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expectation, Washington rose and advanced, with VicePresident Adams on his right, and on his left the Chancellor of the State, Robert R. Livingston, who immediately proceeded to administer the oath of office, Washington at the same time laying his hand on the open book which was held up before him. When the oath had been recited, he answered : “I swear—so help me God,” and bowing, kissed the Bible. The Chancellor, then stepping forward waving his hand, said in a loud voice, “Long live George Washington, President of the United States.” A flag raised on the cupola at the moment was the signal for a discharge of artillery on the Battery; the bells of the city rang out their cheerful notes, the assembled multitude renewed their shouts of affection and applause. Washington then read his Inaugural Address in the Senate Chamber, and afterward, accompanied by the heads of departments, the members of Congress, and others, walked to St. Paul's Church, where prayers adapted to the occasion were read by Bishop Provoost, who had been appointed Chaplain to the Senate. In the evening there was a brilliant display of fireworks and a general illumination of the city, with emblematic transparencies in honor of Washington and America. A series of festive entertainments followed this inauguration. Early in May a ball was given at the Assembly Rooms on Broadway, at which all the distinguished persons in the city were present, and when, we are told, Washington danced two cotillons and a minnet. At another, given by the French Minister, Count de Moustier, a character dance was introduced in which the French and American performers were interwoven, to represent the friendship of the two nations. On the arrival of Mrs. Washington, at the end of the month, a series of Friday evening receptions were held by her at the President's House, which were continued during the session of Congress. Washington was always present on these occasions. The furniture of the house was plain, and the ceremonial of a simple character. Washington seemed determined, while fully maintaining the dignity of his position, to set an example of republican economy. He had secured as his steward his old acquaintance, Sam Fraunces, renowned as a purveyor and inn-keeper, the landlord of the old Wauxhall Gardens and of the hotel in Broad Street which, it will be remembered, had been the residence of Washington when he entered the city on its evacuation by the British. In catering for the presidential table, Fraunces fell in at market with the first shad of the season, and served it up for breakfast. It attracted the attention of Washington. “It is very early in the season for shad,” said he to the steward. “How much did you pay for it 2" “Two dollars.” “Two dollars I can never encourage this extravagance at my table ; take it away, I shall not touch it"—and it was removed accordingly. * There was no parsimony in this, but a conscientious frugality which often in Washington's career had been of eminent service to the public. In one thing he was willing to spend. He had a true Virginian's love of horses. When he rode out to take the air his carriage was drawn by four horses; on state occasions, as visiting the Houses of Congress, it was drawn by six. There are many interesting notices of the regularity of his mode of living preserved in his private “Diary" during his residence in New York. He records his walks around the Battery, his drives with Mrs. Washington, the coach taking “the fourteen miles round,” which traversed the outer limits of the present Central Park; his exercise on horseback; the sittings for his portrait to Rammage,

* Griswold's “Republican Court.”

Madame de Brehan, to Savage, to Trumbull; his attendance at St. Paul's Chapel on Sunday forenoons, where his pow is still shown, the afternoon being given to his private correspondence ; his dinner company and the frequenters of the levees of Mrs. Washington ; his occasional visits to the theatre, the old building in John St., with the names of persons invited to a seat in his private box—General Schuyler and lady, Colonel Hamilton and lady, and others. On one of these theatrical exhibition he was startled by some pleasant reference to himself, introduced in an interlude written by Dunlap for the performance of Wignall, an adaptation of the part of Darby in the “Poor Soldier.” There were graver scenes, however, than these for Washington in New York. Not long after his inauguration he was prostrated by a grievous illness which brought him to death's door. At the height of the disorder, conscious of the danger, he fixed his eyes upon his physician, Dr. Bard, and asked a candid opinion of his condition. “I am not afraid to die,” said he, “and therefore can bear the worst.” The doctor, expressing hopes of his safety, acknowledged his fears. “Whether to-night, or twenty years hence,” said he, “makes no difference. I know that I am in the hands of a good Providence.” He thought with Hamlet, “There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come ; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come ; the readilless is all.”

On recovering from this illness Washington left the city on a tour to the eastward. Some time after his return, in the beginning of 1790, he changed his residence from Cherry Street to the house in Broadway previously occupied by the French Minister and known afterward as Bunker's Hotel or the Mansion House. The rent for this building, probably the highest in the city, was $2,500. Meantime the Legislature of the State had passed an Act authorizing the Corporation to demolish Fort George and appropriato its site to public purposes. Space was reserved for the Battery, and a portion of the land facing the Bowling Green and Broadway was devoted to the erection of an imposing building, its front presenting a lofty pediment supported by open pillars, known as the Government House. It was at first intended as the residence of the President of the United States during the sessions of Congress in the city; but Congress having been removed to Philadelphia before its completion, it was never, as expected, occupied by Washington. It became the residence of the Governors of the State till the seat of Government was established at Albany, and was so occupied by Governors George Clinton and John Jay. It was then used as the Custom House and for other public purposes, and about 1816 was sold, when it was taken down and gave place to the block of private dwellings, afterwards altered to stores, but which for some thirty years were among the most 'elegant private residences of the city.

NORMAL WEIGHT.

It is desirable for all persons, whether suffering, in health, or otherwise, to know as nearly as possible what the normal weight should be. We are indebted to the late Dr. Hutchinson for weighing above two thousand six hundred men of various ages. There is indeed an obvious relation between the height and weight so particularly weighed and measured. Starting with the lowest men in the tables, it will be found that the increased weight was as nearly as possible five pounds for every

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inch in height beyond sixty-one inches. The following | up a five-dollar gold piece lying in the road. Ever aftershows the relative height and weight of individuals meas. ward, as he walked along, he kept his eyes steadily fised uring five feet and upward : 5 ft. 1 in. should be 120 lbs.; on the ground, in the hope of finding another. And in 5 ft. 2 in. should be 126 lbs.; 5 ft. 3 in. should be 133 lbs.; the course of a long life he did pick up, at different 5 ft. 4 in, should be 136 lbs.; 5 ft. 5 in. should be 142 lbs.; | times, a goodly amount of gold and silver. All these 5 ft. 6 in, should be 145 lbs.; 5 ft. 7 in. should be 148 | days, however, he saw not that heaven was bright above lbs.; 5 ft. 8 in, should be 155 lbs.; 5 ft. 9 in. should be him, and nature was beautiful around. He never once 162 lbs.; 5 ft. 10 in. should be 169 lbs.; 5 ft. 11 in. should lifted his eyes from the mud and filth in which he sought be 174 lbs.; 6 ft. should be 178 lbs.

the treasure ; and when he died, a rich old man, he only knew this fair earth of ours as a dirty road in which to

pick up money as you walk along, and as many another THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE. -A young man once picked I foolish man hath done.

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* COBA GRAY. _"'WHERE 13 MI TOOTE?' 'IT IS HERE, MISS GRAY,' SAID THE DOCTOR, HOLDING UP THE OFFENDING MOLAR."

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II.

III.

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THE STORMY PETREL.

| won't even except that rich Mr. Courtney that came up

from New York last Summer to visit the Gildes ; and as By R. W. W.

to his shirt, why, I looked at the bosom when he was fill

ing my teeth, and I tell you it was just elegantly stitched. Twas when in the morning

Them that knows him say he's an awful particular man ; The rainbow gave warning

and I'm sure he is, if his hands are to be taken for a To the sailors that traversed the wild raging sea,

sample, for they're just as white and clean as a lady's.
That thə music was neard
Of this stormy bird

Not that every lady's hands are clean, either !"
As she skimmed o'er the mountain-wave free.

“But I shouldn't think Croyden was any place for him to establish himself in. I can't believe that he can get

| practice enough out of such a small town to give hims Twas a strange, wild thing,

living." With a motionless wing,

"Oh, he doesn't care for that. Uncle John knows him That touched neither ocean nor air as it flew; But ever pursued,

and knows all his family, and he says that Dr. Morgan is With its phantom brood,

rich, though he wasn't always so. He was very poor The white-winged ship and its dauntless crew.

when he was a boy, and rose from being a boy in a dentist's office to being a dentist himself. Then one

day an aunt of his, who wouldn't have given him a crust I had watched her flight At the noon of night,

while she was living, died, and left him a heap of money. And wept for this bird of the tireless wing,

He didn't do like most folks would bave done then. No; That hath no rest

he just took it as quietly as ever, didn't give up business, On the heaving breast

but made himself perfect in it, and after that studied for of the sea, with its ceaseless swing!

a doctor, and was made one; but Uncle John says he

prefers his first business of dentistry ; and Uncle John And she hath no home

says he thinks he came up to Croyden for practice on all But the snow-white foam,

sorts of teeth, for he's been teething all the poor people This wanderer out on the wild, deep sea,

in town for nothing. Why, he even asked me if I could Where her chosen nest

afford to pay, after he got through filling my tooth. I Is the billow's crest, When the storm pipes loud in his ocean glee!

told him my pa was well off, and so he charged me two dollars, though pa was a little mad about it, and said that

it wouldn't have done me a bit of harm to have kind It is said of this bird

of hinted the other way, and I'd have got off with a That her wailing is heard

dollar.” When the mariner sinks to his flnal rest

“Which would have been just the same as taking & And she glides away O'er the darkling spray

dollar from the poor. How old is this model dentist, When the sun goes down in the far bleak west:

Mabel ?"

“Oh, he ain't more than twenty-five, Co, as far's I can

guess. He's mighty good-looking, though, and Uncle That her wings are kissed

John says he's highly educated. Why, you'd ought to
By the morning mist,
When the sun comes up from his ocean stream,

see his dentistry-room. It's perfectly splendid! The And she bathes anew

handsomest furniture you ever see, and the pictures are In the bright foam-dew,

awful nice, though I can't say I like the statues as well. When the day dissolves with his parting beam:

They haven't got clothes enough on 'em to suit my taste.

One of 'em he called the Venus de Medicine, I believe,
VII.
That there is no rest

or something of that sort.”
On the ocean's breast

“The Venus de Medici'; it's very celebrated.” For this storm-loved bird of the wailing night,

Yes, that's it. Then there was another he called That oer the sea

Cupid and Shykey- "
Flies ceaselessly,

“Cupid and Psyche.' Another celebrated piece of Like the parting wind in its pathless flight!

sculpture.”

“Then there was several little naked children which

he called cherubs, and they were just as lovely as lovely CORA GRAY.

could be. Oh, you'd ought to go, Co. He'd fix that tooth

for you in ten minutes, and talk to you all the time about BY THE AUTHOR OF “BEAUTIFUL SNOW."

everything. Why, I'm sure you'd be delighted. I was. " He's the handsomest man I ever saw, I think, and And what's the use of going all the way to New York to all the girls in the town are going crazy over him ; I'm see a dentist, when you've got one right here, within a almost 80 myself. And I'm afraid that if I wasn't mile, that'll do it up splendid. Encourage native talent, already kind of partly engaged, as you may say, I'd I say." Bet my cap straight at him !”

This conversation passed between Mabel Dean, a pretty, som but a dentist! What could induce the man to good-natured, but somewhat uneducated girl of twentyshones on a profession? There seems to me something two, a dweller in the small town of Croyden, about eighty repulsive about it."

miles from New York, whose father was a wealthy shop, onnisivel Well, I can't see what there is repulsive keeper of the town, and Cora Gray, an orphan, living any more than a doctor, who cuts off legs and arms, and upon a farm, half a mile distant from it. all that sort of thing. And as to there being anything | Cora had not lived all heri

Cora had not lived all her life upon a farm, but when repulsive about Dr. Morgan-for, you see, he is a doctor, at twelve years of age her father died, her mother, who a real doctor, anyhow-why, it's absurd. He's just as was from New York, recognized what the father never nice in his clothes as anybody I ever saw in my life-I did, the necessity of a little better education for Corą

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than the town, or, rather, village, of Croyden could afford, and recognizing it, backed by plenty of means, she had sent her only child to one of the best academies for young ladies in the city, from which Cora had come, not only solidly educated and accomplished, but with a style and manner that made her the admiration and envy of all the girls as far round the country as her acquaintance extended. They envied her, but they loved her. Nobody could help loving Cora. She was just nineteen, very beautiful, unaffected, and with a voice as soft and musical as voices can well be. She was inclined to be tall, with a lithe, graceful form and movement that fascinated any one looking at her as they might be fascinated by the flight or pluming of some brilliant bird. But while they looked on charmed and loving at a distance, the young men of Croyden never seemed to dare approach this rare flower. The farm always had plenty of company, and Cora had scores of admirers, but they looked upon her as the brook looked upon the star, as “something afar.” They loved, perhaps, but kept that love strictly to themselves, while Cora did not respond to it either near or far. One year before the time of this talk with Mabel Dean, Cora had lost her mother, and, as had been arranged years before, her father's brother, John Gray, and his wife, had been called in to manage the farm. Uncle Gray was penurious to the last degree, and, though perfectly honest, made his honesty uncomfortable. Aunt Gray chafed under the meanness of her husband, and would, had he permitted, been a little extravagant, but purely upon herself. Not being able to achieve this, she was ill-natured and carping; consequently, between the two, Cora did not have a very happy home, and, though it was the day before Christmas when this talk was taking place, the poor girl was not troubled with any very joyful anticipations connected with the day. Added to this, she was made no happier by a dull, heavy toothacha, which, proceeding from the only unsound tooth in her head, had for several days driven her almost wild with pain. As to the toothache, neither her uncle nor her aunt extended any sympathy toward her for that. It was only a tootache, and the old couple had known that in every variety, until they had not a tooth in their heads. In fact, they had very little sympathy with her in anything. They did not treat her as though she was the owner of the farm—and not only the owner of that farm, but of three or four others in the neighborhood, to say nothing of some stock in the Croyden Bank, and sundry United States bonds laying there on special deposit—but rather as if she might be a poor relative who was dependent on them for charity. And so it was that Cora did not look forward to Christmas Day with very keen ideas of enjoyment. To be sure, they were to have a Christmas dinner, but who was to be at it? No companions of hers; they all of them had Christmas dinners at home ; and, even had they been willing to forego their own to partake of Cora's they would not have enjoyed it in the society of her uncle and aunt, and the half-dozen old gossips and fogies whom they always invited. And the same rule would have held good had Cora attempted a party in the evening ; in fact, she had left off party-giving for the same reason—that her uncle and aunt always invited their own friends, whose duty it seemed to be to make themselves as disagreeable as possible to Cora's.

When Mabel went away Cora sat down to think. Gracious I Wasn't it bad enough, on the coming Christmas, to have all these discomforts of an unpleasant home, made so by two disagreeable people 2 Wasn't it bad enough to feel that she had nobody to love, none to caress, and nobody to love her ? No, she could not say that. But, then, it was not the right kind of love ; it was a special love she wanted and longed for. But why must she also have a toothache on this festive occasion ? A toothache—an unromantic toothachel No matter how painful, a toothache that was not dangerous ! Why, it was almost enough to make her cry in itself, it was so undignified. If it had not been for that view of it, she would have put on her bonnet and gone directly to Dr. Morgan and had it out. And with this toothache she passed the afternayn, simply because she could not pass it without the toothache. Sometimes it was a dull, steady ache, and she would sit, holding her head between her hands, and bearing it "until she almost imagined that she was growing to be a mummy, or some other preserved substance without life, and then she would be suddenly disabused of that idea by a twinge that would seem to tear her very head open with its intensity—a twinge that would be followed by a succession of its fellows whieh would send poor Cora walking the floor in agony. And this was Christmas Eve, she thought in her pain and distress, as the darkness came down, and the moon came slowly up, and made the snow glisten like heaps of diamonds. She looked out toward the town and could see the lights dancing, and fancied she could almost hear the sounds of merriment. She might have been there among her friends—she had received several invitations to join parties—but for this terrible toothache. Every now and then a sleigh would dash by with a gay party who shouted toward the house, or sang in their flight. Sometimes poor Cora would throw up the window and wave her handkerchief, but she always paid for it by still severer throbs and wrenches, until, at last, disgusted with herself and the whole world, she crept away to bed, crawled between the blankets and tried to sleep, but without success. It was simply toss, toss, toss, turn, turn, turn, and groan, groan, groan, until the daylight came, oh 1 so slowly, and Cora was so glad to get up and dress herself, and go about certain work which she thought would distract her mind, and so alleviate her pain, but it did not, and breakfast came with still the raging fiend in her jaw. She was almost angry at her uncle when he said, while swallowing his coffee : “Why didn't you have the darned thing out, Co 2 There's this new dentister to Croyden, and he'll whip it out for you in a minnte, and not charge you a cant, if you're a mind to.” “But I ain't a mind to, uncle. How do you think this young man can live if he charges all his customers nothing 2" “Oh, no he don't charge all on 'em nothing. There's Squire Bennett, now ; he told the squire that he was a rich man, and he should charge him five dollars for pulling one tooth. The squire kicked, but he had to face it, and so he passed over a fiver. Then, as soon as the dentister got it, he jist put it into an envelope and directed it to Dominie Strouz, and asked the squire to be kind enough to hand it to the dominie with his compliments. Rayther rough on the squire, warn’t it? His own church,

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