Godey's Lady's Book 1856-09: Vol 53 Iss 3

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GODEY’S oI Y’S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1856. SHELLS FOR THE LADIES, AND WHERE THEY COME FROM. Aut the shells which are preserved in the eabinets of collectors belong to the class of ani- mals called mollusca. We give, at the outset, a brief sketch of the classification of the animal kingdom, merely to show what place is assigned to the mollusca. All known animals are constructed upon four different types, and constitute as many natural divisions or sub-kingdoms. The first of these primary groups is charac- terized by an internal skeleton, of which the essential, or ever-present part, is a backbone composed of numerous joints, or vertebrae. These are the animals most familiar to us; beasts, birds, reptiles, and fishes are four classes which agree in this one respect, and are hence col- lectively termed vertebrate animals, or the VER- TEBRATA. Another type is exemplified in the common garden snail, the nautilus, and the oyster; ani- mals whose soft bodies are protected by an internal shell, which is harder than bone, and equally unlike the skeleton of fishes and the hard covering of the crab and lobster. These creatures form the subject of the present article, and are called Motiusca. The various tribes of insects, spiders, crabs, and worms have no internal skeleton; but to compensate for it, their outer integument is sufficiently hard to serve at once the purpose of bones, and of a covering and defence. This external armature, like the bodies and limbs which it covers, is divided into segments or joints, which well distinguish the members of this group from the others. The propriety of arranging worms with insects will be seen, if it be remembered that even the butterfly and bee commence existence in a very worm-like form. This division of jointed animals has the name of the ARTICULATA. The fourth part of the animal kingdom con- sists of the coral animals, starfishes, sea-jellies, and those countless microscopic beings which swarm in all waters. Whilst other animals are bilateral, or have a right and left side, and the organs arranged in pairs, these have their organs placed in acircle around the mouth or axis of the body, and have hence obtained the appella- tion of RADIATA. These groups illustrate successively the grand problems of animal economy. The lower di- visions exhibit the perfectionizing of the func- tions of nutrition and reproduction ; the higher groups present the most varied and complete development of the senses, locomotive powers, and instincts. The mollusca are animals with soft bodies, envoloped in a muscular skin, and usually pro- tected by a univalve or bivalve shell. The univalve shell is in one piece like that of the snail; the bivalve is in two pieces, as in the oyster orclam. The mollusca are divided into sixclasses: 1. The Cephalopoda, or cuttle-fishes. Their name is derived from cephale, head, and poda, feet; the feet are attached to the head. 2. The Gasteropoda, from gaster, the under side of the body. The common snail is an example COMMON SNAIL. of these. The under side of the body forms a single muscular foot, on which the animals 203 ae

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wt es eee creep or glide. 3. The Pteropoda, from pteron a wing, inhabit the sea and swim with a pair of fins extending out from the sides of the head. 4. The Brachiopoda, from brachion, an arm, are bivalves, and take their name from two arms placed at the sides of the mouth, with which they create currents that bring them food. 5. The Conchifera, or ordinary bivalves, like the oyster. 6. The Tunicata, which have no shell. The mollusca have spread themselves over every part of the habitable globe; every region has its tribe; every situation its appropriate species. The land-snails frequent moist places, or woods, or sunny banks and rocks, climb trees, or burrowin the ground. The air-breath- ing Eimneids live in fresh water, only coming oceasionally to the surface; and the auriculas live on the seashore, or in salt marshes. In the sea, each zone of depth has its molluscous fauna. The limpet and periwinkle live between tide-marks, where they are left dry twice a day. The trochi and purpure are found at low water, amongst the sea-weed. The mussel affects muddy shores; the cockle rejoices in extensive sandy flats. Most of the finely colored shells of the tropics are found in shallow water; scallop- banks at twenty fathoms. Deepest of all, the terebratule are found, commonly at fifty fathoms, and sometimes at one hundred fathoms, even in Polar seas. The fairy-like pteropoela, the oceanic-snail, and multitudes of other floating molluscs, pass their lives on the open sea, for- ever out of sight of land; whilst the litiopa and scyllea follow the gulf-weed in its voyages, and feed upon the green, delusive banks. The food of: the mollusca is either vegetable, infuso- rial, or animal. All the land-snails are vegeta- ble-feeders ; and their depredations are but too well known to the gardener and farmer. Many a crop of winter corn and spring tares has been wasted by the ravages of the “small gray slug.” They have their likings, too, for particular plants: most of the pea-tribe and cabbage-tribe are favorites; but they hold white mustard in abhorrence; and fast or shift their quarters while that crop is on the ground. Some, like the “cellar-snail,”’ feed on cryptogamic vegeta- tion, or on decaying leaves; and the slugs are attracted by fungi, or any odorous substances. The round-mouthed sea-snails are nearly all vegetarians, and consequently limited to the shore and the shallow waters in which sea- weeds grow. The whole of the bivalves, and other headless shell-fish, live on infusoria, or on microscopic vegetables, brought to them by the eurrent which their ciliary apparatus perpetually excites. The carnivorous tribes prey chiefly on 204 GUDEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. aoe ~~ other shell-fish, or on zoophytes, since, with the exception of the cuttle-fishes, their organization scarcely adapts them for pursuing and destroy- ing other classes of animals. As the shell-fish are great eaters, so in their turn they afford food to many other creatures, fulfilling the universal law of eating, and being eaten. Civilized man still swallows the oyster, although snails are no longer reckoned “a dainty dish.” Mussels, cockles, and periwinkles are in great esteem with children and the other unsophisticated classes of society; and so are scallops and the haliotis, where they can be obtained. Two kinds of whelk are brought to the London mar- ket in great quantities; and the arms of the cuttle-fish are eaten by the Neapolitans, and also by the East Indians and Malays. In sea- sons of scarcity, vast quantities of shell-fish are consumed by the poor inhabitants of the Scotch and Irish coasts. Still more are regularly col- lected for bait: the calamary is much used in the cod-fishery, off Newfoundland; and the limpet and whelk on the English coasts. Many wild animals feed on shell-fish. The rat and the raccoon seek for them on the seashore when pressed by hunger. The South American otter and the crab-eating opossum constantly resort to salt marshes and the sea, and prey on the mollusca. The great whale lives habitually on the small floating pteropods. Sea-fowl search for the littoral species at every ebbing tide; whilst, in their own element, the marine kinds are perpetually devoured by fishes. The had- dock is a * great conchologist ;”? and some good northern sea-shells have been rescued, unbroken, from the stomach of the cod; whilst ever the strong valves of the cyprina are not proof against the teeth of the catfish (anarhicas). They even fall a prey to animals much their inferiors in sagacity. The starfish swailows the small bivalve entire, and dissolves the ani- mal out of its shell; and the bubble-shell (phy- line), itself predacious, is eaten both by star- fish anc sea-anemone (actinia). The land-snails afford food to many birds, especially to the thrush tribe; and to some insects, for the lumi- nous larva of the glowworm lives on them ; and some of the large, predacious beetles occa- sionally kill slugs. We have spoken of shell- fish as articles of food; but they have other uses, even to man: they are the toys of children, who hear in them the roaring of the sea; they are the pride of “collectors,” whose wealth is in a cone or “ wentle-trap;” and they are the ornaments of barbarous tribes. The Friendly- Islander wears the orange-cowry as a mark of chieftainship ; and the New Zealander polishes

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SHELLS FOR THE LADIES, AND WHERE THEY COME FROM. the elenchus into an ornament more brilliant than the “ pearl ear-drop” of classical or modern times. One of the most beautiful substances in nature is the shell-opal, formed of the remains of the ammonite. The forms and colors of shells, as of all other natural objects, answer some particular purpose, or obey some general law; but besides this, there is much that seems specially intended for our study, and calculated to call forth enlightened admiration. Thus the tints of many shells are concealed during life by a dull, external coat; and the pearly halls of the nautilus are seen by no other eyes than ours. Or, descending to mere “utility,” how many tracts of coast are destitute of limestone, but abound in shell-banks, which may be* burned into lime; or, in shell-sand, for the use of farmers ? The extravagant prices that have been given for rare shells are less to be regretted, because they have induced voyagers td collect. Mere shell-collecting, however, is no more scientific than pigeon fancying, or the study of old china. For educational purposes, the best shells are the types of genera, or species which illustrate par- ticular points of structure ; and, fortunately for Ad Pere OS 205 students, the prices are much diminished of late years. A carinaria, once “ worth one hundred guineas,” is now worth one shilling only; a wentle-trap, which fetched forty guineas in 1701, was worth only twenty guineas in 1753, and may now be had for five shillings! The conus gloria-maris has fetched fifty pounds more than once; and cyprea umbilicata was sold for thirty pounds in 1850. Many shells have received their names from familiar objects which they resemble in form. Several genera and species bear the name of trochus, which is the Latin forhoop. The genus solarium is one of the trochus family; and the perspective solarium will give our readers an idea of the general form of the whole family of tro- chuses. The engraVings exhibit a side view, a, and the base, 5, of the shell. Several species of the solarium have been COOK’s TURBO. VOL. Lim1.—18

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206 found in the seas of warmer latitudes. They occur respectively in the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean, in the South Seas, off the coasts of Tranquebar and those of New Holland. Most of them appear to be littoral in their habits, keeping near the shore, on banks or rocks covered with marine vegetation. Up- wards of twelve species are recorded. Another example of shells taking their names from familiar objects is found in the family included under the name turbo, which signifies a whipping-top. The one called Cook’s turbo is a good specimen of them. The general form, ridges, and markings of the Cook’s turbo are so well expressed in the figure as to relieve us from the necessity of entering into a minute desctiption, rather per- plexing, from the terms employed by concholo- gists, than conveying clear and precise ideas to the general reader. It is, in fact, not very easy to express in words the details of a shell, though the eye at once seizes them; nor do the com- pound words derived from the Latin, as orbicu- late-convex, imbricato-squamous, and the like, serve, except for the professed naturalist; and, though we must occasionally use such terms, we at the same time feel that to most persons they convey but little information. This shell was found by MM. Quoy and Gaimard in great numbers in Tasman’s Bay, New Zealand; in the Bight of the Astrolabe, and on the reefs of the Passe des Francais. These scientific explorers observe that we may judge of its small degree of locomotion from the dirty incrustation, so difficult to be removed, with which the shell is covered. It grows toa considerable size. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. The Marbled Turbo is a large and beautiful shell, well known to conchologists, and is a native of the Indian seas. It would appear that the mollusk is used as food by the natives of Wagion, and voyagers often saw the empty shells of this turbo upon the heaps of other molluscous shells from which the inhabitants derive a great portion of their subsistence. MARBLED TURBO. The shell is smooth, of a green color, and marbled with green and white; the mouth sil- very. This shell, when deprived of its external layer, exhibits a silvery, iridescent, and very beautiful appearance. One of the shells most frequently used as a mantel ornament in parlors is the Cassis Tube- rosa. It is a native of the West Indian seas. Thirty living species of the cassis, besides the fossil species, have been found in the different seas of the tropical latitudes. They tenant beds of sand ranging from five to ten fathoms in depth.

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l v t , r : REVERSES. BY EDITH HERVEY. On a dark, lowering afternoon in the begin- ning of winter, a young man might have been seen riding over an extensive prairie in the far west. There was evidently a heavy storm coming up, and he was looking anxiously around to see if he could discover any place beneath whose shelter he and his horse could pass the night. The nearest village he knew must be some miles off, and he feared much that his wearied horse would not be able to bear him there. While he was deliberating in his mind as to the best course to take, an elderly gentle- man rode hastily byhim. The young man called to him for information, wishing to know if there was any house in the vicinity at which he might pass the night, and, if not, as to the probability of his reaching the nearest village before the storm could overtake them. “The storm has already commenced, sir,” replied the other, and as he spoke the flakes of snow began to fall thick and fast. ‘“ There is no house of entertainment near; indeed, mine is the only house that deserves to be so called within a mile. If you wil! do me the favor to stop there, you shall find yourself welcome. We can at least give you comfortable lodgings, which you would not find, I fear, anywhere else in this neighborhood.” The young man thanked him warmly, but declined intruding on his hospitality, saying that he was accustomed to the deprivations of the pioneers, and could no doubt rest comfort- ably in some of those rude cabins the other seemed to despise. He may be accustomed to those privations, but he is hardly fitted to endure them, thought the old gentleman, as he surveyed his slender figure and thin but strongly marked face; and then he said aloud: “Oh, no! I could not think of allowing you to ride in search of shelter in such a storm as this threatens to be. I must insist on your accompanying me. We have lived long enough in the far west to think the society of any gentleman a luxury, and I should be the greater sufferer if I allowed you to go. You will come, will you not?” The young man’s shivering limbs and aching head warned him that it would be rashness to refuse the kind offer, which he therefore accepted as warmly as it was made, and in fifteen minutes was riding through a beautiful grove of trees which the gentleman (whose name was Man- ning) told him he had set out with his own hands. They soon reached the house, a pretty English cottage, standing on one of those knolls common in the western prairies; and, as Mr. Manning threw open the door of the room in which the family were assembled, he turned to his companion—— ** What name shall I say ?” ** Wardour, John Wardour, from Ohio,” re- plied the young man. ** Ah!” said Mr. Manning, in a tone which said plainly that the name was a familiar one, and he fixed on him a scrutinizing gaze; then recollecting himself, he turned to the group col- lected around the blazing fire, and introduced them to the stranger as—‘* My daughter, Miss Henrietta Manning; Miss Ward; Miss Lovell, my niece; Mr. Ward; Mr. Francis Manning, my son. Somewhat of a contrast this room forms to the storm we left without,” added he, placing a chair near the fire for Mr. Wardour, who was apparently not a little abashed at feel- ing so many eyes turned on him at once, and at the dead silence which followed his introduction. He seated himself, and, after a few remarks from the gentleman, which he answered intelli- gently but briefly, he was left to what he evi- dently desired, his own meditations; and the animated> conversation he had interrupted was resumed. Feeling reassured, after a while, by their apparent forgetfulness of his presence, he ven- tured to examine the group before him, and a more interesting one—so far, at least, as the ladies were concerned—could not be found. Miss Manning and Miss Ward were about the same height, and if they had not been friends, might be called rival belles. Though Miss Manning’s fall, erect form, and majestic car- riage, and the noble and perfect outline of her features would have induced almost every per- son to pronounce her the more beautiful, yet there were few but were glad to turn from the calm, haughty, and almost disdainful glance of her full blue eye to her more animated and easily pleased friend. Easily pleased, yes, that 207

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208 RRR LEP was the great charm that Kate Ward exercised ; and with it, when Henrietta could only count her thousands, Kate could count her tens of thousands of victims. Little Carry Lovell, without possessing any great beauty or grace, was yet a greater favorite with all classes than either of the others; for, while Henrietta was called cold and proud, and Kate vain and ca- pricious by those who were clear-sighted enough not to be blinded by the vivacity of the one, or the beauty of the other, Caroline’s gentle, unas- suming, and considerate manner preserved her from all harsh criticisms. The second daughter in the numerous family of a poor physician, she had all her life been accustomed to work and think more for others than herself, and that had given a quiet, unselfish tone to her mind, which, with her cheerful disposition, charmed all who came in contact with her. Her father lived only a few miles from Mr. Manning’s; and she had ridden over to spend a few days with her cousin and Miss Ward, who had been an old school-mate and very intimate friend of Henri- etta’s when she was finishing her education in Philadelphia. Henrietta was too fastidious to care to make many friends; but the few she chose she loved with a depth and sincerity’sel- dom to be found; and though Kate Ward might seem at first to be the very last one she would have chosen, yet there was a tone of high aris- tocratic feeling running through all her words and actions, which, justified as it was by her belonging to one of the best families in the country, had at first won Henrietta’s regard, which had changed gradually, as her really fine qualities developed themselves, to love. She was now on a visit of some length to her friend; and her brother, who was practising law in a neighboring town, had ridden over in the morn- ing to pass the day, and saw himself very will- ingly detained for the night by the storm, for he was in truth not a little smitten by the charms of his sister’s beautiful friend. Mr. Francis Manning was rather a reckless, good-natured young man, a great favorite with everybody, his father in particular, who indulged him in every freak or whim which his extrava- gant fancy dictated. Mr.. Wardour had heard often of the family before, and he knew there was another son, Julian, the eldest of the family, a reserved and melancholy man in society, who had obtained the reputation of being very peculiar and eccentric; being the oldest son of the wealthiest man in that part of the country, and possessing greater talents and acquirements than any other in the place, instead of devo- Prem GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, which he had been educated, as soon as he reached the age of twenty-one—now eight years—he left his home, and went to a still wilder part of the country, where he supported himself partly by farming and partly by teach- ing. This conduct of his could not be his father’s fault, at least so the neighbors con- cluded, for it seemed to be as great a trouble to him as it was amarvel tothem. And whatever might be Mr. Manning’s other faults—and that they were many and grievous in the eyes of his neighbors the fact that he was considered proud and unsocial would establish—that he was de- votedly fond of his children no one could deny. Mr. Wardour had met Julian several times in the course of his travels, for he was an itinerant Methodist preacher, and had been very much interested in him on account of the resolution, self-denial, and energy he had shown in the course he had marked out for himself, and the many kind deeds he had heard of his doing. He seemed to be almost regarded as an angel of mercy by the people with whom he dwelt. He had reciprocated Mr. Wardour’s friendly feel- ings, and they had become as much attached to each other as their opportunities of meeting would admit; and, in consequence of this friend- ship, he had heard enough of the pride and worldliness of the other Mannings, as they were called, to make him think that they were the last family he should desire to know. Not from Julian, who, when ‘he spoke at all of his father, which was but seldom, spoke as a son should who loved his father dearly; of his beautiful sister and daring, manly brother it seemed that he could never speak enough. If Mr. Wardour was vexed and confused at finding himself so unexpectedly in the midst of a family against whom he had been so much prejudiced, Mr. Manning was also not a little annoyed at having pressed him to come. He had been prepossessed by his appearance, and, as he said to himself, had mistaken him for a gentleman; but when he discovered that he was nothing but a beggarly preacher, and, as he recollected (for Mr. Wardour’s name was well known in the neighborhood), the son of a poor carpenter, he was almost tempted to withdraw the invitation. The report that he nad heard at the same time of the piety, humility, and zeal of the young clergyman did not weigh for an instant in his mind against what he consi- dered his low birth and the particular sect to which he belonged, against both of which he was very much prejudiced. He had not heard of his son Julian’s friendship for Mr. Wardour, ting himself to the practice of the law, for : or his feelings might have been more cordial,

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REVERSES. 209 though he had often blamed Julian for not being more exclusive in his choice of associates. The group around the fire had also heard of Mr. Wardour, as every now and then a curious scrutinizing glance at him testified; and Kate Ward seemed not a little inclined to amuse her- self with the evident shyness and constraint of the preacher, for he was not yet accustomed enough to the world to preserve his self-posses- sion in every sifuation, and he could not help feeling that he was not welcome. If the storm had not increased in violence every moment, he would have left the house; but it would have been almost madness for him to attempt to do so with his already overtasked horse. So he resigned -himself to circumstances and his own thoughts, their course being very rarely interrupted by an observation from any of the party till towards the close of the evening, when Carry Lovell, taking compassion on his loneliness, sat down by him, and entered into conversation. The most exquisite music in the world would have seemed discord to him con- trasted with the effect of her sweet voice, bur- dened as he had been for many hours with a sense of loneliness which he had never experi- enced so thoroughly, for never before had he been thrown with people who seemed to have so little sympathy with him. Out of gratitude he exerted himself to entertain her, and talked of his travels and adventures so interestingly that the earnest attention of Carry drew on her more than once a wondering glance from the cold, proud eye of Miss Manning, who wondered how she could listen so long to that common looking man. Her scrutiny went no further than the dress. If she had examined his countenance, she would have discovered that “‘common”’ was the most inappropriate word she could have used. As soon as Mr. Wardour retired, Kate Ward giavely congratulated Caroline on the conquest she had no doubt made, and on the brilliant prospect open to her of becoming a Methodist elergyman’s wife, especially dwelling on the fine opportunities for travelling that would be af- forded her. Caroline bore the raillery with her usual good humor, insinuating that it was caused by jealousy on the part of Kate, who would have been as much interested as she was if she had been a listener. ‘He told me, among other things,” continued Carry, “that he had been a missionary to the Indians, and that while there he had become acquainted with cousin Julian, and that he had never met a man for whom, on so short an ac- quaintance, he had formed so decided a friend- ship.” 1s “Julian has a singular taste in selecting his friends,” said Mr. Manning, rather contemptu- ously ; and yet he felt more kindly towards Mr. Wardour for this discovery, for he knew better, and therefore appreciated more thoroughly than any one else, the purity and strength of his son’s principles; and to be his friend he knew it was necessary to be a man of uprightness as well as of intellect. As for Henrietta, looking upon her brother as she did, as a superior being, and almost wor- shipping him, this information changed the whole tone of her feelings, and made her regret that she had manifested so little courtesy, and resolve to atone for it by her cordiality when she should meet him in the morning. She carried her good intentions so thoroughly into effect, when they met around the breakfgst, as to puzzle poor Mr. Wardour not a little, who could only account for the change by charging it to caprice ; and, while he answered her po- litely, he piqued her not a little by turning from her whenever politeness would admit, and ad- dressing his first acquaintance, Carry Lovell. If Miss Manning was unused to the indifference Mr. Wardour showed to her attention, she was as little accustomed to making any exertion to entertain her visitors, and so she soon relapsed into her usual attitude of calm indifference. But though she found it, as usual, yery easy to remain silent, she could not prevent herself from listening, or from being very much attracted by his conversation, which, now that he had re- covered from the fatigue of the preceding day, was animated and interesting in the highest degree. She no longer wondered at the pleasure which her cousin showed in listening to him, and joined with her father in insisting on his passing the day with them, as the storm still continued very violent. Mr. Wardour consented reluctantly; and, accompanying Mr. Manning to his library, spent some hours there in reading and conversation, till, thinking that Mr. Manning might wish to be alone, he went to the parlor in search of the younger portion of the family. But, seeing that the three young ladies had entire possession of it, and being too much a novice in female so- ciety to like the idea of acting the part of cavu- lier seul to so many, he proceeded in his search, and succeeded in discovering the two gentlemen in a kind of workshop adjoining the house. They had been trying all the morning to make a sleigh, in order to take advantage of their un- usual good fortune, as they thought, in so heavy a fall of snow. That they were unaccustomed to the work the rude, unfinished contrivance at

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210 which they were gazing half ruefully, half laughingly, unconscious of his entrance, proved. And, when his clear manly voice was heard saying “‘Can I be of any assistance to you? I am, perhaps, more used to this kind of work than either of you,” Francis Manning greeted him warmly, and, thanking him for his kind offer, accepted it at once. Under his direction a sleigh was constructed which promised to answer all the expectations of the makers; and, when they were all col- lected around the fire in the evening, and had congratulated themsélves on the prospect of a pleasant day to test their new vehicle, Francis whispered to his sister that for once he and Julian were of the same opinion, for Mr. War- dour was the pleasantest man he had met fora long time. In the course of the evening con- versation, the subject of reverses of fortune was introduced, and Mr. Wardour related a very striking one as having occurred within his knowledge. * About fourteen years ago,”’ he said, “a lady came to.our village in the western part of Ohio, who had married some years before one of the wealthiest men in New York. He died, leaving her with six childrenf the eldest a boy of about twelve—and, as she and all her friends sup- posed, in affluent circumstances; but, through the villany, of his partner, in whom he had always placed the utmost confidence, the widow found herself deprived of all her fortune; and so cunningly had the fraud been contrived that she could obtain no reparation. Thrown thus penniless upon the world, she might have starved if a cousin of hers, who had married a gentleman in our village, had not sent for her and offered her a home till she could find some means to obtain one herself. She came, with all her children ; and, in a few months, was able to establish herself.as seamstress in a small house; and her oldest boy, who had given promise of becoming a fine scholar, was obliged to learn a trade. As he was about my age, my father, at my solicitation, took charge of him; and lately he has been able to relieve his mother almost entirely of the charge of the other children. But her trials and sufferings for the first few years were very painful.” ** That was a very sad lot,” said Miss Ward. “ What became of the wicked partner?” **I don’t know,” replied Mr. Wardour. “ He left New York a short time before the widow— Mrs. Deane’s—departure, and she had never heard from him. She told me that he had a lovely family, for whose sake he had probably committed the crime.” GODEY 8 LADY 8 BOOK AND MAGAZINE, “ For which they would always despise him,” said Henrietta, more earnestly than usual. “I attach more importance than most people in this country to birth and family ; but I would rather be the child of a man in the lowest rank of society than of one who would commit a deed like that, even if he went to his grave with the fact undiscovered.” Francis Manning made some laughing rejoin- der; and the conversation being changed, they were all soon as gay as ever. No one had noticed Mr. Manning’s counte- nance, or it would have created some remark: his earnest attention, his start when the name of the widow was mentioned, and the dark shade that passed over his face when his daugh- ter was speaking ; but he said nothing, and soon after, without his usual good-night, retired. The next morning rose cold, clear, and bright; and after breakfast Mr. Wardour, declining the offer of a ride in the sleigh, which was pressed on him by the gentlemen, left the house, bearing with him the good wishes and kind feelings of all, even of the haughty Henrietta, who had regarded him at first with so much contempt. About an hour after, the sleigh, so covered with superb buffalo skins as to hide its rough outside, stood before the door, drawn by two fine horses, which Francis was holding in with all his strength, and calling impatiently for his sister and her friends to make haste. They came in time, as almost everything will, if one only has patience to wait for it, laughing and talking, wondering how they should all get in, and declaring that the most comfortable sleigh they ever saw. Mr. Manning stood by, assist- ing, but with such a troubled, anxious counte- nance that his daughter asked him several times if he were not well. “Oh, yes!’ he answered; “only a little afraid some accident might happen to you.” * What, father? I hope you don’t mean to insinuate anything against my driving. If I don’t bring them all back safe, I’ll never drive a sleigh again. Good-by;” and off dashed the sleigh, the horses bearing their merry load ra- pidly over the snow. “Isn’t this glorious, girls ?”? continued Fran- cis. “If we drive at this rate, we can overtake Mr. Wardour, as he had to stop at Mr. Hoskin’s on an errand. I would like to have him see how his sleigh goes.” Mr. Wardour had passed the prairie, and was riding leisurely along on the main road, which wound around the foot of a hill at some little distance from a precipice overhanging a river flowing at its base. His eye was wandering

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REVERSES. 211 carelessly over the scene, but his thoughts were with those who had left that morning, especially the gentle Carry Lovell, when he heard the loud jingling of bells and quick tramp of horses’ feet, and saw close upon him the sleigh with its precious freight, drawn by the infuriated horses, with the reins loose about their necks, that were almost leaping directly towards the preci- pice. It was his first thought to spring from his horse, and, seizing the reins, he contrived so to change their direction that they ran along the road, but it was some time before he could stop them. When he succeeded, he was almost frightened at the situation of the occupants. Kate Ward was in a violent paroxysm of hysterics, which Carry Lovell, herself pale and trembling, was vainly endeavoring to soothe, while Henrietta lay motionless and apparently dead in the arms of Mr. Ward, and Edward was nowhere to be seen. He was thrown out soon after the horses first started, so Mr. Ward said, about half a mile further back. Turning the horses, which had been apparently much frightened, but now seemed quiet, Mr. Wardour led them back in the same direction they had come, and found Mr. Manning lying stunned and senseless in the road. His head had struck a stone, and was apparently much hurt. He was laid carefully in the sleigh, and sadly and slowly they pro- ceeded homeward. It would be vain to attempt to describe the agony and anguish of Mr. Manning when he saw the two so dear to him, who had left him but a short time before full of life and buoy- ancy, now lying so still and motionless before him. The physician pronounced Francis’s case almost hopeless, while Henrietta, who had seen, as she thought, her brother killed before her, only recovered from her swoon to go from one fainting fit to another. For two long days and nights Mr. Manning, refusing all consolation and all nourishment, went from the bedside of one apparently dying child to the other; and it was not till Henrietta was pronounced out of danger that he was induced to rest his wearied frame. Late in the evening, he sent for Mr. Wardour. He was so pale and haggard that the kind young man started; but Mr. Manning { would not allow him to speak, but, motioning | him to a chair, said: “These last two days have been the most trying, and yet I hope the most beneficial ones I have ever passed. I never saw so clearly the worthlessness of those objects in whose pursuit I have passed my whole life. And, while I was standing over the almost lifeless bodies of my children, 1 renewed a reso- ; “slept for three nights. lution which I have often formed, but never yet had courage to put in practice. I feel a con- fidence in you which induces me to tell you what, two days ago, I would rather have died than have breathed to any one, in the hope that you may strengthen and confirm me in the re- solve I know by experience to be very weak. But, first, you must promise never to reveal what I relate without my consent.” . Mr. Wardour readily promised, and Mr. Man- ning continued :— ‘You recollect the widow, Mrs. Deane, of whom you were speaking the other night? I was her husband’s partner! You would not blame me so much, perhaps, if you knew all the circumstances. But I will not attempt to justify myself. I will only say that I had no choice between taking the step I did and utter poverty. But I will say I have never known a peaceful moment since. Though nothing could be proved against me, the public feeling was so strong, and showed itself so openly in the cool- ness of my old friends, that I was glad to leave the city, and retreat to this wilderness.. By some accident, Julian, who was spending a few days in New York, heard of what I was accused. He recalled some circumstances which proved my guilt conclusively, and hastened homeward to entreat me to make restitution. I was seve- ral times on the point of yielding, but the thought of my other children restrained me. Now I am resolved to continue firm. Poor Henrietta! She little knew what agony I was enduring while she was talking the other night. Neither she nor Francis must have a suspicion of the truth. I have written to Julian, who will be here to-morrow, probably, and then we can decide what to do.” “You had better try now to sleep a few hours, if possible,” said Mr. Wardour; ‘‘ you seem very much in need of rest.” “ Yes,” replied Mr. Manning. “I have not I will follow your ad- vice.” Mr. Wardour now understood the apparent eccentricity of Julian. He knew that so lofty a mind as his could never consent to become a partaker of wealth wrongfully obtained, but would prefer to live on a crust honestly earned ; and his esteem for him was increased tenfold. Nothing could exceed the joy of Julian when he heard his father’s resolution, except his sor- row at his brother’s precarious situation. No- thing could be done while they were all so anx- ious about him. And in the mean time Julian exerted himself to obtain a professorship, then vacant in a college in one of the Eastern States,

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212 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. rere and, being eminently qualified, was successful. So that, by the time Francis—who, contrary to the opinion of the doctors, did recover, thanks to his robust constitution—was well enough to hear of their loss of fortune, Julian had not only a comfortable but a delightful home to offer to his family in one of the pleasant New England villages. Six weeks after the eventful ride, Henrietta was standing alone by her open window, with the bright moonlight falling in floods over her exquisite figure and statue-like face. The air was cold, but she felt it not; for Mr. Wardour had left her not an hour before, and she had at last yielded willingly to a discovery she might have made some days before. But, though she had suspected it, she could not endure the thought that the proud, the aristocratic Henri- etta Manning should love the poor Methodist, the son of a mechanic. Yet the purity and loftiness of his character seemed just fitted to suit her fastidious taste ; and, before he left the house that night, she had determined to lay aside her prejudices of birth and education, and look only to the man. She did not dream for a moment that she should not be successful. He had always seemed alike kind and considerate to every one; and she had no doubt that the slightest evidence of a preference on her part she was too proud to go further) would be suffi- sient. She stood for hours at her window, forming plans for her future as bright and beautiful as the moonlight shining around her. And so filled was her mind with the delightful visions of her future life, which her fancy pic- tured before her, that it was morning before she closed her eyes. She was aroused by a kiss on the forehead. *T have come to tell you good-by, Henri- etta,” said the voice of her cousin Carrie. The room was so darkened that neither could see the other. “ Father has come for me sooner than I expected ; and I would not have wakened you, but I wanted to tell you something before I went, Mr. Wardour was here last night, you know t” “Yes. What of it?” said Henrietta, starting up. “Why, a great deal, ma belle cousine. He same to ask me—I may as well say it in plain English—to marry him, and ‘of course I said yes; and so I wanted to tell you first, and ask you to be bridesmaid. Will you?” “Yes, yes, certainly. When are you to be married ?” ** Next spring, I think; I don’t know, Good- ‘ by. Father is impatient, I faney, by this time ;” and, with a hasty embrace, Carry left her cousin alone to the pangs of unrequited love. For nearly the whole day, her room, on the plea of a headache, was closed to all who came to ask for her; and the sun was setting before she could summon resolution to meet any one. When, at last, she ventured to the parlor, where Francis was sitting in an easy-chair, with Kate by him, pretending to read to him, their gayety seemed so discordant to her feelings that she retreated to a sofa in a dark corner; and, throwing herself upon it, begged to be left un- noticed. Julian had been closeted nearly all day with his father, settling his business for him, as he was intending to set out the next day to prepare his new home for the reception of his father, brother, and sister. But now his firm, quick tread was heard approaching. “T am glad to see you down,” said he to Henrietta, sitting by her, and drawing her towards him. “I have some rather disagreeable news for you; and you too, Francis ;” and he went on to announce to them the complete loss of all their fortune; and told them of the home he had secured for them. They both bore the intelligence much better than Julian had expected. Henrietta indeed seemed pcrfectly indifferent. Her mind was so filled with her peculiar sorrows, that she hardly realized this misfortune. That they were to change their residence was all that made an impression on her, and at that she was pleased. Francis declared that he had always had a great turn for business, and that this would afford him an opportunity for developing an uncom- mon genius, which otherwise would have been hidden, perhaps destroyed, by too much pros- perity. After a little conversation, Julian rose to return to his father, and Henrietta accompa- nied him, that “he might see for himself,” she said, “‘ that she bore the reverse like a philoso- pher ;” and Francis and Kate were left alone. “ Now, Kate,” began Francis, with an earnest, troubled look. “ Now, Frank, I hope you are not going to accuse me of being mercenary. If you are, I will never forgive you. I have enough for us both, and Henrietta too, at least to begin with ; and with your wonderful genius I should not wonder if we were as rich as Rothschild before long.” “ Ah, Kate, that was all nonsense of mine; for I would not like father to know how badly I felt, more for you than myself, though. To think that I should have nothing but my own

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HOME AND WOMAN. 218 poor self to offer you, after all; and it is a very serious matter to be a poor man’s wife, as, if you venture to try it, you will find.” “IT never intend to be a poor man’s wife, at least not long; and therefore I am resclved to marry a man of such remarkable genius. I know I am not fitted in the slightest degree for that elevated station; and so I give you fair warning that I can neither mend nor make, bake nor brew, nor spin, nor do any of those notable acts of housewifery that all young ladies are bound to know; and for all that I am deter- mined to marry you and.no one else.” .« That Francis was willing, no ene can doubt ; and, when April came with its south winds and showers, they were married; and in the course of time Kate’s prophecy was fulfilled, for Fran- cis showed, if not genius, great skill and cnergy in his business. The day after Francis’s mar- riage (Carrie and Mr. Wardour had been married a week or two before), Mr. Manning and his daughter left the old home for the new with less regret than, six months before, either would have thought possible. Henrietta had never been fond’ of society, and therefore neither her father nor Julian thought it strange that she kept herself almost entirely secluded from the people in the village. Neither did they wonder much that, though her hand was often sought, it was never given. Her father seemed so wrapped up in her that it was cruel even to think of leaving him; but, when he died, and left her alone with her brother, she wrote to Carry, begging for one of the numerous little family which were growing up around her. The sacrifice was too great: Carry could not consent to part with any of her darlings. But when, nearly twenty years after, Henri- etta had left her western home, a feeble invalid, bowed down more by grief than age, stood before her, leading two children. She recognized John Wardour, changed as he was, and knew that he brought her the legacy her cousin had left her. “They are all that remain to me,” said he, mournfully, after the first painful interview was over. “Their mother and six others have gone before where I hope soon to follow them. Under any other circumstances I would not leave them till I was taken from them; but my health would not permit me to watch over them as I should, My little Henrietta I will confide entirely to you; but, if I should recover my health, I must reclaim John.” “John and Henrietta?” murmured, half un- consciously, Miss Manning. ** Yes; she was named for you. . You know my wife loved you like a sister.” Mr. Wardour left in a week or two; and, the next time they received information of him, he was dead. Henrietta lived long and usefully, and her two adopted children mourned for her as they would have sorrowed for their mother. HOME AND WOMAN. Ovr homes—what are their corner-stone but the virtue of a woman, and on what does social well-being rest but in our bomes? Must we not trace all other blessings of civilized life to the doors of our private dwellings? Are not our hearth-stones guarded by holy forms, conju- gal, filial, and Parental love, the corner-stone of church and state, more sacred than either, more necessary than both? Let our temples crumble, and capitals of state be levelled with the dust, but spare our homes! Man did not invent, and he cannot improve or abrogate them. A private shelter to cover in two hearts dearer to each other than all in the world; high walls to exclude the profane eyes of every human being; seclusion enough for children to feel that mother is a holy and peculiar name—this is home: and here is the birthplace of every secret thought. Here the church and state must come for their origin and support. Oh! spare our homes. The love we experience there gives us our faith in an infinite goodness; the purity and disinterestedness of home is our foretaste and our earnest of a better world. In refations there established and fostered do we find through life the chief solace and joy of existence. What friends deserve the name compared with those whom a birthright gives us? Our mother is worth a thousand friends! our sister truer than twenty intimate companions. We who have played on the same hearth, under the light of the same smile, who date back to the same scene and season of innocence and hope, in whose veins runs the same blood, do we not find that years only make more sacred and more import- ant the tie that binds? Coldness may separate, different spheres may divide, but those who can love anything, who continue to love at all, must find that the friends whom God himself gave are wholly unlike any we can choose for our- selves, and that yearning for these is the strong ; spark in our expiring affection.

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A CAROLINA WOMAN OF THE REVOLUTION. MARY GREY. In December, 1773, a family, emigrating from Antrim County, Ireland, landed in Charleston ; and, remaining till the following March, tra- velled thence in a wagon to the back country, stopping, after a journey of three weeks, at Jackson’s Creek in Fairfield District. It was the household of John Dunlap, who had mar- ried Mrs. Grey, a widow with four children, in the old country. Mary, the youngest of these children, was born in 1758. The proceeds of a farm in Ireland, with in- dustry and management, comfortably settled the family—their home being a spa@ious log-cabin— and the marriage of the eldest daughter with James McCreight, of Winnsboro’, shortly fol- lowed. When the mother’s health failed, Mary Grey became housekeeper. The name of Grey is cherished in popular remembrance throughout Fairfield District by the inhabitants who now enjoy the blessings purchased by their toils and sufferings in the eause of religious and political liberty. But history makes no mention of the services of that family. It is a worthy task, therefore, to make some record—though an humble one—of the merit of patriots who deserve praise not only on account of their heroism and self-sacri- fice, but their association with names illustrious in the annals of the State of South Carolina. In 1776, when the country was called on to defend the city of Charleston, Dunlap and McCreight, with the brothers William and Robert Grey, entered the army of the patriots. They were engaged later in the same year in the Snow Campaign against the Cherokee Indians. While the men were absent on service, the whole burden of the out-door farm labor fell on the women, for there were then no negroes in that region. Often the families in the defence- less settlements were startled by the news that the stealthy and fearful Cherokees were coming upon them. One evening, on the occasion of an alarm, Mrs. Grey and her daughters fled from the house, and lay concealed in a dense wood the whole night. It was a happy time when the father and brothers came home from the camp for a brief period. On their return from the defence of Charleston, they were accompanied by a young lieutenant of engaging manners and a spirk& 214 kindled by the love of freedom. This officer» Alexander Gaston, and Mary Grey were inte- rested in each other at first sight, and their preference speedily ripened into a deep attach- ment. The times permitted no lovers’ dalliance ; but their love was mutually acknowledged, and they entered into a solemn engagement to be united as soon as the wars were over. ‘In those days,” says Mr. Stinson—who furnishes this memoir—“lucre seems to have had little dominion over the minds of men or women: engagements of this kind were of the heart.” The plighted maiden’s hopes of happiness with her betrothed were linked with her prayers for the great cause in which he was fighting. She worked day and night, spinning and weaving, and attending,to the farm, having but little assistance from her stepfather, whose health had failed entirely after three months’ service in the Snow Campaign. The labor of her hands sup- plied bread for the family, and clothing for her brothers when they would return home in rags. Her unwearied toil was sweetened by trust in her lover’s faith, and anticipations of a bright future with the return of peace. Alas for the fallacy of human hopes! When the Greys first entered the army, Cap- tain James Philips was the commanding officer. Philips deserted his troops, and joined the roy- alists. After his defection, Robert Grey entered into the artillery service. During the battle of Fort Moultrie, he was stationed on the Charles- ton wharf all day, never tasting a particle of food. When the fight was over, and he returned weary and exhausted to his tent, he found that one of his comrades, who had excused himself from duty in the morning on the plea of illness, had devoured all his rations; so that he was compelled to fast till the next day. He was the orderly sergeant of his company. Not long afterwards, when he was firing a cannon, it burst, and injured him so severely as to disable him forever from active service. William Grey, after Philip’s departure, joined the company of Captain Robert Ellison as first lieutenant. He served in the Indian war under General Pickens ; at the battle of Fort Moultrie; in the campafgn against St. Augustine, remark- able only for the suffering of the troops; and was engaged in almost every battle fought in

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A CAROLINA WOMAN OF THE REVOLUTION. 215 the South. Gaston was his chosen friend, and both were lieutenants in the regular army. Both were remarkable for their brave spirit and love of the pomp and show of war; their uni- forms were rich in material and splendid in decoration, and their three-cornered hats were adorned with tall and waving plumes. The soldiers remarked that Gaston’s uniform made him too conspicuous when the regulars made the charge on the British works at Savannah, in which he was wounded. At the opening of the campaign of 1780, these two young officers were again in the field. After the fall of Charleston, when the whole province lay under the paw of the British lion, they were among the handful of Whigs who stood unsubdued on the upper edge of the State, on their return from North Carolina, whither they had been driven as refugees, and ready to contend for the ground, inch by inch. In June, 1780, their camp was pitched on Clem’s Branch, on the upper edge of Lancaster District. It was here that they were found by General Sumter. The heartfelt, thrilling joy of this meeting may be imagined. These officers had been en- gaged for years in the same sacred, though now drooping cause. All were driven from their homes; their beloved ones left to the mercy of the invader. Sumter had been forced to fly, while the enemy were wreaking their vengeance on his defenceless household, destroying his property, plundering his goods, and burning his house to the ground. Mrs. Sumter and the family, turned out shelterless, had sought the hospitality of a family in the country. Solici- tude for the safety of these helpless ones, and indignation at their spoilers, stimulated the pa- triots to immediate action. General Sumter selected a few men, among whom were William Grey and Alexander Gaston, to accompany him to the lower country, bring away his family, and punish the destroyers. At Wright’s Bluff, on Black River, they encountered a body of British and Loyalists, and were forced to retreat across the river. Gaston had taken the small- pox, and, being wet while crossing, became too ill to proceed, and was left at the house of McConnell. He died in a few days. As a curious incident, it may be mentioned that his splendid uniform, carefully preserved by the Gaston family, was altered into a wed- ding-coat, nine years afterwards, for his young- est brother, Joseph Gaston. The coat was made by John Hemphill, who then followed the trade of a tailor, and having, by industry in his call- ing, accumulated money, obtained a classical education, studied divinity in the Associate { Reformed Presbyterian church, and ranked among the ablest divines of the day. The anguish of Mary Grey at the news of her lover’s death may not be described. The lapse of twelve years could not soothe her grief so that sbe would listen to any proposal of mar- riage. And, to the latest period of life, the mention of Alexander Gaston’s name would bring tears to her eyes, while she repeated: “Yes; we were to have been married at the close of the war.” During the summer of 1780, probably at the surprise of Sumter, on Fishing Creek,* William Grey was taken prisoner, and sent to Camden jail. He was afterwards liberated on parole, but not allowed to go more than three miles from Winnsboro’. He stayed with his brother- in-law McCreight, where Mary was most of the time, the British being encamped at Winnsboro’. Her family had been several times robbed by the Tories; but she was accustomed to say: “I had no fears. My mind was fixed unchangeably to the cause.” She looked on the enemies of her country as the cause of her own sorrows. The British always pretended to pay for what they took from the country people, giving cer- tificates, which, they said, would be redeemed by the king’s agents; which, however, the Whigs did not like to receive. On one occasion, when a party of the enemy took most of the provisions from Dunlap, he requested the sol- diers to leave him a few dozens of oats for seed. On their refusal, he observed: “I am now satisfied you don’t intend to stay long, or you would want to let us plant again.” When, at another time, they had plundered McCreight’s barnyard, Mrs. McCreight saw them chasing her poultry, and, calling after them, “ You ras- cals! will you take my geese?” saved her flock from spoliation. : The smallpox was prevalent at this time among the British soldiers, and especially the Tories and hangers-on of the camp. The sick were quartered upon the inhabitants of the surrounding country, two being placed in Mary’s family. She was compelled to give up the house, and live in the kitchen; yet to attend upon the intruders, who were suffering much with the disease, and appeared to be clergymen. They seemed repentant for having left their charge at home, and acknowledged the kind- ness shown them by those whom they had come to injure, and who gave them help like the gooa Samaritan. On Christmas morning, several cannons were fired, after the morning gun. Mary Grey asked * See “ Domestic History of the Revolution,”

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216 a soldier’s wife what it meant. The woman answered that they were keeping Christmas ; as they always did when they were in a friend’s country. ‘ And do you really think you are in a friend’s country?” asked the patriotic maiden. *‘ Certainly,”’ was the reply. ‘South Carolina is a conquered country, and belongs to the king.” ‘Does it?” asked Mary. ‘“ Well, we shall see.”” She would never go to see the army on parade, saying, “‘I have no wish to see the enemies of my country.” At this time, a few patriots of the upper dis- tricts were planning an attack on the camp of Lord Cornwallis. Robert Carr, sergeant in Colonel Davies’s company of dragoons, made his way to McCreight’s, and conferred privately with William Grey, who went next day to the borough, counted the troops on parade, observed the means of defence, strength of position, and everything necessary to be known, and made his report to Carr. The enterprise failed be- cause the Chester men could not muster a suffi- cient force to warrant the hope of a victory. The Reverend William Martin, who had been imprisoned since early in June, 1780, at Rocky Mount and Camden, was now brought into the presence of Lord Cornwallis. This remarkable man might have been called the Knox of our Revolution. Like the Scottish reformer, he * feared not the face of clay,” and his influence had contributed not a little to the spirit and resolution of the patriots. He stood before his lordship, his gray locks uncovered, hat in hand, his form erect, and his eyes fixed on Cornwallis, while the charges against him were formally stated. ‘‘ You stand charged,” said his lordship, “with preaching rebellion from the pulpit. You, an old man, a minister of the gospel of peace, to be guilty of stirring up re- bellion, and that, too, against your lawful sove- reign, King George the Third. Answer what you have to say to these charges.” Martin bowed respectfully, and, lifting his head, fixed his piercing eyes on the face of his judge: “I am happy,” he answered, “ to appear before you. For many months I have been held in chains for preaching what I believe to be the truth. I hope your lordship will bear in mind—indeed, I say it with sincerity—that, as a man,I rather love King George, and owe him nothing but good-will. I am not unac- quainted with his private character. I was raised in Scotland; educated in her literary and theological schools; settled in Ireland, where I spent my prime of life; and emigrated to this country about seven years bygone. I have preached what I belicve to be the doctrines of GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, the Reformation and the creed of my people. Kimg George was bound to protect his subjects ; he has failed to do this; protection and alle- giance go together; and your lordship will re- member our doctrine is that the subject ought not to obey those who do not protect their civil and religious liberties. Your large armies and the unoffending people here slain in cold blocd show, as I hold it, that your king has rebelled against these colonies, and they owe him no allegiance. The Declaration of Independence is a faithful commentary on the old faith of the Covenanters.” Having spoken his mind, the sturdy old Scotchman expressed himself willing to abide the pleasure of his lordship. About the same time, a conspiracy was on foot to take the life of Cornwallis, who was accustomed to take his morning and evening ride along the road. John and Minor Winn concealed themselves in a wood, armed with rifles; but, before his lordship appeared, they were discovered by some Loyalists, captured, and brought into the borough. They were con- demned to be hung at noon, and placed under guard in the wood ; the bushes, which had been cut away to get firewood, being piled in heaps around them. Minor, distressed at the near prospect of death, prevailed on the guard to send for Martin, the minister. He came; and they knelt in devout prayer under the shadows of a bsush-pile, pleading earnestly for divine mercy till the fatal hour struck. The gallows stood in view; but the conspirators, at the last moment, were marched to the head-quarters of Cornwallis, and grafiously pardoned. Mary Grey stood in the door to watch the melancholy procession conveying her neighbors to death ; and was able afterwards to explain the mystery of their pardon and the release of Martin, which the young men attributed to miraculous interposition called down by the minister’s prayers. The mercy was owing to the interces- sion of Colonel John Philips—called Tory Philips—who had known Martin in Ireland. Justice has not been done to the character of this man, whose wealth and aristocratic educa- tion imbued him with Loyalist principles; but who was conscientious, kind, and generous. While the British were in possession of Winns- boro’, it is said he was constantly occupied in acts of kindness to the Whigs, saving their lives and property. None of his acquaintances were put to death. After the departure of the British troops, Philips was sole commander of the Loyalists in his district, and he formed his camp at Cald- well’s, not far from the Wateree or Mount Olivet a i ee

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eo VF YS -— FT FF vs UG ~ eo a A CAROLINA WOMAN OF THE REVOLUTION. 217 ~~ Church. They maintained, with no little pride, the control of the country. But a surprise from a party of Whigs completely routed them. One poor Tory was killed in the loft, where he had hid himself, and refused to come down, Philips, though he had a pistol in each hand, was taken prisoner, and carried to Camden. Here he was tried for crimes probably committed by his men, and condemned to be hung. The Whigs of Fairfield who had received favors from him joined in a petition for his life, and his sentence was commuted to banishment. Thus compelled to sue for and receive his life from the hands of his political enemies, his example formed a striking contrast to that of Martin. Another Loyalist camp, near the mouth of Wateree Creek, was surprised after a night of careless revelry; for, supposing the country subdued, they slept without sentinels. A few resolute Whigs crept up stealthily on their hands and knees to the place where the guns were stacked, and carried them off. This ac- complished, they posted themselves around the camp, raised a terrific yell, and fired off the guns in rapid succession. The startled Tories, finding their camp surrounded and their guns taken away, and confused with the darkness, the sharp peals of the rifles, and the yelling of the enemy, with one accord made for the creek, and, jumping down the bank, swam across. It was a cold night, and much ice had formed on the edge of the stream. The Whigs took pos- session of the camp, threw the firearms into the deep water of the creek, and long before sunrise were on their return to the upper districts. Not many of the patriots remained in the neighborhood after the memorable surprise of General Sumter; though a few ventured back, and lay out in the woods. One day they sent a young man, William Lewis, to procure some provisions. He found a potato-patch that pro- mised well; but, while digging, he was seized by some Tories, and carried off, without an opportunity to send word to his party. At noon, the Loyalists stopped at a farm-house, and ordered the lady to prepare dinner. There was in the yard a cedar trough, which they filled with corn; then slipped their horses’ bridles, and let them feed. The hostess got the dinner, and made pre- paration to release the prisoner. She had directed her little son to put the bridle on the best horse at the trough, which he did, and, then lying down in the corner of the fence, pretended to be fast asleep. While the Tories were discussing their meal, the matron beckoned VOL. Li1r.—19 LPL LLL LLLP LPR PLP ln ton tn rtrd PP POPPED ARP POPPE RDA PAP Pr to Lewis to come into the back room, and get something to eat. She then showed him the window, and told him what arrangements she had made for his escape; returning with more provisions to her guests. Presently, the whole party was alarmed by the tramp of a horse’s feet, as he passed up the lane. They rushed to the door, and after their flying prisoner, but failed to overtake him. The boy was very hard to wake, and professed to know nothing of the matter. Lewis remained some three months in North Carolina before he durst venture home. When he was afterwards about to marry the widow of Captain John Taylor, some of his enemies endeavored to prevent the match by charging him with stealing the horse on which he had escaped; but, when Mrs. Taylor was made fully acquainted with the circumstances, she looked upon it rather as a recommendation. Lieutenant William Grey removed to Georgia, and, after a few years, to East Tennessee; but died on the way, leaving a widow and family. Robert died a few years after the close of the war. Mary was induced to give up her resolu- tion never to marry by Hugh Barkley, a young Irishman, in 1792. She was the last surviving member of her own family; and her husband died in 1814. She lived afterwards with her son and daughter. In her ninety-third year she enjoyed remarkable health, retaining her mental faculties in unusual vigor. The Bible was her daily companion, and she read chiefly religious books, though she always took a decided interest in the politics of the country, read the news- papers, and expressed her opinions freely on the questions of the day. She expressed great con- tempt for the cowardice of runaways during the Mexican war. “Our days,”*she would say, “were the good old times of log-cabins, and training in the Word of God and the catechism. The people then knew their rights, and dared to maintain them; and made no false issue.”’ Mrs. Barkley was intimate with Mary John- ston, another admirable matron, mentioned in “The Women of the Revolution.” To the latest period of her life she was skilful with her needle, and spent much time in sewing. In person, she was of medium height and large; her full face showing not many furrows; her snow white locks shading a high and massive forehead; her eyes of piercing brightness, and full of intelligence. She was lively, and fond of cheerful conversation, entering with interest into the mirth of those around her; and es- teemed by all who knew her as one of the most interesting of women, considering her great age.

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* When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou !”—ScorTrT. “ Hath she not soothed me, sick? enriched me, poor? And banished grief and misery from my door? Hath she not cherished every moment’s bliss, And made an Eden of a world like this ?”’ Tue work that, whilst professing to counsel young women, omitted all mention of the duties of the sick-room, would indeed be imperfect; for where is there to be found one of our sex so isolated as never to be called upon to watch over a suffering friend, or so robust that she is never herself likely to be an unwilling captive on a couch of pain? Surely there is no young girl who would will- ingly depute to hirelings the care of a parent, or a younger brother or sister, suffering from one of the many maladies to which we all are liable; who would shrink, either in selfish fear or mor- bid sentiment, from administering to the relief of those she loved? But, as it is possible that some may be deterred from proffering their aid from mistrust of their own powers of usefulness, and as some also are doubtless so ignorant of the duties of a nurse as to be rather a hinderance than a help, we will just give a few directions concerning the most obvious duties of those who are engaged in attending an invalid. But let us first remark that those who would leave a suffering parent or friend to the care of a professional nurse, under the idea that her services would be more welcome because she is more skilful than themselves, Jittle know or guess the blessings which they thus voluntarily forego ; for who can estimate the increase of affection which will be lavished on the dutiful daughter who has been her father’s faithful nurse during a long illness? Whocan tell how the remem- brance of a kind and loving sister, soothing and ymusing him during a childish illness, may re- turn to the heart of some prodigal brother, and recall him to his duty and his home? Who can tell how many bonds of family union, that would otherwise have been snapped asunder in the wear and turmoil and conflicting interests of the world, are riveted yet more strongly by the tender sympathy and patient love which the euffering of some members have elicited from the others? And oh, never forget that affection 213 MATERNAL COUNSELS TO A DAUGHTER. THE SICK-ROOM. and the desire to please will atone much for the want of skill; that your father and mother will receive your imperfect service with a sentiment of joy which can only be comprehended by you when you yourselves are parents. Then, indeed, if not before, you will learn how the severest pain of which mortals are susceptible is assuaged, if not removed, by the tender and gentle minis- tering of a beloved child; that never more than in periods of bodily suffering do we recognize the truth, that * Love is still the lord of all ;”’ for that wealth and luxury, great as is their power, are as nothing in soothing the agony of suffering, compared to the gentle voice of one we love, and the kind and patient watching of those to whom we feel ourselves to be endeared. But, as it is desirable not only to possess the earnest wish to aid the sufferings, but also to know how best to do so, a little friendly advice as to the duties of the sick-room may fairly be considered as an essential part of the guide. The qualities which every good nurse must especially possess are, CONSCIENTIOUSNESS, GENTLENESS, Firmness, Goop Sense, and Goop Temper. First, undoubtedly, comes ConscrenTiovs- NEss, by which, in this instance, we imply a rigid and truthful obedience to the orders of the medical man, and the giving a careful account to him of every symptom and of every incident con- nected with the patient. It would seem almost unnecessary to insist upon the propriety of obey- ing the orders of the doctor, did we not daily see instances of the evasion of them. One would think that it followed as a matter of course, on calling in a medical practitioner, that, after giving such a proof of confidence in his skill, we should implicitly carry out all his wishes ; but probably every member of the profession could relate in- stances of a patient’s life being endangered, if not sacrificed, by the obstinacy of the sufferer or the neglect of the nurse. The guardian of a sick-room, therefore, should not only rigidly obey orders herself, but she should insist on the obedience of others, and esteem it a part of her duty to acquaint the medica] attendant with any violation of his rules. She should be careful to inform herself what diet is proper for the patient,

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= aren we wa YF ' Ce oO fF =“=“acer & @ MATERNAL COUNSELS TO A DAUGHTER. 219 and at what intervals it should be taken, as well us with regard to medicines and every other mat- ter. Every symptom should be carefully noted, and related at the next visit of the doctor. It may or may not be important: of that you are not required to be a judge; your duty is simply to be as a hand or an eye for him during his ab- sence, observing everything, and following his orders in all matters, large orsmall. To do this, and yet to be welcome to a patient who is per- haps rendered irritable and self-willed by severe suffering, how much is needed of two other qualities we have named—GeENTLENESS and Firmness. Gentleness indeed can hardly be sufficiently extolled in a nurse: liké charity, its twin sister, it covers a multitude of sins. A low sweet voice, always “an excellent thing in wo- man,” is doubly so when the brain is racked by suffering, and the hearing rendered unusually acute by disease; at such a time a harsh, loud tone is quite inexcusable. Some women, how- ever, in their anxiety to avoid noise, make a practice of whispering all their communications with others in a sick-room, which is very fre- quently more injurious, as.it is more exciting to the nerves than the loudest ordinary voice. Every sort of noise should be avoided with equal care. Quietness is almost invariably one of the conditions of restoration to health, and in nerv- ous diseases especially the crumpling of a piece of paper, the banging of a door, or the throwing of coals on the fire will be sufficient to increase the previous fever and excitement to an alarm- ing degree. Everything necessary should there- fore be done with the utmost quietness, and no precaution be spared that will prevent the carelessness or unskilfulness of others from in- juring our charge. All bustle and fuss should be avoided, and such forethought exercised in con- sidering what will be wanted, and what is done _with, that no unnecessary opening and shut- ting of doors take place. A little method in all these matters will diminish your own fatigue and that of the servants, and save much annoy- ance to the patient. But if gentleness be requi- site in movement, how much more so is it in all our intercourse with the sick? The soothing ; tone, the look of affection, the indulgence of any harmless whim, are quite compatible with the utmost firmness in obeying orders and causing them to be obeyed. Whoever is placed near a sick couch will almost certainly encounter much way wardness and petulance, and perhaps at times some injustice; this must not only be borne, but it must be borne as if there were nothing to bear. To display any petulance in return would be to show yourself utterly unfit to be a nurse ; AAR eee PPLL LL LL LLL LPP PLP mon to attempt to appear magnanimous—to act as if there were something to forgive—would pre- bably wound one already suffering self-reproach for the impatien: word which has wounded you. A generous heart must be already deeply grieved by having suffered even severe bodily pain to extort an unkind or an ungrateful word ; and if, whatever the lips may express, the heart is not touched by kindness during illness, any parade of forgiveness would be worse than useless. Nor must we forget that our duty is in no way affected by the waywardness and irritability of our charge, whatever our comfort may be. To do all in our power to lighten the sufferings of the patient, and contribute in every way to his restoration to health, is the obvious duty of a nurse. To lead the thoughts, therefore, to cheerful subjects, to draw the attention from present suffering, to inculcate cheerful submis- sion to the will of the Almighty, and trust and faith in his love, are duties almost more impera- tive than any others in those who watch by the sick. But if we do not feel these sentiments ourselves, how shall we impart them to others? If we ourselves have no stay, no truth, no con- fidence in our heavenly Father, words of conso- lation from our lips will be but as “sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.” Sad indeed is it if the hour of pain and suffering is the first in which we begin to think of the future; for it is an hour when we see so clearly through all fal- lacies, that nothing less pure and true than Eternal Truth itself can satisfy our minds. At such a time, a knowledge of the Bible is of un- speakable benefit; and often the hymns and pieces of sacred poetry learnt in the days of childhood may be available to lighten and cheer the dreary hours of suffering. This should always be a motive for acquiring and retaining a store of such things, since there are often times when to read is impracticable, both to patient and nurse, and when the recital of a few verses, or a hymn, may be an unspeakable benefit. In all intercourse with the sick, good sense will teach us to avoid any unnecessary irritation of a mind already excited and enfeebled by disease, and good temper will induce us to give way to them in every point which does not involve their well-being. Needlessly to oppose the harmless fancy of a patient is an act of folly as well as cruelty, and this is especially the case when he is sufficiently convalescent to no longer be a subject of great anxiety. How many are retarded in their progress towards complete recovery by the thoughtlessness of those about them, or of some foolish indulgence they have

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220 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ~~ been permitted. All medical men say that even greater care is necessary during recovery from a dangerous illness than whilst it is at its height; ; ? because, when we are conscious of danger, we guard against it, but when we consider it as passed, we forget that it may return. GRANDFATHER’S DARLING. BY VIRGINIA DE FORREST. (See Plate.) Tnere lived, many years ago, in a pretty country town, in the northern part of Penn- sylvania, a family, consisting of old Farmer Campbell, his daughter, son-in-law, and two grandchildren. The farmer owned a pleasant, substantial house; several acres of ground; and a small, very small sum of Money in the county bank. His son-in-law, Roger Harris, was a carpenter by trade; and, being an industrious, painstaking man, supported his wife and infant son in comfort, leaving often a little sum to place beside the farmer’s in the bank. There was one other member of the farmer’s house- hold, the daughter of his eldest son. She was an orphan, her father having died just one month before her birth; and her heart-broken mother following soon after, leaving the little Bessie to her grandfather and Aunt Rachel’s care. Very tenderly was the little one brought up; and, previous to her aunt’s wedding, she was the sole object of care and interest to the old man and the pretty young girl, who supplied a mother’s place to her. But, at the time my story opens, Roger and little Eddy occupied the first places in Rachel’s heart; and, although still kind and loving to the little girl, she found less time to attend to her than before her mar- riage. Bessie’s dress showed the change; her fair hair, which it had once been Rachel’s pride to curl and decorate, was now suffered to hang loose, except on great occasions, or when Bes- sie’s own untutored fingers arranged it. Her shoes and dresses were often too large or too small; and, but for an innate love of purity and neatness, which made her careful of her own appearance, Bessie would have presented a dis- mal contrast to the pretty, neat little girl who had been pet and plaything for seven or eight years in her grandfather’s household. Bessie felt the change, but did not resent it. She was of a meek, loving disposition, grateful for the kindness showered upon her, and willing to make all allowances for aunty’s increased cares ; besides, she was still grandfather’s darling, his | ; | pet, and companion. No; Roger, not even Rachel’s baby, could come into Bessie’s place in grandfather’s heart. She was the orphan child of his noble son; and there was no sacrifice too great for him to make to the little one. His love was judicious. No indulgence was spared that was not pernicious; and yet no fault was suffered to pass unpunished. She was early taught to read and write, sew, and perform many household tasks; and grandfather’s great delight was to increase her stock of knowledge by telling many anecdotes and stories of distant lands, or great and good men, as he and his darling sat out the pleasant evenings together. The first time I ever saw little Bessie Camp- bell was after I had been riding in the vicinity of Farmer Campbell’s house. @ was just after sunset; and I was very much fatigued with my long ride. Seeing a farm-house on the road, with the door standing most invitingly open, I proposed to my companion to alight, and rest. Fastening our horses to a post, we took the path leading from the gate to the door. The _ scene within was so characteristic of home com- fort, that we paused a moment, doubtful whether to disturb the group before us. A pretty look- ing young woman was seated at a table, feeding a baby; and, in the room beyond, a man was engaged in some carpenter’s work; but the group that attracted my attention consisted of an old man and a little girl. He was seated; a book in his hand, hearing her spelling lesson ; and, from time to time, caressing his little pupil, who, with her hands clasped, her eyes raised, and her whole soul intent on her task, was repeating the words. We stood a moment, silent; then the old man, raising his head, perceived us; and, lay- ing aside his book, advanced to welcome us. During the time we were resting, he told many anecdotes of his pet’s brightness, goodness, and gentleness ; and the little girl won our hearts by her sweet, modest manner, her low voice, pretty looks, and devotion to her grandfather.

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GRANDFATHER’S DARLING. I often saw the little one after that; and will } cousins are too young to take my place. give her story as I knew it. For eight years after the time I have chosen for opening this sketch, the family lived happily at the old farm. Then there was a change made. Roger Harris, whose family was in- creased to five children—two boys and three girls—built a house near his father-in-law’s, and took his wife and family to live in it ; leav- ing Bessie and her grandfather alone at the farm. Rachel dreaded the change for her father’s sake; but his whole soul was so wrapped up in Bessie, now a lovely girl of sixteen, that he bore the change very well. They were very happy together, the old man and the young girl. It was Bessie’s turn to protect and care now for the dear grandfather who had so devotedly loved and guided her in her infancy and child- hood. It was a pleasant spring evening. Farmer Campbell was sleeping in his room, for age had damped his vigor; and a day’s work left him very tired, and glad to retire to rest early. The household duties were over; and Bessie was standing in the porch. Not alone: by her side stood a young man, one who had seen some two- and-twenty summers; who had sought Bessie, and won her gentle, loving heart into his own keeping. ** You will not leave me, Cyrus?” said Bessie, raising her large, blue eyes to his face. **You will accompany me, Bessie,” he an- swered, drawing her close to his side. ‘I must go. My uncle proposes to start me in business if I will join him in California; while here,as you know, I have no prospect of being more than a carpenter’s foreman for my lifetime. I have received, thanks to my uncle’s care, an education above this; and my ambition is to be amerchant. You love me, Bessie; you have often owned it; and you will go with me.” “You know I cannot, Cyrus. Grandfather could not take this journey at his time of life.” “Why, who ever imagined you would take your grandfather!” said the young man, in a tone of surprise. *‘ You would not have me leave him, Cyrus— leave my grandfather, who has given up his life for sixteen years to me; who considered no sacrifice too great to indulge me; who loves me more than life! Cyrus, you would not have me leave him to die alone?” “ He has Rachel, Roger, and his other grand- children.” “Could any of them supply my place? My aunt and uncle have their own cares; and my 19° , 221 I can- not leave him, Cyrus.” ** Not to be with me?” The tone was reproachful; and the large black eyes, looking into hers, were full of love’s pleading eloquence. Bessie’s head drooped upon his breast. There was a fearful struggle going on in her heart. Her grandfather, if she left him, would have Rachel and Roger, would be well cared for, perhaps not miss her. Not miss her, the darling of his old age, his constant companion? Who could take her place? who could read by the hour together to him when his eyes failed? who would give her whole time to studying his comfort? who could supply his darling’s place? Suppose he should die, and she be far away from him! But, Cyrus—how could she let him take that long journey—go to a far, distant country alone? Alone? he was young and hopeful. Could he not better bear to be alone than the feeble old man who so loved her? Poor Bessie! How fiercely love struggled with duty! And Cyrus’s encircling arms and low voice, pleading his cause, made her task harder still. “Cyrus,” the voice was low and trembling, and he bent to catch her words, “I love you. I shall always love you; but I cannot go.” “Not go! Youdonot love me. Words are easily said, actions speak more loudly. You do not love me,” said Cyrus, passionately; and, pushing her from him, he strode down the steps, and from the farm. Bessie stood in the porch, looking after him. Her face was very pale, and her whole form trembled with agitation ; her eyes were turned towards him, with a look of love and wistfulness agonizing to see; but no word passed her lips to recall him. She watched him as he walked rapidly down the road; and then turned sadly into the house, and sought her own room, where, sinking on her knees, she poured forth her sorrow in prayer. The next day, without seeing Bessie, or leay- ing her any word of his purpose, Cyrus Hill. left the country town for New York, and, in a few weeks, sailed for California. Bessie heard of his departure, and felt that now indeed her life was all her grandfather’s. A few months after Cyrus had deserted Bes- sie, Farmer Campbell was taken very ill. He had been ailing for a long time; but now he was so ill that a physician was called in; and everything had to be put aside by his darling, and her whole time spent in nursing and watch- ing him. He was sick for many months, The little sam at the bank was all exhausted. Roger

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222 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND. MAGAZINE. helped as far as he was able; but he had a large She started, looked up, and saw a man stand- family to care for, and could spare but little. Bessie’s earnings were very small; for her grandfather required such constant care that but little time could be spared for needlework ; and one by one the articles of furniture, except- ing those in her grandfather’s room, were sold to meet his wants. After lingering for nearly fifteen months, the old man died, and Bessie was indeed alone. She looked around for a home. Roger’s was open to her; but Bessie knew Roger had his own family to support, and shrank from being a ‘burden on him. A situa- tion as seamstress was offered her in a neighbor- ing village, and she accepted it. It was a pleasant morning in July that Bessie started for her new home. She had spent the night, the last, in the old farm-house, in prayer, and was strengthened for the weary prospect before her. She has altered since she stood in the porch, that memorable night; her face is very pale; her form thin; and her expression very, very sad. Her deep mourning dress casts a gloom on the sweet face, very painful to see in one so young. Oh, in the long days, when bending wearily over her work, how her heart longed for Cyrus! She had forgiven him his unkindness, and re- membered only how she loved him; and his “ace was ever in her eye, his loving words in ner ear. How the sad heart longed for him! But she never regretted her decision. She shuddered, as she imagined that long illness, and she far away from her grandfather’s bedside. Farmer Campbell had been dead just a year. Bessie was seated at her window, sewing on some plain work for some neighboring farmer’s wife. She was still in mourning, though not so deep as when we last sawher; and her face was still sad and pale; but, with its expression of patient resignation and inward trust, very, very lovely. She sat sewing with languid fingers, her thoughts far away. She was thinking of Cyrus. Ever, when her fingers were employed and her mind free, memory brought back the loved face and dear voice; and all unkindness was forgotten by the gentle, forgiving heart of the wronged one. Had he forgotten her? How often had that question been unanswered? And still she longed to know. He was alive, wrote often; that she heard from his mother; but there came no message to her, only, occasion- ally, he asked if she was well, and still unmar- tied. The work dropped from her hands, while the beautiful head drooped wearily upon her breast. ** Bessie \” ——s | ing before her. Her heart told her who it was; though the pale face, attenuated form, and sad voice accorded ill with the ruddy bloom, hardy figure, and merry tones Cyrus Hil! had left upon the young girl’s memory. He stood a moment, looking into her upraised face, and then spoke. ** Bessie, I have deeply wronged you. I feel that I deserve most bitter punishment; but I come craving forgiveness. In my long absence, I have longed, words cannot tell how intensely, to ask your pardon for the false, hasty words I spoke at our parting. Yet I could not write. I felt that I must come and sue myself for for- giveness. I have been very ill; and, as soon as I waz strong enough, I came home to you. Let me, when I return, take with me the pardon I so ill deserve.” Bessie sat still, looking into the face she had loved so well, and struggling to subdue her emotion. As Cyrus finished speaking, she bowed her head, again praying inaudibly for composure. He mistook the motion, and said: “ You turn from me, Bessie; you cannot forgive. I deserve it; but it is very hard to bear. If you could know how your image has been with me con- stantly since I left you; how, night and day, I have longed for one word from the sweet voice I so worship; how bitterly I have repented my injustice, you would—” He ceased, and then exclaimed, impetuously—“ Bessie, will you not look or speak to me?” She stood up before him, and with only one word—* Cyrus”—flung herself, sobbing, into his arms. The long journey and subsequent agitation, working on a frame already weakened by disease, brought on a relapse; and Cyrus Hill lay for weeks, after his interview with Bessie, at the point of death. A young, strong consti- tution, ‘however, conquered the illness; and he recovered. In about three months after his arrival, Cyrus sailed again for California; but he did not go alone: there was a young, fair face smiling a farewell from the vessel’s deck to friends on shore; and, as it turned to him, grandfather’s darling felt amply repaid in the love she knew met her there fer all her former sacrifices. —- ~weese—-— Ir you wish to please in this world, you should muster resolution sufficient to allow yourself to be taught many things which you know by per- sons who know nothing about them. eo fA os & «ane

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CHARADES IN ACTION. Answer o Charade in the July number—MIsTLE-TOE. ACT I. DRAMATIS PERSON. VIstTors. In1sn Footman. SERVANTS. A Lapy. Scene 1.—4 drawing-room in the house of a Lapy. The room is in confusion, the chairs placed one on another, and the table covered with chimney ornaments, to tell that it is a day for ** doing the drawing-room.” Enter a Lavy, with her hair in papers, and dirty white kid gloves on. She holds a feather broom in one hand and a duster in the other. Her face wears an expression of intense fatigue. Enter Servants with pails and brooms. Some kneel down and commence scrubbing, whilst the others seep the floor. Ny At the end the drawing-room door for street door. Scene 2.—Passage in the house of a Lady. Enter Intsa Footman, dancing wildly, and erying “ Macree!” The knock is repeated, and, having shaken his fist at the door, he advances and opens it. Enter Vistrors, splendidly dressed, and hold- ing their card-cases in their hands, As they arrange their bonnets, they inquire, in genteel action, whether the Lady is at home. Footman shakes his head, and spreads his arms open to pre- vent the Ladies advancing. They are surprised at his impudence, and cast withering glances at the fellow. The Footman then exhibits a placard inscribed, “‘Missus sAys sHE 1s ovt!” The Ladies are disgusted, and dashing their cards on the ground with passion, leave the house. ‘ > ? 4 ee es eee PPPPP PAPI IIR RR OY ~aeernnns Enter the Intsp Footman, who begins dane- ing about, and every now and then crying “ dar- lint,” to show the land of his birth. He is ordered by the Lady to polish the chairs, whilst she herself dusts the picture frames, and wipes chimney ornaments. Suddenly a loud double knock is heard in the passage. The Lady starts, and, as she pulls on her cap, stamps on the floor to express how tire- some it is. She goes cautiously to the window to see who the Visitors are; and having inti- mated that they are carriage-people—by pre- tending to hold some reins and a whip—points to her curl papers, and wrings her hands with sorrow. Pulling out a placard inscribed, “ Say 1’m out,” she shows it to the Irish Footman, who, crying “‘ Och !”? bounds from the room, fol- lowed by Servants and Lady. B: > The man picks up the cards, and, winking knowingly, laughs outright, dancing about with joy at having done his duty. " Exit Footman, dancing. ACT II. DRAMATIS PERSON. PassIoNATE HusBAND. K NAGGING WIFE. Hvuspanpn’s Motuer-1n-Law. Scenre.—Dining-room in house of Passionaie Husband. A table covered with a dinner-cloth is seen in the centre. Enter Passtonate Hvusspanp, in walking costume, and carrying his business blue bag. He is astonished at finding no one in the room. He looks at his watch, and with a look of anger, 223

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RAPP PAPAL holds up seven fingers to tell that it is seven o’clock. He goes through the process of eating, at the same time shaking his head to inform the audience that the dinner is late. In his rage he throws away his blue bag, dashes his hat on the floor, and rushing to the bell-rope, rings violently until he pulls it down. Enter Knacoine Wire, with great dignity, and looking very cross. She, in disdainful pan- tomime, inquires the cause of his rage. He Holding up seven fingers, points to the table. he pnils out his watch to tell her that it is seven o’clock. Knagging Wife sneers at watch, and, pulling out her own, holds up six fingers. Hus- band, in a greater rage, shakes his seven fingers in his Wife’s face, dancing about with passion all the while. contempt, and still pointing to her six fingers. Enter Motuer 1n-Law, who has come to dinner. She is surprised at the scene that is going forward, and lets her parasol drop in heramazement. Husband, on seeing her, rushes forward, and seizing her by the arm, drags her to his Wife. Then, showing her his watch, he She stands gazing on him with commands her to state the time. In her alarm, Mother does not know what to do. Her Daughter keeps on saying that it is six, and her son seven. At last she, in her endeavors to agree with both her children, holds up six fingers, and one half doubled up, to intimate that it is half-past six. On this her Son-in-Law’s rage increases. He seizes the chairs and dashes them on the floor, LPP LLL 224 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. PAPAL LAPP RAL LAA breaking them in pieces.* He upsets the table, until, quite exhausted, he picks up a chair and sinks into it. Mother-in-Law faints, and—the clock strikes seven. The Husband is astonished to find that he was wrong. He is overcome by his feelings, and drawing his cheque-book writes a handsome draft. He advances coaxingly to his Wife. She beckons him from her, stamping with indigna- tion. On seeing the cheque she grows calmer, and bursts into tears. Husband clasps her in his arms. Mother-in-Law comes to, and rising, blesses them. ACT IIl. DRAMATIS PERSONZ. Omnisus Man. A Stour GENTLEMAN. A Lapy, en tres bon point. Tuer Turee Prume Curipren. PASSENGERS. Tue Rarn.t Scrne.—The Strand, as closely as it can be imi tated. The Rain is supposed to be descending in torrents. At the end of the room the sofa for the omnibus, with a placard written, “To THE Bank,” fastened on it. Enter Omnisvus Conpvucror, in a hfige white cape, and saucepan lid fastened round his neck for a badge, following PassENGERS—all holding up umbrellas—and soliciting them to enter his omnibus. They are persuaded, and take their seats. The Conductor, mounting on his board, holds up his finger and leans forward, hailing on all sides. The Passengers within grow im- patient at the delay, and keep pulling Conductor by his coat, frowning at him. They point threateningly to his badge, and pull! out their note-books to take his number. Conductor in vain endeavors to pacify them. He compliments the Ladies, and appeals to the Gentlemen, but without effect, for all the “ fares” take his num- * For the success of this act, something ought to be broken. If it isonly a kitchen chair, it helps; but a card- table would be the proper thing. ¢t Rain can be made in any quantity by rustling paper, or small pieces of tin, in the passage outside. A few peas in a saucepan make a very nice shower; but for “cats and dogs” it is always much better fr two or three of the company to sh-e-e-ew. eh one fs aos e.

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BEATRICE. —_——eeeeeeeeee ber. He again mounts his stand, and hails on all sides. Umbrellas are thrust from the omni- bus, and the Passengers poke the Conductor with the ferrules. Just as the Man is about to resent, Enter Srour GENTLEMAN running and hail- ing omnibus. In one hand he holds his large umbrella, and with the other he wipes his fore- head. 225 OOOO aa eee PL PLP LLP APL LAPP PPD PD Enter a Lapy en tres bon point, also running, and carrying large parcels. Enter Terr Taree Pirump Curipren, one after another, and panting for breath. Con- ductor descends from his perch, and all the Pas- sengers gaze with horror on the great size of the new-comers. The Stout Gentleman, between his gasps, inquires, in pantomime, whether there is Conductor immediately nods in an- any room. swer, and invites the Family to enter the omni- bus. The Passengers inside here refuse. They indignantly oppose the entrance with their um- brellas. Conductor is enraged, and lifting up one of the children thrusts him in, but it is immediately pushed out again. The Passengers descend from the *bus in great anger. They point to the new-comers, and intimate they are too large to be admitted. They also object to their wet umbrellas. Conductor demands his fare. They all refuse, ‘and buttoning up their pockets make for the PLPLPLPLP LL PLL LPL LLP OPP PPP PPP passage, pursued by Conductor, squaring and jumping in circles round the Passengers, who defend themselves with their umbrellas. Exeunt omnes, disputing, and raving. BEATRICE BY G. H. * Anp now, Luttrell, we are alone. I must again repeat to you how rejoiced I am to once more welcome you to your native land, and insist upon your fulfilling the promise once made me, of relating all the adventures and stirring scenes you passed through, particularly those in which the little god took so ijarge a share.” ** Alas, my dear Carleton, my adventures are like the recollection of some wild, fevered dream, a hideous nightmare, from which we start with bristling hair, while the cold sweat bursts from every pore! Had I not been seized with that fatal yearning to visit foreign lands, had I resisted firmly my restless love of adven- ture, I might still have been careless, light- hearted Harry Luttrell. As it is—” * As it is,” interrupted his friend, “ you have a desperate attack of blues, which nothing will dispel but one of these cigars. Upon my life, there is a vitality about them perfectly irresist- ible! And now, while that fragrant vapor is | | | | 8. HULL. curling so deliciously around your rather savage moustache, you may proceed with your night- mare. IT wish the gods would vouchsafe just such a one to me.” “ As great a rattle-brain as ever, Phil. But, before I commence, what say you to a stroll around the plantation, into the village? The moon will soon be up; and our romantic walks and groves will show to none the less advantage beneath the rays of her most peerless majesty.” *T do not in the least doubt your penchant for these dark, orange groves and romantic walks, most noble Luttrell. Here, perchance, you have played the Corydon to many a fair Phillis, swearing by the stars above, the earth beneath, by her bright eyes and cherry lips, by all the gods and goddesses in the Pantheon, to love and be true forever and aye. By the way, was there not a whispered rumor that you were really about to wed one of these little rustics?” * Really, Carleton, you rattle on so absurdly,” exclaimed Luttrell, pettishly flinging away his

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226 Pie cigar. “It is impossible for me to get on with the tale you were so anxious to hear.” ** My dear prince of Harries, forgive me, and T promise, nay, swear to do penance in any way or shape your offended dignity may require. Bid me salute the withered cheek of that miracle of ugliness, that essence of.crab-apple and sour-krout, the dark-browed Teresa, and I vow—” “Carleton, you are incorrigible; but you know how well I love you, my dear old friend, It is needless to bore you with a recapitulation of all the little incidents bdefalling a tourist. Suffice it to say, I left New Orleans as light- hearted and happy a fellow as a full purse, an excellent credit at my bankers, and the realiza- tion of my boyhood’s dreams could make me. I went the same eternal round of sight-seeing with which American travellers have bored the public, years back, and will for years to come. One bright, glorious morning, I awoke in Flo- rence, beautiful Florence. ** Phil, as memory unseais the fountain of the past, the rushing torrent bears upon its surface so many dark and troubled images, I scarcely dare face the hideous phantasmagoria. You think me weak, nervous, womanish. Heaven knows I am changed! LEBut you shall hear all before you judge me. “As I said, I awoke one sunny morning in Florence. Here my love for the beautiful, the picturesque, was fully gratified. For weeks I lingered in the galleries of art; dreamed away hours in the sacred studio once hallowed by the presence of Michael Angelo; mused in the solitary tower of Galileo, and in the dusky aisles and crypts of the old cathedrals ; gliding along the sunny Arno, beneath a cloudless, true Italian sky; and passing days on desolate Val- lombrosa ; with Italy, the land of song, of love, of romance at my feet. Here I really believe I enjoyed perfect happiness. Having a strong desire to visit Rome and Naples during the carnival, I awaited, with some impatience, the arrival of my expected letters, before I tore myself away from Florence. ‘One morning, carelessly sauntering in a cathedral during mass, my attention was arrested by one of the most exquisite forms I ever be- held passing up one of the aisles, closely fol- lowed by an elderly woman, her attendant. It is impossible to describe the witching graceful- ness of her gait, accompanied by that voluptuous languor only to be seen among these dark-eyed daughters of Italy. She was veiled; but I caught a glimpse of a pair of dreamy, tender eyes, shadowed by their long, jetty fringes; a PRAAALR AAR AL a PPP AIO GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. eae shower of soft, raven curls; and a little hand like Parian marble. She knelt before a picture of the Virgin, her attendant just behind, and, Carleton, I know not what prompted me, but I knelt at her side. She gave me one sidelong glance, and, drawing her veil more closely to her face resumed herdevotions. The last prayer was at length finished, and, mingling with a group of devotees at the door, she dipped her white fin- gers in the vase of holy water, and disappeared in the. crowd.” “‘ Why, in the name of all. that’s mysterious, did you not follow her?” eagerly inquired Carleton. “There was a certain air of dignity, mingled with her youthful grace, forbidding any such impertinence; and I felt a presentiment we should meet again, and we did. At mass, an- gelos, vespers, I saw her daily, and yet I had only learned her name was Beatrice, from acci- dentally seeing it written on the fly-page of her missal. Our language was of the eyes; and yet, Carleton, I did not love her. I confess this to you, because I shall bare my heart, and show you the extent of my folly and cursed love of adventure. No, I did not love her,” he re- peated, dreamily. ‘‘ There were holy memories in my breast; a quiet, sacred happiness rooted there; blue, forget-me-not eyes as true as hea- ven, and a tress of pale gold hair nestling next my heart. This is whyI did notlove. But my letters were still delayed; and, growing familiar with the beautiful scenes around, ennui crept over me, and this fair creature had seized upon my imagination ; but I will not attempt to ex- cuse myself. As I said before, we met daily, and yet I had never spoken, though she had once smiled, and murmured her thanks as I restored the handkerchief she had dropped. “One delicious evening, as the vesper bells were chiming, I stood at my usual post, watch- ing for her appearance. A violent quarrel took place between a ragged Armenian and an Italian. The former stabbed the latter to the heart; and, endeavoring to make his escape, rushed full against the beautiful Beatrice, who was just turning the corner. Flying to her aid, and lift- ing her fainting form from the ground, with the assistance of her maid, I lifted her into an empty carriage which chanced to be passing, and, springing in after them, had the pleasure of receiving her thanks, uttered in tones so soft and musical, my ardent imagination was more than ever fired. On arriving at a pretty little villa near the banks of the Arno, Beatrice, once more expressing her gratitude and perfect re- covery, was gracefully waving a farewell, when

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BEATRICE. 227 eee some evil spirit prompted me to insist upon accompanying them into the house. The maid half muttered a malediction, and Beatrice turned deadly pale, though I thought a gleam of plea- sure shone in her dark eyes. At all events, I followed them into a sort of half sitting, half reception room. One or two lounges, a table covered with books, a guitar standing in a corner, pictures, and a tall cabinet or wardrobe completed the furniture. ** A short hurried consultation then took place between the mistress and maid, of which I overheard ‘ Signor to-night’ and ‘ Pietro,’ ended in the atteadant’s disappearance through a side door. Beatrice stood irresolute near an open window. The crimson rays of the setting sun left a rich glow upon her rounded cheek. The soft air, laden with the perfumed breaths of orange and oleander groves, gently stirred the silken ringlets that shadowed the perfect brow and marble throat. I was about to speak, when the maid, in an agony of terror, rushed into the room, exclaiming—‘ Alas! alas! the signora is lost. El Signor Marco.’ ** Beatrice gave a half suppressed shriek, sink- ing back upon a lounge, while her cheek and lip turned ashy pale, as she gave utterance to half broken words—‘ Alas, signor, we are lost! My husband has returned. He is here. Ah, you know him not! His anger—his jealousy— so fearful—’ ** Even as she spoke, a quick step was heard, accompanied by the joyful barking of a dog. Almost before I knew what had occurred, I was seized by the maid, and thrust into the cabinet, and the door pushed to. The next moment, I heard a deep-toned voice addressing Beatrice in words of endearment. ***T am here at last, cara mia, to stay with thee a long time. I am sick of this roving life. Fortune has served me well, this time, and now my Beatrice shall queen it among the proudest at the carnival. What sayest thou, Carina? Hast no word of greeting for Marco? Ah, ’tis ever so, cold as the snows of Vallombrosa! Saint Mark! Signora, can nothing move thee?’ **« Marco!’ **¢ Thou lovest me not, Beatrice.’ *¢ Marco!” ** Well, hast naught to say but Marco? When thy father gave me this little hand, Anima, I thought thou couldst love me; but, when we talk of love, J mean one thing—theu another. Thou hastnosmiles forMarco. Nay; then I will trouble thee not soon again with my By Saint Mark, ere to-morrow’s presence. sun— ***Signor,’ interposed the trembling maid, ‘will you not have some refreshment? The signora would rest: she is not well.’ ***Cospetto! Teresa, cannot the signora speak? Beatrice, Fra Giocomo has hinted to me of a tall Signor Inglese who has knelt at thy side. Ha! have I touched thee? Believed I the lying priest that thou wert false to me, Beatrice, my stiletto should find thy heart.’ ** Here, to my alarm—and believe me, Carle- ton, it was only for the sake of Beatrice—the little dog, having smelt around my prison some time, now commenced a series of short, quick yelps, attracting the attention of his master, who, hastily striding across the floor, said: ‘What game hast started here, Zeno?’ and, flinging open the door of the cabinet, I stood full disclosed to view. * By Heavens, I never can forget the demoniac expression that crossed his face! In an instant, he rushed to the entrance door, locked it, and threw the key from the window ; then, snatching a pair of rapiers from the cabinet, he thrust one in my hand, hissing in my ear, through his teeth—‘ Defend yourself.’ In vain I essayed to speak, to offer an explanation to exonerate the wife of the maddened man. He made a furious pass at me, which required all my ad- dress to parry; for, wretched and guilty as I felt, yet the life instinct was strong within me. Still I acted solely in self-defence. Twice a stinging sensation warned me that I received slight wounds. The purple shades of evening were gathering around us. Naught could be heard in that lonely spot but the clashing of our steels; the quick, hurried breathing of my an- tagonist, as he muttered curses on me; the smothered sobs of Teresa, as she told the beads of her rosary; and a sweet chorus of voices floating down the Arno, singing the evening hymn to the Virgin. One of us must die; of that I felt assured. Either my hand must be bathed in the blood of a stranger, one who had harmed me not; or I must make my grave in a stranger land. I am no coward, Phil; but the thoughts of death were to me then—so filled with youth and bright hopes—very terrible. He pressed me closer and closer. I felt myself weaker and more confused. I was no match for his sinewy frame. His fancied wrongs lashed him into frenzy. Again he pressed towards me; and, making a furious lunge, which would have caused my instant death, he lost his balance, and—my God, Carleton !—fell upon my weapon, which passed through his body. So instantaneous was the act, I had not time nor power tomove. Great Heaven! The

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. nee agony of years was concentrated in that mo- ment. As I bent over him, speechless with horror and remorse, he spat at me with the mingled blood and foam rising to his lips; and then all was still. ** Beatrice lay upon the floor in a death-like swoon. I stood cursing my mad folly, stupidly looking at that fast stiffening form, from which the crimson life stream was slowly welling, when I was aroused by Teresa, who directed me in quick, hurried accents to carry her insensible mistress through the side door in an adjoining room, at the same time giving me a package, which she desired me to secrete a out my per- son. She whispered that Pietro, the night watchman, was her brother; and showed me a My heart grew sick within me as I obeyed her instructions. In utter darkness and silence we remained for nearly an hour. A slight crash told me the outer door had been forced. My senses seemed quickened by my suspense; and, shortly after, a dull, heavy plunge in the water, which seemed to be at the back of the house, beneath the windows of the room I occupied, and a low murmuring of voices, told me my work was finished ; and the waves of the Arno concealed my crime. My brain seemed on fire, when Teresa reappeared, and, throwing a heavy mantle around her mis- tress, told me to follow her. I was like one under the influence of a dream. But why dwell upon these sickening details, which har- row my very soul?’ That night, we left Flo- rence, and rested not until safe in France, where Beatrice told me she had an aunt, who was an abbess in a convent. ** As it was my wish to take a packet from Havre direct to New Orleans, I took an early opportunity of breaking my intentions to Bea- trice ; and as delicately as possible hinted the im- propriety of our longer continuing together, and offergd to procure an escort, or accompany her myself wherever she desired. “Do not condemn me, Carleton. I was neither cruel nor heartless. I had no reason for thinking my presence produced aught but pain, especially as she had closely secluded her- self from me during our journey. I had scarce finished speaking ere, bursting in a passion of tears, she threw herself at my feet, sobbing: ‘Ah! send me not from you, signor; my life is in you. I never loved until you came. I mar- ried to escape a convent with which I was threatened. He who sought my hand had gold. My father was poor, though of noble blood; Ia child, a happy, loving child, filled with warm love for all created things, the heavens, the bag of gold. | ; ; | ; eee birds, the flowers; but, when you came, signor, I forgot them for you. Then I knew a mightier passion which, like a mountain torrent, swept all before it. At your approach the skies grew brighter, the air filled with fragrance, my heart swelled with music and gladness; and, where you were not, the sun grew dark—all was cold, cheerless, and void. Your form was in my sleep, until deeper and deeper grew this gushing, boundless love. I have struggled against it; but now I know not, I reck not if it is wrong; I only know I love. Send me not, then, from you. Whom havel but you?’ And here her voice was choked by sobs. ‘ My stern father— all will spurn me—break not my heart—take me with you—I will be your slave—I ask no more. Let me be near you, at your feet; thus.’ And she sank exhausted upon the floor. *“T hastily raised her in my arms. Heaven knows what I said; but that evening a venera- ble curé in the village married us. “When we arrived at New Orleans, I dis- patched a letter to my mother, begging her to kindly meet my Italian bride. She received her well for my sake, and now loves her for her own. I think Beatrice is happy. And you are the first and only one, Phil, to whom I have revealed the circumstances of my marriage.” The bright, peerless moon was by this time high in the heavens. The waters of the mighty Mississippi shone like burnished silver in the distance. A solitary whippoorwill alone broke the dead silence that reigned around, as the two friends walked musingly along. At length, in a tone half jesting, half serious, Carleton said: ‘And the little blue-eyed damsel, what said she to her recreant knight? Has she healed up her wounded affections in the arms of another?” Luttrell replied not, for a moment; and then, in a strangely altered voice, while a spasm of pain crossed his fine face, he murmured, huskily: **The worm that knows no dying is gnawing away my heart. See, I have brought you to her home.” They passed into the quiet church-yard ; and there at their feet gleamed a snowy slab, bearing the name of “Alice, aged nineteen. ‘The Lord giveth ; the Lord taketh.’ ” Dr. FRANKLIN recommends a young man, in the choice of a wife, to select her “from a bunch,” and gives as his reason that, when there are a number of daughters, they improve each other, and, from emulation, acquire more accom- plishments, and know more, and do more, than a single child spoiled by parental fondness.

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THE ART OF SKETCHING FLOWERS FROM NATURE. LIGHT AND SHADE. Tue representation of roundness of form in flowers is of the utmost importance as to their | pleasing effect upon the eye. This essential quality can only be correctly given by paying due attention to the true appearance of objects under circumstances exhibiting the various cha- racteristics of light, shade, shadow, and reflec- tion. It is not usual to notice the distinction between shade and shadow, the two words being generally considered as synonymous. For the purposes of instruction, however, it is thought that it would greatly tend to simplify the subject, if a more rigid attention were paid to the difference that exists between them, by shade being always considered to designate the dark side of an object only; and shadow, the darkness thrown upon another object by the intervention of a solid body between it and the source of light. In an artistic point of view, another fruitful source of confusion is the common use of the word shadow to signify the reflected images of objects on smooth surfaces. This is particularly exemplified in the well-known fable indelibly impressed on all our minds from youth, im- properly called *‘The Dog and his Shadow;’’ the fact being that the dog never saw his shadow at all, but in reality his likeness reflected on the glassy surface of the water. It may be safely asserted that no dog was ever so silly as to take his shadow for another dog, however possibly deceived by a reflection of himself; nevertheless, we do find people silly enough to be continually Fig. 15. confounding in common conversation the sha- dows and reflections of objects, than which no two things can be more dissimilar. In figures 15, 16, and 17 are shown various solid and hollow forms, with their different lights, shades, shadows, and reflections distinctly represented, all combining to show roundness of form. The imitation of these is particularly VOL. LIIL.—20 recommended to the learner, as necessary to the proper representation of this interesting charac- teristic, too often neglected in flower painting. The plain globe, and the elliptical solid, as shown in fig. 15 and 16, when illuminated by strong light, will exhibit, first, what is termed the high light, see the letters a a; secondly, the shade, or side turned from the light, b 6; thirdly, 229

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230 %, GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. the shadow thrown on the next object, or on the ground, ¢ c; fourthly, the reflected light, d d, east back on the dark side, from some other strongly illuminated surface near it; and be- tween the high light and the shaded side, that which is termed the half-tint occurs. It is necessary to observe that, in all these. several parts, the local color of an object is more or less affected; for instance, in the high lights it is strongest; slightly diminished in the half-tint, and nearly disappears in the dark shade, pro- vided no reflected light occur to reduce the depth of the shade. In the reflected light, the color of the reflecting object will be imparted, and form a compound with the local color of the principal object. In the shadows the color of the surfaces will be observed according to the depth of shadow thrown. It must be evident that to represent the beau- tifully diversified forms of flowers with truth, under all the above-mentioned circumstances, the student must carefully observe them in proper conditions of light; that from above through a skylight, or the upper part of a window, will be found to produce the best effect; a low side- ; ; “~~ light, causing the shades to be too near the top of the flower, gives it a heavy appearance. In order to prosecute the further study of light and shade effects, a wooden ball or cup, similar to those represented in the annexed figure 15 (painted white), would be found very useful, care being taken to dispose them in suitable light. If placed in too strong a light, the effect produced will appear sharp or harsh to the eye, unless relieved in the shades by a strong reflected light; and, on the contrary, if the light be too weak, a dull uniform tone will be imparted to the whole subject. In fig. 16 are represented the light and shade of two cups, so disposed that the light falls partially on the interior of one, where- as in the other the hollow part is entirely in shade. The two remaining subjects, fig. 17, exhibit the light and shade of a bell-shaped ob- ject, a form frequently occurring in flowers, and therefore selected as suitable for the imitation of the learner. In one, the light is represented on the exterior, and in the other strikes ob- liquely on the interior or cup, as well as on the exterior. Fig. 17. PRESERVATION OF SIGHT, Tue eye should never view an intense light. The light of a flame should never fall upon any part of the eye during use. Bodies of all colors should be equally viewed, and after regarding a bright or primary color, repose should be sought by looking at a tertiary color. An unsteady flame is hurtful during reading or writing. The eye is liable to damage from being employed on black objects by artificial light, because it is in- sufficient for the purpose. The observation of objects at the reflecting angle is hurtful, from the intensity of the lighi. All coverings to lights are injurious, as the clearness of the flame is diminished ; and ground-glass shades are par- ticularly detrimental. Reading during railway travelling is hurtful, because of the constant unsteady motion which is imparted to the bock. The observation of close objects during rapid locomotion is trying and detrimental to vision. Glass of neutral tint, blue or green color, may be employed to protect the eyes from a bright sun in the middle of the day; but they are inju- rious when the light is not painfully intense. Rapid transition from darkness to intense light is liable to be followed by blindness.

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AUNT TABITHA’S FIRESIDE. No. XII—POLLY BELL’S PRESENT, BY EDITH WOODLEY. *Spraxrn’, t’other evenin’, about Abel Hodg- kins, brought to my mind another old bachelder by the name of Ichabod Dustin. Ichabod, as long as his father lived, who owned a complete farm over in the north parish, never thought of sich a thing as gittin’? married; and I don’t know as he would arterwards, if his sister Hitty had been able to do the work about house. But her health begun to fail her, so that they were obleeged to hire a gal to do the spinnin’ and weavin’, and help about the housework, nights and mornin’s. Well, they went on in that way five or six months, when, one evenin’, when the gal bad run into one of the neighbors, and Icha- bod and Hitty were by themselves, Ichabod says to his sister—‘I’ll tell you what it is, Hitty, this payin’ a gal three shillin’s a week is dread- ful poor business, accordin’ to my way of thinkin’. I don’t vally her board so much, *cause we’ve a house full of everything to eat and drink that heart can wish: that is to say, the substantials; but, to give a gal, who can work under kiver and have sich a comfortable time, as much for a week’s work as a man can airn hoein’ corn and potaters in the hot, blazin’ sun all day, is a pairfect moth. It keeps eatin’ and eatin’ right into the purse; and, afore you think on ’t, ten dollars are gone.’ “¢ Well, I know,’ says Hitty, kind o’ discon- serlate like, ‘that, in the course of six months, it runs up to consid’ rable.’ “¢ Thirteen bright dollars,’ says Ichabod. *°¢ Ves, but what can I do? You know it’s out of my power to do all the spinnin’ and weavin’, besides doin’ all the housework and takin’ care of sich a large dairy as ourn is. If you ain’t willin’ to hire a gal, you must get married.’ *** Well, to tell the truth, Hitty,’ says he, * that’s jest what I was thinkin’ about.’ “*T kind o’ mistrusted,’ says Hitty, ‘that you’d got some sich idee in your head. Have you got any one picked out that you think ’ll answer ?” ** Well, I don’t know’sI have. Can’t you think of somebody that’ll do?’ **Maybe I can. What do you think of the widder Sheldin ?’ | : : | | | *** The widder’s a leetle mite too old to suit me.’ *** Why, you are gittin’ along in years your- self, Ichabod. You are up’ards of four years older than the widder Sheldin, to my sartain knowledge.’ ***T don’t care. She don’t fill my eye.’ **¢ Well, there’s the widder Batson. do you say to her?’ ***]T say she’s an outrageous anny and when she isn’t scoldin’, she’s frettin’. *<* Patty Cornish: what fault have you to find with her?’ says Hitty. , “<*Patty is well enough; but she’s gittin’ oldish ; and was never, in her best days, dread- ful hendeusi “Well, says Hitty, ‘if you don’t fancy Patty, nor either of the widders, you must pick out somebody yourself. I can’t.’ ***¢ What do you think of Polly Bell?’ says he. *<¢ Polly Bell! Why, Ichabod Dustin, you’re crazy, I raly b’’eve! Polly isn’t a bit more ’n eighteen ; and she’s the ~ry yn and gen- teelest gal there is in the place.’ **< That’s jest what’ll suit me,’ says Ichabod. © Well,’ says Hitty, ‘ you’d better let Polly Bell alone. She won’t have anything to say to you. She’ll give you the mitten as sure as you are alive; and make all manner of fun of you into the bargain.’ “Ichabod said nothing more about goin’ to see Polly Bell to Hitty, but kept ponderin’ upon it, and turnin’ it over in his own mind. At last, he concluded that he’d make her a present of some kind, afore he went to see her, so as to kind o’ smooth the way, as ’twere. The next | question was, what the present should be. He didn’t want it to cost much, for he was as close as the bark to a tree ; and there was no knowin’ but what ’twould be a dead loss to him. Arter puzzlin’ his brains about it for the matter of a whole week or more, without bein’ able to pitch on anything, one day, when he was in the store tradin’ for some tea, and sugar, and molasses, and other necessaries, a woman that was there asked to look at some white silk gloves. The minute he sot eyes on the gloves, he says to himself—‘ They ’re jest the thing to give Polly 231 What

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252 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE,

PRARARARARAIIIN ee yw

Bell.’ He’d bronght a parcel of rye to pay the ; “*Not a bit,’ says Seth. Seth was naterally storekeeper for what he bought; and, when he found that he should be obleeged to give a bushel and a half for a pair of gloves, he hesitated a spell about buyin’ ’em. But at last he said to himself—‘ Nothin’ venter, nothin’ have;’ and, in a fit of desp’ration, as ’twere, he concluded he’d take a pair of ’em. So he looked the gloves over, and picked out a good, large pair, so that, in case Polly wouldn’t accept ’em, they ’d do for his sister Hitty, whose hands were naterally a purty good size. Mr. Purdy, the man he bought ’em of, did ’em up in a piece of paper, and Ichabod put ’em in his pocket; but it ground his feelin’s dreadfully to see the half bushel filled brimful three times to pay for a little roll of stuff he could put in his waistcoat pocket. * The next step was to find out some way to send ’em, without lettin’ Hitty know anything about it, ’cause he was afeard that she would speak agin it. Not long arterwards, he hap- pened to meet Seth Burt. Seth was a horse- back, goin’ to mill, and would pass right by the door where Polly Bell lived. So Ichabod hailed him, and says he—‘ Seth, I’ve got a little bit of an arrant I want you to do for me. It’s of a nater kind o’ dilicate, you see ; but I guess you can manage it.’ ** Let’s hear what it is,’ says Seth.g ** Here’s a little wad of suthin’ done up in this ’ere paper,’ says Ichabod, takin’ the gloves out of his pocket, ‘ that I want to send to Polly Bell. It’s privacy, you see; so I want you to give it right into Polly’s own hand. And look here, Seth, I want you to tell her that Ichabod Dustin sent it to her; and that there’s suthin’ inside the paper he wants her to wear to meetin’, next Sunday, if she feels fri’ndly to the giver. Tell her, if she wears ’em, I shall know how to interpret it, and shall act accordin’ly.’ * ¢ Yes, yes,’ says Seth, noddin’ his head, and winkin’ ; ‘I understand the psalm, as the sayin’ is.’ **¢ Now, Seth, if you see Hitty, as you pass by our house, don’t say a word to her about it.’ ***Sartainly not,’ says Seth. ‘I know all about managin’ sich dilicate matters.’ ** Well, you see Hitty was on the look-out for somebody to do an arrant for her; and, as soon as Seth got agin the house, she run to the door, and spoke to him. *** You’re goin’ to mill, I take it, by the bags on your horse,’ says she. **¢ Ves,’ says Seth, ‘that’s my calc’lation.’ “¢*Then it won’t be much put out for you to call at Uncle Sam Dustin’s, will it?’ )

of an obleegin’ turn, you see. “Well, says Hitty, ‘if you'll jest ride up to the door, and hand this little bundle to any one of the family you happen to see, I’ll do you as good a turn, the first chance I have.’ “<*That’s the least of my consarn,’ says Seth. ‘When I git to sich a pass that I can’t do a neighborly kindness, I haul up stakes, and go off, and live in the parched and howlin’ de- sart, among the bears, and wolves, and lions, and other wild insects.’ * You see that ’twas the fashion in them days for old gentlemen who’d lost their hair, and wa’nt very well able to buy a wig, to wear a cap, or a skullcap, as,’twas sometimes called. Some had ’em made of one thing, and some of another. Mr. Sam Dustin always wore white linning ones ; and it so happened that Hitty had been makin’ one for him, so she thought she’d send it along by Seth. As ill luck would have it, his mind was so bent on deliverin’ Ichabod’s message right to Polly, that he didn’t take very partic’lar notice of the two little bundles he had in charge; and, when he arrived at Mr. Dus- tin’s, he couldn’t, for the life of him, tell which was which. One, he found, was done up in brown paper, and the other in blue; and so, arter considerin’ a while, he concluded, as ‘ blue was true,’ the blue one was meant for Polly Bell, and the brown one for Mr. Dustin. So he called up to the door, and left it. When he arrived at Mr. Bell’s, he inquired for Polly, and she went to the door. ***Step this way, a minute,’ says Seth. she went up close to where he sat on his horse. “*Here’s a leetle suthin’,? says he, ‘that Ichabod Dustin asked me to call and give you. It’s some furbelow, I expect, for he says he wants you to wear it to meetin’, next Sunday, if you feel fri’ndly to the giver.’ **Polly was so struck up, that she hardly knew what to say, or what to think; and, by the time she’d fairly come to her senses, Seth was gone. Without sayin’ a word to anybody, she slipped up stairs, to find out what was in- side the paper, when lo, and behold! ‘twas a white linning skullcap, ironed as smooth as glass, and rolled up so nice there wa’n’t a wrinkle in it. What to make of it, she didn’t know. At first, she felt purty much vexed, *cause she naterally thought that Ichabod sent it to kind of insult her, as ’twere. But, on the whole, she didn’t much care if he did; and then, when it popped into her mind what a queer figure she’d cut if she did as he desired her to, and wear it to meetin’, she couldn’t help So

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AUNT TABITHA’S FIRESIDE. aie

burstin’ right out a laughin’, all alone there, by herself. Arter she’d got sobered down a little, she made up her mind to keep her own counsel, and see how ’twould turn out in the eend. “It so happened that the next Sunday was terrible stormy; and Polly, who lived a con- sid’rable distance from the meetin’-house, was obleeged to stay at home; so that Ichabod re- mained in onsartainty about his present—didn’t know whether ’twas well received or not. Finally, when it got along into the middle of the week, his feelin’s got so worked up, that he was detarmined to go and see Polly, and have his distiny read to him from her own lips. But, arter thinkin’ and considerin’ on it a spell, he couldn’t pluck up courage to go alone; so he says to his sister—‘ Come, Hitty, what do you say to goin’ over to Squire Bell’s this evenin’ ?’ “Well, I should like to go well enough,’ says Hitty. So Ichabod went and dressed up in his best ; and, by the time Hitty was ready, the horse and shay was at the door. “When they arrived at the squire’s, who should be there but the widder Batson, Patty Cornish, and a young, genteel-lookin’ man they didn’t know, besides several others. Ichabod always had an awful solemn way with him; and was naterally terrible awk’ard, ’specially when he was dressed up in his meetin’ clothes—never seemed to know what to do with his hands. People, in a gin’ral way, accordin’ to the widder Batson’s account, could have taken care of half a dozen pair of hands better than he did his one pair. And ’twas the same with his feet: they were in everybody’s way as well as his own; and once, in the course of the evenin’, he come near trippin’ up Squire Bell, which made him awful ’shamed, besides bein’ tremenduous scairt. But then, you know, that thinkin’ of Polly and the present he’d sent her, made him ten times more awk’ard that evenin’ than common. ‘Once in a while, when he thought nobody was obsarvin’ him, he cast a look out of the corner of his eye to Polly; but she looked, and appeared purty much as she al’ays did, on’y, once in a while, there seemed to be a kind o’ mischie¥ous twinkle in her eyes. It comforted Ichabod to find how free and sociable she was; for, accordin’ to his intarpretation, it was a sign that his present was well received. Arter a while, his courage riz so, that he made a sign to Polly that he wanted to speak with her in private; but she made b’!’eve that she thought he meant the widder Batson, who happened to sit next to her. So she jest jogged the widder’s elbow, and then whispered in her ear that she 20°

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_ ————— een guessed that Mr. Dustin wanted to say suthin’ to her that he didn’t care to have the rest hear; and that she ’d better go out into the back room, so as to give him a chance. But the widder give her to understand that, if he’d got any- thing to say to her he wa’n’t willin’ to say afore the whole company, she didn’t want to hear it. ** By. and by, the clock struck nine, and then, the minute Hitty got into her seam-needle, she rolled up her knittin’-work, and put it into her pocket. She sot a spell; and then, as Ichabod didn’t say anything about goin’, she jest hinted to him that it was time sich old folks as they were should be thinkin’ about goin’ home. He seemed dreadful loth to start; but at last he riz out of his chair, and said that he would go and harness the horse into the shay. **No, no; you set still, says Squire Bell, ‘and let one of the boys harness the horse.’ * So Ichabod sot down; and Polly, while she was helpin’ Hitty on with her things, said she guessed there was a storm a brewin’ ; for, by the sound, there seemed to be a strong northeast wind a blowin’. ‘I’m sorry for that,’ says Hitty, ‘for Ichabod is al’ays afeared of a northeast wind: thinks it gives him a cold.’ . *Tn a minute or two, one of the boys came in, and said the shay was ready. **¢1’m sorry, Mr. Dustin,’ says Polly, ‘that sich a cold, raw, northeast wind has come up. You’ll sartainly take cold if you don’t have suthin’ to keep it from whistlin’ into your ears.’ *“*Do you think I shall?’ says Ichabod, puttin’ his hands up to his ears, and rubbin’ ?em, as if he felt the wind beginnin’ to blow into ’em. “¢T raly b’’eve you will,’ says Polly, lookin’ as meek and innocent as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. ‘ But, as good luck would have it, I had a present sent me a little while ago, which ’ll be jest the thing to keep your ears warm ;’ and, afore Ichabod had time to say a word, she slipped the linning skullcap right on to his head, slick as a mitten. “<« There,’ says she, ‘it suits to a T.’ “¢Why, Polly Bell, where on airth did you get Uncle Sam Dustin’s skullcap I sent him other day?’ says Hitty. “¢] should rather think ’twas sent to me,’ says Polly. ‘Seth Burt handed it to me as he went to mill, a few days ago, and said that a sartain gentleman sent it to me as a present, with a request that I would wear it to meetin’, last Sunday; but you see *twas so stormy I couldn’t go; so I thought, bein’ it’s a case of necessity, I wouldn’t be selfish, but let your

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284 Latter . ~ brother have the wearin’ of it for the first time.’ “* Well,’ says Hitty, ‘what on airth could ave put it into Seth Burt’s head that ’twas you I wanted him to give it to, no pairson can tell.’ *Up to this time, Ichabod had stood like a critter that was ’mazed. He was, naterally, no very despisable-lookin’ pairson; but, bein’ ra- ther long favored, and purty much tanned, a snow-white cap wasn’t the most becomin’est lookin’ thing he could have on his head. As I said, he stood like a man that was ’mazed, a staiter, as one might say; while the boys, who’d huddled up in a corner, couldn’t help gigglin’ right out; and the widder Batson, old as she was, had hard work to keep from j’inin’ ’em. If the truth was known, I guess ’twas purty tough work for the squire and his wife to keep their countenances; but ’twould ’ave been un- polite, you know, for ’em to ’ave laughed at one of their company. ** As soon as the squire had got so as he could speak, he put on a stairn look, and says to his darter Polly—‘I should like to know what all this nonsense means.’ ““* Why,’ says Polly, ‘as Mr. Dustin sent me the cap, With a request that I would wear it to meetin’, Sunday, I thought that I wouldn’t be outdone in ginerosity, but lend it to him to wear home, when there was sich danger of his takin’ cold.’ ** * Now, Ichabod,’ says Hitty, ‘ there’s suthin’ more in all this than Uncle Sam Dustin’s skull- cap; and I mistrust you can explain it if you’re on’y a mind to. You sent suthin’ to Polly by Seth, I know; for he isn’t so much of a fool as to make a blunder like this, if you didn’t. Come, you may as well own the truth as not.’ *** Well, then, if you must know, I sent her a pair of white silk gloves. I bought ’em of Mr. Purdy, and paid him three half bushels of rye for’em. And capital rye ’twas, too: some that grew on that piece of burnt ground, the furder eend of the long paster. *T was first-rate sile, and—’ , *** Never mind the sile,’ says Hitty; ‘the goodness of that won’t make the gloves either better or worse. The next time you want to send a gal a present, jest write her name on the paper you put round it: that’s my advice. When I was young as Polly is, if an old ba- chelder like you had sent me a skullcap, with word for me to wear it to meetin’, I shouldn’t wonder if I’d’ave thinned his locks for him, the first chance I had, so that he’d been glad to have had that, or some other one, to wear him- self.’

GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. wer . ew PARA AAARAAAAALAAMA «¢ And ’twould ’ave been sarvin’ him right,’ says the widder Batson. ‘Don’t you say so, Patty Cornish?’ “<*No, not if ’twas a mistake,’ says Patty, kind o’ candid like. “<< Well, it was a mistake, as sartain as I’m alive ; and, if Polly will accept the gloves, she shall have ’em now.’ “*I’m much obleeged to you,’ says Polly; ‘but, as Seth left the cap here, it’s quite likely that he left the gloves at your uncle’s; and your aunt will naterally think they were in- tended as a present for her. Besides, I’m in no need of gloves: I’ve a good supply on hand for the present.’ ****Mongst the rest are your weddin’ gloves, I s’pose,’ says the widder Batson. “ Polly, at this, colored up as red as fire; and the genteel-lookin’ young man that I spoke of looked right straight for’ard, as if, all at once, he’d discovered suthin’ oncommon nice the other eend of the room. “‘ Ichabod was never dreadful sharp-witted ; couldn’t, if he’d tried, sot a river afire; but he could see there was no chance for him where there was sich a handsome young man in the way. If it hadn’t ’ave been for the loss of the three half bushels of rye, he’d ’ave been re- signed asalamb. If he could had his way, he would sent to his Aunt Dustin’s for the gloves ; but Hitty wouldn’t consent to it, ’cause, you see, as Polly Bell said, the old lady thought they had been sent her as a present. At first, Ichabod worried and fretted a good deal about it; but, arter a while, he kind o’ forgot it; and, a year from the next Thanksgivin’, he was married to Patty Cornish. A grand, good wife she made him, too; and ’twa’n’t a great while afore he begun grad’ally to grow less narrer-minded, so that *twa’n’t many years afore a four-pence- ha’-penny, instead of appearin’ in his eye as large as a dollar, dwindled down to its nateral size.”

Avorp connecting yourself with characters whose good and bad sides are unmixed, aff@ have not fermented together; they resemble phials of vinegar and oil, or pallets set with colors: they are either excellent at home and intolerable abroad, or insufferable within doors and excel- lent in public; they are unfit for friendship, merely because their stamina, their ingredients of character, are too single, too much apart; let them be finely ground up with each other, and they will be incompatible.

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ORNAMENTAL LEATHER WORK. (See Cut in front of Book.) In our prospectus for the year, we promised ‘‘ Ornamental Leather Work.’? We commence it in this number. Materials requisite for the Work.— Basil Leather. Cutting Knife. Thin Skiver Leather. * Board. Bottle of Oak Varnish Stain. Mould for Grapes, &c. “ Shaw’s Liquid Glue. Set of Brushes. “ Stiffening. Fine Black Lead Pencil. Small Hammer. Wooden Frame, Bracket, Veining Tool. or other article intended Bradawl. to be ornamented. Pair of Scissors. Leather.—The kind of leather used for general purposes is basil; it should be selected of an even texture and of a light color, as the lighter colored basil takes the oak varnish stain better than the dark. The skiver leather is used for making grapes, or very small leaves and flowers, and can be obtained at the same place as the basil leather. This kind is also very useful for thin stems and any minute portion of the work. Amongst the numerous articles which admit of ornamenting with leather may be enumerated frames, brackets, vases, pole and hand-screens, card-plates and racks, music and watch-stands. Directions for making the Leaves.—Sketch, either from nature, or from the examples an- nexed, the leaf you intend to copy, upon paste- board; cut it out very carefully; then place a piece of basil in cold water for half a minute (not longer), unless the leather is unusually thick ; the leather should then be taken out of the water, and pressed in a linen cloth until the surface becomes dry. The leather being thus prepared, lay it quite flat and place upon it the pasteboard pattern, holding it firmly down with the left hand, and with the right draw a line round the pattern with a fine lead pencil; while the leather is damp, cut out the leaf with apair of scissors, or with the leather-cutting knifé, as occasion may require. When smaller or larger leaves are required, a reduced or enlarged sketch should be taken, and pattern made in pasteboard, and applied in the same manner for cutting as for the other leaves. Vein the leaves with the veining tool (using it as a lead pencil in drawing) upon the right or smooth side of the leaf; bear heavily where the strong indentations are re- quired, and lightly where the finer veins are wanted. Each leaf must now be bent and moulded to suit the position it is intended to occupy when the work is finished. Having succeeded in producing the leaves, they should now be dried quickly, which brings us to the Process of Stiffening.—After the leaves are dry, in order to make them hard, a coating of the prepared stiffening should be applied with a brush ; great care must be taken to cover the edges ; a rather large camel’s hair pencil is the best for applying the stiffening. The leaves will soon dry, and then they will be ready for the Staining.—Stain the leaves by brushing them all over with oak varnish stain, thinly and evenly, with. a hog’s hair brush. The stain must not be allowed to lodge in the veined parts, but must be brushed out carefully, or the veins will appear too black. When the leaves are dry, they are ready for use. Should the leaves not be dark enough, there must be a second applica- tion of the stain. To make Stems, §c.—Cut strips of basil about one-third of an inch wide, and as long as the leather will allow; soak them thoroughly in water; then roll them up, the smooth side out- wards, as round as possible, on a table or any other smooth surface. Dry them quickly by the fire. If the stems are wanted very stiff, wire should be rolled inside the leather. To make Tendrils.—Tendrils are made in the same manner as the stems, using the skiver leather instead of basil. Take a piece of the prepared tendrils the length required for winding, damp it slightly, and immediately wind it round the point of a bradawl, taking care to secure both ends of the tendril ; dry it by the fire, then remove it from the awl, and a delicately formed tendril will be the result. The stems and tendrils should be hardened with stiffening, and stained, &c., in the same manner as the leaves. To cover a Frame.—Procure a deal frame of the size and form required, taking care to have it made of well-seasoned wood. Size it all over with patent size. Leave it about an hour to dry, then apply a coating of oak varnish stain, and when dry it will be ready for use. Com- 235

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236 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. mence the process of covering by attaching the stem with small tacks all round, in spaces of a few inches, in a zigzag direction. Supposing the vine pattern frame is selected, cover the wood with four or five gradations of foliage, well arranged, so as to preserve as nearly as pos- sible the natural appearance of the vine. Too great a profusion of grapes should be avoided ; but the number and size of the clusters can hardly be determined; we must therefore leave it to the taste of the artist. To make Grapes.—In order to produce grapes symmetrically formed, a proper mould should be obtained; then cut rounds of skiver the size required, which must be wetted and placed in the mould, the smooth side downwards; then fill the leather in the mould firmly with wad- ding, and tie the grapes securely with strong thread or fine twine; or, grapes can be formed of deal, or of any kind of soft wood, with a hole pierced through the centre large enough to admit ; 5 ; $ ; ; : i of a leather or gutta percha stalk being drawn through and fastened at one end; they should now be stained and made into clusters. Wooden grapes may be covered with damped skiver, if preferred. It is necessary to observe, in making the clusters, that the tying should be entirely concealed. To make Acorns.—Acorns can be made in the following manner: Procure some natural acorn- cups (which are to be found in great quantities in the autumn); choose such cups only as are perfectly sound; then pierce two holes through the bottom of the cup, pass a piece of fine wire through the holes, leaving the two ends long enough to be twisted into a stalk; if the stalk is to be exposed, it must be covered with skiver and made fast with Shaw's liquid glue. The most correctly formed acorn tops are those turned in wood, which can be firmly placed in the cup by the aid of the liquid glue; this completes the fully-formed acorn. REMINISCENCES OF BONNETS—NO. V. BY FLORENCE FASHIONH UNTER. In the fourth volume of the “ Lady’s Book,” at the beginning, I find a colored plate of Phila- delphia Fashions for January, 1832. The head dress of the first figure, Fig. 1 (lettered Evening Dress), puzzled me not a little. My difficulty Fig. 1. was in finding a name for it. It is not a cap— that is self-evident. Nor is it a hood—it is stil] less like a hood. Nor can it be a toque; al- though, with a very slight effort of imagination, it might be regarded as two toques which had engaged in a violent quarrel, and had taken op- posite sides on the lady’s head. Finally, it occurred to me that my perplexity might be ter- minated, and the mystery solved, by turning to the description, which I fortunately found on the first page of the letter-press. It is “‘ Coronet turban of crimson velvet with white feathers.” The coronet appears to refer to the small orna- ment next the hair. So it is nothing more nor less than aturban after all. And such a turban! It should have some qualifying epithet to dis- tinguish and set it apart from all other imagina- ble turbans. For example, a turban enragée, or turban run mad. Young America, looking over my shoulder, suggests the Flare Up Turban. That will do, Young America. Put that child to bed, Kitty! On the same plate with this remarkable head- dress is a representation of the walking dress of Philadelphia ladies in the same month of Janu- ary, 1832, Fig. 2. It is so remarkable and sug- gestige that I have ventured to depart from my ordinary rule, and have directed the engraver to copy the whole figure for the delight and as- tonishment of the reader. The whole dress is thus described: “ Pelisse of Royal Purple Me- rino, trimmed with black velvet. Hat of purple velvet lined with black, and edged with a deep fall of blonde. Bows and strings of black and purple gauze, alternately.” Observe the self- satisfied air and attitude of the lady, as who

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REMINISCENCES OF BONNETS. should say: *“ What do you think of that now for a fashionable ensemble?’ I should have been rather taken aback, I confess, if I had encoun- tered the apparition of such a walking dress in Chestnut Street, some bright cold morning of Fig. 2. January of this current year, 1856. Such breadth of shoulders! Such sleeves! Old tradition says they were called “ leg-of-mutton sleeves !”? Such a mountain of purple velvet for a bonnet; such a “deep fall of blonde,” or, rather, such an

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238 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

overwhelming cataract of blonde, rather as a surrounding garniture for the bonnet, than a veil for the face. To complete the picture and put the machinery in action, it is only necessary to suppose the lady walking out and facing a stiff northwesterly breeze, such as are supposed to prevail in the month of January. In the same number of the “ Lady’s Book” with these fashions, I find two remarkable bon« nets, under the title of “ Latest English Head- dresses.” The first, Fig. 3, appears not to be of English origin. In its general contour it is +

identical with a bonnet worn in connection with an outrageous semi-nude street dress worn by the Paris belles in the most licentious days of the French Revolution. The French original hada rather more defiant sweep in the front part, which was not counterbalanced by the high crown and flowers behind. The other English bonnet, Fig. 4, I think should have been styled the Marigold, from its

resemblance to that interesting flower. The outer circle of curved ornaments, and the large buw of ribbon surmounted by the redundant

bocage of flowers, must have had a very killing effect. 1 tnink a revival of this Marigold pat- tern would produce a very decided sensation. In the same volume of the “ Lady’s Book” occurs the engraving, Fig. 5, of the bonnet Fig. 5.

called by the sailors from time immemorial the “fore and aft bonnet,” from its projecting so far both in front and in rear. The odd effect of this peculiarity must have been greatly ex- aggerated by the tall upright bunch of flowers on the top.

THE MOTHER’S WHIM. A CERTAIN lady had a child which she never allowed to be contradicted for fear it would make him sick. Relatives, friends, and even her hus- band told her she would spoil the child, but all was of no avail. One day she heard him seream- ing with great anger in the garden. At the moment she ran and ascertained the cause to be that the servant had refused to give him some- thing be wanted. ‘“ You impertinent creature,” said the mother to the servant, “ not to give the child what he wants.” ‘‘By my troth,” said the girl, “he may cry till the morning, and he ’!l not get it.” Enraged beyond bounds at this reply, the lady ran for her husband to chastise the saucy servant. The husband, who was as weak as his wife, cried oul to the servant: “‘ You insolent creature, do you have the impudence to disobey your mistress?” “It is true, sir, I did not obey her. ‘The child has been crying for the moon, which he sees reflected in the fountain. I could not give itto him, though commanded by the mistress. Perhaps she can do it.” <A gene- ral laugh followed, in which the lady, despite her anger, joined. It was a good lesson for her.

2 2 teh Oe Os ate oe oo

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THE GARDENER’S DAUGHTER. BY ALICE B. NEAL. “ Her cheek was pale and thinner: Than should be for one so young; And her eyes on all my motions With a mute observance hung.” LocKSLEY HALL. A sort, golden June sunset bathed the whole country-side in a flood of radiance. The white pendent blossoms of the acacia and the delicate green of the just opened foliage were rippled by the low west wind beginning to stir among the tree-tops burdened by its freight of perfume stolen from the distant clover fields, the new mown hay, and the clustering roses—crimson, white, and blush tinted—that clung around the unpainted cottage, nodded in at the windows, or disputed the outstanding trellises with honey- suckle, clematis, or hardy grape-vines—a wealth, a mass of blossoms, and tendrils, and emerald leaves. A shy, slight child, at first sight neither plain nor attractive, looked out eagerly from the gate- way down the road to the city, white with dust, and in its unshaded barrenness. Strange contrast to the nook of verdure which we have described. It seemed as if some miracle must have re- claimed this spot from the desolate common, covered by a crep of stunted weeds, and crossed in every direction with a network of foot- paths or netted cart-tracks. A sluggish stream wound sullenly among them ; and a few cabins of miserable structure were scattered here and there, the only other human habitations within sight. It was indeed a miracle of patient industry and forethought that had rescued this lovely home and the fertile gardens which surrounded it from what was once all desolate and barren. At first, a little patch of ground, scarcely an acre, was inclosed around an old country house long deserted, and falling into decay. All that remained of its former occupancy were the fine old trees that had shaded it, and which first attracted the Scotch gardener, Allen Palmer, in his search for a home in the New World. Here he settled for his experiment, renting the house and garden spot, and spending his little capital in repairs, and renovating the worn-out soil. His wife, like himself, frugal and industrious, shared with him their earlier toil. Night and morning dews, the: heat of summer noonday, and the cold of early spring were alike unheeded until their home was their own, blossoming into the promise of its present luxuriance, and yield- ing a fair return for the original outlay. Little by little they purchased, and dressed, and tilled the barren land around, turning the weedy stream to usefulness, and profiting by a know- ledge of soils and favorable exposures, which then were but little attended to, or indeed under- stood in the busy New World. One thing was against them: the market was so far off. It was the journey of a day to trans- port the vegetables thither, and dispose of them profitably ; and the gardener could afford but two from every week without neglecting their cul- ture. But they were earliest with spring deli- cacies, and latest with successions; so, in spite of this drawback, Allen Palmer had become a prosperous man. His own frame had but developed and strength- ened by the honest toil; but earlier hardships and the first few years of care and anxiety had stolen silently strength and health from his one friend and companion, his much loved, all-en- during wife. He did not dream how heavily the burden had fallen upon her till the crowning blessing of a child was given to them; and when, in his thankfulness, he thought life had nothing more to offer, he watched in vain for the old buoyancy of step and tone to return to the mother of his little one. She lived to hear the baby voice prattling to the birds and flowers, to guide its first tottering steps through the shaded alleys of the garden, and then left them both, isolated, as their lives had always been dependent on each other for comfort and com- panionship. . An old servant was the only person Christy had seen beside her father for many years. When occasional visitors came, she ran away from the garden, her natural shyness heightened by this unusual seclusion, and hid, clinging to old Betsy’s garments, until the intruder was gone. The evening was her delight. Then she sat on her father’s knee, and smoothed his fair hair, silvering now upon the temples, or patted his rough, sunburnt cheek, and sang, and talked, and questioned him of her dead mother, or his old home, until he came to look upon her more as a loving friend than achild. The wild chil- dren of the cabins were no playfellows for her; 239

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240 the farm-houses were too far off to find compa- nions there ; but she was satisfied with her flow- ers and pets, and never knew what she lost in merriment, or what she escaped in coarse contact. She could not always remain a child: follow- ing her father, or aiding old Betsy with her busy, helpful hands; and satisfied with the scraps of knowledge she gathered from the few old books that but for her would have lain dusty and un- disturbed upon the window-sill. The gardener began to think of this; and to. fall into long reveries of what might befall his orphan child should he too be taken away from her, and so to regret the severed ties of kindred and friends in the Old World. The thin, wistful face looked longer than usual, for the trim market cart Christine could tell so far off. Twice she ran into the house to be sure there was nothing wanting on the sup- per-table she had arranged with her own hands, or to hasten old Betsy’s preparations in the kitchen. And when the sober brown horse trotted slowly into view, Christine saw with a pang of disappointment that her father was not alone. She shrank back, hoping that the stranger was a wayfarer, and would pass on; but no. When the wheels passed by so closely that they brushed the hawthorn bush behind which she was hidden, she saw by a leathern valise and packages in the wagon that, for the first time since her recollection, a visitor had come to stay at the cottage. She had watched for her father, and anticipated their coming, after a whole day of absence, so eagerly, that great hot tears of disappointment sprang to her eyes, and she sat down disconsolatley on the ground, with her apron thrown over her face, sobbing harder and harder at fancied wrong and neglect, as minute after minute went by, and her father did not come to seek her. He had looked through every room, and wondered at her absence before he came to the door and called ** Christy,” the second time so imperatively that ‘she dared not disobey. How she hated this stranger, whoever he was, as she walked slowly to the bouse, shutting her eyelids tight, every now and then, to shake the tears from her long lashes, to which they sprang again in spite of her resolution and her pride ! The room was just as she had left it: flowers everywhere that a noseggy could be placed, fill- ing up the centre of the wide-mouthed fireplace, and reflected on the shining brasses over which they fell; on the little round table with its twisted legs and cloven feet in the corner; on the grandest piece of furniture in the room, called by Betsy a “secretary; the drawers sur- GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, eel mounted by a slanting desk, whose mysteriour recesses and pigeon-holes were a wonder still to Christy when her father sat before it making vut his accounts or arranging his few papers. All was so neat, and fresh, and shining with cleanliness, and the supper-table looked so inviting, now that Betsy brought in fresh vege- tables with their appetizing odor, and the cold joint from yesterday’s dinner, that the guest congratulated himself on the excellent quarters into which chance and the market cart had con- veyed him, happily unconscious of the unfavor- able scrutiny of the child standing in the door- way. He was seated in what had been her mother’s chair—an offence in itself, for it was only very lately that Christy had ventured to oceupy it, and always, when she did so, felt grander and more important than at any other time in her life, and held hesself very straightly from all contact with the cushioned back and sides. But the stranger—what did he know of its sacredness?—lolled back completely at his ease, and was surveying himself with evident complacency in the little oak-framed mirror between the windows, on which the last slanting sunlight fell. ** Who can he be?” thought Christy, waiting her father’s reappearance from the stable, where he had gone to superintend personally the coim- fort of old Dobbin. ‘ He’s more like a picture in a book than my father, or John, or old Mr. Ronalds. How white his hands are! how his hair curls !—just as mine would if Betsy would not cut it off every time.” And he was young, too, younger than any man she had ever seen; lithe and graceful in figure, but with pale fea- tures; and listless in attitude, as if suffering from ill health. He was, in fact, just recovering from a severe illness, and had been ordered to the country for a change of air, and total cessa- tion of the studies which had so absorbed him as to make him forgetful that knowledge with- out health was unavailing. Strolling through the market in search of early fruit, all that his appetite craved, he encountered his old ac- quaintance, the gardener, who had served him with many a tasteful, if not choice bouquet; and, questioning him of lodgings, had proposed himself as guest, and as suddenly found the arrangement accepted. It was plain to see that Allen Palmer liked his young acquaintance. Perhaps there was no other of all his chance customers whom he would have admitted to his little household. As it was, he turned a deaf ear to old Betsy’s muttered wonderings, and ordered the only unoccupied room to be put in readiness for their visitor.

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lu o his sed ked uld s it red ried THE GARDENER’S DAUGHTER. 24r ** But I never will like him, I don’t care how long he stays,” the child said, perversely, to herself, as she stood by her father’s chair, later in the evening. The twilight was suddenly. replaced by the unclouded splendor of the just risen, moon, tracing the foliage across the win- dow on the uncarpeted floor, and making the low room and its homely furniture picturesque. Her father’s arm was around her; but he scarcely seemed to know it, as he talked on and on as she. had never heard him talk before. There was all her little news of the day still untold— the first blossoming of the white moss roses, the loss of a favorite chicken from her little brood, an undeserved lecture from the old servant to be deprecated, and still, for the first time in her recollection, a stranger absorbed all his thoughts. It was very hard; and she looked out into the garden, and the moonlight brought strange, sad thoughts, as it often did, of her unknown mother, and a yearning for sympathy and com- panionship which she had never felt before, and scarcely understood now, until she stole away to bed without a good-night kiss, for the first time in all her life, and cried herself to sleep, Eternally miserable, as Christy determined to be at night, she had to confess herself quite resigned and even interested before the next day was over. She had been surprised into an acquaintance with Mr. Wiley while dusting and arranging his room—a task at which Betsy had set her as soon as he had gone out for a look over the garden with her father. It was in wonderful confusion, to be sure: clothes hanging on the high, slender bed-posts, and lying on the floor just as they had been pulled out of the open valise; drawing materials and toilet articles scattered about; and, greatest treasure of all, a pile of books tumbled down as heedlessly. It was a very plain, unadorned chamber, low, as were all the rooms, with open rafters over- head, on which were deposited Betsy’s accumu- lation of dried medicina! herbs, with thyme, and sage, and various other winter help to soups and dressings for the kitchen. The one window had no curtain save the drooping branches of a weeping willow and one adventurous spray of climbing roses, just now flushed with buds and blossoms, Bat the busy little hands did their best. The bed, with its blue and white counter- pane, was straightened into most tidy precision, the ciothes gathered together on a single chair for Betsy’s longer arms to dispose of ; but then came the temptation—lifting those enticing vol- umes to place in the window seat, the only bookshelf the cottage could boast of. Christy opened one and another, skimmed a page of this VOL. LIIL.—21 and a verse of that, until, absorbed in the rhyme of the “Ancient Mariner,’”’ she sat, with her head bent down on her hands, leaning over the book, and the short waves of fair hair shading her large gray eyes, lighted by the wonderful interest of the story. Her face flushed into positive beauty for a moment as she looked up with a startled, appeal- ing glance to find Mr. Wiley quietly seated, and watching her from the foot of the bed. She had heard the footsteps, but, thinking it only the old servant come to chide her for her idleness, sat still, spell-bound, by the legend. Shame and timidity struggled together as she sprang up, and would have escaped from the room had he not seized her hands, and held her fast a prisoner before him. * And so you read Coleridge?” he said, “ and Shelley too, perhaps? Why, what a wonderful little maiden! Who taught you to like poetry ? Oh, no, I can’t let you go yel awhile!” And, after a time, she ceased to struggle, and stood passively, while his soft hand brushed the hair back from her face as a woman might have done. Christy never exactly understood how it came about; but she ceased to think he was'so formi- dable, though a certain wholesome awe never quite departed, and she was soon showing him the flower-garden, and making him the recipient of yesterday’s still unuttered news, instead of her father, who certainly did not deserve it, she thought. That evening, she listened to the conversa- tion, instead of watching the moonlight, al- though it was not of the subjects she liked best. She could not understand all they said about railroads, and real estate, and the greatly in- creased value of her father’s land if it could only be brought nearer to the market. But it was pleasant to see her father so inte- rested, instead of felling asleep in his chair as he so often did, evenings, and to hear Mr. Wiley’s pleasant voice, and watch his fave, knowing that he could not see her for the shadow in which she sat. A whole host of new pleasures was suddenly opened to the child, young in heart and experi- ence rather than in years, for she had passed her thirteenth birthday. Almost incapable of exertion, as the convalescent felt himself to be, talking to this little maiden with her strange fancies and sometimes startling thoughts was the occupation that best suited him. He gave her free access to his books, and wondered at her choice among them, and the avidity with which she read and comprehended. He took long

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242 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. or strolls over the uninviting common with her by his side, silently holding by his hand if he had fallen into a reverie of the glorious career he would carve out for himself, of the fame, and fortune, and the love he was sure to win. So said young, untried enthusiasm, leaping over all intervening obstacles, with the largest faith in the future. Or, if he chatted to her, that was more delightful still. He told her of books she must read when she grew older, of pictures that she would learn to understand if she could see them, of the actual world beyond this narrow life which now seemed bounded and obscured until she began to wonder if it would always be thus, or whether she should some day see, and hear, and learn for herself. “Have you never been in the city?” Mr. Wiley said, one evening, in answer to some such half revealed aspiration. “ Never? and within seven miles of its roar and confusion! Would you like to go some day?” “Oh, yes, very much!” and the child’s heart gave a great bound, but as suddenly sunk again. *“With you, I mean. I should not be afraid then, I think.” “Less afraid with me than your father, Christy ?” **But he would be so busy he could not at- tend to me, you know.” ** Well,*you shall go, little one. I may have to be there myself, to-morrow ; but I dread it— ugh!” And he shrugged his shoulders at the thought of encountering the heat, and dust, and turmoil of town life even for a day. The gardener exclaimed—and pondered for a moment over the proposition: “ But if Mr. Wiley was so good as to be troubled with the child, he saw no reason to say nay;” and Christine ran headlong to the kitchen to com- municate the wonderful news to Betsy. If her master saw no objections to the trip, Betsy was instantly alive to all that could be urged. **And who was to shell the peas, and dust, and sew up that dozen bags her father had brought in the day before ?”’ **But I’ll not always be working like you, Betsy,” the child said, indignantly. * And why not, Miss, I’d like to know, bless us? And the child’s-wits! What's to hinder, when your father earns his honest penny in the sweat of his brow? It’s all ailing of books, and young gentlemen, and nonsense. The child’s head is turned ;” and Betsy shook her own over the ironing-table in a spirit of pro- phetic foreboding. But the project was carried out, nevertheless ; and Christine, wisely rejecting the offer of Betsy’s best ruffled collar, which would have enveloped her like a cape in its ample dimen- sions, and the fringed parasol which had been the pride of her heart for many a Sunday, could scarcely believe the reality of her good fortune when she found herself in simple gingham frock and wide cape bonnet seated between her father and Mr. Wiley on their way to the city. She did not heed the disorder and squalor of its environs, looking to the tall steeples, the crowd of buildings, the fluttering flags beyond ; and, when they really came to the gay shops and bustle and glitter of a thoroughfare, she seemed suddenly to be transported to fairy-land. It was a never-to-be-forgotten day. Mr. Wiley gave up the morning to his little pupil; and, unmindful of fashiorable friends or acquaint- ances whom he might meet, sought out what he knew would best please her. There was an enchanted palace of a picture-gallery where, at first, she shrank back from the lovely ladies who seemed coming forward from the tall golden frames to meet her, and where, afterwards, she stood dreaming before soft,’ sunlighted land- scapes with summer showers drifting up over them, or tall mountains rustling blue and dim in the distance. After that, while the spell of artistic beauty was still upon her, she found herself grasping her companion’s hand tightly as they stood in the dim interior of a church, such as he had described to her, watching the light from the stained windows flicker over the kneeling figures of the few worshippers, while the solemn swell of the organ and the deep- toned voices of the choir thrilled her to tears not of sadness, but a tender, mournful happi- ness she could not describe. When they went out into the sunshine and the stir again, it had lost much of its interest to her, and she was not sorry to hear Mr. Wiley say: “‘ Now we will go and see my mother, and rest awhile: though, the evening before, as they had planned their day’s amusement, she had dreaded this visit most of all, for she knew she should be afraid of such a grand lady as his mother must be. ** Do people really live in these tall, beautiful houses ?” Christine asked, as they came to the palaces built by the Dives of this later genera- tion. And the splendidly dressed women that she passed were marvels of beauty and grace, outshining the lilies of the field in their flutter- ing raiment. “This is my mother’s house,” Mr. Wiley said, at last.

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THE ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE KINGDOM. 248 It was not one of those tall, fine houses, though many of them stood close beside it. So Christine had courage to enter, clinging to Mr. Wiley’s hand closer than ever as the servant who opened the door eyed her curiously. Still, the house was unlike anything she had ever imagined in the elegance of its old-fashioned draperies and dark, heavy furniture. There were mirrors, too, in which she saw herself as if she had been some one else, a shy, shrinking figure, leaning against a great arm-chair covered with heavy brocade now faded from its original brightness. More pictures, though she could not make them out in the dim light; and marble figures on pedestals, motionless and white. It was a relief when her friend came back again, saying, ‘“‘ Now, then,” in his old, familiar tone, and led her up the broad stair-case, and through an upper hall to his mother’s own room. The lady, reclining in an easy-chair by the open window, was very like her only son in voice and manner. She seemed to under- stand the child’s shyness, and began to talk of the flowers Christine had brought, and thank her for them* and for the care and attention Henry said she had given him. “ You have made him well again,” she said, making the child sit down on the cushion at her feet, and looking so fondly into her son’s face as he tossed the hair back from his broad, white forehead, and threw himself at length upon a lounge near them. After a while, Christine began to feel less strange and shy as she sat there with her hand in Mr. Wiley’s, as they always walked about the garden at home, and the mother and son talked on of their own affairs, not flattering her with notice. Their conversation was of some cousin who had come to stay with Mrs. Wiley; and presently they heard a gay voice singing through the hall; and Henry started up with a sudden crimson flush upon his face as the door opened, and this cousin Caroline appeared. School-girl as she was, she seemed already a miniature woman of fashion in her dress and ornaments, and a certain coquetry of manner when she saw who was with her aunt. For Christine, only a half curious, half con- temptuous glance that the child scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in the beauty and grace of this sudden apparition; but on her cousin fell her most bewitching smiles, and a playful war of words instantly began between them. These were the grand events of the day, as Christine thought them over in the gray eve- ning light, once more seated in the humble conveyance that had brought them to the city. She had grown wonderfully older and graver, suddenly, as if she had encountered some en- chantment such as she had read of, where people were held for years in what seemed the passing of an hour. An enchantment, indeed, from which she was never to be set free, though she could not understand it then, had changed the whole current of her life, and had given new hopes, and purposes, and aims to be worked out slowly in the lovely, dreaming girlhood on which she had now fully entered. (Conclusion next month.) ON THE ANALOGIES BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE KINGDOM. BY HARLAND COULTAS, PROFESSOR OF BOTANY IN THE “WAGNER FREE INSTITUTE OF SCIENCE.” Ar first sight, it is hardly possible to imagine any two objects in nature which appear to differ so widely from each other as a plant and an animal. How different, for example, is a tree from the bird singing on its branches or the traveller resting beneath its shade! But these well-marked and obvious distinc- tions exist only in the higher forms of animal and vegetable life. As we descend to beings of a lower rank in creation, these distinctions become gradually effaced, until at length the animal and plant resemble each other so closely demarkation between them. This is the case, for example, with that order of animals which have been very appropriately termed by natural- ists zoophytes, of which the coral and sponge are familiar examples. These creatures, which show undoubted signs of animality, present, also, at the same time, many striking indications of a vegetable nature. They are not only fixed to the ground like plants, but they have also a plant-like method of growing and propagating. It is extremely difficult to convey any general idea of a zoophyte, because there is no order of that it is hardly possible to draw any line of ; creatures among which the different individuals

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244 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. bear so little resemblance to each other. The organization of the corallines, flustras, sertula- rias, and other orders of marine zoophytes may, however, be illustrated by that of the hydra, or common fresh water polype. These animals, which resemble little pieces of jelly, are found in ponds or slowly running streams, attached to the under surface of the leaves of aquatic plants. They are remarkable for the extreme simplicity of their organization, which consists of nothing but a digestive cavity or stomach, surrounded by a fringe of long, thread-like arms or movable tentacula, by means of which the animal procures its food. Fig. 1 represents Fig. 1. a magnified view of the hydra, or fresh water polype, attached to a piece of stick, with its arms extended, and searching for prey; a, the mouth of the animal surrounded by the tenta- cule; 5, tendril-like grasp of an aquatic insect ; c, foot or base of the animal with its suctarial disc. The natural size of the hydra is also shown in the drawing. The different species of corallines, sertalarias, and other marine zoophytes, found attached to, or more frequently intermingled with the sea- weed cast upon our shores, consist of an associ- ation of polype, having individually a similar organization to that of the hydra, but united together about a common axis of growth, like the buds and branches of a plant. Fig. 2 isa drawing of one of these compound polypes. A species of sertularia; a shows the natural size and appearance of the zoophyte; 5, a portion of it magnified, showing numerous polype buds attached to a common stalk. These sertularian polypes, developing about the same axis, have in every instance been produced by continuous growth from a single individual. Here we have a repetition of similar parts, precisely as in plants. There can be no mistake as to the ADAP PDD DD aie : : ; ; | | | vegetative nature of these actions. Each of these associated polypes has an independent vitality of its own; and yet all depend on the general life diffused throughout the entire com- munity. They individually capture and digest their prey, like the hydra; yet the products of their digestion are applied not only to their own support, but to that of the general axis; for the stomachs of the several polypes communicate with each other by means of a tube which pro- ceeds from the base of each into the common digestive cavity of the stem. Some of these polype buds periodically die, and are cast off like the leaves of a tree; whilst others, retain- ing their vitality, spontaneously detach them- selves, and evolve into similar fabrics elsewhere. THE LAUGH OF WOMAN. A woman has no natural gift more bewitch- ing than a sweet laugh. It is like the sweet sound of flutes on the water. It leads from her in a clear, sparkling rill; and the heart that hears it feels as if bathed in the cool, exhila- rating spring. Have you ever pursued an unseen fugitive through trees, led on by a fairy laugh, now here, now there, now lost, now found? We have. And we are pursuing that wandering voice to this day. Sometimes it comes to us in the midst of care, or sorrow, or irksome business, and then we turn away and listen, and hear it ringing through the room like a silver bell, with power to scare away the evil spirits of mind. How much we owe to that sweet laugh! It turns the prose to poetry; it flings showers of sunshine over the darksome wood in which we are travelling; it touches with light even our sleep, which is no more the image of deathy but is consumed with dreams that are the shadows of immortality.

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THAT BLESSED BABY. Mr. Frank Finnicke was the most invete- rate baby-hater that ever lived in the shape of a bachelor. Babies were his favorite aversion ; he never engaged a servant until he had ascertained to his satisfaction that he or she had no baby to come and visit the dear parent at Mr. Finnicke’s house. He never entered his brother’s house, where there were several small children, if not more, without a shiver of dread. A beggar could get nothing from Mr. Frank if she carried a baby, and although a very humane and kind-hearted man in other respects, he was heard, at times, to give vent to the most dreadful denunciations if a baby cried in his hearing. His brother Mark, the father of the small children mentioned before, had faithfully promised that his next baby should be sent to Frank to adopt, and for several weeks the unfortunate bachelor expected, whenever the door-bell rang, to see the present arrive nicely packed in a straw cradle. Every time he met his brother, the threat was laughingly renewed, until Mr. Frank grew perfectly desperate, and left home, went to Paris and remained eighteen months, dreaming of his pleasant house in Lon- don overrun with very diminutive children, who cried when he was reading or writing, plastered his velvet chairs and ottomans with gingerbread and candy, broke his looking-glasses, used his watch for a plaything, his fine china for baby- houses, his books for stools, his razors for hatchets, and his newspapers for lamp-lighters before he had seen them. He shunned the squares where the pretty bonnes and their pre- cious charges passed the hours; he moved from several hotels because there was a suspicious crying, hushing, and lullaby-singing in another room, and made himself miserable generally on the strength of baby-hating. While Mr. Frank was in Paris enjoying him- self as I have described, writing letters to his aunt, Mrs. Lever, and his pretty cousin and future wife, if he ever could summon up suffi- cient resolution to marry and she would have him, there were sad changes going on in the peaceful home he had left. His two servants, John Thomas and Mary Jane, whom he had left maiden and bachelor, had married, and now, at the time of his expected return from Paris, owned a baby six months old, a fine, hearty, healthy, crying baby. Its lungs were decidedly the best developed portion of’ its whole body. 21° ; If taken into a room full of company, it could cry longer, louder, and shriller than any other in the room. There was no end to that baby’s talents in this line. It was useless to attempt to quiet it with catnip cordial or paregoric; he regarded all these attempts as “‘ weak inventions of the enemy,” and cried louder than ever to prove his contempt of all such efforts. Mr. Frank was expected home. John Thomas and Mary Jane were in an agony of dread on account of that Blessed Baby. If it should ery as it could cry while Mr. Frank was in the house, there was no foretelling the consequences. John Thomas made rushes at the Baby, stifling its cries with duster, or blacking-brush, whichever hap- pened to be uppermost. Mary Jane had the coffee-mill charged and the cat ready to shoulder all the crying of that Blessed Baby. It had had what its mother called a poor morning, which meant, it had made noise enough to wake the Seven Sleepers since breakfast, but at length it yielded to the soothing influence of a powerful dose of Godfrey’s cordial, and had fallen asleep. Depositing it gently upon the drawing-room sofa, the parents left it to prepare the house for the master’s arrival. While they were gone, Mrs. Lever, Frank’s aunt, and stepmother to Miss Flora Fisher, whom Frank admired, came into the parlor. Mrs. Lever was a most inveterate match-maker; she prided herself upon her skill in this department. Her last experiment had been upon Frank and Flora, but she was mys- teriously baffled in her most ingenious schemes. There was no reason, apparently, why the young people should not fall in love with each other and marry. Both were rich, both young, both handsoine, and both perfectly independent of any control in their likes and dislikes, and yet Frank hung back, until Mrs. Lever decided that an obstacle was the thing wanted. Somebody or something must oppose the match; all was at present too smooth for true love. What was to be done? Flora could not very well be shut up in an impregnable castle for Frank to win her by scaling the walls and bearing her off bodily in triumph; there was no stern guardian to op- pose the match, and force an elopement; Flora would not listen to any scheme, she could not be persuaded to feign a broken heart to win her lover, and poor Mrs. Lever was at her wit’s end. She came into the drawing-room and sat down 245

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246 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE.

— See on the sofa, in such a position that ber ample skirts completely covered the baby, and began to think. The room was in perfect order, and her eye could detect nothing with which to find fault. Suddenly the fond parents returned in search of their offspring, and perceived the lady apparently seated upon that Blessed Baby. Mary Jane swooned, and while John Thomas supported her, Mrs. Lever, utterly astonished, inquired the cause of her terror. John Thomas could not ac- count for it. Suddenly the lady’s quick eye detected the infant’s little cap lying at her feet; she took possession of it, and left the room in search of something more. Mary Jane revived, flew to the baby, and finding it unhurt, retired with the blessed burden to the kitchen, just as Mrs. Lever entered the drawing-room again, and confronted John Thomas with the cap in one hand and a pair of infant’s socks in the other. John Thomas, when questioned, stammered out something about having kept them to remember his own babyhood by, but Mrs. Lever, placing them carefully in her reticule, firmly resolved to sift this mystery, and left John Thomas with a message to his master, to the effect that Miss Flora and herself would take luncheon with him. Mr. Frank came; John Thomas received him with nervous apprehension, wondering what lies he should have to invent in case Mrs. Lever produced the unlucky cap and shoes. While Mr. Finnicke was looking with complacency upon his own premises, congratulating himself upon having so successfully dodged his brother’s promised present, there was heard a shrill ery from the kitchen, presently followed by the sound of a coffee-mill furiously grinding. A galvanic shock could not have operated more powerfully upon Mr. Frank’s nerves. Hestood aghast, until John Thomas soothingly suggested eats. Then, heaving a long sigh of relief, he sat down to recover from his previous agitation, and when quite restored, went to his own room to get rid of his travel stains before his fair cousin arrived. Indulgent reader, there was some ex- euse for Mr. Frank’s agitation; he had been a victim to a baby in crossing the channel; a sick mother had intrusted her precious offspring to his tender mercies, and he had suffered agonies of fear from the apprehension that she might not return to claim it; he prevented a fat man from sitting upon the lovely cherub, and then fiercely regretted his foliy at the time; but when most despairing, and most fearful that he should have the child left on his hands, the anxious parent returned and claimed her offspring. Mr. Frank was naturally nervous about babies, and

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this little incident had completely unnerved him. He rang the bell for Mary Jane, dispatched her for buttons, and when his toilet was finished and he had ascertained that no improvement could be made in his faultless appearance, he again sought the parlor. And here I want to say a word for Miss Flora. Although a lady, and a kind-hearted one, she had a great dislike to trouble, and to Frank’s certain knowledge, had refused to marry two fine, pleasant, gentlemanly persons, merely be- cause they were widowers and had young chil- dren. She was not going to be mamma to other people’s children, and have all the trouble of tending Mrs. *s first children through the measles, whooping-cough, and scarlet fever. Frank’s fear of his brother’s threat arose partly from his knowledge of this fact. Flora would never consent to marry him, to be head nurse to his little nephew or niece. Mr. Frank had been musing, as he arranged his cravat and curled his hair, on the subject of matrimony. It would be decidedly pleasant to have-the pretty Flora presiding at his table, making his home evenings delightful, sewing on his stray buttons, and taking care of him and his house generally. Frank was seriously thinking of putting some leading questions to Flora at luncheon time. In this pleasant frame of mind he entered the parlor. One step he took forward and then stood thun- derstruck. Could it be possible? Did not his eyes play him false? No, it was not a frightful dream, but a most direful reality. There sat the faithless John Thomas, holding, actually caress- ing, and playing with—a Baby. <4 live, kicking, laughing, crowing Baby. Frank did not faint, but, advancing furiously, he demanded in a voice of thunder where that baby came from. John Thomas, surprised by the sudden appearance of the enemy’s forces, fearful of losing his place were the truth discovered, and knowing how little chance there was of his master’s counte- nancing such an article on the premises, nearly dropped the blessed baby, and stammered out that it was sent there. “From my brother’s?” said Frank, faintly. Catching eagerly at the words, John Thomas protested that it had arrived from Mr. Mark’s, neatly pinned up in a napkin, and placed care- fully in a basket directed to Mr. Frank. Mr. Frank furiously demanded how the ser- vants dared receive it into the house in his absence, and Mary, who entered during the dialogue, weepingly protested that she was a woman, and could not see a poor little innocent suffering from neglect. There was an ominous pause; Mr. Frank strongly tempted to turn John

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THAT BLESSED BABY. 247 Thomas, Mary Jane, and that Blessed Baby all into the street, and the servants waiting in trem- bling silence the decree. Suddenly the door-bell rang; Mrs. Lever and the fair Flora were at the door. It was a critical moment! If the baby was discovered, there was an end to his hopes of winning Flora, and in a hoarse voice Mr. Frank ordered the delinquents to the kitchen, charging them, on their lives, to keep the exist- ence of the baby a secret. Mrs. Lever’s quick eye detected marks of agitation in her nephew’s face; John Thomas too looked flurried, and there were traces in the parlor of a “scene” having been enacted there. Shrewdly suspecting the truth, Mrs. Lever, congratulating herself upon having discovered an “ obstacle,” deter- mined to keep her eyes open. Luncheon was served; it consisted of roasted pheasant, veal pie, bread sauce, wine, and accompaniments; Mr. Frank proceeded to dissect the pie. It cut very well until his knife came in contact with something hard, which, on being “fished up,” proved to be the Blessed Baby’s coral and bells. John Thomas looked amused, Frank dismayed, Mrs. Lever triumphant, and Flora perfectly as- tounded. John Thomas was ordered in a thun- dering tone to remove the pie, and pass the wine ; the glasses were filled, touched, and tasted. There was a moment’s silence, the trio looking gravely at their glasses; then Mrs. Lever took the bottle and read aloud: “ Aniseed; from a teaspoonful upwards, according to the age of the infant, in warm water.” John Thomas marked the gathering wrath in his master’s eye, and tremblingly protested that he had been in the habit of using the physic from infancy. The bottle was removed, and John Thomas went into the cellar to procure a substitute for ani- seed. He was passing along the entry, when his faithful helpmate accosted him and in moy- ing accents entreated him to refrain from helping the guests to the bread sauce. Visions of prus- sic acid and arsenic floated through the poor fellow’s brains as he glanced through the open door and saw bread sauce on each plate. Mary exclaimed with horror at the sight, and declaring her intention of leaving the place instantly, lett him. He tottered into the dining-room just as en exclamation of horror arose from all three, who had tasted the sauce. John Thomas seized the dish, tasted it, and his confidence revived, as he protested that he was dieting, and this was his dinner. It was Baby’s farinaceous food. Frank angrily protested, with a meaning look at Flora, that it was the absence of a mistress that made his house so disorderly, and drew oyt his handkerchief to wipe his mouth. Mrs. Lever took it from him and held it up, inquiring if there was any particular advantage in that cut of handkerchief. Frank inquired, with a look of pitiful distress at the queer-looking, little article, what it was. A baby’s shirt, which, ac- cording to John Thomas, had come by mistake with the wash. Mrs. Lever, her heart throbbing with excitement, sent John Thomas for Mary Jane. Mary Jane, however, was not forthcom- ing; Flora, who was perfectly thunderstruck with all these discoveries, and had settled in her own mind that Frank must have brought home a wife and baby from Paris, felt, now that she feared she had lost him forever, how much she loved her cousin, and entreated her aunt to depart. Frank, who thought Flora had detected his secret, and was wishing to avoid being asked to superintend the education of the nephew he so cordially hated, felt that without Flora his life would be miserable. Mrs. Lever, inwardly blessing John Thomas, looked on complacently. John Thomas, after vainly searching the house for Mary Jane, returned to the parlor, where the unfortunate bachelor was awaiting him. The links of evidence from the cap to the shoes, the shoes to the coral, the coral to the aniseed, the aniseed to the farinaceous food, the food to the shirt, were produced by Mrs. Lever, and the unfortunate servant called upon for an explana- tion. He referred them to his master, and just as Frank was about to confess and throw him- self upon his cousin’s generosity, Mary Jane was escorted into the parlor by a policeman, while another followed dragging a cradle, con- taining that Blessed Baby, after him. Frank ordered both to be taken to the station-house, which so roused Mary Jane’s ire, that she openly owned her relationship to the baby, calling upon John Thomas to support her. He did so, patheti- cally adding that there was now no resource for them but begging with baby in their arms. Frank rejoiced to find his brother was not to blame, Flora that Frank was still true to her, and Mrs. Lever, in the prospect of her object being accomplished, forgave the offenders, and Baby was taken into high favor. Frank and Flora were married, and were always most kind to the little intruder, who, until he arrived at the age of twenty-one, was always known as that BLessep Basy. “T RESOLVE,” says Bishop Beveridge, “ never to speak of a man’s virtue before his face, nor of his faults behind his back.” A golden rule, the observation of which would, at one stroke, banish flattery and defamation from the earth.

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SINGLE AND SIMPLE FLOWERS. THE SNOWDROP, CROCUS, PRIMROSE, AND VIOLET. In cutting out the patterns, always lay them lengthwise of the sheet of wax, as it is much less brittle cut thus than if the petals were cut crosswise. It is advisable, also, in cold weather, to warm the wax a little before it is cut up. Primrose.—The character of all the tribe is to have the calyx in one piece, with five feet on the top. The corolla of one piece, five cleft at the top, five stamens, and one pointal. Choose the palest-colored yellow wax, one sheet will be enough for two flowers and two buds ; also, bright green wax for the calyx and leaves, one sheet will make two leaves or four buds. Cut the calyx, as shown at A, and five petals, as at B. Paint each petal with a spot in merely that the whole flower shall be flat and not cup-shaped. The corolla of the primrose is in nature but of one piece, formed at the lower part like a tube, and spread out in the upper part into five parts; but it is much more difficult to make it 248 THE ART OF MAKING WAX FRUIT AND FLOWERS. ce find = the middle, as shown, with a dark orange yel- low. Choose a piece of moderately thick wire for a stalk, three or four inches long; cover it with a slip of green wax, and make a little knob at the point. Then take a piece of yellow wax, half an inch long, and a quarter of an inch wide; cut this with the scissors into five strips for stamens; stick these on to the top of the wire, or rather on to the knob which terminates it; then put on in like manner the five petals; afterwards, take the calyx in a warm palm of fhe hand; roll over it the knob of one of the curling pins, so that it may gradually curl up, that the edges may be joined together, assisting this curling up by folding them with the fingers. When thus made warm and pliant, fold it care- fully over a small pencil or round stick, made wet, until the edges slightly lap over each other ; rub down these edges so that they unite neatly. Thrust the wire part of the pin down within the calyx and between that and the centre stick in five places corresponding to the top of the teeth. This, if carefully done, will form the calyx into five ribs, as in nature, and as shown in section in the cut; or it may be improved in this respect by having a pentagonal stick instead of a round one, or it may be finished when removed from the stick. When made, pass the calyx up from the bottom end of the stalk. Fasten it in the proper place, so that its points shall come under the corolla, and fix it by pinching its lower end with the stalk. Lastly, make the flower of proper form by bending all the petals quite flat, not individually, for each may have a little folding or other irregularity given to it, but e so in wax, nor is the effect, when made, better than when made in five pieces. To form the bud, take one or two yellow petals only, curl them round, and nearly bury them in the calyx. The leaf, to be natural, must be cast in a proper mould, and should,

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THE ART OF MAKING WAX FRUIT AND FLOWERS. 249 when made, be dusted underneath with the white down. The common primrose, “that pale visitant of balmy spring,” as Bidlake calls it, is not always so pale, for, when cultivated, it not only becomes double, but sports into white and various colors. The double variety may be made white, sulphur- colored, pale pink, and dark red. The form of a double primrose is shown in the cut, page 248, When thus double, the peculiar dark spot painted on the single variety is not found, but the whole flower is of a uniform tint. The whole flower thus double is in general form like a carnation, but of the size of the primrose; its petals are of the form of the single one, except those near the centre. It may be made of wax, which is of pure white, pale yellow, deep yel- low, pink, or dark red. This last should be made by white wax painted with dry carmine by the tinting brush before it is cut out, and the cut edges touched with the same after cutting. Other flowers of the primrose tribe are the cowslip, the polyanthus, the auricula, the Chi- uese primrose. All these have many flowers upon the same stem, and all coming out of the top of it. The cowslip has cup-shaped flowers, the others have their flowers flat like the prim- rose ; the cowslip is smaller than the primrose, and darker, with a still darker spot upon each division of the corolla. The manner of making the primrose will suggest the modelling of the others. The polyanthus is to be made of bright yellow wax, the auricula generally of white wax. The mealiness of this last may be put on best thus: Damp the parts which are to be mealy with turpentine, and dust arrow-root or hair powder over them. The leaves are of a dark bluish green: they must also be dusted with white. The Crocus Tribe.—All crocuses have six petals, or rather sepals, colored alike, and formed ~ into a long tube below. Three of the sepals are rather within the other three. There are three stamens and one pointal. Choose first the com- mon yellow crocus, which is seen expanded on page 248. Cut the sepals and stamens of the size and form shown at A and B, the former of gold-colored wax, either cast of proper color, or yellow wax to which a more golden hue is given by deep chrome, or rather of deep orange. When the stamens are formed, damp them with tarpentine, and dip them, while damp, into powdered dark chrome. From the pointal, as represented at C, of yellow wax on the end of a wire, damp it with turpentine, and dip it into powdered carmine, with a little orange mixed, or, not to spoil the carmine by mixing another color with it, this last may be dusted over after- wards. Join the three stamens on to three of the sepals, first having rolled them in the hand with the ball end of the pin, so that each sepal may be somewhat boat-shaped. The lower end of the stamens should blend with the sepal to which it is attached, so that their union is not observed. The point of union should also be below the expanded part of the flower. Put a little bit of spare wax around the base of the pointal, and fasten the sepals on to it by pres- sure, first putting on the three which bear the stamens at equal distances, and then the other three. Unite them, if possible, so as to form a tube at the base, and spread them out some- what at the top, according as an open or closed flower is desired. Sheaths or large folding leaves of light brown wax may be placed over the stem, first one on one side, and then one on the contrary. Between the lowest sheath and the stem may be placed the leaves. When a crocus is in flower, the leaves generally have not grown so tall as the flower. They must be always cut out of dark-gregn wax, and have a white stripe painted up the centre of each. The cut, page 248, also shows a bud of the } with yellow stigma and stamens. Scotch crocus. This species is yellow, with brown pencilling on the outside of the sepals. It has always two flowers to a root. Crocus sativus, or the saffron crocus, shown in the cut, blossoms in the autumn. It is a fine purple, The pretty little cloth of gold crocus is a bright yellow, marked outside with brown, and its sepals are turned downwards when the flower is full out. The colchicum is to be modelled in the same way as the crocus. It is of a purplish pink

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250 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. color, and has six stamens; also, the sternbergia, a bright yellow autumn flower, of the size and form of the crocus, but with six stamens. Numerous other flowers will suggest themselves as of the same character. The Snowdrop.—Take a wire of small size, about six inches long; next, a piece of white wax, a quarter of an inch square, and cut this into six thread-like strips after the manner of a fringe; twist this around the end of the wire, so that the six points hang down a little way. You need not be particular about this, because, as the flower always hangs down, the centre part is not much seen. Then cut three of each of the two patterns given of pure white wax ; make each of them hollow, rubbing them by the ball while warmed by the hand. Then put on at equal distance the three inner petals, so that they adhere well to the stalk, and completely cover the stamens, and also that they overlap each other a little. Next put on the three outer petals. Paint the inner ones with a spot of bright green, made of a mixture of Prussian blue and chrome yellow, and laid on with a eamel’s-hair or sable brush of small size. At the foot of the flower put a little piece of green wax to form asmall ball; bend the stalk, and add on it, distant from the flower, a sheath made of very thin green wax. When there are to be leaves shown, there should be always two on the stalk; but, when a pot full of snowdrops is to be represented, there may be many leaves arising from the ground without a flower at all; observe in this case, also, there should be always two together. Snowdrops should always be shown two or three together. > 89 The Violet.—Th® simple flower, which is of five petals, may be made of dark purple wax, cast of the proper color at first, or of blue wax or pink wax colored, after being cut into petals, either with oil or dry colors: the latter is to be preferred, because it gives a finer tint. Some- times white violets are made: their form is the same as the dark purple ones. It is the bota- nical characteristic of the sweet-scented violet that its flowers grow on stalks which come at once from the root of the plant, as so also the leaves; thus the plant is never branched, and, properly speaking, there is no real stem to it, although each leaf and flower has its distinct stalk. Owing to this, it is very easy to make, and looks well when in an imitation garden pot, or in a bunch of two or three together. 4 There . is a calyx of one piece, which, however, is five pointed, the points not very sharp. Sa > A, calyx, to be cut rather larger than the pattern; B, shape of lower petal; C, side petal; D, top petal. First, form the centre of the flower of a small piece of dark yellow wax: this is to be scarcely larger than the wire which forms the stalk; indeed, it is but the piece of wax folded over the stalk, and pointed up at the end. It may be snipped with scissors, after being put on, to resemble five stamens closed packed together. Now put on the five petals, one be- low, one at each side, and two at the top. All the petals are considerably hollowed in the hand first, particularly the three lower ones. When these are fixed, wrap the calyx around the purple petals, so that each point of it comes to the interval between the petals, or; in other words, so that the points are seen from the face of the flower. The upper part at the stalk end of the flower should be rather fuller than the lower, as if the stalk came out in some degree from the bottom as well as the end of the flower. The calyx and leaves are of a bright green. The Heart’s-ease.—The whole of the heart’s- ease are of the tribe of the violet, and therefore consist of the same parts, and are equally as easy to imitate, except that many of them re- quire much after-coloring. The heart’s-ease has very rarely any scent, and it is branched, that is, although each flower has its own footstalk, yet there are many flowers and leaves to the same stem; the leaves, too, are very different from those of the violet. ‘The flowers are of every variety of purple, blue, yellow, white, and occasionally brown color, but never red; they are also of every size, from the wild one of the fields, which is scarcely half an inch across, to the splendid productions of the gar- den, eight inches or more. Littte Grris.—There is something inex- pressibly sweet about little girls. Lovely, pure, innocent, ingenuous, unsuspecting, full of kind- ness to brothers, babies, and everything. They are sweet little human flowers, diamond dew- drops in the breath of morn. What a pity they should ever become women, flirts, and heartless coquettes !

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THERE IS A FOUNT. 251 ann Oe ee PSALM OF NATURE. BY ASHLEY TORRENS. She pours her music from the Lyric hills, And down the c,.wral skies, from star to star, Their echoes chime in undulating swell Like the first anthem from Creation roll’d. The weird and solemn lyrist of the sea, ; Stringing his harp upon the rocky shore, ; Flings o’er the bars the white hand of the deep, And the reverberation, improvised, Goes slowly upward to the waiting skies. 3 Is there no worship in such holy hymn? ; Comes it not from the lips of the Unseen, A type and symbol of harmonic truth, Sang round God’s mighty throne and given us In the first lisping of His seraph choir? As there is nothing lost of sound or form In the whole rounded Universe of God, Who knows but from the deep’s great lips goes up To one’s learning spirit the loud chant Of this great Minstrel Harper to the skies! The rivulet, that, like a living thing, Hymns its slow flight, a note of many hills, > Sent down from cot to cot, and town to town, Touching a melting cord in human hearts, And to the fringed Lilies on her banks Singing a joyous cadence all night long, Utters the story of her mountain birth To the hush’d plains and valleys spreading there ; The unseen winds that navigate the air, Warm with the current of the southern land, Have, in their wondrous organ symphonies, Attuned to the affinities which break ; Upon the rippling margent of old song. > The lyre of Nature, burdened with the hymn, Goes grandly ebbing through the sea of sound, And at the flood lifts up her gate to yield The full affluence to the void beyond. This voice hath plead unto the living world Through many years, and crept into the night, Making a festal in her hollow hallse— Is wrapped about the day with fleecy fold, Sent through the urn of dark with lonely cheer. Anon from the remote and pulpit hills Bursts forth its preacher-voice to charm the worla, And bless the waking millions of our kind. The treble of the anthem are the birds, Set to the scale of summer; winter’s bass Comes in at the great wreck of verdure, cast Upon this stified psalmist of the year. So shall this spirit haunt the rivers wide, The lonely cliff, and the great waterfall ; Crown with a grandeur the wide, open sea, Smile in the sunny and unbashful day, And in the blast and storm a beauty pour. ; NaTuRE hath many voices; in our ear | § ; ? en ee ae SISTER MARY. ; BY MRS. HARRIET E. FRANCIS. SisTER, far from thee I’m roaming, Where the willow shades my way, Where so oft in merry childhood Happy hours we ps ssed away. 3 Swinging on the drooping branches ; Watching wavelets dance along. As they flowed o’er pearly pebbles With a soothing, murmuring song. Twining wreaths as dewy laden From the scented starry vine ; Culling gems for memory’s casket, As we bud and leaflet twine. Culling gems. Ah, yes! those jewels I this morn am conning o’er; Brushing from them dust and rubbish, Till they gleam as bright as yore. Every one with thee is mingled; Mossy bank and singing stream ; Violet blooming ’neath the aspen, Mountain haze and sunset gleam. Sister, oft the thought steals o’er me, Oh, that thou wert with me now! But I check the wish unspoken, Quell the tear and throbbing brow. Could I dim that glorious vision, Far too fair for mortal sight, That is gleaming e’er before thee, Radiant, peerless, cloudless, bright? Cpuld I still that heavenly music, Sung by seraphs, wildly sweet, Softer than the whispering zephyr That thy ’raptured senses greet? No—oh, no! I miss thee, dearest; But there’s care upon my brow; Care to thee, a phantom buried, Nevermore to greet thee now. I will still, each thought repining, Joy for thee that all is bliss ; Patient pass the heavy shadows That are resting drear on this— Till the glory greets my pathway, That is bathing heavenly hills ; And the music pure, enchanting, My entranced spirit fills. THERE IS A FOUNT.' BV BsDi Fi THERE ig a fount, a blessed fount, A priceless boon to man, from God ; It springs from out a sacred mount, And waters man’s cold, drear abode In gushing rills, the crystal flow Pours from its holy fountain head; Pure as the winter’s falling snow, Still as the chamber of the dead. It glides along with dancing wave To the dark sea of man’s despair; Its perfumed waters gently lave The foaming crests of thought and care Its flow is ceaseless, calm, and still It is supplied from springs above ; God’s sunlight flashes on its rill, That holy fount of woman’s love.

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. PULSELESS HEART AND QUIET HAND. BY WILLIE E£. PABOR. Foup the thin white hands on her breast, And in them place a pure white rose ; The weary heart is now at rest, The weary hands have now repose. Her lot has been a lonely one, Belike to many here below, Who toil from rise to set of sun, Who bear about a load of wove. She had no pampered hours of ease, No costly robes, no jewels rare ; Of joy’s rich wine she drank the lees, And all her hours had much of care. Unnoticed passed she on her way, With few to smile and few to cheer; And all along life’s roadside lay The shadow of a solemn fear. But now the midnight has its morn, The dearer, since expected long ; She wears the robe by angels worn, She stands amid the angel throng. Here, stranger-like in stranger land ; There, welcomed with the pure above; Here, pulseless heart and quiet hand ; There, spirit-throned on heights of love. Take courage, ye who toil and hope ; The future bears a braver meed ; The paths that now to sorrow slope To lands of Bueiah surely lead. To-day hath much of grief and care, To-morrow bringeth bliss and bloom ; And they who now life’s sackcloth wear May wear white robes beyond the tomb. MY SWEET SISTER. BY WHISTON WHITE. My sweet sister, cold and dreamless In the grave, so dark and beamless, Found that rest the broken-hearted Find when earth and they have parted. She had loved pure and fondly, And was loved as wild and strongly; A soul of flowers to bloom in heaven Seemed the love their hearts had given. Unto the battle went he boldly, From that battle came he coldly, From earth to sky his spirit passed, Where many a hero drew his last. Sad and solemn was the story, Darkly shadowed was all its glory, And that hour of sorrow crushed The fairest rose that ever blushed.’ Calm as the deep currents flow, Seemed her silent, tearless woe ; Life to her was void and dreary, Hope had fled and left her weary. PLP LLLP LP PPE OOP ee oer enw enn mene ’Twas the languid eye once so bright, ’Twas the heavy step once so light, *Twas the wasted form once so fair, Alone told of the sorrow there. She lived to see a few fair flowers O’er him bloom, thro’ summer’s hours, Till autumn winds a chillness cast, And with them bowed she to the blast. Then my sister’s spirit dreamless, From this earth so dark and beamless, Fled to where the severed-hearted Meet as angels, and never parted. A METAPHOR. BY E. J. DOBELL. THERE stood an oak—a strong one, But the winter of his soul Was chilly and a long one. His arm was strong; strength could not bring to it The warmth of love; No fondling vine grew yet to cling to it. Comely, and straight, and stern, and high, He stood indifferent, Feeling no gentle, trusting one was by. Feeling no leaning, loving one was there Upon his brawny arm, Fondly her timid, twining weight to bear. And his brow wrinkled, and his heart grew stone, He longed for love ; But there in the wide world he stood alone. There came a vine—a leaning, loving vine, Bending and weak; And round his arm most gently did entwine ; And leaning there, in a most sweet embrace, Trusted him all, With purities alone and mild, sweet grace. Gone is the wrinkled brow and heart of stone, He stands no more alone, But loves the vine, his beautiful, his own. SONNET.—THE WIND, BY WM. ALEXANDER. I LISTEN to thy music, mournful wind! When rustling leafilets lend their harmony ; Thou comest, at eve, a messenger most kind, To fan the fainting earth refreshingly. Thou comest to “ rock the wood-bird in his nest,” And cause the green young sapling fast to grow, To scatter fragrance over nature’s breast, And banish fever from man’s burning brow. Thou mindest me of the disciple’s bark, Which, erst, in wilder mood, thou madest te toss, Till One arose amid the tempest dark, And bade the waves “ Be still.” Thou fliest across Earth’s face in hurricane’s proud form, And in the red simoom thy genius rules the storm.

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‘“wr’LL ALL MEET AGAIN IN THE MORNING. 253 Inner SACRED MUSIC. BY BEATRICE. TuHRovGH the long aisle, and rolling from tne roof, Come the full organ tones fitfully on; Echoing in a hundred hearts; now near us; Then strangely dying off, and they are gone! On the loud notes of triumph in the air The soul finds wiugs, that waft it up toward heaven ; While purest rays of truth, o’erflood in splendor Its altar, scattering thence earth’s sinful leaven. In the soft, solemn, prayerful strains, how humbly The spirit turns to God, repenting lowly; On his eternal mercy only waiting, And his high gift of absolution holy! The grand “ Te Deum” wakes our slumbering feelings To rapturous faith’s high and ecstatic pleasure ; The “ Gloria Patria,’”’ and the sublime ‘** Excelsis,” Bear us away upon their glorious measure! The softly breathed hymns steal o’er our senses, Like voices from the world where they are singing, Who tell the carol of the earth’s redemption, The mantle of their bliss on mortals flinging. Tears run in silent eddies down the cheek, That erewhile was so calm, and smiles will wrestle With the sad drops, while peace folds her soft pinion In the heart’s temple, dove-like there to nestle. Through the long aisle, and rolling from the roof, Come the sweet organ notes meltingly on; Sorrow and care in guilty wonder stare Upon their spoils, take wing, and they are gone. THE GRAVE OF THE FIRST-BORN. DY WILLIAM RODERICK LAWRENCE. Tue mother lays the dust of her first-born Where she may visit it with flowers and tears; And hence she strays at early dewy morn, The sacred spot, the treasured mound she nears— The object of her vanished hopes and fears Lies buried ’neath the turf on which she kneels, O’ergrown with daisies in their modest bloom ; Deep sorrow o*er her broken spirit steals; Whoe’er can tell the grief a stricken mother feels! She weaves a garland of white rose- buds rare, Of violets and lilies of the vale, And binds them with a tress of her own hair, Whose threads of gold shine ’mid the flowret’s pale, While round about her zephyrs lowly wail, In keeping with the pulses of her heart: She places her fond offering on the mound, The tear-drops from her eyes of sorrow start, And with one look of love she rises to depart. The sun is sweetly rising from his bed, And sheds his golden rays o’er flower and tree, O’er hill and dale, and that meek, gentle head, Bow’d low by sorrow which she cannot flee; The air is musical with bird and bee, As slow she wends her way, o’er field and mead, To what to her is now no more a home: But neither flower nor music doth she heed, The soul no joy may know—till from the body freed. VOL. L111.—22 en PPPP APL PAL PP PPP LLLP LPL DLP LS Onn Annnnnnnnnnnnnn nnn eee ~~ How many mourn the loss of loved ones dear, Who, slumbering, lie beneath the fragrant mould! Their tender voices ne’er can greet us here, Nor weave for us their graceful locks of gold : They ne’er again will meet us on the wold, Or walk with us unto the house of prayer— The Saviour has them safe within his fold, And we their many virtues may declare ; But let us run the race and strive to meet them there. *“WE’LL ALL MEET AGAIN IN THE MORNING!” BY H. CLAY PREUSS. It was a beautiful exclamation of a dying child, as the golden rays of the sunset streamed on him through the window: “ Good-by, papa, good-by! Mamma has come for me to-night; don’t cry, papa; we’ll all meet again in the morning!’ And the heart of that father grew lighter under its burden; for something assured him that his little angel had gone back to the bosom of Him who said, “ Suffer little children to come unto me for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’’ On, wild is the tempest, and dark is the night, But soon will the daybreak be dawning; Then the friendships of yore Shall blossom once more, And we’ll all meet again in the morning! Art thou doomed in a far distant region to roam, To meet the cold gaze of the stranger? Dost thou yearn for the smiles of the loved ones at home, While thou prayest God to shield them from danger? Ah! the night of the waters may shadow thy form, But soon will the daybreak be dawning; Then thou ‘It mingle once more With the loved ones on shore— For we ’ll all meet again in the morning! Dost thou miss the sweet voice of a fond loving wife Whose music brought balm to thy sorrow? Didst thou see her decline in the sunset of life, Nor felt one bright hope for the morrow? Oh, cheer up, dear brother! the night may be dark, But soon will the daybreak be dawning ; Of all ties bereft, One hope is still left— We'll all meet again in the morning! Art thou wearied, O pilgrim! on life’s desert waste? Dost thou sigh for the shade of the wildwood? Have earth’s choicest fruits proven bitter to taste, And mocked all the dreams of thy childhood? Oh, cheer up, poor pilgrim! faint not on the way— For soon will the daybreak be dawning ; Then the dreams which have fied Shall arise from the dead, And all will be bright in the morning! Oh, servant of Christ! too heavy the cross— Has thy trust in the Master been shaken? In doubt and in darkness thy faith has been lost, And thou criest, “‘ My God, I’m forsaken!” But cheer up, dear brother! the night cannot last, For soon will the daybreak be dawning : Then the crosses of earth We ’ve borne frem our birth Will all be made crowns in the morning!

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254 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ‘SUFFER THEM TO COME.?’’ BY LILLIAN. Open wide the garden gate, Let the little wanderers in; Let them now no longer wait, Though their lives are soiled by sin. There is room enough for them In the perfume-laden bowers, Room for many a sparkling gem ’Mid the garden’s living flowers. Take them from the sin-tost flood, Moor them at the Eden-isle; Sprinkled with atoning blood, Theirs shall be an angel-smile. Shield them from the world’s stern care, Guide their little footsteps right, Let them breathe the heavenly air, Let them see its living light. Suffer them to come to Him, Shepherd of the cherub band; He can light the valley dim, Leading from this desert land. Nurtured with a kindly care, All the weeds of sin kept down, Golden fruit their lives shal! bear Till they win the sparkling crown. And with golden harps in hand, Gladdening all that blest abode, They shall shine a star-gemmed band, In the coronal of God! Open then the garden gate, Let the little wanderers in, See the blessed Saviour wait— Wait to save their souls from sin! OH, SING TO ME! BY FINLEY JOHNSON. On, sing to me, my own beloved, That sweet and simple strain That I have treasured in my heart Throughout long years of pain! For its clear tones reca}l to me The joys of bygone days, When hope’s bright sun lit up the path Of happy childhood’s ways; And, as I hear its soothing notes, My mind goes wandering back, And once again I tread with joy Sweet childhood’s fairy track. Oh, would that we, my own beloved, Could woo again the shade Where, in the halcyon days of youth, Our wandering footsteps strayed ! Oh, would that we could sit beside The dwarfish mountain streams, And mirror as in days of yure Our future golden dreams But ah, alas! we only now Their memories can bring, And soothe the soul with melting tones Of songs we used to sing. AAA ARAL AAA APD DRPA PPD PDP DD Enigmas. ANSWERS TO CHARADES AND ENIGMAS IN AUGUST NUMBER, 31. A clock. 34. A vow. 30. Corn-ice, 33. A cricket. 29. A cut-lass. 32. A candle, CHARADES, 35. THERE ’s an edible grain you can name, With a nation it feeds, in the East, A trisyllabic vice will proclaim Which debases a man to a beast. 36. Whaat you're likely to do when you visit a friend, Who may hap to reside in my second ; Which, united, make what must the worthy offend, So venal its character ’s reckoned. 37. Upon your bed I’m always called The antagonist of pain ; Yet many a sufferer ’s died appalled In my embrace, ’tis plain. ENIGMAS, 38. A SANGUINARY monster I, On bloodshed e’er intent: I spare few victims I come nigh, So cruel e’er my bent. And yet I’m cherished by mankind With most assiduous care; For frequently indeed they find; Their evils I repair. My reputation stands so high, With ardent zeal I swell; And ’tis by wounding them I try To please myself as well. Nor do I cease my efforts till I’ve done the best I can ; And, though I’m not a lawyer, still I stick unto my man. Then I so fondly love a drop, I’m such a drunken elf, That I swill on, and seldom stop, Until I drop myself. 39. A JOVIAL character I own, A wet one too am I; My craft for usefulness is known, Though useless when I’m dry. Though thwarted, I’m obedient still, And serve my master’s need ; My course is guided by his will, I’m open too, indeed. To those who will themselves intrust With confidence to me, To such my buoyant nature must Most acceptable be. thr fore larg left foli

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NOVELTIES FOR THE MONTH. Fig. 1. NoTHING is considered of more consequence in the feminine toilet than the fashion of a cap, especially as a part of a bridal wardrobe, or of the preparations for an invalid’s room, especially if the convalescent be a young mother, receiving the congratulations of her friends and acquaint- ances. We give, therefore— Fig. 1.—An illustration of the style lately re- ceived into universal favor, where the friil 1s carried around the face. The cap itself is of alternate insertions, fine cambric, and Valen- ciennes, with a crown piece, as in the infants’ caps so long worn. The frill of fine cambric is ornamented by narrow tucks, and has a good Valenciennes edge; this is disposed in large flutings, so as to set close to the face. By those who fancy that a full border is not becoming— Fig. 2 may perhaps be preferred. It is of English embroidery, the cap a fauchen, or half handkerchief, with rounded corners, while a broad band of the same, scalloped at both edges, crosses it like a ribbon. Fig. 3.—Style of arranging the hair, for an evening party or reception. The hair, parted through the centre, is turned back from the forehead in two small puffs; over the right passes a demi-wreath of fine flowers, terminating in larger blossoms and foliage. Behind that, at the left of the face, is a spray of roses, buds, and foliage, as seen in eee ee eee Fig. 4—as also the back of the head. Fig. 4. It will 255

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256 be noticed that the berthe intended to be worn with this headdress is a full puff caught up with fine flowers to correspond. Fig. 5.—Garland for the back of the hair, to encircle the braids, or twists, and fall low on the shoulder. Fig. 6. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. — Fig. 6.—Berthe of lace, headed by thulle puffs or transparents, with a pretty shade of ribbon drawn through. It is more tasteful to have the ribbon tied upon the shoulder, and falling with bows and flowing ends. Fig. 7.—Chemisette of lace, the foundation of Fig. 7. net, and the front a double row of handsome lace turned back upon it. FLOUNCING FOR SLEEVES.

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POINT LACE CROCHET COLLAR PATTERNS. 257

—~ ~ —~ A eee POINT LACE CROCHET COLLAR PATTERNS. No. 1.—POINT D’ALENCON PATTERN, Materials,—No. 20 cotton ; steel crochet hook. lst row.—Make a chain of one hundred and eixty-eight stitches. 2d.—Work two stitches of single open crochet into one loop of the foundation, make one chain stitch, miss one loop, work two more long stitches into another loop of the foundation, make one chain, miss one loop, and repeat. Long stitch means a stitch of single open erochet. 3d.—Chain of five, working every fifth into every fourth stitch of the last row. 4th.—A plain chain, working every third into the centre stitch of the five in last row. 5th, 6th, and 7th rows of treble open crochet, making in all three rows of treble open crochet. This forms the band. Crochet each end of the band in plain double crochet, to prevent the commencement and finishing being observed. 8th.— Make a chain of five, work the fifth into every fourth stitch of the last row; and into every third stitch at the corners, com- mencing from the foundation chain, working round the band to the foundation chain at the other end. 9th.—A plain chain, working every third stitch into the centre stitch of the five in last row. 10th.—Work three long stitches into succes- sive loops, four chain stitches, miss three of the last row, work a stitch of double crochet into the fourth stitch of the last row, four chain, miss three, work four long stitches into succes- sive Joops, four chain stitches, work five chain stitches at the corners, work a stitch of double crochet into the fourth, chain of four, and repeat. 11th.— Work four long stitches into successive loops. * Make a chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, four chain stitches, increasing one in every chain at the corners, work two long stitches into the second stitch of every four in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches into the third of the four stitches in the last row, chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, four chain, five long stitches com- mencing on the fourth of the chain in the last row, and repeat from *. 12th.—Work five long stitches. * Make a chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of four, increasing one in every chain at the corners, ooe << ttt ttt work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, make a chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of four, work seven long stitches commencing on the fourth stitch of the last chain, repeat from *. 13th.—W ork six long stitches. * Make achain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of four, work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of four, work nine long stitches commencing on the fourth of the last chain, repeat from *. Observe in every row to increase the chain stitches round the corners. 14th.— Work five long stitches. * Make a chain of five, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the chaip of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, another chain of five, work a stitch of double crochet as be- fore, chain of five, work seven long stitches commencing on the second stitch of the nine in the last row, repeat from *. 15th.—Work four long stitches. * Make a chain of six, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of seven, work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of seven, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of six, work five long stitches commencing on the second of the long stitches in the last row, repeat from * 16th.— Work three long stitches. * Makea chain of six, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of eight, work two long stitehes through the chain of five in last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of eight, make a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of six, work three long stitches commencing on the second of the long stitches in the last row, repeat from *, 17th.— Work four long stitches. * Make a chain of five, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of nine, work two long stitches through the chain of five

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258 in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of nine, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of five, work five long stitches commencing on the fifth stitch of the last chain, repeat from *. 18th.—Work five long stitches. * Make a shain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of nine, work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, make a chain of nine, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of four, work seven long stitches commencing on the fifth stitch of the last chain, repeat from *. 19th.—Work seven long stitches. * Makea chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of nine, work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of nine, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain f four, work nine long stitches commencing on the fourth of the chain in last row, repeat from *. 20th.—Make a chain of eight, work it into the seventh long stitch of the preceding row. | | : : GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, * Chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of nine, work two long stitches through the chain of five in the last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of nine, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet on the first of the nine long stitches in last row, chain of ten, work the tenth stitch into the ninth of the long stitches, repeat from *. 21st.—W ork seven long stitches into the chain of eight in the last row, making one chain stitch at the top between every long stitch. * Makea chain of four, work a stitch of double crochet over the one in the last row, chain of nine, work two long stitches through the chain of five in last row, chain of five, work two long stitches through the same chain, chain of nine, work a stitch of double crochet as before, chain of four, work eight long stitches, making one chain stitch at the top between each long one, let the first of the eight long stitches come on the second of the ten in the last row, repéat from *. After finishing the last row, crochet the neck of the collar in plain double crochet. -~7oeoo BRAIDING FOR A DRESS. KARL

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OCTAGON ANTIMACASSAR. 259 LL OCTAGON ANTIMACASSAR. i nat aS, ee) ‘ Sih met o ‘ H ; uae. i Pa ate ot hie sia ; iii fy hat te i at ie Materials.—Four reels of crochet cotton ; two ounces of knitting cotton. On a foundation begin with 25 stitches, and increase (by netting two in one at the end of every row) until there are 51 squares at each side. Continue without increasing for 48 rows, and then decrease by netting two together at the end of every row, until 25 loops only are left. ms ae pinned out, that it may form into shape. Place it in a frame to darn, and this may be done ex- tremely well from the engraving; then add the border and fringe. The former is plain netting, with a stitch in every one, except at the corners, when four must be worked in each. This is for the first round; in the succeeding ones, one stitch only is to be worked in each. Finish by The antimacassar should then be washed, and ¢ knitting on a rich fringe, three inches deep. EMBROIDERY FOR CHEMISE BANDS. O OQ

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260 ~~ Ore eee eee GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE,

PO aEmESmmmEmwmme CAP FOR THE CONCERT ROOM, OB THEATRE. Se .. Py Se to a x — < wey —_ a ‘ NETTING. Matertals.—One ounce of rose-colored German wool, half an ounce of white ; one piece of white chenille, and two steel meshes, Nos. 4 and 8. Wirsa the rose-color cast on sixty loops on mesh No. 8, join and net eight rounds; leave twenty-four loops for the neck ; net the remain- ing loops until half a quarter of a yard is worked. For the border fasten on the white net three rows, netting round the sides, net three loops in one round, the ends to form the ears; with the rose net four rows, with the white one row on mesh No. 4, netting four loops in one. One plain row. With the rose two rows, fasten on the rose-colored at the crown, leaving the twenty- four loops at the neck; net the remaining loops four rows. Net two rounds, netting the twenty- four loops. With the white net one round, net- ting four loops in one on mesh No. 4, one plain round, two rounds with the rose-color. Cast on mesh No. 4 with the white twenty- four loops, net one row, 4 rows with the rose on mesh No. 8, with white one row on mesh No. 4,

, netting four loops in one, one plain row, two rows with rose-color; this forms the frill at the ears, which place six rows above the border ; finish by passing the chenille through the loops in darning stitch at the crown and border, and in the centre of cap, as seen in illustration. Make a cord and tassels with the rose-colored wool.

TURKISH BAG IN WOOL WORK. (See Plate printed in Colors in front of Book.) Materials.—Coarse canvas; black, royal blue, and red Berlin wool. Tue entire outlines of this pattern are worked in the black wool. The spaces are then filled alternately in scarlet and black. The small pointed figure being always in a color different from the stripe in which it is placed, and vice versa. The bag may be made up on a frame, with leather ) 2

top and handles, the edges at the sides being finished with silk cord. This is the proper way, if the bag is of a large size; if smaller, it may } be lined with twilled glazed calico, and the han- ‘ dles may be of silk cord,

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TURKISH BAG IN WOOL WORK.

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EMBROIDERY FOR AN INFANT’S SKIRT. 261 —_—— een eee eee 20350 0 00 0 0 eee PATTERN FOR SILK EMBROIDERY. —- ~~ ~r eee ———_ EMBROIDERY FOR AN INFANT'S SKIRT. \ oy Oo ° ws RS; Po P20. °

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262 LADY’S NETTED PURSE Materials.—A skein of scarlet gossamer netting sila, a little vert-islay and white netting silk; six skeins of gold thread, No. 1; French trimmings; steel netting mesh, Nos. l4and 17. Ivory gauge. BeaGtn with four stitches, and fine mesh, close into a round, and net two in every stitch. Of the eight thus worked, four will be long and four short stitches. Do two in every short stitch, and one in every long. Continue to work round and round in this manner, always in- creasing by netting two in every short stitch (which occurs four times in each round) until there are sixty stitches altogether. Then do sixty-four rounds without any increase. Take the mesh N6. 14, and do one round with it. Resume the fine mesh; net the second long stitch, drawing it through the first; then the first. Continue all round in the same way. Do two plain rounds, and again repeat from the one with the large mesh, finishing with six plain rounds instead of two. Tue Pornts.—Net nine; turn, net eight on the nine; turn, net seven on the eight; turn, net six on the seven. Continue in this way until there are only two stitches to net, which —————— EEO» $ GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, ee - ~ form the extreme point. Fasten off. Do all the points in the same manner. For tue Darnine.—With the gold thread darn the star at the bottom of the purse, and the shell above it. The three-cornered pieces at the bottom of the purse are alternately vert-islay and white, the scallop above them and below the shell being white over green, and vice versa. In the same way these two colors are blended in the stars and scrolls on the upper part of the purse. The points are alternately gold, green, and white. LOUNGING CAP. Materials.—Three-quarters of a yard of purple velvet; a piece of crimson and gold soutache; one and a half yard gold cord, and gold tassel. Tuts cap is formed very simply, and is so quickly worked, that we are sure it will be liked. A rich, but simple braided pattern surrounds the head piece; and the crown is worked ma similar way. The head piece is seven inches deep, and large enough to go round the head, varying from twenty-one to twenty-three inches. It is set full round the crown, which is about five and a half inches in diameter. Any kind of soutache will look well on black velvet; and on green, violet, a lighter green, or gold and sil- ver will do. When made up, the cap is to be lined with silk of the same color, and edged with gold cord round the head and crown.

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sa. INITIALS. 268 on BRAIDING PATTERN FOR A MELON-SHAPED SMOKING CAP. —_——— ~~cee-+ ——— INITIALS.

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264 EMBROIDERED COLLAR. Tne edges of the leaves, tendrils, and veining to be traced and sewed over with French embroidery Leaves to be filled up with back stitch, and grapes done in eyelets or dots. cotton. GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZ.NE.

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INSERTING. 265 RR een eee a oO pnt CORNERS FOR POCKET ITANDKERCOIEPS.

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226 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ~ PPP IPL LLLP LLLP PPD —— EMBROIDERY FOR A MARSEILLES BASQUE.

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RECEIPTS. Receipts, Lc. DOMESTIC MANIPULATION, CLEANING AND DISINFECTING. . In our previous papers on Domestic Manipulation, we have several times given directions as to the best mode of conducting processes for cleaning various articles, such as bottles, glass, &&. What remains, therefore, under this head, is to furnish hints for cleaning miscel- laneous articles, which have not been included under previous accounts;'and the very important process of disinfecting, which may be regarded as a medical clean- ing, falls naturally into the same chapter. As the substances to be submitted to the process of cleaning vary greatly from one another, we shall find it more convenient to throw our remarks into the form of mis- cellaneous hints than to arrange them in a chapter for consecutive reading. Iron-work which is exposed to wet rusts rapidly. It is usually preserved from the action of moisture either oy covering it with two or three coatings of paint, as is customary in large out-door works, or by brushing it over with a varnish termed Brunswick black; this plan is usually followed in the case of smaller substances used in-doors. A very superior plan of protecting small iron goods from the injurious action of wet is to heat them a little below redness, and whilst hot to brush them over with common linseed oil, which is decom- posed by the heat, and forms a thin, very firm coating of varnish, which is quite impervious to water, and, unlike paint or Japan-black, does not chip off. It is evident that this plan can only be adopted in a limited number of cases, but where it is available we very strongly recommend it. Floor Boarding and other wood-work is exceedingly apt to be stained by various substances spilled upon it. Ink-stains, for instance, are extremely obstinate: they withstand washing many times, and at last turn to a rusty iron color from the application of the alkali of the soap. Both the black stain of recent ink and the rusty iron mould may be removed by the action of oxalic or muriatic acid. As wood is not likely to be injured like cloth or linen, the latter may be used, being the cheaper; and it should be diluted with two or three times its bulk of water, and applied until the stain is removed. Grease which has been trodden in, or has remained a long time, should be first softened by the application of a little turpentine, and then it will be found to yield much more readily than it otherwise would to the action of fuller’s-earth anu pearlash or soda. Fruit stains are quickly removed by the action of a little chloride of lime, mixed with water, and applied until the desired effect is produced. It should be borne in mind that all vegetable colors are utterly destroyed beyond any restoration by the energetic action of this agent. Paint, when soiled, is readily cleaned by soap and water; soda and pearlash are frequently employed, but they act by removing a portion of the paint, and if not thoroughly washed off with clean water afterwards, they will be found to soften the whole. Caustic alka- lies, such as the solution for washing on the new plan, will rapidly dissolve paint, and are therefore inapplica- ble for cleaning; they may, however, be usefully em- ployed in removing paint from wood, where such an operation is requisite. we _— 267 _— - ne Plate may be cleaned by rouge, or, if this is not readily obtained, by washed whiting: this is readily made by stirring some whiting up with water, then allowing the larger particles and the grit to subside, and pouring off the water charged with the finer powder, which is allowed to settle, and dried for use. When plate is Very much stained, it may be cleaned with putty powder; but this preparation would soon wear away the silver if used frequently or unnecessarily. It may be mentioned that this substance is not made from putty, as its name might seem to imply, but is a rust or oxide of tin, obtained by heating the metal. Japanned Goods, such as tea-boards, should not have boiling water poured upon them, but should be washed with warm water, and polished with a piece of wash- leather and fine flour. Knives.—The common wooden knife-board wears out the knifes very rapidly; it is therefore much better to employ a piece of buff-leather to cover the board. For very superior cutlery emery powder should be used instead of Bath-brick. Whatever the material of the board, it will be rapidly spoiled by cleaning the backs of knives upon the edge of the board. To prevent this evil, a small piece of leather should be fixed at one end to clean the backs upon. We have seen several knife- boards, lately, covered with a material formed of Indcia- rubber and powdered cork, which was manufactured as a substitute for floor cloth, and sold under the name of kamtulicon ; but we have had no experience in their use. Steel Forks are readily cleaned by having a pot of damp moss or hay, with some sand intermixed, into which they may be repeatedly thrust. If kniges or forks get an unpleasant taint, which cannot be removed readily, they may be plunged into the mould of the garden, which has a very absorptive power, and rapidly removes such odors. Bedsteads may be freed from vermin by brushing them over in the cracks with a mixture formed of one ounce of corrosive sublimate dissolved in half a pint of oil of turpentine, and the same quantity of any spirit, such as strong gin or whiskey : this effectually prevents their harboring. But, when first appligd, it possesses a dis- agreeable odor from the turpentine; and great care must be taken with it as it is excessively poisonous, although from its disagreeable smell it is not likely to be swallowed accidentally. It has been found that the presence of the odor of creasote (in vessels which have been used in carrying railway sleepers prepared with this substance to prevent their rotting) has effectually driven away these enemies tv our nocturnal peace. Unfortunately, the odor of creasvte is very powerful and unpleasant; but there may be cases in which it may be applicable. On the whole, constant and unre- mitting cleanliness and the employment of iron bed- steads, which are now manufactured of the most elegant forms, are the best means of getting rid of these pests. As stated in our first article, the operations of dusting, scrubbing, &c., though in strictness Domestic Manipu- lations, hardly come within the limits of this series of papers; we pass on, therefore, to the more important operations of disinfecting. Various means have been proposed of lessening or utterly destroying the infectious emanations that proceed from persons in certain dis- eases, and which frequently have the power of attach- ing themselves with greater or less tenacity to such articles as wearing apparel, furniture, &c. Generally speaking, the presence of a good system of ventilation is sufficient to prevent taking any infection. When rooms are properly aired, a disease can seldom be caught

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268 GODEY’S LAPY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, PAA eee oOo more than a few feet from a patient; or, even in the case of those most infectious disorders, scarlet-fever and smallpox, it seldom spreads more than a few yards ; but, if the air of a room is confined, the infection is concentrated, and becomes much more certain in its action. . Downy and fibrous materials readily receive infec- tion; it may, in fact, in many instances, be folded up in them, and so retained almost any length of time; but} if they are thoroughly exposed to a free current of air, it is dissipated in a short time. It should be mentioned that infectious diseases are more readily received in tertain states of the body; thus, fear, timidity, mental anxiety, and such states of mind, by lowering the general tone of the system, render it much more liable to contract infectious or contagious diseases; a state of exhaustion from bodily fatigue, or from hunger, has the same tendency. Infection is also more readily received through the lungs than through the skin; therefore, it is importart never to receive the breath of a patient, and, as a sailor would say, always to keep to the windward side of him. Amongst the domestic disinfectants, vinegar has a great reputation, but unde- servedly so; its only action is to overpower, by its odor, the smell of a sick-room—as a destroyer of the peculiar influences that engender disease, it has no power. Burning substances act in the same manner. Burnt brown paper, fumigating pastiles, tobacco, only act by substituting one smell for another. The ridi- culous practice of carrying about a piece of camphor is very common, and is perfectly inefficacious. If it has any action at all, it must be an injurious one; for cam- phor is a stimulant, and its constant inhalat.on must tend to lower the system, and so produce the very evil it is supPosed to remedy. (To be continued.) HOW TO COOK MUTTON. Mutton CuTLeTs—MAINTENON.—Trim the cutlets as for former cutlet®, half fry them, then cover them with fine herbs and bread crumbs, and season with pepper and salt. Lay all to cool; have some fresh parsley to add to the already fried herbs and shalot. When cool, spread the butter and herbs thick upon each cutlet; sprinkle them with bread crumbs; wrap them in buttered foolscap paper, and broil them over a slow fire until done. Bratsep CuTLets.—Trim your mutton from the bones as before, then put it whole into a good braise, let it stew gently until tender, put it aside to get cold; when so, cut your cutlets as thick as the former, trim them neatly, make them hot and glaze them. FiLtet or MutTtron.—Choose a very large leg, cut from four to five inches in thickness from the large end of the leg, take out the bone, and in its place put a highly savory furcemeat, flour and roast it for two hours, it will be done; it may be sent to the table with the same accompaniments as a fillet of veal, with melted butter poured over it, or a rich brown gravy and red currant jelly. FILLeTtT of Mutton Stewrep.—Cut and prepare stuff as above, flour and brown in a little butter, and put it into a stewpan with a pint and a half of gravy; with it a small bondle of sweet herbs, two or three small onions, or eight or ten small button onions peeled, ® teaspoonful of whole black pepper; stew slowly three hours and a half. The fillet may be salted, and being half roasted may be stewed with its trimmings. FILLETS IN MARINADE.—Cut from the loins of mutton; prepare some carrots, turnips, onions, and celery, thyme, mace, cloves, and whole pepper, cut up in thin slices; boil a little vinegar and water, put your fillets in a deep dish, pour the vinegar over the roots and mutton when cold, let it lay all night; next day trim neatly and braise them, take them out, 1nd when required glaze them, sauce under them. BLANQUETTE DE MovrTon is generally made from a former day’s saddle of mutton; cutting out the fillets, trimming it neatly, you will be able’to cut clearly pieces the size of a shilling, which you will put into some good cooley sauce, you may put two or three gherkins then into it; this is dished better in a tin. Haricot Mutton.—In this dish proceed as before in removing the bones, but leave more fat on and cut each cutlet much thicker; fry them over a quick fire to brown, twelve will make this dish; put them into a proper sized stewpan with a little good second stock, pepper and salt, a little piece of sugar, cover it over and stew gently over a sluw fire; when tender, strain off sufficient stock for the sauce, for which roots will be previously prepared, you will see among the sauces. HaricoT MutTton—ANOTHER Way.—Cut into chops the best end of the neck of mutton, fry them a light brown, in fat made boiling hot before the chops are put into it, some pieces cut from the neck will be the best, dredge them with flour, sprinkle them with pepper and salt, put in a stewpan three parts of a pint of water, an onion stuck with cloves, parsley, a few spring onions, and a bay leaf, stew gently till the meat is nearly done, then add turnips and carrots cut small, fry a large onion cut in slices brown, add it to the gravy, which when just done must be thickened, take out the sweet herbs when the whole has stewed an hour, and serve. Hasn is made from former dressed mutton, leg or saddle, cut in nice thin-shaped pieces, and put into some good brown sauce. HASHED Mutton.—Cut the cold mutton into slices as uniform in size as possible, flour them, pepper and salt them, put them into a stewpan with some gravy made of an onion stewed with whole pepper and toast- ed bread in a pint of water, to which a little walnut ketchup has been added—this gravy should be stewed two hours before using—do not let the hash boil; when it is done, add a little thickening of butter, flour and water if required, and serve up with sippets of toasted bread. HasHeD MvutTton.—This is a favorite method of disposing of the cold shoulder, especially if it should happen to be underdone; cut it into slices, take the bones (if of a shoulder or leg, break them) and put them in a stewpan with the trimmings, cover them with water, put in a fagot of thyme, parsley, whole pepper, allspice, &c., cover down and simmer for three quarters of an hour; while the bones, &c. are stewing, fry an onion brown in a little butter and flour, put it into the stewpan with the gravy, stew gently twenty minutes, strain it, lay the slices of mutton in the stew- pan, pour over them the strained gravy, pour in a spoonful of walnut ketchup or any suitable preferred sauce, season it, simmer until the meat is hot through, dish and serve. A spoonful of curry powder is sometimes added, and is always a palatable addition.

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RECEIPTS. 269 SICK-ROOM AND NURSERY. DOMESTIC SURGERY. (Continued from June Number.) A bandage for the chest is always placed upon the patient in a sitting posture; and it may be put on in circles or spirally. Use, in fractures of the ribs, to re- tain dressings, and after severe contusions. A bandage for the belly is placed on the patient as directed in the last, if spirally carrying it from above downwards. Use, to compress the belly after dropsyv. or retain dressings. The hand is bandaged by crossing the bandage over the back of the hand. Use, to retain dressings. For the head, a bandage may be circular, or spiral, or both; in the latter case, commence by placing one cir- cular turn just over the ears; then bring down from left to right, and round the head again so as to alternate a spiral with a circular turn. Use, to retain dressings on the head or over the eye; but this form soon gets slack. The circular bandage is the best, crossing it over both eyes. For the Foot.—Place the end just above the outer ankle, and make two circular turns, to prevent its slipping; then bring it down from the inside of the foot over the instep towards the outer part: pass it under the sole of the foot, and upwards and inwards over the instep towards the inner ankle, then round the ankle, and repeat again. Use, to retain dressings to the instep heel, or ankle. As it sometimes happens that it is necessary to apply a bandage at once, and the materials are not at hand, it is desirable to know how to substitute something else that any one may apply with ease. This is found to be effected by handkerchiefs, and an experienced surgeon has paid great attention to this subject, and brought it to much perfection. It is to him, therefore, that we are indebted for most of these hints. Any ordinary handkerchief will do; but a square of linen folded into various shapes answers better. The shapes generally required are as follows: The triangle, the long square, the cravat, and the cord. The triangular handkerchief is made by folding it from corner to corner. Use, as a bandage for the head. Ap- plication.— Place the base round the head, and the short part hanging down behind, then tie the long ends over it. The long-square is made by folding the handkerchief into three parts, or double it once upon itself. Use, as a bandage to the ribs, belly, &e. If one handkerchief is not long enough, sew two together. The cravat is folded as usual with cravats. Use,as a bandage for the head, arms, legs, feet, neck, &c. The cord is used to compress vessels, when a knot is made in it, and placed over the vessel to be compressed. It is merely a handkerchief twisted in its long diameter. Sometimes it is necessary to apply two or more hand- kerchiefs, as in a broken collar-bone, or when it is necessary to keep dressings under the arm. It is ap- plied by knotting the two ends of one handkerchief together, and passing the left arm through it, then passing another handkerchief under the right arm, and tying it. By this means we can brace the shoulders well back, and the handkerchief will press firmly over the broken collar-bone; besides, this form of bandage dves not readily slip or get slack, but it requires to be, combined with the sling, in order to keep the arm steady. 23° THE TOILET. ALMONDS.— “ Mark well the flow’ring almond of the wood; If od’rous blooms the bearing branches load, The glebe will answer to the sylvan reign, Great heats will follow, and large crops of grain.” , VIRGIL. This perfume has been much esteemed for many ages. It may be procured by distilling the leaves of any of the laurel tribe, and the kernels of stone fruit; for trade purposes, it is obtained from the bitter almond, and exists in the skin or pellicle that covers the seed after it is shelled. In the ordinary way, the almonds are put into the press for the purpose of obtaining the mild or fat oil from the nut; the cake which is left after this process is then mixed with salt and water, and allowed to remain together for about twenty-four hours prior tu distillation. The reason for moistening the cake is well understood to the practical chemist, and although we are not treating the subject of perfumery in a chemi- cal sense, but only in a practical way, it may not be inappropriate here to observe that the essential oil of almonds does not exist ready formed to any extent in the nut, but that it is produced by a species of fermen- tation, from the amygdalin and emulsin contained in the almonds, together with the water that is added. Analogous substances exist in laurel leaves, and hence the same course is to be pursued when they are dis- tilled. Some manufacturers put the moistened cake into a bag of coarse cloth, or spread it upon a sieve» and then force the steam through it; in either cage, the essential oil of the almond rises with the watery vapor, and is condensed in the still-worm. In this concen- trated form, the odour of almonds is far from agreeable ; but when diluted with spirit, in the proportion of about one and a half ounce of the oil to a gallon of spirit or alcohol, it is very pleasant. The essential oil of almonds enters into combination with soap, cold cream, and many other materials pre- pared by the perfumer; for which see their respective titles. Fourteen pounds of the cake yield about one ounce of essential oil. In experiments with this substance, it must be care- fully remembered that it is exceedingly poisonous, and, therefore, great caution is necessary in its admixture with substances used as a cosmetic, otherwise danger- ous results may ensue. MISCELLANEOUS. How To MAKE Goop Breap.—A New Fngland housewife gives the following directions for making that desideratum with all, good bread :— Wheat and Indian Bread.—To two quarts of sifted Indian meal add hot water enough to wet the same; when sufficiently cooled, add one teaspoonful or more of salt, half a pint of yeast, and one-half teacupful of molasses ; then add wheat flour enough to make it into loaves (it should be kneaded well); and, when risen light, bake o: steam it three or more hours; if this should get sour while rising, add a teaspoonful of sugar and a little saleratus dissolved in water. Brown Bread.—Take equal quantities of Indian meal and rye flour; scald the meal, and when lukewarm add the flour, adding one-half pint of good yeast to four quarts of the mixture, a tablespoon even full of salt, and half a cup of molasses, kneading the mixture well.

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270 ARAAAAM PRPRPALP PLLA LAM GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. This kind of bread should be softer than wheat flour occasion much trouble, and will save the expense of bread. All the water added after scalding the meal should be lukewarm. When it has risen well, put it to bake in a brick oven or stove—the former should be hotter than for tlour bread; if a stove oven, it should be steamed two hours, then baked one hour or more; when done, it is a dark brown. The best axticle for taking this kind of bread is brown earthenware—say pans eight or ten inches in height, and diameter about the same; grease or butter the pans; put in the mixture; then dip your hand in cold water, and smooth the loaf; after this, slash the loaf both ways with a knife quite Some let it rise a little more before they put it to bake. Many people prefer this bread made of one-third rye flour, instead of one-half. When it is difficult to get rye, wheat flour will answer as a substitute. It adds very much to the richness and flavor of this kind of bread to let it remain in the oven over night. Virginia Corn Bread.—Dissolve one tablespoonful of butter in three and a half pints of boiling milk; into this scald one quart of Indian meal; when cool, add a half pint of wheat flour, a little sugar, a teaspoonful of salt, and two eggs well beaten; mix well together, and deep. pake in two cake tins well greased or buttered. Indian Bread, called the Saint Charles Indian Bread, because prepared at the Saint Charles Hotel, New Orleans.— Beat two ezgs very light; mix them with one pint of sour milk (or butter with sweet milk will do); then add a teaspoonful of soda or saleratus; then stir in slowly one pint of Indian meal and one tablespoonful of melted butter; beat these well together; bake in a common exke pan in a quick oven. The bread can be made very good without eggs. A CORRESPONDENT of the “ Lady’s Book” sends the following :— “Mr. Gopry: I have a way of making good bread that I have not seen in the ‘ Lady’s Book :’ Two teacup- fuis of sour milk, one* teaspoonful of cream of tartar, and one of saleratus or a little salt.” To Remove GREASE FROM Boarps.—Pour boiling water on fuller’s-earth enough to bring it to a stiff paste, which immediately spread over the greasy spots. This should be done over night, that it may remain on several hours. Next morning, scour with hot water, and the grease will most likely be removed; if not, apply the fuller’s-earth again. Sponce.—A correspondent writes to us that she has found the following an excellent means of preserving sponges in proper condition for years. A sponge should never be wrung, as this breaks the fibres and injures its elasticity. Squeeze it as dry as possible, and hang it by a string to dry in the air. Leaving it soapy soon spoils a sponge. When used with soap, it should be squeezed well in warm water, and left to lie a few minutes in cold. To wasn Caricors.—Calicoes, if badly washed, are more liable than linens to assume a yellow tinge. Many persons attempt to overcome this by imparting a strong shade of blue, which makes the linen look much worse. The detergent properties of the lime-water act with energy upon cotton without injury, unless used too strong. Even the best washed calicoes, if kept for a long time without being used, will become discolored when placed in a dark drawer or closet where no cireu- lation of air or light can possibly reach them. They should, therefore, be taken out every week, and exposed in the daylight to a current of fresh air. This will not | | | ) | | | | | ; | ; | | | | | | washing and bleaching the articles when discolored. Chemistry for the Doung. THE DISTINCTIVE SOLVENT FOR, PROPERTIES OF, AND THE CHLORIDE OF SILVER. APPARATUS AND MATERIALS REQUIRED. Two or three test-tubes of about half an inch diame- ter. A test-tube stand to match. A little stoppered bottle (say 1 ounce) of nitric acid, otherwise called aquafortis. Ditto of liquor of ammonia, otherwise called harts- horn. A candle. Twisting a bit of paper around a test-tube, so as to form a handle by means of which your fingers may be protected against the heat, collect a small portion of the chloride of silver on the end of a glass rod, and deposit it in the tube. Pour in a few drops of aquafortis, and a little distilled water, and remark, the chloride is not dissolved. Pour in some more aquafortis. Still no solu- tion. Next hold the tube about an inch over the flame of a candle, not allowing the flame to exercise its full force exactly against the end of the tube, but causing it to play up its side, by which means the contents may be made to boil without boiling over. Still no solution of the chloride of silver takes place; for, ih point of fact, the substance is absolutely insoluble in nitric acid or aquafortis; therefore put your test-tube into the test- tube stahd, and try the effect of some other solvent. Thrusting a little chloride of silver, as before, into another clean tube, fill the tube half full of distilled water, and pouring in a few drops of ammonia, ob- serve how immediately and completely solution takes place. Hence water—containing a small quantity of am- monia—will be theoretically indicated as the proper cleansing liquid tor the apparatus; and moreover, two highly important chemical facts will have been im- pressed on your mind. Chloride of silver is soluble in ammonia. Chloride of silver is not soluble in nitric acid. Proceeding, therefore, to the cleansing of your ap- paratus, do as follows: First, wash many times in succession in water, then in water containing a little ammonia. Finally in water again. Lastly, wipe the apparatus dry with, first, a linen cloth; secondly, with an old silk handkerchief. As regards the little test- tubes, they may be very nicely cleaned after washing them out first with ammonia, then with water, thus. First, dry them as follows :— Having warmed one of them over a candle or before a fire, thrust it into a glass tube, and, putting the external end of the glass tube into the mouth, take an inspiration through it again and again, until the test- tube becomes quite dry. This process of drying, or something like it, must be gone through whenever it is desired to dry a tube, a flask, or other vessel, having but one narrow orifice condition most unfavorable to evaporation. The tubes, having been thus dried, should be wiped clean with a bit of soft silk tied to the end of a stick or whalebone, and being cleaned should be put away.

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HE tis ing bie ed, | to ned EDITORS’ HOME. * There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief— The silver links that lengthen Joy’s visits when most brief. Then dost thou sigh for pleasure? Oh, do not widely roam! But seek that hidden treasure At home, dear home !”” BERNARD BARTON. Yes; pleasure, to be regl, substantial, a fact, and not a fancy, must be found in the place we call home. The word typifies safety, rest, ease, comfort, love, improve- ment, and happiness. The best blessings of life are bound up in the sweet burdens that home duties impose when these are faithfully discharged. If the real, every-day enjoyments of a well-ordered, loving, pious family could be faithfully portrayed, with the substan- tial benefits resulting to the individuals concerned, and through these to society, to the State, the Church, the world below and the world above, we should have a series of wonderful pictures of heart happiness and heart heroisms more romantic and more beautiful than Genius has ever painted on the canvas of fiction. We lately met with a story that elucidates, in a good degree, the sort of novels which are, as we think, at present most needed. High life has been thoroughly explored ; nobility and gentry pictured in every phase of fashionable being; and the classes immediately below these, that is, commercial and professional life, have been well displayed, The poverty-stricken, mise- rable, and vagabond classes have also been largely brought out by some of the most popular writers of English fiction. No need of stating here what every intelligent person admits, that the staple of our supply of novels and fictitious literature comes from Great Britain: therefore we are better versed in the social manners of that country than of our own, because there the customs are defined, the classes are fixed, while here, “‘ new lords and new laws” are the order of the day. We will not now stop to inquire “ which way is best ;”’ only stating the fact, we say that there is one large and important class of English people which we have as yet scarcely heard of, namely, those who live on small salaries and keep up respectability and a degree of gentility by the closest economy, such as an American in any condition of life would hardly know how to practise. This class of English families is among the most orderly, virtuous, and religious in that land, and their heart histories would be full of examples of quiet, beauty, and contented happiness. Would that another Jane Austen might arise and fitly illus- trate these isolated pictures of domestic life! In order to elucidate our meaning, we intend giving a synopsis of this story of “ The Three Gifts.” It opens with the introduction of three children of Mr. and Mrs. Atheling: Agnes, Marian, and Charles. They were going home to Bellevue Cottage, No. 10. One of the girls, Marian, is very pretty: you can see that at a glance: under the simple bonnet, and through the thin TABLE. little veil, which throws no cloud upon its beanty, shines the sweetest girl’s face imaginable. It is only eighteen years old, and not at all of the heroical cast; but it brightens like a passing sunbeam through all the sombre line of passengers, and along the dull back- ground of this ordinary street. There is no resisting that sweet, unconscious influence: people smile when they pass her, unawares: it isa natural homage paid involuntarily to the young, sweet, innocent loveliness, unconscious of its own power. People have smiled upon her all her days; she thinks it is because every- body is amiable, and seeks no further for a cause. The other one is not very pretty; she is twenty: she is taller, paler, not so bright of natural expression, yet as far from being commonplace as can be conceived. They are dressed entirely alike: thriftily dressed in brown merino, with little cloaks exact to the same pattern; and bonnets of which every bow of ribbon outside and every little pink rosebud within is a com- plete fac-simile of its sister bud and bow. They have little paper parcels in their hands each of them; they are about the same height, and not much different in age; and to see these twin figures, so entirely resem- bling each other, passing along at the same inconsistent youthful pace, now rapid and now lingering, you would scarcely be prepared for the characteristic difference in their looks and in their minds. Charlie, the brother, so far from being handsome, was strikingly the opposite. He had large, loose, ill-com- pacted limbs, like most young animals of a large growth, and a face which might be called clever, powerful, or good-humored, but certainly was, without any dispute, ugly. He was of dark complexion, had natural fur- rows in his brow; and a mouth, wide with fun and happy temper at the present moment, which could close with indomitable obstinacy when occasion served. No fashion could have made Charlie Atheling fashionable ; but his plain apparel looked so much plainer and coarser than his sister’s that it had neither neatness nor grace to redeem its homeliness. He was seventeen, tall, big, and somewhat clumsy, as unlike as possible to the girls, who had a degree of natural and simple graceful- ness not very common in their sphere. Charlie’s mas- culine development was unequivocal; he was a tho- rough boy now, and would be a manful man. It is a spring afternoon, cheery but cold, and lamps and shop windows are already beginning to shine througlrthe ruddy twilight. This is a suburban street, with shops here and there, and sombre lines of houses between. The houses are all graced with “front gar- dens’’—strips of ground enriched with a few smoky evergreens, and flower-pots ignorant of flowers; and the shops are of a highly miscellaneous character, adapted to the wants of the locality. Vast London roars and travails far away to the west and to the north. This is Islington, a mercantile and clerkish suburb. The people on the omnibuses—and all the omnibuses are top-heavy with outside passengers—are people from the city; and, at this time in,the afternoon, as a general principle, everybody is going home. The Home of the Athelings.—The house is old for this 271

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272 locality—larger than this family could have afforded had it been in better condition—a cheap house out of repair. It is impossible to see what is the condition of the little garden before the door; but the bushes are somewhat straggling, and wave their long arms about in the rising wind. There is a window on either side of the door, and the house is but two stories high: it is the most commonplace of houses, perfectly comfortabie and uninteresting, so far as one may judge from with- out. Inside, the little hall is merely a passage, with a door on either side, a long row of pegs fastened against the wall, and a strip of brightly painted oil-cloth on the floor. The parlor door is open: there are but two can- dies, yet the place is bright; and in it is the lighted window which shines so cheerily into the silent street. The father sits by the fire in the only easy-chair which this apartment boasts; the mother moves about on sundry nameless errands, of which she herself could scarcely give a just explanation; yet somehow that comfortable figure passing in and out through light and shadow adds an additional charm to the warmth and comfort of the place. Two little children are playing on the rug befvre the fire—very little children, twins scarcely two years old: one of them caressing the slip- pered foot of Mr. Atheling; the other seated upon a great paper book full of little pictures, which serves at once as amusement for the little mind, and repose for the chubby little frame. They are rosy, ruddy, merry imps as ever brightened a fireside; and it is hard to believe they are of the same family as Charlie, and Agnes, and Marian. For there is a woeful gap between the elder and the younger children of this house—an interval of heavy, tardy, melancholy years, the records of which are written, many names, upon one grave- stone and upon the hearts of these two cheerful people among their children at their own hearth. They have lived through their day of visitation, and come again into the light beyond; but it is easy to understand the peculiar tenderness with which father and mother bend over these last little children—angels of consolation— and how everything in the house yields to the pretty childish caprice of little Belle and little Beau. * . . . . * . Vet it was a pretty scene—with Marian’s beautiful face at one side of the table, and the bright intelligence of Agnes at the other—the rosy children on the rug, the father reposing from his day’s labor, the mother busy with her sweet, familiar, never-ending cares; even Charlie, ugly and characteristic, added to the family completeness. The head of the house was only a clerk in a merchant's office, with a modest stipend of two hundred pounds a year. All the necessities of the family, young and old, had to be supplied out of this humble income. You may suppose there was not much over, and that the household chancellor of the exchequer had enough to do, even when assisted by that standing committee with which she consulted solemnly over every little outlay, The committee was prudent, but it was not infallible. Agnes, the leading member, had extravagant notions. Marian, more careful, had still a weakness for ribbons and household embellishments, bright, and clean, and new. Sometimes the committee en permanence was abruptly dismissed by its indignant president, charged with revolutionary sentiments and a total ignorance of sound financial principles. Now and then there occurred a monetary crisis. On the whole, however, the domestic kingdom was wisely governed; and the seven Athelings, parents and children, lived PP LLP PPL LLLP LDL LPP PPP LPP PPP ? ¢ c. $ ; 5 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. and prospered, found it possible to have even holiday dresses, and books from the circulating library, ribbons for the girls, and toys for the babies, out of their two hundred pounds a year. * * . * . . . Agnes and her Gift.—Agnes Atheling was not wise; she had no particular gift for conversation, and none whatever for logic; no accomplishments, and not a very great deal of information. To tell the truth, while it was easy enough to discover what she had not, it was somewhat difficult to make out precisely what she had to distinguish her from other people. She was a good girl, but by no means a model one; full of impatience, resentments, and despairs, now and then, as well as of hopes, jubilant and glorious, and a vague but grand ambition. She herself knew herself quite as little as anybody else did; for consciousness of power and pre- science of fame, if these are signs of genius, did not belong to Agnes. Yet genius, in some kind and degree, certainly did belong to her, for the girl had that strange faculty of expression which is as independent of educa- tion, knowledge, or culture as any wandering angel. And when all the domestic affairs were over—when Mr. Atheling had finished his newspaper, and Mrs. Atheling put aside her work-basket, and Mr. Foggo was out of the way—then papa was wont to look over his shoulder to his eldest child. “ You may read some of your nonsense, if you like, Agnes,” said the house- hold head ; and it was Agnes’s custom upon this invita- tion, though not without a due degree of coyness, to gather up her papers, draw her chair into the corner, and read what she had written. And so the young romance was read; there was some criticism, but more approval; and in reality none of them knew what to think of it any more than the youthful author did. They were too closely concerned to be cool judges; and, full of interest and admiration as they were, could not quite overcome the oddness and novelty of the idea that “our Agnes” might possibly one day be famous, and write for the world. The young writer was as far from being an abstracted personage as it is possible to conceive; and, from the momentous matter of the household finances to the dressing of the doll, and the childish play of Belle and Beau, nothing came amiss to the incipient author. With this sweet stream of cominon life around her, you may be sure her genius did her very little harm. Marian and her Gift-—Marian Atheling had as little choice in respect to her particular endowment as her sister had ; less, indeed, for it cost her nothing—not an hour’s thought or a moment’s exertion. She could not help shining forth so fair and sweet upon the sober background of this family life; she could not help charming every stranger who looked into her sweet eyes. She was of no particular “style” of beauty, so far as we are aware; she was even of no distinct com- plexion of loveliness, but wavered with the sweetest shade of uncertainty between dark and fair, tall and little. For hers was not the beauty of genius; it was not exalted and heroical expression ; it was not tragic force or eloquence of features; it was something less distinct and more subtle even than these. Hair that caught the sunshine and brightened under its glow; eyes which laughed a sweet response of light before the fair eyelids fell over them in that sweet inconsistent mingling of frankness and shyness which is the very charm of girlhood ; the cheeks as soft, and bloomy, and fragrant as any flower: these seemed but the appropri-

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lay ons lwo se; pne ery e it ras nad Ice, of ind as Tre- not ree, nge ca- sen me the ned ion ind bly the the ind Or. you ttle not ber elp eet 80 m= est ind ras gic ess hat Ww ent ery ind EDITORS’ TABLE. 273 ate language in which alone this innocent, radiant, beautiful youth could find fit expression. For beauty - of expression belonged to Marian as well as more obvious beauties; there was an entire sweet harmony between the language and the sentiment of nature upon this occasion. The face would have been beautiful still had its possessor been a fool or discontented; as it was, being only the lovely exponent of a heart as pure, happy, and serene as heart could be, the face was per- fect. Criticism had nothing to do with an effect so sudden and magical: this young face shone and bright- ened like a sunbeam, touching the hearts of those it beamed upon. Mere admiration was scarcely the sen- timent with which people looked at her: it was pure tenderness, pleasure, unexpected delight which made the chance passengers in the street smile as they passed her by. Their hearts warmed to the fair creature of God’s making, they “ blessed her unaware.” Eighteen years old, and possessed of this rare gift, Marian still did not know what rude admiration was, though she went out day by day alone and undefended, and would not have faltered at going anywhere if her mother bade or necessity called. She knew nothing of those stares and impertinent annoyances which fastidious ladies sometimes complained of, and of which she had read in books. Marian asserted roundly, and with unhesi- tating confidence, that ‘‘it was complete nonsense”— “it was not true; and went upon her mother’s errands through all the Islingtonian streets as safely as any heroine ever went through ambuscades and prisons. She believed in lovers and knights of romance vaguely but fervently—believed even, we confess, in the melo- dramatic men who carry off fair ladies, and also in disguised princes and Lords of Burleigh; but knew nothing whatever in her own most innocent and limited experience of any love but the love of home. And Marian had heard of bad men and bad women—nay, knew, in Agnes’s story, the most impossible and short- sighted of villains—a true rascal of romance, whose snares were made on purpose for discovery, but had no more fear of such than she had of lions or tigers, the Gunpowder Plot, or the Spanish Inquisition. Safe as among her lawful vassals, this young girl went and came—safe as in a citadel, dwelt in her father’s house, untempted, untroubled, in the most complete and tho- rough security. So far as she had come upon the sunny and flowery way of her young life, her beauty had been no gift of peril to Marian, and she had no fear of what was to come. Charlie and his Gift.—This big boy was about as far from being handsome as any ordinary imagination could conceive: his large loose limbs, his big features, his swarthy complexion, though they were rather uglier in their present development than they were likely to be when their possessor was full-grown and a man, could never, by any chance, gain him the moderate credit of good looks. He was not handsome, emphatically, and yet there never was a more expressive face: that great furrowed brow of his went up in ripples and waves of laughter when the young gentleman was so minded, and descended in rolls of cloud when there was occa- sion for such a change. His mouth was not a pretty mouth: the soft curve of Cupid’s bow, the proud Napo- leonic curl, were as different as you could suppose from the indomitable and graceless upper lip of Charlie Atheling. Yet, when that obstinate feature came down in fixed and steady impenetrability, a more emphatic expression never sat on the haughtiest curve of Greece. PAARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAS as Wann nnn nnn nnn nse He was a tolerably good bov, but he had his foible. Charlie, we are grieved to say, was obstinate—marvel- lously obstinate, unpersuadable, and beyond the reach of reasoning. If anything could have made this pro- pensity justifiable—as nothing could possibly make it mure provoking—it was that the big boy was very often in the right. Yet Charlie was not clever. The household could come to no satisfactory conclusion upon this subject. He did not get on with his moderate studies either quicker or better than any ordinary boy of his years. He had no special turn for literature either, though he did not disdain “ Peter Simple and Midshipman Easy.” These renowned productions of genius held the highest place at present in that remote corner of Charlie's interest which was reserved for the fine-arts; but we are obliged to confess that this big boy had wonderfully bad taste in general, and could not at all appreciate the higher excellences of art. He had two homely possibilities before him—a this and a that. He had a stout intention to be something, and no such ignoble sentiment as content found place in Charlie’s heart; wherefore, long, animated, and doubtful was the self-controversy. Do not smile, good youth, at Charlie’s two chances: they are small in comparison of yours, but they were the only chances visible to him: the one was the merchant’s office over which Mr. Atheling presided—head clerk, with his two hundred pounds a year; the other was grandiloquently— by the girls, not by Charlie—called the law; meaning thereby, however, only the solicitor’s office, the lawful empire and domain of Mr. Foggo. Between these two legitimate and likely regions for making a fortune Charlie wavered with a most doubtful and inquiring mind. In the mean time, however, pending the settlement of this momentous question, Charlie worked at two gram- mars instead of one, and put all his force to his study. Force was the only word which could express the cha- racteristic power of this boy, if even that can give a sufficient idea of it. He had no love for his French or for his Latin, yet learned his verbs with a manful obsti- nacy worthy of all honor; and it is not easy to define what was the special gift of Charlie. It was not a describable thing separate from his character, like honesty or genius; it was his character (or force), inti- mate and not to be distinguished from himself. (We shall continue this sketch in our next Table.) Tue Mount or OLIves, near Jerusalem, has been purchased by a lady, Madame Polark, the widow of a rich banker of the Hebrew faith at Konigsberg, Prussia. Madame Polark intends to beautify the place and im- prove the whole neighborhood at her sole expense. She has already planted a whole area with a grove of olive trees. Thus, as woman was “last at the Cross and earliest at the grove” of the Saviour, she may be the first in preparing for the glorious era of His visible reign of “ peace on earth and good-will to the children of men.” Mount VERNON Associa TION.—The ladies are about taking measures to bring this subject more fully into public notice. The grave of Washington must be made sacred to the peace and harmony of the Union. The Daughters of America can accomplish this holy mission, and they are in earnest to do it. In our next we shall

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274 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. PPAR have a paper on this gubject, and alsu give the names of contributors which have been omitted. THANKSGIVING-DAY FOR 1856.—Let it be held on Thursday, November 20th—that is, the third Thursday in that month. We have, heretofore, suggested that the last Thursday in November should be set apart as the day of Thanks- giving, and we have, through the Lady’s Book, en« deavored to persuade all the Governors of all the States to make their appointments accordingly. Last year we had the pleasure of finding that fourteen States had united in this festival, viz: New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Hamp- shire, Michigan, Missouri, Wisconsin, Indiana, Geor- gia, Texas, Kentucky, Illinois, held Thanksgiving on the 29th of November; while Maryland and Virginia observed the 16th, and Pennsylvania, Maine, Iowa, and Ohio the 22d of the month. Other States had their festival earlier or later, though only one, we believe, delayed till December. Taking the medium, therefore, probably the third Thursday in November would be the most acceptable time throughout the whole Union, and we earnestly invoke the Governors of the States to unite on this day. To make it a national festival, the time of holding it must be fixed by cireumstance, by custom, or by statute. Americans have but two national holidays, Washington’s birthday, and Independence day. These are both settled by circumstances; one in midwinter, the other in midsummer. Let us have a third festival, hallowed by custom or by statute, for autumn. We have it as a State holiday by custom; to make it National, requires a concert of action in the State Executives which might be brought into permanent arrangement. How this can best be done, we leave our brother Editors to explain. We call on them to aid this movement of Union in gratitude to God for his wonderful blessings on “‘ Our Whole Country.” PERSEVERANCE is an attribute of Genius; no great work was ever produced without its author had the power of wailing as well as of working. This per- severance is happily illustrated in the biography of that distinguished ornithologist, Audubon: we give the in- cident in his own words :— * An accident which happened to two hundred of my origins! drawings nearly put a stop to my researches in Ornithology. I left the village of Henderson, in Ken- tucky, situated on the bank of the Ohio, where I resided tur several years, to proceéd to Philadelphia on business. I looked to all my drawings before my departure, placed them carefully in a wooden box, and gave them in charge to a relative, with injunctions to see that no injury should happen to them. My absence was of several months; and when I returned, after having enjoyed the pleasures of home for a few days, I inquired after my box, and what I was pleased tu call my treasure. .The box was produced, and opened ;—but, reader, feel for me--a pair of Norway rats had taken possession of the whole, and had reared a young family amongst the gnawed bits of paper, which but a few months before represented nearly a thousand inhabitants of the air! The burning heat which instantly rushed through my brain was too great to be endured without affecting the whole of my nervous system. I slept not for several nights, and the days passed like days of oblivion—until the animal powers being recalled into action, through the strength of my constitution, I took up my gun, my note-book, and my pencils, and went forth into the woods as gayly as if nothing had happened.” BOARDING AND DAY SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADIES, No. 12 Portico Square, Spruce Street, Philadelphia. Miss S. J. Hale* and M’lle Hennet, principals. The school-year commences on the first Wednesday in September, and ends the last Friday in June. The usual vacations of one week at Christmas and one at Easter are allowed. Pupils are charged from the time of entrance, and no deduction made but for protracted illness. No pupil will be received for a shorter period than to the close of the school-year upon which she enters. Terms.—Payable semi-annually in advance. For Day Scholars. Instruction in the English branches, French, German and Latin: Under thirteen years of age, $60 per annum; over thirteen years of age, $100. For Boarders, $300; Drawing and Water Painting, $20; Use of Piano, $20; Use of Guitar, $10; Use of Harp, $50; Dancing, $10 per quarter—$5 Entrance; Washing, $6 per quarter; Pew Rent at cost. Music and singing lessons, oil-painting, and other languages than those mentioned above at professors’ charges. Particular attention will be paid to speaking French. It will be spoken in the family; in the school-rovm one hour daily will be devoted to conversation in that lan- guage, in which all, whose friends desire it, can join. Each boarder should be provided with silver fork, table and teaspoons, toweling, napkins, and ring. All articles to be marked in full. Address Miss 8S. J. Hale, or, M’lle G. Hennet, No. 12 Portico Square, Spruce Street, Philadelphia. To CORRESPONDENTS.—We have accepted the ful- lowing articles: “‘The Grave of the First-Born”— “ Sonnet’’—“ Oh, Sing to me !’"—“ Lines to E. 8S. H.”— “ Life’s a sad, &c.’»—** Sacred Memories’’—“‘ Stanzas”— “Jam Moriturus, &c.”—and “To a Frost-Bitten Flower.” The following articles are declined for lack of room and for other reasons: “ Bury me in the Forest” (will the author send a corrected copy ?)—‘‘ My dear Reader, &e.”—" To an absent Friend’’—‘* To Mabel”—“ Cro- chet”—" Twilight Thoughts” (pretty, but imperfect)— “Stray Leaves from a Journal’’—*‘ Nearer, brother, nearer’’—“ Wit” (but little in the article)—“ Yes”— “When Midnight has come”—‘* Godey’s ‘ Lady’s Book’ ”*—* Lines to a Coquette”—“ To Orelia””—“ The Mysterious Artist’?—‘“‘A Song”’—“ Conjugal Happi- ness” (J. C. G. had better forego the ambition of rank- ing as a writer of poetry than to appear in stolen honors. The poem he sent us as “original” for the “ Lady’s Book” was written years ago by Levi Frisbie) — Lines on the Death of a Sister”—and “ Hints for those who need them.’? The author of “‘ The Wife’s “Experiment” is requested to send her address to Mrs. Hale. The following little gem is worth setting in the frame ® We trust to be excused for whispering to our friends of the “‘ Lady’s Book” that Miss Hale is daughter of the editor. Those parents who send their daughters to this school will, we believe, find that it is worthy of their warmest approval.

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my the ud ia. lay at no pil For es, of ng, ce; her rs’ LITERARY NOTICES. 275 of our “ Book.” It is from the pen of a new corre- spondent, Frank H. Hickling. PETITE. At the eager breath of coming day, Crimsoned all the quivering garden roses ; Where the arch of balmy woodbine closes, Down the garden-walk she took her way; All the flowers seemed to bend to meet Graceful little evening-eyed Petite. Thus I saw her from my window frame, Half her face by gathered roses shaded— By her lips their crimson hue was faded. Thus I saw her come when morning came; She, of all the flowers around, most sweet, Graceful little evening-eyed Petite. Literary Notices. Books By MarL.—Now that the postage on printed matter is so low, we offer our services to procure for our subscribers or others any of the books that we notice. Information touching books will be cheerfully given by inclosing a stamp to pay return postage. When ordering a book, please mention the name of the publisher. From J. B. Lrepincott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE PICTURE BOOK FOR THE YOUNG. By Mary Howitt. With twenty illustrations by Byram and Pierce. These stories are calculated to amuse as well as to instruct the class of readers for which they were intended by their experienced author. THE MYSTERY; or, Eviland God. By John Young, LL. D. (Edinburgh). The mind of man has never been content with simple facts and principles—easily under- stood, and easily put into practice. Hence the nu- merous metaphysical works which have followed each other from a remote period of time, coeval, at least, with the discovery of letters. It may be well, for aught we know, that those who profess to be satisfied with the revelations of the Scriptures, and who wish to settle their theological disputes by the light of the Gospel—it may be well, we say, that some of the more learned, at least, should examine the “ mystery,’’ if for no other reason than to gratify their own pride of opinion, and to show how shallow are the intellects of their neigh- bors. The “Mystery; or, Evil and God!” We sup- posed that this mystery—the great mystery of God, of sin and redemption—had been settled long, long ago by the Bible. If not, we do not see how such inquiries as these, which must remain mysteries to the multitude, will ever effect any good for the perfection or regenera- tion of man. Nevertheless, this volume has great attractions for the schoolmen, the deep thinkers, and for all those who are versed in profound logical dispu- tation. Its spirit, moreover, is eminently pious. Its intentions are no doubt to glorify the Creator; but, after all, it does not address itself to those who most need truth in its simplest form. THE KINGDOM WHICH SHALL NOT BE DE- STROYED, ETC. An Exposition of Prophecy, more especially of Daniel, Chapter vii. By Rev. J. Oswald, A. M., York, Pennsylvania. The title of this book indicates the nature of its contents. The author says of it that, should it “be instrumental in directing the attention of some to the study of the prophecies, now so PALMA PALA DAAD LD OL PLL LPP Pt much neglected, and to the kingdom which is to come— which is the Christian’s inheritance, and which will be set up, or established on earth, renewed, purified, con- secrated, and thus edify the Church; and, above all, glorify the master, all will be effected’? that he, the author, hopes for. WILD WESTERN SCENES.—SECOND SERIES. THE WAR-PATH. A Narrative of Adventures in the Wilderness: with minute Details of the Captivity of Sundry Persons; Amusing and Perilous Incidents during their Abode in the Wild Woods ; Fearful Battles with the Indians ; Ceremony of Adoption into an Indian Family ; Encounters with Wild Beasts and Rattlesnakes, etc. By J. B. Jones, author of “‘ Wild Western Scenes”—First Series—“ The Winkles,” ete. A refined literary critic might discover displeasing points in the style of these sketches of border life; but we are of opinion that they are written in a manner calculated to please the sim- pler and more natural tastes of the great mass of readers for whose perusal they are especially intended. The volume opens with a scene in Burlington, New Jersey, at the commencement of the Revolutionary War. It is the preparation for the departure of a com- pany to settle upon a farm in the then wilderness near the Delaware Water Gap. The adventures of this party form the basis of a story into which are introduced many of the exploits of Boone, Kenton, Simon Girty, and of the Indian chief Brandt. FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Mary H. Eastman. Mrs. Eastman’s delineations of character are true to nature. In the first sketch cf this volume we have a most forcible as well as a most painful picture, not. indeed, of absolute vice and profligacy—not of penury and destitution—not of the consequences of a state of hopeless dependence—but of the more dangerous results often attendant upon wealth and a fashionable career, from which are shut out all the domestic sympathies and all the enjoyments that have their foundation in the strength of the affections, and of pure religious feeling In the sketches following that to which we allude, and in which the fatal effects of spiritualism and mesmerism on persons of weak minds and nervous temperaments are vividly depicted, careful readers will find many lessons why, if already in a happy mediocrity, they should be content with the blessings they enjoy. THE GRAY-BAY MARE, AND OTHER HUMOR- OUS AMERICAN SKETCHES. By Henry P. Leland. With numerous illustrations. This is one of those volumes of hearty, but not always very refined humor, so characteristic of the fast young men of our country, and which has no counterpart in any other literature. Interspersed, however, among these sketches are many evidences of true sentiment and manly feeling. From J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, and W. & R. CHAMBERS, London and Edinburgh :— HAND-BOOK OF AMERICAN LITERATURE, HISTORICAL, BIUGRAPHICAL, AND CRITICAL. This is a neatly printed and cleverly written volume of over three hundred pages, containing, in a compendious form, a tolerably fair and impartial history of American literature, together with biographical and critical notices of the lives and works of our most prominent authors, old and young. In substance, it is a kind of supplement te “Chambers’s Cyclopedia of English Literature.” Many of the critical opinions of the compiler will not, we think, be received with general favor on this side of the Atlantic; but, to all those who desire a cheap and

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276 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. convenient book of reference upon subjects connected with our national literature, thig volume will prove very acceptable. From T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadel- phia :— TAN-GO-RU-A: An Historical Drama, In prose. The author of this production, which is by no means destitute of interest, has modestly withheld his name from the public. Yet, while we do not refuse to praise his work, we think that he should have entitled it a dramatic dialogue. Though containing numerous fine passages of tender sentiment, philosophic reflection, and life-like description, there is in it a lack of that spirit which renders dramatic writings attractive, even to the closet reader, for whose perusal, alone, Tan-g6-ru-a seems to have been intended. With but few excep- tions, the dramatis persona, whether soldiers or mis- sionaries, Indians or Quakers, citizens or councilmen, exhibit few marked differences either in language or character. Still, as we have before intimated, the reader will meet with many passages which evidence no ordinary talent. THE PICKWICK PAPERS. By Charles Dickens (“ Boz”). With forty-eight illustrations on steel, from designs by Phiz and Cruikshank. In two volumes. Of the genius of Charlies Dickens as an author, or of the peculiar merits of this, the first of his inimitable productions, and the one which established his world- wide reputation, it is unnecessary for us to speak. We only desire to call the attention of our numerous readers to the exquisite neatness and beauty in typography and binding, and convenience in form, of the volumes before us. They belong to Peterson’s uniform duodecimo edition of Dickens’s complete works, nuw in course of publication. FEMALE LIFE IN NEW YORK CITY. JIilus- trated with Forty-four real Portraits from Life. By the late William Burns, editor of the “New York Sunday Dispatch.”’ The “real portraits from life,” contained in this volume, are rather poor specimens of the art of engraving on wood ; but the letter-press descriptions are in the main characterized by real and hearty feeling, truthfulness to nature, and delicacy of language. Price 25 cents. Free of postage by mail. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK ADAMS, the Celebrated Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chamier, R. N.; author of the “ Spitfire,” ** Ben Brace,” ete. Already well-known and popular, this new and cheap edition of one of Captain Chamier’s best works requires but to be announced. Sent to any one by mail, free of postage, on the receipt of 50 cents. THE ORPHAN SISTERS, Edited by Mrs. Marsh, author of “ Emilia Wyndham,” “ Angelo,” “ Two Old Men’s Tales,” etc. This is a beautiful and deeply interesting story of domestic life, in which we readily discern that pure spirit of religion and morality which characterizes all the writings of its fair authoress. Its lessons are worthy the consideration of every tamily. Price 38 cents. Sent by mail, free of postage, to any address. From D. AprLeTton & Co., New York, through T. B. PeTERSON, Philadelphia :— THE DAISY CHAIN; or Aspirations. A Family Chronicle. By the author of “The Heir of Redclyffe,” ** Heart’s-ease,” etc. etc. In two volumes. These volumes are rather formidable in their appearance, and ‘ ¢ | ! $ | ; may, at first sight, induce the reader to entertain some apprehensions of their drowsy effects. But really there 18 no occasion for alarm in that particular. The interest in the simplest characters introduced is so fully sus- tained, the narrative is so connected and so attractive even in its smallest details, and the moral of the story so beautiful and fascinating, that no one who can com- prehend the workings of the human heart, or sympathize with its honorable and virtuous aspirations, can pussi- bly feel anything but reverence for the author. NOTES TAKEN DURING THE EXPEDITION COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN R. B. MARCY, U. 8. A., THROUGH UNEXPLORED TEXAS IN THE SUMMER AND FALL OF 1854. By W. P. Parker, attached to the expedition. We have been favored by the author with a copy of this unpretending narrative of adventurous travel in a distant and interesting por- tion of our country. Although it has been for sume time before the public, it is not on that account any the less deserving of the attention of those who may not have had an opportunity of perusing its pages. This narrative is the more interesting and reliable because, unlike the closet compilations of mere book-makers, it is founded upon the actual and minute observations of the writer himself. Many of the author’s descriptions of scenery are truly life-like and beautiful, not prepared artistically and to order, but sketched with a free hand as the scenes came under his observation, and colored by the feelings of the moment in which he be- held them. His asseverations on the peculiarities of the Indian character, though without any pretension to the new science of races, are deeply interesting, and will not fail to arrest the attention of future inquirers into the origin and history of those remarkable people. It is also pleasant to find that, in speaking of the wan- derers of the forests and prairies, the heart of the author is on the side of justice and humanity, so truly so, that we think the perusal of his work would relieve a cer- tain class of readers of the prejudices which induce them to be indifferent to the rights, or rather to the wrongs, of a suffering portion of the “natives of the soil.” There are, we are sorry to ssy,some defects in style, but still more in punctuation, which, however, we hope to see corrected in a second edition of the work. It is for sale by Hayes & Zell, No. 193 Market Street, Philadelphia. From G. P. Putnam, New York, through Linpsay & BLAKISTON, Philadelphia :-— THE MODERN STORY-TELLER: or, the Best Sto- ries of the Best Authors. Now first collected. We have here twenty-two stories, of the highest order of excel- lence, in which the humorous, the witty, the grave, and the gay, are happily blended. “The design of this volume, the first of a series, uniform with the most approved selections of the British poets and classics, is,’ we are informed by the preface, “to present to the public, in a form suitable for amusing and attractive reading and for permanent library use, the best selec- tions from the standard story literature of the English language.” From De Witt & DAVENPORT, New York:— THE WHITE CHIEF. A Legend of North Mezico, By Captain Mayne Reid, author of “ Hunter’s Feast,” “Scalp Hunters,” etc. etc. With original designs, ¢ Beak exAaAw «ss

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co. t ” LITERARY NOTICES. ~~ —— epgraved by N. Orr. In this legend Captain Reid has presented to us many novel pictures of life in New Mexico, in connection with a narrative of thrilling interest, in which, however, there are numerous words, if not ideas, scarcely suited to the minds of pure women. As to the truthfulness of these pictures, we are really unable to judge; but we hope they are colored a little too highly, as composition pieces generally are. We think, moreover, that in the present volume the gallant captain has not added to his fame as an author, and we would advise him to confine his talents to those plain and instructive narratives upon which he has already built up a not unenviable reputation. From HARPER & BROTYERS, N. Y., through PARRY & McMILLAN, Philadelphia :— JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. By the author of “The Head of the Family,” “ Olive,” “ The Ogilvies,” etc. etc. etc. Depicting the life of a truly Christian gentleman, who, by his honesty, strict attention to duty, and indomitable energy, finally, after many struggles, succeeded in rising from the condition of a penniless orphan to that of an opulent but kind-hearted manufac- turer, this story will be found one of deep interest and of the highest encouragement to readers of every class. Being told by a very gentle-hearted invalid, whose whole life was one of uncomplaining sickness, it is extremely sentimental in its style, but not morbidly so: it is somewhat womanly, and, therefore, very delicate ; Christian, and, consequently, very humane and bro- therly. From Drx, Epwarps, & Co., New York, through COWPERTHWAITE, 211 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia :— RACHEL AND THE NEW WORLD. A Trip to the United States and Cuba. Translated from the French of Leon Beauvallet. Those persons who are familiar with, and especially interested in, the movements of the French actress, Mademoiselle Rachel, and the company which attended her during her sojourn in the United States, will probably find something in this narrative to amuse, if not to instruct, them. The author is evi- dently one of the buffvons of that party, a frivolous, flippant, gossiping character, who, rather than lose the opportunity of perpetrating even a very bad joke, would, on the first occasion that might offer, be guilty of a worse falsehood. Like the stupid Cockney, who scarcely ever conceives that there is anything of the world that does not centre in London, so this Parisian fop and literary pretender returns to his native city, proclaim- ing his detestation of all that crossed his path while out of it, but more particularly of those characteristics which he was permitted, in his hurry, to observe of the people of the United States. From Drx, Epwarps, & Co., New York, through J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia :— THE PIAZZA TALES. By Herman Melville, au- thor of “ Typee,’’ “ Omoo,” ete. etc. Herman Melville has numerous admirers, and perhaps his writings ren- der him worthy of them; but—unfortunately, it may be; for ourselves—we cannot read his productions with much satisfaction. His style has an affectation of quaintness, which renders it, to us, very confused and wearisome. Nevertheless, those with whom he is a favorite will not think the worse of him after they have VOL. Litt, —24 OLA LOLOL tinal lin a Pt tm Plt tf te ttn tented 277 i nm tl perused the tales embraced in this very neat volume. They are “ Bartleby,” “‘ Benito Cereno,”’ “ The Light- ning-Rod Man,” “The Encantadas; or, Enchanted Islands,” and “‘ The Bell-Tower.” From E. D. Lone, successor to H. Lone & BROTHER, New York :— THE WANDERER: A Tale of Life’s Vicissitudes. By the author of “The Watchman,” “Old Doctor,” “ Lawyer’s Story,” etc. In point of style, and in the character of its incidents, this novel is not less at- tractive than the “ Watchman,” a previous production of the same author. The scenes of the story alternate between England and America, and, while it portrays the unaided struggles of the poor in almost every clime, it also shows that industry and energy, seconded by genuine honest principles, stand a better chance of success in our own land than in any other. We have no doubt but that this work—which belongs to a pecu- liar class of novels—will be welcomed eagerly by many readers. From Goutp & LINCOLN, Boston, through SMITH & ENGLIsH, Philadelphia :— THE HALLIG; or, the Sheepfold in the Waters. A tale of humble life on the coast of Schleswig. Trans- lated from the German of Biernatzki. By Mrs. George P. Marsh, With a Biographical Sketch of the author. This is an excellent story, written by a good and true man, whose great object appears te have been the ele- vation and purification of the hearts of his fellows. The reader of this agreeable volume may be able to discover some faint differences between his own and a few of the author’s theological views; but these differ- ences, if noticed at all, will be speedily forgotten in the perusal of the lessons of love, charity, and universal brotherhood, which adorn almost every page of the book. The incidents introduced are often thrilling, and tlways natural; while the language is pure, and fre- quently possesses a gentle eloquence, the influences of which few will be able to resist. THE CAMEL: His Organization, Habits, and Uses, considered with Reference to his Introduction into the United Slates. By George P. Marsh. The contents of this volume are principally the results of the author's own observations made during several years of residence in the Turkish Empire and several months of travel in Egypt, Nubia, Arabia Petrea, and Syria. By these observations, which he now gives to the public, he “ arrived at a strong persuasion of the probable success of a judiciously conducted attempt to naturalize in the New World this oldest of domestic quadrupeds.”’ His work contains much that will be found to be new and interesting to the general reader in regard to the history of the camel. From Lreonarp, Scott, & Co., No 64 Gold Street, New York, through W. B. ZieBeRr, Philadelphia :— THE LONDON, EDINBURGH, NORTH BRITISH, and WESTMINSTER QUARTERLY REVIEWS; also BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE for June. These works are the most popular of European periodicals, and offered, if all taken together, for $10 per year— about half the price of a fashionable bonnet. Would it not be well to have something valuable for the brain, instead of expending all our care and money on the { outward decorations of the skull? Think of it.

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278 Goden’s Arm-Chair. Dear READER: We have been abroad. Aftertwenty- seven years’ confinement to the desk, we determined to enjoy a month’s holiday. We left Philadelphia for Altoona, where, by the way, there is a splendid hotel, delightful rooms, clean beds, and good attendance. Any- body could stay at Altoona for a month, and be pleased with it. Thence we went to Pittsburg; thence to Cleve- land, the most beautiful town in the United States, containing more fine houses than any city of twice its size; thence to Chicago, the wonder of towns and good people—thanks to our friends Wallace & McNally, we became pretty well acquainted with it; thence to Dun- leith; and thence by steamboat to Saint Paul’s, where we were most kindly received by our friends A. C. Smith, Esq., late of the “Free Press,” and 8S. M. Newson, Esq., of the “ Daily Times.” Our thanks are also due to our good friends Dr. J. T. Mann and his amiable lady. Well, Saint Paul’s is a wonderful place; though the growth of but a few years, it has several stores quite as fine as any we have in Philadelphia; and equally handsome equipages. If we live, we should like to visit it some ten years hence. It has also an excellent hotel, the Winslow House, kept by Mr. E. A. Deuel. We received every attention from the excellent host and his handsome clerk, Mr. Darrow. We recom- mend the Winslow to every We have already personally recommended some of our friends there. Our first reception by the landlord convinced us that we had met with a gentleman. Thence we left for Saint Anthony’s, where we expected to be solitary and alone, but found we could not get into the hotel until gome one vacated a room. Beautiful place is Saint Anthony’s; and a very kind friend to travellers is our estimable agent, Mr. Wales. Over the prairie, rich with its gaudy flowers, by the way of Mini-ha-ha Falls and Fort Snelling, we returned to Saint Paul’s. More friendly greetings again, and a wish fer our further stay. Retracing our steps to Dunleith, by the Missis- sippi River, we had a fine opportunity of seeing that portion of the scenery of the river that we missed on our night travel up; and splendid indeed it is. Why is it that so few persons have written anything about the scenery of the upper Mississippi? It cannot be surpassed in this country ; at many points it is equal in majesty to the Hudson; and altogether it is superior to that beautiful river, because it is more diversified. Many of our citizens take a voyage to Europe tu see the Rhine. A traveller informed us that he had seen the Rhine, and it only excelled the Mississippi by its won- derful old castles. And yet, added he, it requires a very slight stretch of the imagination to turn those towering rocks into old castles; and we could well imagine that, for more castellated-looking rocks we never saw. But, independent of this, the interest is constantly kept alive by the landing at the various towns on the route; the discharge and taking of freight on board; the asso- ciations connected with the former occupants of the ground; the Indians, many of whom you see on the route; their traditions, old villages; and their singular mode of burial, as can yet be seen in an old Indian village; and by the wooding up of the boat at various stations. We can only add, had we the time, we would start again and at once for a trip on the upper Missis- sippi. The boats are excellent ones, the fare good; and our friend, Captain Lodwick, of the Galena, is particu- traveller. meer GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, aan larly attentive to the ladies. We left Dunleith for Saint Louis, across the prairies, the most beautiful rail- road ride in the world—the boundless prairies, where we saw the sun rise (a rather unusual. circumstance with us) as if rising from the ocean. Deer sporting about, prairie hens, and prairie flowers tended to lend enchant- ment to the scene. We never shall forget that ride across the prairie. Arrived at Saint Louis, we were indebted to an old and valued friend for much kind- ness. His horses and vehicle were at our service; and he showed us the beauties of Saint Louis with a good-will that we shall never forget. After a sojourn in this great city for two days, we left in the Alvan Adams, Captain Lamb, for Louisville. We mention this boat and its captain in the hope that any of our friends who are about to take the same journey may hunt out the captain, and enjoy him and his boat as we did. We have often heard of the living on board of Mississippi steamboats, but we realized it here. Break- fast at six—and such a breakfast! Lunch at eleven; dinner at one, with a bill of fare that would grace any hotel in any city; tea at six; and, at nine in the eve- ning, water-ices or ice-cream and cakes handed around. This, with the scenery, made us feel sorry when we arrived at Louisville—a very pretty city, and also cele- brated for its magnificent private residences. From Louisville we went to the great Mammoth Cave. Leav- ing Louisville at four in the morning, you arrive and Stay all night at what was formerly Bell’s Tavern. It is now Proctor’s, and it will be a pity when it shal! be managed otherwise; for at Proctor’s you realize all that Washington Irving and others have written about “Inns” of the olden time. Bell’s Tavern is probably better known to the travellers of the United States than any other. It has been celebrated everywhere for the manner in which the guest is provided for; and well does its proprietor maintain its former reputation ; per- haps he a little exceeds it. You sit down to an excel- lent supper, a real, home, Kentucky supper; and, after that, as soon as you please, to bed to repose in aired snow, vulgarly called sheets. Up, betimes, and off to the cave, only seven miles distant. About the cave we shall avoid saying one word. It is neither in the power of pen nor pencil to give any idea of it. Get Stephen Bishop, if you can, for a guide and you will find one of the most intelligent gentlemen it has ever been your good fortune to meet with. We thank good Stephen for his kindness and information to our party, and trust he won’t forgetus. At the Cave House you will probably be as agreeably disappointed as we were. Here you find another Proctor, another of nature’s noblemen— there must be something in the name—who will in a few minutes make you feel quite at home. Imagine our astonishment to find a place of sufficient beauty to attract strangers without the additional show of the cave: a house that will accommodate two hundred and fifty boarders with fine large rooms—and a promenade piazza of six hundred and seventy feet ; the living equal to that of the very best hotels—indeed, we should say a little bette?, for there was less pretension; chicken was called chicken, and not poulet; all kinds of corn-bread were in abundance, and this is the place to eat that delightful bread. The hotel has a very large dining- room, over which is a ball-room of the same size. We should have been pleased to spend a week with agree- able Mr. and Mrs. Proctor. . From the Cave we returned to Louisville and to Cin- cinnati, the beautiful Queen City of the West. Here

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ia i Be Be Oe ee , 7 = -~ = rr Fe we ow Oo Oo - = “Ss Ta FS fF Tt a Po

.ful plate “ Grandfather’s Darling.” GODEY’S*ARM-CHAIR. °

our stay was made very agreeable by friends Bagley and Pease. After a short sojourn, we returned to our home and our desk, invigorated in body and mind; and here, ladies, you will find us for some time, catering, as usual, for your amusement and instruction. We tra- velled nearly five thousand miles at an expense not to be compared to a three weeks’ sojourn at a fashionable waterirg-place; and here, let us ask, why do not our young men, and women too of our large cities, in- stead of wasting their time at a watering-place playing the fool, travel, and see our glorious country and its institutions? They would find the benefit of it. Their minds would expand, their health be invigorated, and they would see something of the length and breadth of the wonderfully magnificent country they live in. No; it must be either a watering-place or a trip to Europe. We never shall make that trip until we have seen even more of the country that gave us birth. For the information of travellers, we will state the different houses we stopped at, and which we can re- commend: the Great Hotel at Altoona, the Mononga- hela House at Pittsburg, the Angier House at Cleve- land, the Brigg’s House at Chicago, the Winslow House at Saint Paul’s, the Saint Charles at Saint Anthony’s, the Galt House at Louisville, and the Burnet House at Cincinnati. Our September number is graced with a very beauti- We are sure that our readers must notice the superiority of our steel engravings to those of other magazines. As for our Fashion plates, there is nothing out of Paris to compare with them; and there is one advantage even over those of Paris—we give more figures, and our plates are better engraved. The Turkish Bag in wool-work is a handy thing for ladies who travel. THANKS TO THE LapreEs who have sent us Receipts, one and all; they are now so numerous that we shall make a separate department for them next month. It is advisable to have all receipts in one place, for con- venience in reference. Ir any of our city friends wish to see some beauti- ful specimens of blank-book work, let them call on Christy, No. 65 South Third Street, and look at our mail-books for 1857. They are fifteen in number, and will hold about 250,000 names. It will be seen that we expect a very large list next year. TRIP UP THE SCHUYLKILL.—We were going to say that we were astonished; but we are not, as our sub- scribers know us well enough to place reliance upon what we say; therefore we are delighted to find that our recommendation of this delightful trip has had its effect. Thousands are now going where only hundreds went before. Not an accident has ever happened on the line since the boats have been running. EXcELs1or.—Some years ago, our edition of the * Book” was comparatively smali. In 1851, we com- menced on the ascending scale, and every year we have increased, This year we have very strong reasons to suppose that our edition will reach 100,000. If we do reach that number, we will have increased 70,000 in five years. This rise we consider unprecedented. WE have no agents for whose acts we are responsible. ; 2 5 2

AAA ARALLA LL

279 SLL “Dear MOTHER, was IT Ricut?’’—We published @ poem under this title, some time since. One of our subscribers wished us to ask the author what the mother’s answer was. We did, and have received his answer dated * Lonpon, June 15, 1856, L. A. GopEY—-DEAR Sir: Just as I was on the verge of my departure, I received a short note from you re- questing an answer tothe poem of “ Dear Mother, was it Right?” Now the old women over here are so entirely different from our own dear mas that, after a faithful search as to what might in all probability be the ladies’ opinion, I cannot give it from this side of the water. Tell those dear girls, who are so eager to learn the answer, that in all probability the reply would be, * Yes, it was Right.’”’ But, to make sure, I will ask the first handsome Englishwoman I meet; for that will give me plenty of time; for I do assure you, after a nine weeks’ sojourn here, I have yet to meet with a handsome woman.”’ By the way, our young friend, the writer of the above, Alfred Burnett, Esq., has made a great impression upon the Londoners by his readings of “ Longfellow’s Hia- watha” and selections from other American poets. The “ Times,” “ Dispatch,” “ Literary Journal,’’ and * London Star” are loud in his praise.

A KinpLy Wisu.—“ The ‘ Lady’s Book’ is becoming quite popular in our retired village as well as elsewhere. One year ago, there was not a copy taken in the neigh- borhood, now there are fifteen or twenty copies. May success undiminished attend it everywhere in its mis- sion over the world, and may long life and happiness be the just reward of its publisher! Mrs. *** §, Illinois.” Brown engaged as Miss BorLinG A TEAKETTLE.—Mrs. a help Biddy O'’Shane, who had just arrived. O’Shane was ordered to “‘ boil the teakeitle.”’ “ The what?” * The teakettle.” * An’ do you mane that?” “Certainly. If I did not, I would not have ordered you to do it—and be quick about it.” * Yes, marm.” Miss O’Shane obeyed orders. In about half an hour afterwards, Mrs. Brown resumed the conversation. “ Where ’s the teakettle, Bridget?” “In the dinner-pot, marm.” In the what?” “In the dinner-pot. You tuld me to boil it, an’ I’ve had a scald on it for nearly an hour.” Mrs. Brown could hear no more. She had a rush of blood to the head, and went into a swoon. The last we saw of her she was being carried in an arm-chair uge _ stairs. a TuE difference between $3 and $5 is $2) That ae is saved by purchasing those splendid ye, through us. The store price is $5, 3 & a Peart Carp CasEes.—We have “‘Oppogunit obliging our subscribers with these * } ' at $3 each—a very superior article,<,We have the pick from the manufactory before e get them ; and can, therefore, send p , and they are beautiful. At that the postage also; re pinnae fore offered.

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280 — eee An ARCHBISHOP’s FootTmMaNn.—A faithful, old-fash- ioned man-servant of a country clergyman, on a visit to the Archbishop of York, told his master that, while sitting one morning in the servants’ hall, a bell was rung violently. Near him a richly liveried footman was lounging in an easy-chair, with his heels as high az his head—for all the world like an American Con- gressman legislating at’ his ease—and from this com- fortable position he budged not an ifch at the impor- tunate summons above mentioned. “ What!” cried the primitive and provincial serving-man, “don’t you answer the drawing-room bell?” ‘Not unless they persewere,”’ was the cool response of his footmanship. _ This reminds us of Billy Lackaday. He was con- versing with a fellow servant when the door-bell was rang. Billy kept “never going.’”’ “ Why don’t you answer the bell?” ‘“ Oh, it’s no use!” replied Billy. “It only encourages them. I lets them ring; and, when they gets tired, they go avay.” We understand that W. Gilmore Simms, Esq., of South Carolina, the very able author, has had several offers made to him to lecture in the North dugg the ensuing winter. A very able leeturér is Mr. Simms, and ceriainly one of the moat agreeable talkers we ever listened tes He will be a gréat.card for our Lyceums and other have regular lectures during the season. A Jetter Addressed to him to the care of his publisher. J. S. Redfield, New York, will reach him. Fasnron MAGazines.—Once we stood solitary and afone—the pioneer of the magazine business, and the first to publish fashions. Now how many magazines are published in the United States, and how many of the monthlies are there that do not contain fashions? About three, we believe; all the others have something in them that they call fashions. Ham SANDWICHES.— We have a suggestion to make. Why do not the eating establishments, where the trains stop, keep ham sandwiches for sale? They are very good, and are very handy, for they can be eaten in the ears: but no! they generally have hiccory pies and a something, called cake—very poor fare for a hungry traveller. While upon this subject, we have mentioned elsewhere, that we recently travelled nearly 5,000 miles and fared well, until we got in our own State, and at Mifflin, Pa., we got the worst breakfast that we ever gat down to. We thought our State rather celebrated for its beef, but we would like to know from what part of the animal the piece of beef-steak was cut that was handed to us and how it was cooked? We pause for a reply. * Tur patterns in this number can all be readily copied by using our copying paper. Price 25 cents a package, * containing several colors. Manufactured by J. E. Til- td&n, Salem, Massachusetts. Hos. to useit. Lay your muslin on a hard surface, sully as @ able without a cover, then plac®over that the tracing PaiNer, then over that the pattern which you wish to bemn thémuslin. Take a hard lead pencil or a stencil, and trac® the pattern over carefully, bearing on pretty hard, and yyy will find the impression on the muslin. If you wish tO }yreserve your pattern, place tissue paper over it, and trat.¢ over that instead of the pattern itself. ee —eeeeeeeeeeeeeaerererEeErOEOrOOrOrOrOOO>O™"” GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND.MAGAZINE. A Frrenp or Lone STANDING.—We know and acknowledge your many acts of kindness, friend “‘ Ga- zette.” We have long been friends. “ We have watched with pleasure the progress of this magazine from the issuing of the first number. In fact, we sent the publisher several subscriptions for the first volume more than twenty-five years ago.” The citizens of Mauch Chunk may well congratulate themselves upon ; ; tim on having a paper like the ‘ Gazetiqgi aaaenes Ee ieee place. , a 4 ~ WHERE DO THE RAGS COME FROM ?—A writer, in giving an éstimate of the quantity of paper used in the United States, says it takes one pound and a quarter of rags to make one pound of paper; at that rate we use 8 little over one-quarter vf a million of pounds of rags in one year. Where do they all come from? ARTHUR’s SELF-SEALING CaNns.—We understand the sale of these best of preserving cans has already been very great. We have tried them, and pronounce emphatically that they are superior to all others. Fruits and vegetables can be preserved the whcele year. (See notice on page 476 of May number.) A Rover DetTecTor.—It was lately remarked that an exceedingly brilliant auditory, amongst which were many very elegantly dressed ladies, attended, at Berlin, a lecture on chemistry, delivered by one of the most celebrated chemists of the age. After witnessing a number of beautiful experiments and hearing of the marvels of science, a young lady grew fatigued, and requested her husband to lead her from the hall. * My love,” said the gentleman, on reaching the land- ing-place outside, “ wipe your cheek; there’s a large blue spot upon it.” The lady, much surprised, turned to look at her re- flection in the mirrored window of a shop they were passing, and was almost petrified to observe that the rouge on her cheeks had become blue, in consequence of the chemical decomposition occasioned by the gas the professor had used in making his experiment. She quickly wiped her face, and stified her vexation in the thought that she should find herself amply revenged upon the other ladies in the hall. In reality, the lec- ture closing at this moment, the audience began to dis- perse, and the gentleman and his wife almost burst with laughter at the sight of cheeks of yellow, blue, black, violet and other colors, which now made their appearance in the street. Some of the ladies who had manufactured for themselves ivory complexions, rosy cheeks, coral lips, and ebony eyebrows, were so tfanis- formed that they would have excited the envy of @ pea- cock. It is whispered that a lecture from the professor would produce similar effects in other cities besides Berlin. [Ladies who believe in painting the lily will please notice, and not attend lectures on chemistry when illustrated by experiments.] It is the principle, and not the manners, that make the man. The principle is the mainspring; the manners are only the figures on the dial. CLvuBBING.—We give this early notice that all clubs sent us must be for the Lady’s Book only, with one exception. We cannot add one of any othermagazine in place of a Lady’s Book, except Arthur’s Home Maga- zine.

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. LLPRPAA LL AP ~~ Gopey’s Monthly List of New Music, which will be furnished at the prices annexed. . Beauties of the Ballad, or Variations of the follow- ing, by Charles Grobe, each number 40 cents :— “ T’ve loved thee long.”” ‘‘ Katy Avourneen.” “ Nelly Bell.”’ “ Hold your Horses.” “ Sweet Mississippi.” * Angel Friend.” “To the West.” “T went to gather Flowers.” Songs :— “ Ask me not why,” “ Bonnie Kate,” “ Farewell, I may not see thee more,” ‘* Going Home,”’ “ Aunt Jemima’s Plaster,” comic, “ Laura Schottisch,’’ “ Golden Polka Quadrilles,”’ AT a fancy ball given in Paris, the following is a de- scription of some of the dresses worn: “ Last week, one of the fine hotels of the Faubourg Saint Germain was thrown open, and richly decorated for a fancy ball. Some of the costumes were extraordinary, and at the same time very becoming. The four seasons were re- presented by beautiful women of the hauf-ton. Win- ter (a fair girl of eighteen) was robed in the thinnest white tulle, covered with snow-flakes. The heir was wreathed with icicles. Spring, Summer, and Autumn were covered with flowers and fruits, gracefully and fantastically arranged. All the resources of French taste and ingenuity were displayed in the costumes and decorations of this brilliant féte.” Tue “ Fry-Lear,.” NEwNAN, Geo.—This delightful little paper has come to hand again, showing the pro- gress made by the pupils at the College Temple, an en- graving of which we published last month. The articles in this number are even an improvement on those in the last. The annual examination and commencement took place June 23d—25th. Our publishers would find it to their advantage to send their books to the “ Fly-Leaf” for notice, Our lady friends have no doubt noticed that we took especial pains to collect and publish, in our July and August numbers, all the receipts that could be col- lected upon the subject of preserving the various fruits of the season. Twenty dollars could not have procured them such a variety as we published in those two num- bers. PATTERNS FOR INFANTS’ Dresses, OR INFANTS’ WARDROBEsS.—Our fashion editor has supplied a great many wardrobes for infants lately, and in every case has given great satisfaction. She has more facilities than anyother person for furnishing these articles better and cheaper than anyother person. The vast influence that her connection with the “ Lady’s Book” gives her induces importers and others to submit to her their earliest fashions. To those who cannot afford the articles, made-up paper patterns can be sent, which will be fac-similes of the originals. For particulars, ad@ress Fashion Editor (not Mrs. Hale), care of L. A. Godey, Philadelphia. All other patterns furnished as usual. A LADY, by birth and education, wishes to obtain a situation as a teacher of music, on the piano, guitar, or vocal. She will also teach French and the English branches. Address L. A. Godey, Philadelphia. 24° 281 C.ivusB and single subscribers are informed that we can always furnish numbers from the beginning of the year, and will send to any post-office where the sub- scriber may reside. A club of six may be sent to six different post-offices. It is not too late now to make up clubs. Wownpenr is often expressed how it is that we are able to give so much reading matter and so many engravings, colored and others, for the very low price we ask for the work. The whole secret lies in the immense edition we publish. Those who have smaller editions cannot do it. It is therefore a great advantage to a person to subscribe to a work publishing an immense edition like ours, for they get nearly twice as much as they would in a work with a less circulation. The “ New York Dispatch,’’ a paper with the largest subscription list in that city, says—‘‘ Godey presents his lady patrons with a superb number this month. The great success of this periodical is one of the marvels of the day. Its circu- lation is now, we are informed, very little short of Harper’s; and, in another year, we should not wonder to find it on a par with that popular magazine. But we are hardly authorized te wonder at its success when we examine the book, containing, as it does, everything that can make it interesting to a lady. Its superb steel engravings, its magnificent fashion plates, its work department, its receipts, its music, its .housand attrac- tions, all aid in rendering it indispensable to every housekeeper, and to every lady desirous of becoming au fait in the duties and pleasures of the toilet.” ApversiTy is the trial of principle; without it, a man hardly knows whether he is honest or not. A BEAUTIFUL superstition prevails among the Seneca tribe of Indians. When an Indian maiden dies, they imprison a young bird until it first begins to try its power of song, and then loading it with kisses and caresses, they loose its bonds over the grave, in the belief that it will not fold its wings nor close its eyes until it has flown to the spirit land and delivered its precious burden of affection to the loved and lost. It is not unfrequent to see twenty or thirty birds let loose over one grave. GRECIAN PAINTING AND ANTIQUE PAINTING ON Guass.—J. E. Tilton, of Salem, Massachusetts, will furnish all the materials and directions. Our numerous inquirers will please make application to him. His price is $3 for all the materials for Grecian painting. Mr. Tilton has prepared a very fine and large engraving, which, when painted according to direction, wil] make a splendid ornament for a parlor in every respect as fine and as handsome as an oil painting. It will be a great satisfaction for a lady to have such an embellishment prepared by her own hand. NEGLECT 1n EpvcatTion.—It is a singular fact that in Philadelphia there are many ladies who can’t count twelve; at least we judge so from the fact that they will stop an omnibus when it has that number in, and insist upon entering, although they know it will displace some one, whom they always neglect to thank when they have taken their seat. “AunT Mercy,” by Mrs. Hentz, now going the rounds of the papers as a new story, was published by us some twenty years since.

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282 GODEY’sS LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. ~~ PAAPAAPLP LIL ALS ~~ SPECIMEN OF A NEW CHEAP PERIODICAL. Raptipity of travelling, and reduction of prices all over the world, have called into existence a new class of literature. The wonderful quantity to be procured for a penny has spoiled people for giving fifty cents; and the quick transit from one place ,to another has rendered articles of the old school comparatively worth- less, as, according to the latest estiniates, a traveller must go six times between Philadelphia and New York to get through an ordinary three-volume novel. To meet the times—as the cant phrase now goes for reducing any price that the public will not pay—it is proposed to start “‘ The Decimal Miscellany,” the price being the tenth part of a penny, and the literature that of magazines generally, continuous stories, sketches, and poetry. A little confusion will arise in the brains of the readers from the number of serials, but not much more than is usually the case at present; and the grand feature will be the conciseness of the papers, adapted to the rapidity of locomotion. The following is a spe- cimen number :— I. TEDDY O'ROURKE, A TALE OF THE REBELLION. Cuartrer I. “ Faix, an’ if Katty Hooligan wasn’t the purtiest lass between Wicklow Mountains and the Hill of Howth may I never have a button-hole to my galligaskins.” “ Wishasthrue !” said Corney Dwyer. “Is it there you are now, Katty? Och! by all the powers, but ye’re going after the masther instead of the man.” And so Katty was, for the squire was as bowld a gos- soon as ever top’d a stone wall in a steeple-chase; but Corney swore, by the bed of St. Kevin, he’d be even with him. (To be continued.) Il. A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. Tue Baron Von Blonderbutz kept open house at the Katzbangfalz. **T love your daughter,” said Sir Hildebrand. * You be hanged !”’ said the baron. That night, the fair Lenora fled with her lover; and the stormy Rhine engulfed its victims. The fisherman etill hears their shrieks at eventime; and the traveller gazes with interest at the ruined keep on the Heights of Grabsburgh. Ill. TO INEZ. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. Spring-shower, passion-flower; heart, apart; bless. caress; mine, thine; only, lonely; sever, ever; devo- tion, emotion ;.ever be, but to thee. IV. THE OLDE BOURNE, A ROMANCE OF LONDON IN THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER 1. How Master Winwood Letherby encoun- tered Frank the ’prentice in Chepe. * Gadso, now, by my halidame, forsooth, thou shalt rue this saucy speech, Sir Knave!’’ cried Master Leth- erby, drawing his long rapier. “ Gramercy! thou coystrel ; out upon thee!” replied the ’prentice. ‘I have faced too many swash-bucklers in Finsbury to fear thee, thou sorry wag-halter.” The cressets of the watch were seen approaching as the brawlers crossed their weapons, when the arrival of a third party broke up the contest. Vv. THE DEAR OLD STOOL—VERSES. I love it, though many may call me a fool ; But my heart-strings are tied round that dear old stool, The seat of my boyhood in days of my school— I cling to that three-legged and rickety stool; And never the ardent affection shall cool That winds round each leg of that dear old stool. | : ~— nner + ~~ VI. AN EXCURSION TO BUNDLEAJUG. BY THE AU- THOR OF “ THE JUGGERNAUTH AND THE JUNGLE.” We left Biddygobang in a musnud hired for the occa- sion, and, passing swarms of alligators, got to Chocke- daw at night, when we lighted our raggermajams, and a supper of hot rumshoodra was soon smoking on the buddles; the next day we returned to Zibbedehoy Jul- lock’s hospitable crowley. Harr DvE tn Four DIFFERENT COLoRs.—The most perfect article of this kind, manufactured by the cele- brated Berger of Paris, is now for sale in this city by Fouladoux, in Chestnut Street above Fourth. It will color the hair black, brown, light brown, or of a very light almost flaxen color. There is no deception in this, for we have seen the article tried, and pronounce it, without any exception, the very best Hair Dye we have ever seen. Those who order will please specify what kind they want—as one case only contains one particu- lar dye. In addition to the above, Mr. Fouladoux manufactures Wigs and Fronts, and furnishes every article in the hair line. Tue “ Monthly Rainbow,” edited by our old friend Manuel M. Cooke, is a monthly paper, published in this city at fifty cents a year. Very cheap, and a very good paper. CHANGE OF ADDRESS AND NON-RECEIPT OF NuM- BERS.— We have received several letters, lately, upon these subjects; and the names have not been found on our books. It would be well for pereons to remember to whom they send their subscriptions. If a subscriber to the “‘ Cosmopolitan,’”’ address C. L. Derby, Sandusky, Ohio. VeRY SENSIBLE ADVICE FROM THE “INDIANA REGIsTER.”—“‘ Godey has done more to please the ladies than any other publisher in the country, and every one of them should show how much she appreci- ates his labor by sending him three dollars for his * Lady’s Book’ a year, and not depend upon reading her neighbor’s magazine.” Stroxe Praist.—The ‘“ Washington Common- wealth” says, and we feel the compliment: “ This is the only periodical of the*kind we have ever felt in- clined to exchange with, and we believe that it is the best of the whole list of magazines.”’ “PHILADELPHIA SATURDAY COURIER.”—As we predicted, Mr. McMakin’s amiable daughter, “ Bessie Beechwood,” is making her department of that favorite paper eagerly sought after. Harr ORNAMENTS.—Ladies wishing hair made into bracelets, pins (which are very beautiful), necklaces, or ear-rings, can be accommodated by our Fashion Editor. A very large number of orders have recently been filled, and the articles have given great satisfac- tion. We give the prices at which we will send these beq- tiful articles :— Breast-pins, from $4 to $12, Ear-rings, from $4 50 to $10 Bracelets, from $3 to $15. Rings, from $1 50 to $3. Necklaces, from $6 to $15. Fob-chains, from $6 to $12.

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GODEY’S ARM-CHAIR. 283 PoETRY ON A NOSE.— How very odd that poets should suppose There is no poetry about the nose, When, plain as is man’s nose upon his face, A noseless face would lack poetic grace! Noses have sympathy, a lover knows. Noses are always fouch’d when lips are kissing— And who would care to kiss if nose was missing? Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose— And where would be the mortal means of telling Whether a vile or wholesome odor flows Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling? I know a nose—a nose no other knows— *Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows— Beauty in ics form, and music in its blows. Our Fashion editor often receives letters like the fol- lowing :— Tue FasHion Epittrress—DEAR MADAM: Accept our thanks for the promptness with which you executed the order, The articles have given entire satisfaction. Our only regrets are not having sent for a complete wardrobe. Having been a subscriber of the “‘ Lady’s Book” for several years, our attention was attracted by the numerous notices regarding your department con- tained therein. We tried the experiment, and being so well pleased shall not fail in recommending our friends. Is it only ill-tempered men who can be passionately in love? POLITENESS BETWEEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS.— By endeavoring to acquire the habit of politeness, it will soon become familiar, and sit on you with ease, if not with elegance. Let it never be forgotten that genuine politeness is a great fosterer of family love. It allays accidental irritation by preventing harsh retorts and rude contradictions; it softens the boisterous, stimu- lates the indolent, suppresses selfishness, and, by form- ing a habit of consideration for others, harmonizes the whole. Politeness begets politeness; and brothers may easily be won by it to leave off the rude ways they bring home from school or college. Sisters ought never to receive any little attention without thanking them for it; never to ask a favor of them but in courteous terms; never to reply to their questions in monosylla- bles, and they will soon be ashamed to do such things themselves. Both precept and example ought to be laid under contribution, to convince them that no one can have really good manners abroad who is not habitually polite at home. “¢ Gopey’s Lapy’s Boox’ is received, and we can only say that it is the best magazine of the kind in the country, and should be patronized by everybody.” So says the “ Prattville Citizen,” and the opinion seems to be unanimous. SuBscRIBERs do not seem to understand that, when we receive money fur any other publication, we pay the money over to that publication. If they miss a number of Harper, Arthur, or Graham, they must address the publisher of the publication they miss. We have nothing to do with it. WE shall be pleased to receive any useful receipts of any kind that our correspondents have tried, and know to be good. SELF-SEALING ENVELOPES INSECURE.—The exam- ination into the charges of poisoning against Palmer, in England, elicited evidence of a circumstance that has called public attention to the insecurity of the letter envelopes known as self-sealing or adhesive. At the instance of the accused party, a postmaster had opened a letter thus sealed, shown him the contents, and se- sealed it without detection. This can be readily done, and detection is impossible. A London paper says: “The inference is inauspicious; and we fear we must return to the age of sealing-wax, or demand a really adhesive envelope.” We apprehend that it will be difficult to supply such a demand, as whatever means are requisite to seal it will be sufficient tu unseal it. CouraGe, MotHers!—Newton sinned away his early advantages, and became an abandoned profligate ; but the texts and hymns his mother had fixed in his mind in his infancy and childhood were never effaced, and finally fastened him to the cross. Cecil oll us that, in the days of his vanity, though he withstood so many pious endeavors, he never could resist his mother’s tears. Wilson, late Bishop of Calcutta, in his narrative of intercourse with Bellington, the assassin, says he could make him feel nothing till he mentioned his mother, and then he broke into a flood of tears. “ In the morning, sow thy seed ; and, in the evening, withhold not thy hand.’’ In addition to the above, we may mention that the statistics of the House.of Refuge show that none of its inmates ever attended Sunday schools. Tue HvusBANpD’s REVENGE.— A Warning to Wives who will keep bad Cooks, Provisions raw Long time he bore: Remonstrance was in vain; To escape the scrub He join’d a club; Nor dined at home again. PATTERNS.—Our fashion editor continues to furnish patterns of any of the dress articles in the “ Book.” Terms made known on application. We cannot pub- lish the prices, as the postage varies according to the size of the articles ordered, and that we have to pay in advance. The demand for patterns for infant’s clothes is immense, and they are of the most beautiful and newest styles. Mrs. Hale is not the fashion editress. Tue “ QuAKER CitTy.”"—We have received the first number of a weekly paper published in this city under the abovetitle. It bids fair for a share of popular favor. Rapp’s Pens.—We are constantly receiving direct from the manufacturer choice lots, made expressly for us, of those celebrated pens. We annex the prices with- out holders. Goose-quill size ° : $2. Swan “ = ° . ° ° + $2 50 Condor“ s*-. + $6. With holders this pen is— Goose-quill size. ° o.!) ae om ¢. & “Tr é + 2. Condor “ es . . ° ° . Pe A Best fourteen carat gold, and pens warranted.

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284 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE. Never Hore You Don’t Intrupe.—Reader, a word—serious, sober, heartfelt word. This is it: never think you don’t intrude. You do. You pop into a parlor, perhaps. There you see, in the twilight, and lounging on the sofa, a loving couple. Of course, you hope you don’t intrude. But you do, though. You drop into an editorial room. Business is driving. Every man is busy to his uppermost hair. You hope you don’t intrude. You do, and most confoundedly. You happen to go into a neighbor’s just as the sit down to tea takes place. A favorite company (to themselves) is gathered, and for special sociality. You do intrude, Put it down fora certainty that you do. Call upon a lady whilst household duties claim her attention, and every moment is a golden one. Just hope you don’t intrude, but don’t think you don’t, for you do; any part or parcel of yourself is an intrusion, and a most unwel- come one. So on and so forth. You, your friend, your compgnions, everybody intrudes, when they interfere with the time, business, pleasures, places, &¢., of others. Bear it in mind THe Works or CHARLES DICKENS. — Peierson’s duodecimo edition of this celebrated author should be in every library. Besides this, Peterson has published ten octavo editions, at prices varying from one to four dol- lars a volume. Every taste and all classes of buyers can be accommodated. A Domestic Pactricator.—The “ Cynthian News” pays: “ No other magazine can be found under the sun. We consider it the best domestic pacijicator extant, and no one, in our opinion, can enjoy life without this valu- able magazine.” Gopey’s Emsrorpery Boor, No. 1, and Gopey’s Bisou NEEDLE-CasE.—See advertisement on cover. A LAMENT. I Look in vain; he does not come— Dear, dear, what shall I do? I cannot listen as I ought Unless he listens, too. He might have come as well as not; What plagues these fellows are! I'll bet he’s fast asleep at home, Or smoking a cigar! Honxoivtvu, SaAnpwicn IsLanp.—The club of last year at this place has been renewed with some addi- tious. LARDNER’s ONE THOUSAND RECEIPTS UPON EVERY SussecT.—We will furnish copies of this celebrated wurk on receipt of twenty-five cents. PHILADELPHIA AGENCY. No order attended to unless the cash accompanies it. All persons requiring answers by mail must send a post-office stamp; and for all articles that are to be sent by mail, stampsurust be sent to pay return postage. Be particular, when writing, to mention the town, county, and State you reside in. Nothing can be made vut of post-marks. “ Mrs. Jennie H.”"—Wrote you at Shreveport, L. “KE. Q. H,’*—Sent hair ring 18th. “ H, E. M.”—Sent hair ring 18th. “ Mrs. A. H. O.”—Sent infant’s wardrobe 18th. “S$. M. 8.”.—Sent Rapp’s gold pen 19th. “ Mrs. J. J. B.”"—Sent pearl card-case 19th. ** Mise J. 8.’’—Sent pearl card-case 19th, “ Mrs, E, M. B.’’—Sent colored cottons 19th. “Mrs. L. M. McC,.”—Sent patterns 19th. ‘* Mrs. M. A.’’—Sent patterns 19th. “ Miss R.”—Wedding cards. The lady’s maiden name should be on oneof the cards. We received cards a few days since, and did not know for some time whom they were from, as the lady was our acquaintance, and her name was not on any card, “J. C. O.”—Sent gold breastpin 20th. “A. M. R. W.”’—Sent patterns 20th, “Pp, E, R.”—Sent hair fob-chain 20th, “ Mrs. B. R.”,—Glad you are pleased, A carved pearl card-case will be $4. “J, N. B.”—Sent hair pin 2ist. “T. J. D.’—Sent hair ornaments 21st. “ Mrs. E. K.’’—Sent set of jewelry 2ist. “ Mrs. E. T. F.”’—Sent hair ring 2ist. “ Mrs. L. S. W.’’—Sent stamped collars, &e. 2ist. “ Mrs. A. M. C.”’—Sent bonnet, boys’ hats, and man- tilla by Adams’ express 2ist. “ Mrs. M. J. R.”—Sent infant’s wardrobe by Adams’ express 21st. . “A Subscriber in New York.”—Cannot examine the Lady’s Book very carefully, or he would find all the information necessary for putting up fruits in Arthur's cans. “Miss M. A. C.”—Sent bonnet by Adams’ express 23d. * Mrs. D. H. O.”—Sent colored cottons 23 “Miss A. L. P.”—Sent Rapp’s gold pen and hair breastpin 23d. We are much obliged to those who send us patterns, but we cannot use them, as they are not correctly drawn, and will not transfer. “ Mrs. J. R. D.”’—Sent infant’s wardrobe by Adams’ express 24th. * Mrs. O. 8. H.’’—Sent patterns and card-case 24th. “ Miss L. A. B.””—Sent pearl card-case 24th. “ Mrs. M. M. G.”°—Sent patterns for infant’s ward- robe 24th. “J. B. B.”*—Sent patterns 25th. “ Miss J. M. C.’’—Sent pearl card-case 25th. “PF, C.”—Sent guld pen 27th. * Miss L. D.”—The right hand. “ Mrs. Du B.”—Sent hats by Howard’s express 27th. “Miss H.V. M.”—Sent patterns, &c. 27th. “ Mrs. H. H. W.’*—Sent patterns 27th. “Mrs. R. R. D.’’—Sent belt, &c. 27th. “ Mrs. 8. E. O.”—Sent bonnet frame and flowers by Adams’ express 28th. “ Miss A. L. P.”—Sent pearl card-case 28th. “ Miss R. D. H.”"—Sent bridal wreath 28th. “J.C. B”’—Sent hair ear-rings 28th. “ Miss.A. M. B.’’—Such a communication ougiit to be made. “L. T."—Sent Rapp’s gold pen 28th. “Mrs. M. M. C.’°—Sent $4 card-case Ist. “ Mrs. S. G. 8."—Sent chenille 1st. “ Mrs. H. R. D.’’—Sent jewelry 1st. “ Mrs. E. A. B.”"—Sent Rapp’s gold pen Ist. «“J."—Sent pear! card-case Ist. “ A. B."—Thank you. And shall be pleased to receive any that you can find time and strength to write.

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CENTRE-TABLE GOSSIP. “‘ Miss R. L. M.’*—Such conduct on the part of one calling himself a man would warrant a parent handing him over to the hands of the law. “ Miss 8S. V. H. B.”*—Sent mantilla by mail 2d. “M, A. F.’"—Sent hair ring 2d. “ Miss O. A. S.’"—Sent mantilla pattern 2d. “ Miss R. H. H.’’—Sent bonnet by Kinsley’s express 2d. “ Miss L. D. M.’*—Sent bonnet by Adams’ express 2d. “ Mrs. H. H. S.”—Sent infant’s wardrobe 2d. “ Miss A. A.’’—Sent pearl card-case 2d. “Pp. L. 8..°—Sent two pearl card-cases by Adams’ ex- press 3d. “Mrs. J. W. T.”—Sent pearl card-case 3d. “Mrs. W.”—Sent pearl card-case 3d. “J. W. D. S.”—Sent pearl card-case 3d. “Ww. P. R.”"—Sent pearl card-case 3d. Needles. We have sent over 200,000 needles since we first advertised them. “ Marie R. C.”"— We have written you two letters, but have received no answer. “ Mrs. A. O. P.”—We recommend Arthur’s Self-Seal- ing Cans. We have tried them and speak advisedly— we know them to be good. “ Mrs. D, J.’°—Sent pearl card-case 5th. “J. D. W.”—Sent patterns 6th. “ Mrs. H. F. J."°—Sent patterns 5th. “Mrs. H. G. F.’—Sent articles by Adams’ express Sth. “Miss A. V. H.”—The lady’s maiden name should always be on the wedding card. ‘Mrs. M. R. P.””—Sent ribbons, 7th. “Mrs. O. A. O."’—Sent pearl card-case 7th. “ Miss V. A. R.”—Sent patterns and colored cottons 7th. “J. W. C."—Sent parasol, bonnet, and mantilla, by Kinsley’s express 8th. “L.”” Hamburg, Texas.—Never heard of that kind of ink. Can get you the book you want for $1 25. Address Fetridge & Co., New York, they will get the letter. “ Mrs. J. D. W.”"—Sent Rapp’s pen and holder 8th. “F, R.’—Sent accordeon keys and Rapp’s gold pen 8th. “§, G. Jr.°—Sent Rapp’s condor and holder 8th. “ Miss M. R. O.”—Your request is so prettily worded that we comply with it. Miss G. A.’’—Blue is the most becoming. Miss L. E. W.’’—Sent patterns 9th. “ Miss A. W.”—Sent belt, 9th. “« Miss S. A.’’--Sent pearl card-case 9th. “ Miss E. H. R.”’—Sent pearl card-case 9th, “«J.".—Sent pearl card-case 11th. “L. V. H.”—Sent articles by American Express Co. lith. “ Mrs. R. T.”°—Sent shell comb, &c. 11th “ Miss H. R.”"—We do not know the lady’s age—she has fone. M’lle Mars, the celebrated French actress, when she died, at sixty-five, had on her coffin-plate thirty-three. “R. K.”—Sent pinking iron 11th. “ Mrs. E. J. R.”’—Sent braid 1}th. “A. D,”"—Sent patterns, &¢. 11th. «B. J.”—Sent patterns 11th. “ H. A. K."°—Sent fringe by Adams’ express 11th. “Mrs. A. C, S..".—Sent patterns, &c. 11th. “Mrs. M. J. B.”—Sent two hair chains 12th. “ Mrs. J. A. McD.”’—Sent socks, &. 12th. “G. G. O."—Sent slipper pattern and zephyrs 12tn. 285 aaa “Miss E. E. A.”—There is nothing positively im- proper in what you ask, but it is not in good taste. “ Mrs. S. H.””—Sent patterns, &c. 12th. “A. H.’’—Sent Rapp’s gold pen 12th. « E."—Sent infant’s wardrobe patterns 15th. “ Mrs. J, D.”—Sent pearl card-case 15th. “Mrs. O. A. A.’*—Sent infant’s clothing by Kinsley’s express 15th. Centre-Table Gossip. THE FLOWER-GARDEN AND HOUSE PLANTS. “ FLow-ERsS”—said an opposite neighbor in a Geor- gia railroad car, *‘ fow-ers”—and he brought his knotty, toil-worn hand down on the arm of the seat with con- temptuous emphasis—“ don’t talk to me about them things! I wouldn’t give one acre of cotton for all the Jlow-ers you could grow between here and the Gylf.” * But,” said a planter of less utilit..ian views, “haven’t you found, sir, in the course of a Jong life, that it’s necessary to do some things to please the women in the family? Now, suppose you came in, hot and tired some afternoon, and Mrs. Smith says, says she, ‘ Come here, my dear; I’ve got such a sweet thing to show you,’ and she carries you off to the garden, and there’s her roses, and things just coming out; and & little later in the season, you say: ‘ Now, Mrs. Smith, here’s an elegant peach from the tree you persuaded me to set out.’”’ “ Stuff!’ broke out the old man impatiently, “I haven’t got money enough, nor hands enough, to waste time in that kind of style. Cotton is cotton, and corn is corn; ‘no,’ says I, ‘give me the flower that’s got a husk, and when that comes off there’s the kernel! that’s worth all your shrubbery!’ my women-folks haint got no time for such trumpery.”’ Happy the Mrs. Smith then, and the Misses Smith, who are allowed the cultivation of this inherent taste in all womanly hearts; and happy the husband and father, whether he be a Southern planter, or Northern farmer—for both are alike tempted to the cultivation of flowers “with a husk and kernel,” to the exclusion of the idler lilies of the field—whose wives and daughters lavish time and pocket-money only in so simple and healthful a pursuit. It may be made almost an inexpen- sive pleasure, with time and pains, and, according to our promise, we have collected hints on the subject from many sources, furnishing a series of articles to be ex- tended through the year, commencing with our next issue, October, the time for transplanting and arranging preliminaries for Spring operations; to be carried on to house plants, bulbous roots, etc. etc., until the spring- time brings us to more active out-of-door exertion. LADY NURSES. Ir is proposed in England, now that Miss Nightingale has made nursing fashionable, to establish hospitals, professing no particular religious character, but gov- erned alone “ by the Christian grace acknowledged in common by all sects, though often lost sight of by sec- tarians—charity.”’ The appeal for such an institution goes on to speak of the immense disparity, in numbers, between married and single women. Of the latter class, says this sensi- ble writer :—

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236 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND: MAGAZINE. > ¥ “ Many can make themselves usefyl to their friends and félations; many can chalk out Yor themselves other ..; spherts ef usefulness; some aré endowed with talents for the arts and sciences, fitting them to shine in sdciety, or to instruct the world. But,how many have ho such career of utility or amusement before them! Are they destined to fritter away their lives in wearisome and profitiess occupation? to yawn away the day over a novel? to weave Penelope webs of Berlin wool, repre- senting unnatural flowers and monstrous animals! to draw unartistic landscapes and repulsive portraits? to write feeble verses devoid of poetry? to strum long hours on the piano in hopes of acquiring an ear for music? to practice for months together in the expecta- tion of getting a voice? Are they to be forever debarred from employing their native talents in the most suitable manner, forever condemned to labor in vain for the ac- quisition of accomplishments they never can excel in, and which can never be of the slightest use to themselves or tio'* neighbors? HoW many of them possess all those qualities witch go to make the best of nurses? How many have the cheerful patience, the exquisite sensi- bility and tenderness, the undefinable womanly tact that soothes more than opiates the feverish irritability of patients, and helps to banish the tedium of the sick- bed? And are all these best medical powers to be lost to the sick because society thinks it improper for ladies to perform the Christian duty of visiting the sick in the way most advantageous for these sick? When the bloom of youth is past, when the prospect of “ making a match” is hopeless, are our maidens to sink into a condition of useless spinsterhood? We deplore, with all our heart, the life to which many of these excellent ¢reatures are doomed by the present want of occupation for them. A byword and a mockery to their younger sisters, sneered at by many who have had the good or bad luck to get married, their tempers are often soured by the treatment they receive, and they sometimes take their revenge on society by becoming scandal-mongers and gossips. What a blessing to many of them would de the opportunity of a career of usefulness or benevo- lence; such as that of ministering to the wants of the sick, and alleviating the pains of the suffering. By many childless widows, too, such a field of practical asefulness would be hailed with delight. Nor would it, we conceive, be unbecoming in younger ladies to devote a portion of their lives to such offices of charity. One of our most popular novelists, in alluding to the common education of young ladies, says, with truth, that a man does not want a singing wife, or a playing wife, or a dancing wife, or a painting wife; but a talking wife. By mest men it would be considered an advantage to have a nursing wife—a wife who understood how to at- tend him in sickness, how to administer effectually to the little patients of the nursery ; one who understood and could relieve the minor ailments of her children, and who could, in more dangerous illnesses, carry out intelligently the directions of the doctor. Every medi- eal man knows how often his most skilful prescriptions, his plainest instructions are thwarted and nullified by the ignorance and inexperience of wives and mothers, who, in place of being an assistance to him in his treat- ment, are constantly, though unintentionally, frustrating his. best designs for the cure of his patients. Every sensible Calebs in search of a wife would consider it one of the greatest recommendations of a young woman, that she had received a proper training in the duties of sick-nursing.” : ? ‘ i THE CENTRE-TABLE COMMONPLACE BOOK. Maines Lace.—Malines has long been famous for a lace coarser and stronger than that of Brussels. Mechlin lace, properly so called, has been surpassed by that of Nottingham. Jealous Malines says that much of that which is sold as Brussels lace is made there. The first place we enter is a grocer’s shop; there, in a back room, are some very little maidens at work ; each has a cushion on her knees, with a battalion of pins stuck into it. Each winsome body has two small, knobby sticks in her hand; to the sticks are attached strong, white threads, and with these she mancuvres among the pins, with a rapidity so surprising that one is fain to bless her little heart in astonishment. Thread by thread the delicate fabric prospers on to its completion, and lace-making is obviously so elegant an employment, that the British Miss may one day take a fancy to it, instead of crochet. We went to several houses afterwards, and saw at least two hundred girls, all occupied in the same way at their own homes, for there is no manufactory. Their wages average fifteen sous @ day, for eight or nine hours’ labor. The best workwomen, however, make as much as two francs and a half daily. They are said to be generally very well conducted. Prices have fallen one-half within a few years; the finest lace, which is about a foot broad and of an intricate pattern, is sold at forty-five francs ayard. The value depends on the width and design. Household Words. RHYMED PROVERBS.—TURKISH AND PERSIAN. Speaks one of good, which falls not to thy lot? He also speaks of ill, which thou hast not. Oh, square thyself for use! A stone that may Fit in the wall, is not left in the way. The sandal-tree, most sacred tree of all, Perfumes the very axe that bids it fall. Each man has more of four things than he knows; What four are these ?—sins, debts, and years, and foes. Rejoice not when thine enemy doth die— Thou hast not won immortal life thereby. Oh, seize the instant time! You never will, With water once passed by, impel the mill. Boldly thy bread upon the waters throw, And if the fishes do not, God will know. What doth not time and toil ?—By these a worm Will into silk a mulberry-leaf transform. TRENCH. TO CORRESPONDENTS. “Mas. L. B.”— There is an English lace called Chantilly, which is probably what she has reference to ; though the two articles are widely different, especially in price. The French point would be at least a hundred dollars—the British lace thirty-five at the most; it is a strong, durable article most of the demi-veils of what are called “ hailstone”’ and “ sun-drop” patterns rang- ing from $3 to $5 in price, are manufactured of it. “A Rapip READER” must remember that it takes vastly more time to write a book than to read one, a trifling circumstance which she seems to ove:look. We have it from excellent authority that there will be no new novel by the authoress of *‘ Alone” the present sea- { a a ee eee

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{ 4 NN eee son; she must have been misinformed. We return the order, which will be useful as a memorandum, and send the other volumes marked. “« Miss 8, T. S.””—It is optional with the bride herself whether cake accompany the cards. It is by no means essential. “An UNPRACTISED HOUSEKEFPER.”—All the Bath brick in the world will not av@il as much as a small sheet of fine sand-paper. The circular steel bar, and hearth of modern grates, may be polished in this man- ner; twice or thrice in the course of a season. For the spots on ground glass shades, employ the same paste as in cleaning silver—whiting and alcohol. “* Mus. R. or CINCINNATI.” —We recommend Arthur’s Cans, especially for vegetables; it is a wonderful econ- omy in the matter of winter desserts. “ CELESTE.”’—With or without heels. Bows are still worn on slippers, with a small steel buckle in the centre. Colored slippers are only suitable for the morning. “A BRIDESMAID.’’—Either of the following articles comes within the limits described, and is perfectly suitable as a gift for the occasion. A Crumb-Knife, Cake-Knife, Berry-Shovel, Oyster-Ladle, pair of Jelly- Spoons, Pie-Knife, Fish-Slice, Salt-Stands, pair of Salt- Spoons, and Butter-Knives. “ Miss B. L. P.”—The best advice we can give, is to take care of the shaw! in the first place. No cleaning will restore the original purity and softness. There is always an unpleasant odor, a stiffness, and a slight change of colors in the border perceptible. “Mrs. S.”"—Next month will be the best time for transplanting and dividing the roots mentioned. There is always more or less garden work in October, such as drying and putting away bulbs, potting geraniums, and other border plants for wintey preservation, and many other things she will find laid down in most manuals of flower-gardening. Fashions. NOTICE TO LADY SUBSCRIBERS. HavineG had frequent applications for the purchase of jewelry, millinery, etc., by ladies living at a distance, the Editress of the Fashion Department will hereafter execute commissions for any who may desire it, with the charge of a small percentage for the time and re~ search required. Spring and autumn bonnets, mate- rials for dresses, jewelry, envelops, hair-work, worst- eds, children’s wardrobes, Rapp’s gold pens, mantillas, and mantelets, will be chosen with a view to economy, as well as taste; and boxes or packages forwarded by express to any part of the country. For the last, dis- tinct directions must be given. Orders, accompanied by checks for the proposed exrpendi- «ture, to be addressed to the care of L. A. Godey, Esq. No order will be attended to unless the money is first received. Neither the Editor nor Publisher will be ac- countable for losses that may occur in remitting. Instrvetions to be as minute as is possible, accompa- nied by a note of the height, complexion, and general style of the person, on which much depends in choice. Dress goods from Levy’s or Evans & Co.’s; cloaks, man- tillas, or talmas, from Brodie’s, 51 Canal Street, New York; bonnets from T. White & Co.’s; jewelry from Warden’s or Caldweil’s, Philadelphia. When goods are ordered, the fashions that prevail here govern the purchase; therefore, no articles will be , FASHIONS. oe or LALLA taken back. When the goods are seni, . must be considered final. ; DESCRIPTION OF STEEL FASHION-PLA. FOR SEPTEMBER. Fig. 1.--Evening-dress of white tarleton, the lower skirt covered by six full, and rather narrow flounces, edged by a ruché. The two upper skirts, edged in the same way, are caught up on each side by a garland of Autumn leaves; the same graceful and seasonable trimming heads the heart-shaped berthé of the corsage; full cluster of the same, on each side of the plain bandeaux. The whole costume is simplt; tasteful, and appropriate to the month. Fig. 2.—Dinner or evening-dress, of pink reps silk, the lower part of the skirt set on like a deep flounce, and headed by a narrow ribbon ruché, on which narrow velvet bows are placed at intervals. Corsage low and open to the waist. A full spencer of Valenciennes, on a net foundation, fills this space, and terminates in ruché at the throat. Full puffed sleeves of net and Valenciennes to correspond. Sleeves and chemisette trimmed with velvet bows, wristlets to correspond. Fig. 3.—Walking-dress for Autumn. Black moire, the skirt in three extremely full flounces. Basque closed at the throat and trimmed with graduated bands of velvet ribbon, fastened by large oval buttons of the same. Sleeves in the full puffs headed by a bell-shaped jockey. Bonnet of brown silk, blonde and thulle, full inside cap of blonde, with crimson roses without foli- age, or butterfly-ribbon bows. Small square India shaw! for the street or carriage. Pig. 4.—Child’s dress for cold weather. A full pe- lisse of dark-green velvet or cloth, with a round cape falling to the waist. Drawn bonnet of white silk or satin. Collar and pantalettes of English embroidery ; green boots. MORNING DRESS. (See Cut in Front.) Tuts is suited for our Southern subscribers, the present month, and especially as part of a bridal wardrobe. Those who delight in embroidery can also take it as a model for the next spring, and prepare the bands during the coming winter months. The skirt is full and plain, with the exception of the front breadth, which is en tablier or apron fashion, quite down to the hem. This is composed of two broad insertions of English em- broidery, alternating with a frill of an entirely different pattern ; the frill also encircles the whole breadth. The basque corresponds, the chemisette being of the inser- tion pattern, the bretelles, and flounce of the bands. The flounce of the sleeve is headed by two rows of in- sertion and slightly caught up on the forearm by bows of plain satin ribbon. Lappet of English embroidery forms the cape. CHITCHAT UPON NEW YORK AND PHILA- DELPHIA FASHIONS FOR SEPTEMBER. Some few of the rich silks intended for fall and win- ter are beginning to make their appearance in the shop windows side by side with the lighter fabrics of summer which are really worn as yet. Among these costly robes are some superb moires of plain green, blue, or brown, with large black spots all over the ground. which has a new and striking effect. The flounced robes have woven fringe or plush bands on the edge of

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GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK AND MAGAZINE, flounces{ others are in solid colors, save these vands, which are of a rich Pompadour pattern, some- times covering the entire flounce. Heavy silks striped or barred with velvet are among the richest materials thus far opened. Basques falling very deep and closed at the throat are almost universal for everything but evening-dress. Because a basque is long, it is by ne means a reason that it should be of the same square, ungraceful depth all around. A slope over the hip will often obviate this. The skirt of a corsage or basque-proper should be as carefully fitted to the figure as the waist itself, or the effect will be extremely inelegant. Passementerie, under which title is included the host of new ornamental gimps, ribbons of mixed muire, satin and velvet, fringes, and ornamental buttons, are imported and manufactured largely for winter dresses. One of the most elaborately trimmed dresses we have seen is of deep violet silk with a velvet ribbon dis- posed in lozenge fashion along the edge of the flounces, basque, and sleeves. In the centre of each lozenge is a rich tassel of passementerie, also black. The whole is edged with a fringe of alternate violet and black. Another very pretty trimming for a black silk has the narrow velvet lozenges or diamonds edged by a straight row of velvet touching the points on each side, which is edged in turn by narrow black lace. Dresses with double skirts, though most suited to full evening costume, are not now confined entirely to it. When made of plain, dark culors, they may be adopted in negligé and even in walking costume. An out-door dress, consisting of violet-culor silk chequered with black, has just been made with two skirts. The upper skirt descends a little below the knees; and the under one is trimmed to the height of the knees by a bias piece of the silk composing the dress. By this arrange- ment, the squares formed by the chequers are, on the under skirt, disposed diagonally, whilst on the upper skirt they run horizontally. The effect thus produced is at once novel and pretty. The corsage of the dress is high, and has a deep basque trimmed with frills cut the bias way of the silk. The corsage is fastened up the front by passementerie buttons, in black and violet. The sleeves, in two puffs, reaching to the elbow, are finished at the lower end by a pagoda, cut bias. The undersleeves consist of puffs of worked muslin. The collar is also of worked muslin. A magnificent cash- mere shawl, having the ground of a beautiful malachite green, ig very suitable to be worn with this dress in the street or carriage. Next month we shall commence our plates and de- scriptions of mantles. The shawl pattern bids fair to be a favorite style, as it best allows being closed at the throat. This is realiy necessary in a full mantle. Elegant light shawls are much seen between the two seasons, summer and decidedly cold autumn weather, that is to say, during September and October. Black lace bonnets trimmed with fruit in bouquets and garlands will reappear during the same time; also mixed fancy straws, brown or black and white, alter- nating with ribbon or lace in rows, and trimmed with bright shades of ribbon when plain. So far there has been no fall opening of bonnets, though several are announced to take place early in the month. Embroidered and lace collars are large and square: ceambric for the morning and home dress. Sleeves for morning wear have only a plain wristband. Valen- ciennes is mixed with nearly all the French embroi- ‘drop ear-rings has recently been made. ——oee a PAPAL ALAA ALA — deries. One of the prettiest styles for collars has an edge of this lace and a bow formed of a double row of fine cambric insertion also surrounded by it, making the ends in the style of lapels. Chemisettes will have comparatively very little wear in the reign of high, close bodies. Ear-rings of the drop form, which have been so long out of fashion, are now beginning to reappear. We mean the long drops, called by the French pendants @oreille, and not those of the short, round form, which have lately enjoyed partial favor, and which are not inaptly called boutons d’oreille. An exquisite pair of The tops are formed of circles of diamonds, having in the centre a large pearl. The drops consist of long ears of wheat, thickly studded with small brilliants. Another pair of drop ear-rings, equally elegant, though of a less showy description, consists of pink, coral, and pear pearls. The tops of most of these new drop ear-rings consist of one large precious stone—as an emerald, a ruby, or a sapphire—set round with five pearls or brilliants. A curious specimen of hair-work has just been pro- duced at Paris. It consists of a fan composed of a transparent, gauze-like texture formed of hair. It is ornamented with gold spangles. Parasol handles of a superior kind have hair-work intermingled with other ornaments. - Elegant buttons set with precious stones, or of mosaic, stone, cameo, coral, or plain wrought gold are a very handsome gift, and add much to a lady’s toilet. Of course, the same set, held in their place by rings, will do fur several dresses. Sleeve buttons connected by links have almost entirely replaced cuff pins, those well-known destroyers of insertion and lace. Among the materials étill employed for mourning dresses may be mentioned black crape for evening, and barége and silk for out-door costume. Some of the crape dresses have been richly ornamented with trim- mings of jet bugles, though, to our own taste, bugles and jet trimmings are not in the strictest sense mourn- ing. We quote, however, what is worn rather than what should be. A dress of black silk, just completed,” has three flounces, each edged with a triple row of crape and bugle trimming. The corsage of this dress is low-and the sleeves short, and with it will be worn a canezou of black crape trimmed like the flounces, with rows of crape headed by bugle trimming. This canezou is fastened up the front by seven small ties formed of jet, one being placed at the point in the centre of the waist. The sides of the basque, which meet at the waist, are gradually sloped off so as to widen apart at the lower end, and the corners are roadnded. The sleeves of the canazou are of the pagoda form, and are gathered up in front of the arm by a jet tie. In out-door costume a mantilla of black crape will be worn with the dress; it is trimmed with three deep frills edged with fringe of floss silk, and the frills are surmounted by one row of crape with a bugle heading, corresponding with the trimming on the flounces of the dress. The upper edge of the mantilla is finished by a deep row of fringe of the same kind as that on the edge of the frills. The bonnet is of black straw guipure, and is trimmed on each side with a bouquet of pinks in different shades of violet streaked with black. The same flowers, with white and black blonde intermingled, are employed for the inside trimming. Gloves of black lace trimmed with a quilling of lace. FASHION.

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WHITE & CO.’S (NO. 41 SOUTH SECOND STREET,) THOMAS

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LADY’S FANCY FURS. FROM THE ESTABLISHMENT OF A aS tan r wi : i site } id THOMAS WHITE & CO., NO. 41 SOUTH SECOND STREET. ees

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THE MARION. TILE (See de scription, ) A > > Lo _ » “Lith Oa Sy t NIGHTINGALE.

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44 sy & 6OSSES * ¢ ¢ ‘ % | i Hi Wat Wil NH Why TRAVELLING CLOAK. [Fran the establishment of G. Bropre, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Vouer, from actual articles of costume.] Our lady friends who may require the use of such an article wiil find the above admirably adapted to their wants. It is made of a very serviceable shade of gray lady’s cloth. With the exception of the narrow binding, it is without ornament. It has adrawn hood, the back of which is graced with a bow with streamers. The sleeves fall with a peculiar graceful sweep, and reach almost to the bottom of the cloak. It is quite deep, and is con- fined in front by buttons. Altogether, its flowing outline, its simplicity, and, most of all, its convenience, render this the most pleasing style of cloak we have as yet seen.

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. \ > THE HISPANIA. [From the establishment of G. Bropie, 51 Canal Street, New York. Drawn by L. T. Voit, from actual articles of costume.) Tuts truly neat and elegant talma has been got up expressly for the present season. Its gracefulness will commend it to our readers at a glance. It may be obtained made in any required shade of cloth. The illustration so perfectly explains its construc- tion that no remarks are needed. When it is laid out flat, it forms just a half circle; the yoke is not exactly, however, 8 semicir¢le, but somewhat approaches the pointed form. The trimming varies on these gar- ments; that of the above is a tufted flush, and fringe. The shoulders are adorned with a cord quadrilled, aud ending in neat tassels, —_ —It,

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CHILD’S DRESS BODY, IN BRODERIE ANGLAISE. We give the stomacher for an infant’s dress, the proper size for working, with the appropriate trimming to go round it, likewise round the sleeves and along the skirt. This pattern is intended to be sewn over, with the exception of the opening filled in with spots, and the English rosette, which must be overcast before working. The edge of the trimming must be worked in button-hole stitch, gradually widening round the small scallops. 296

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CARDIGAN, OR SCENT BOTTLE-COVER. (See description.) 2

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ALPHABET OF FANCY LETTERS. FOR MARKING A LADY’S WARDROBE.