonholes, frightened and bewildered poor Polly. She was glad to creep into a seat far back near the entrance, whence she could Polly bowed her devout head, and whispered one prayer for the future happiness of the girl whom she dared call sister only in her prayers. While thus absorbed, somebody crowded into the pew, and sat down by her side. As Polly lifted her eyes again, they encountered the stout figure and swarthy, scarred face of Hannah Johnson. She recoiled in sudden aversion. What chance had brought that creature to sit by her through this ceremony? The two looked hard at each other for one instant-the next, a breathless expectation fell on everybody in the church-the bride's party had entered the porch-it was at the door-it was sweeping up the aisle toward the chancel. The hot tears rushed to Polly's eyes. There was Miss Pamela, in gray satin and a bonnet of gray ostrich feathers. There was Godfrey Greylock, proud, triumphant, his cold face softened now with his great happiness. There was Mrs. Iris, limping along, in a dress of Lyons velvet, with diamonds and point-lace for ornaments, her faded face powdered and rouged, as usual —that woman who represented to Polly all that was false and unscrupulous in the world. There were the pretty, smiling bridesmaids, in cream - color; and, chiefest of all-the crowning splendor of all, there was Ethel Greylock, in a magnificent bridal robe of duchesse satin, overlaid with a mist of Venise point, diamond stars fastening the cobweb vail to her hair, orange-blossoms drooping on her corsage-Ethel Greylock, almost unearthly in her glory of yellow tresses and dazzling snow-tints-the sister who had, as a little child, lived, loved and suffered with Polly in Harmony Alley, and for whose loss the elder girl had mourned long weary years. Alas! Polly knew only too well that the life-paths which had run parallel in the old tenement-house would never cross again, when this day was past. She was looking for the last time upon her darling. Nan would go her own way to new splendor, new happiness across the sea; and she -Polly-well, she would faithfully keep her sister's secret, and she would accept Vandine's bounty, and go to school, and do her best to worthily fill some humble niche in life. They were at the altar now-they had taken their places before the white-robed rector. Godfrey Greylock was to give the bride away. Through the stained glass of a chancel window the morning sunshine poured in upon the company, like a heavenly blessing. Then the deep voice of the clergyman began: "We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony. . . If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace." Hannah Johnson started up from the side of Polly, and flew down the aisle. In her face the sinister hatred of years was mingled with a sort of dark triumph. Verily, her hour had come at last. "Stop!" she cried, in a loud voice; "stop! I forbid the bans !" If a thunderbolt had fallen in the church, the amazement could scarcely have been greater. Iris Greylock alone uttered a wild scream. "Don't speak!" she implored, throwing out her hands, as if to hold back the waiting-woman's words. "For God's sake, don't speak, Hannah !" "I've minded your voice for the last time, ma'am," answered Hannah Johnson, insolently. "I will speak, and all these fine folks shall hear me! The truth ought to have been told long ago. This man and woman shall not be joined in matrimony, at least till Sir Gervase Greylock knows who it is he's marrying. The girl by his side -I can swear it before God !-hasn't a shadow of right to the name she bears. Robert Greylock's daughter died when a baby, and this creature was taken from a vile city slum-from the very gutter-and palmed off on Godfrey Greylock as his grandchild. I know of what I speak, for I was the person who bought her from the drunken hag that owned her a matter of twelve years, or so, ago!" . She had been planning this revenge for weeks. She rolled the fatal words upon her tongue, as if their taste was sweet, and dropped them, like bombs, into the midst of the flowers, the sunshine, the rich fabrics, the joyful company. Every living creature in the church, even to the rector, stood as if petrified. Polly, indeed, started up in her seat, but paused again, irresolute, her scared face gray with consternation. "If you'd but listened to me that night on the terrace, sir," went on Hannah Johnson, turning to the bridegroom, "you might have known these facts before. It's your own fault that two or three women have made you their easy prey. To secure the Greylock money, Robert's widow was forced to find a child to take the place of her own dead one. It was about the time she wrote you the letters, ma'am," looking now to Miss Pamela, who might have posed for a statue of horror. "We were next door to utter want. We found this little girl begging on the street. She had fair hair and blue eyes, like Robert Greylock himself, and prettiness enough to meet any number of hard old grandfathers. I tracked her to a den, where she lived with a sister, and an old beldam, who owned the two children. I gave the crone a hundred dollars of your money," with a nod to Miss Pam, "and took the child away. "At first she made us no end of trouble, crying day and night for her sister. We beat her, and stupefied her with drugs. Then she fell sick, and we thought she'd die on our hands; but she was too tough for that, and, luckily for us, as she got well she seemed to forget her old life. To be sure, now and then she'd fall into a tantrum about her sister Polly, but I soon whipped the last of that safely out of her. "We found her very quick and bright. She easily learned the part she had to play, and then Mrs. Iris took her to the Woods and presented her to Godfrey Greylock as his heiress-the child of his dead son-ha, ha !" Godfrey Greylock staggered, and clutched the chancelrail. No eyes had ever seen upon his face such a look as blanched and convulsed it now. She saw that the game was up-that the end of all her fraudulent scheming, her lies, her utter falsity, had come. Finding herself thus face to face with hopeless ruin, she grew defiant, reckless. "It is true!" she answered. 66 Why should I attempt to deny it? You only are to blame, Godfrey Greylock. You drove me to it. I was perishing with want, and without a child, how could I hope to wring anything from you? Unfortunately for me, my own daughter had died years before." "Yes, she left it to die when she ran away with her lover, Arthur Kenyon," explained Hannah Johnson, spitefully. "As soon as the pair heard of Robert Greylock's suicide, they married. I took service with Mrs. Kenyon soon after. A cat-and-dog's life she lived with her second husband. Together they squandered all his fortune, and her own earnings besides. Then they were divorced in some Western city, where my lady was then dancing, and the man went his way and the woman hers." "Traitress!" shrieked Mrs. Iris. "Now you have told everything. There is nothing more to be hidden from any one!" Godfrey Greylock stood for an instant, as if struggling to gather the resources of his strong nature to meet this blow-this utter destruction of all his household gods; then they saw him sway slightly, and throw out a helpless hand-one fearful shriek escaped the bride-the first sound that her lips had uttered, and then-then the old master of the Woods fell, without word or sign, face downward to the floor of the chancel ! Sir Gervase dropped the hand of his bride, and with the rector, sprang to lift the fallen man. Never again would the proud eyes flash in anger, never again would the stern lips open in wrath. Across his ghastly face and iron-gray hair the light from the stained-glass window slanted mockingly. No voice was needed to proclaim the terrible truth, it could be seen at a glance. Apoplexy, that foe which leaps like lightning on its victims, had done its swift and fatal work. All was over. Godfrey Greylock lay in the arms that supported him, motionless, voiceless, stone-dead! Wild confusion followed. From a place of flowers and sunshine and bridal rejoicing, the church was now turned into the solemn temple of death. Iris Greylock went off into violent hysterics, and screamed and clung to Sir Gervase, crying: "Oh, surely you will befriend me-you will see that I am not driven into the street to starve !" Miss Pam's cries rose to the very roof. Involuntarily the white, stricken bride, started toward her with arms outstretched; but Miss Pam, half beside herself, waved her back with a gesture of aversion. "No, no !" she shuddered, “don't come near me-don't touch me. You have killed him, you have killed him !" Ethel Greylock staggered, as if from a blow. She stared piteously at Aunt Pam for an instant-Aunt Pam, whose idol she had been for years and years-then, swift as thought, she turned from the altar, where no marriage vows of hers would be heard this day-turned from the "It's a lie!" he shouted, hoarsely. "The woman is dead and the living alike, and with her face frozen in r mad !" sort of white horror, and eyes set like a sleep-walker's. she flashed straight through the crowd, and down the aisle to the church-door. Before she reached it, however, Polly had darted out of her pew, and thrust forth two intercepting arms. "Oh, I never meant to speak," she sobbed, "I never meant to claim you, though I knew you all the time. Nan, darling, do von know me your sister ?" In the supreme agony of the moment Ethel Greylock |