Harper's Bazaar 1890-11-15: Vol 23 Iss 46

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Vout. XXIII.—No. 46 Bs i —— = TEN CENTS A COPY. ’ Copyright, 130, by Haneny de Buoren, NEW YORK, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1890. ; All Rights Reserved. WITH SUPPLEMENTS, el VISITING TOILETTE.—{Sex Pace 892.]

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890 FUST PUBLISHED. PORT TARASCON: The Last Adventures of the Illustrious Tartarin. By ALPHONSE DaubErT, Translated by HENRY JAMEs. Richly Illustrated by Rossi, MYRBACH, MONTEGUT, BIELER, and MONTENARD. pp. 359. 8vo, Cloth, Or- namental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $2 50. THE TSAR AND HIS PEOPLE; Or, Social Life in Russia: Profusely Hlustrated. pp. $35. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3 00. BOY TRAVELLERS. The Boy Travellers in Great Britain and Ireland. Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey through Ire- land, Scotland, Wales, and England, with Visits to the Hebrides and the Isle of Man. By THOMAS W. KNox. Profusely Illustrated. pp. xvi, 536. Square 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $3 oo. CHRISTMAS IN SONG, SKETCH, AND STORY. Nearly Three Hundred Christmas Songs, Hymns, and Carols. With Selections from BEECHER, WAL- LACE, AUERBACH, ABBOTT, WARREN, and DICKENs. Illustrations by RAPHAEL, MURILLO, BOUGUEREAU, HOFMANN, DEFREGGER, STORY, SHEPHERD, DAR- LEY, MEADE, Nast, and others. Selected by J. P. McCasKEyY, Compiler of the * Franklin Square Song Collection.” pp. 320. Royal 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 50. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. TF?" For sale by ail booksellers, or wit prepaid, to any par Seice be sent by the publishers, postage of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of é BAZAR, A Four-page Illustrated Supplement and a Pattern-sheet Supplement. HARPER'S WITH TERMS: 10 CENTS A COPY,—#84 00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. Subseripliows may begie with any Number. THE HUSBAND'S PEOPLE. N° one who is acquainted with the world will have iN any other feeling than that of tender solicitude for the young wife who is about to leave her own home and go into the world of her husband's relations. She leaves a home whiere it is very likely that she has been the bright controlling principle; where much has bent to her interest or her wishes; where her young life was a precious and delightful thing; where it was all a little kingdom into which she was born ; where everything came to her with love upon its wings; where she never had to make an effort to win affection, since it was hers by right divine; where she was happy, and yet unconscious of it—-as uncou scious, too, that the world could ever be anything else—as when she was a baby in her mother’s arms. She goes into a world, so far as all these influences are concerned, where all is unknown and untried and obscure. It may be friendly; it may be hostile; it is certainly critical. While she was at home, she had her lover's love with everything else; that sun- shine still surrounds her, but all the rest is dark. If now she wishes to keep that sunshine, the plain course before her is to make her husband’s people love her as her own people do, not thinking, of course—with the old belief in blood as thicker than water—that the new love can be quite the same as the old, but sure that it can be very strong and fer- vent. She may, and probably will, keep the sunshine without it; but it will assist her, and make all her way lo do so easier. Of one thing the young wife may be sure, to begin with—-the new father is ready to give his new daugh- ter all the homage of his heart, as a father should. He feels for the father who has lost her; he sympa- thizes with his son who has won her; he remembers what all that bright part of life was to himself; he experiences a warmth of protecting tenderness tow- ard the young being who makes his boy so happy; he likes to receive her affection himself; he looks for- ward to countless satisfactions that she is to bring him; he does not mean to let his own strong-willed or petted girls impose upon her or domineer over her, or to have any favoritism shown between them ; he knows how hard it would be for him if one of these petted girls going into a strange family met with anything but genial welcome there. And if there are no girls of his very own, strong-willed or other- wise, then what a treasure this daughter is! He is so grateful to his son for bringing such a joy into his days that the boy borrows of her radiance, and gains a new respect! He opens his arms to her; he is all ready to prostrate himself before her, and to let her walk, like a young queen, over his life; he is her knight, her champion, her friend, her father! And if there are no daugiiters, then the mother’s heart too warms toward her in an exceeding degree. That mother is going to have what she has wanted so all her life—a daughter. But if, in any event, the new mother scans this young wife carefully, with a woman's eye for the HARPER'S BAZAR. womanly, it is not for her own sake, but with a jeal- ous eye to her boy’s happiness; and if she sees that her boy has chosen wisely, then there is nothing too good for his choice. There are, it is to be admitted, cases where the mother is not able to endure the thought of any one’s being before herself in her son's heart, forgetful that the love a son gives a mother who de- serves it is of a different nature from that which he gives the wife who becomes his other self, and in no wise conflicts with it, and that almost invariably, and unless the mother be a selfish anomaly, the son who best loves his wife best loves his mother also. But it is to be hoped that these cases are few; and, indeed, most frequently the mother receives this new daughter, whether she has daughters of her own or not, with a peculiar affection, that if it is not just what she gives her own, has a quality that is very precious, both to giver and receiver. For her relation to her own daugliters is one of more or less authority; the rever- ence that is her due she would sometimes almost be willing to exchange for companionship on terms of equality; and here is something a little like that; here is some one to whom she can give her contidence, and who may fill the yearning of her heart for an ad- miring friendship, with whom there is the bond of a similar experience, and all the time that other bond of their mutual love for the best, the greatest, the dearest being in the world to both of them. The young wife who leaves her own family in a measure, that is, in its close daily life, and enters largely, as she must needs do, into the life and cir- cumstances of another family, will do well for herself if she take with her a determination to love and to be loved there. It is an ill adviser who cautions her to stand upon her rights, and to let the others observe in the beginning that there is to be no interference. It is time enough to resent interference, if it is of the unwarrantable sort, when it comes. To go bristling all over with arms and armor is to invite attack any- where. She should remember, too, that sometimes parents have the right to interfere. Even if the in- terference comes at last, even if it be ill- judged, she will do better to meet it gently than to repel it forci- bly. She will be wise to look at the possibilities of her future, too, and to see the folly of weakening any of the anchorages, as one may say, of her husband's life; to see the better part of increasing his love and fealty to his own people, to appreciate the help they will always be eager to give her in strengthening the good and in repressing that which is not so good; the restraint they will be in case of need, the wall of sup- port to all her endeavors. And even if she never re- quire any help of the sort, and the very thought be a profanity, she should convince herself that her hus- band’s people have, before anything is said, a right to her affection.. They are the ones of whose flesh and blood, of whose life and manners, of whose thought and principles, was born that which is most precious of all the universe to her; they cannot be quite un- worthy of some portion of that which their sou evokes. Sometimes she will find these good people aching for her love; and whether they are so eager as that or not, if she only give it to them with a quick and ten der heart, taking theirs for granted, whatever are her imperfections they will be forgiven, whatever are her excellences they will be exalted, and she will make for herself and for her husband a happiness far ex- ceeding that to be had by any other course. THE WOMAN OF THE PERIOD. BY MARY LOWE DICKINSON. THE HIGHER EDUCATION. UST what the higher education for woman means is per- ey haps best understood by those who are so fortunate as to possess it. What it is, what it has already done, what it may do for them, is by the less favored only beginning to be comprehended, It is a long road, with many turnings, many halting-places, many ups and downs, from the point in education where anything was good enough for a girl to the point where nothing is good enough for her. The general sentiment has traversed it slowly, much more slowly in other countries than in our own. General sentiment is only an aggregate of individual opinions, and individuals having made on this journey sometimes an earlier, sometimes a later start, we find them halting at one point or another of progress, and it is by no means a large procession that has reached the final stage. Those who have reached it pressed through sloughs of despond and over hills of difficulty; and their first stumbling-block, and the hardest to pass, was the problem of the effect of higher education of woman upon man, Given the proper training, would she not crowd her- self into so-called masculine fields? Would she not perch her impertinent self on the high stools of the counting- room, arm herself with the yardstick, and, intrenching herself behind the counters, drive forth her brothers to the fields that are open only to muscle and brawn? Open for her the doors of our higher institutions—medical, theological, and the law schools—and what was to keep her from pound- ing the pulpit cushions, prancing on platforms, and usurping every where the public privileges and prerogatives of man? Indifferent to this problem, their name is legion who have never got beyond the fear of the effect of the higher educa- tion upon so-called society. It is the esthetic thought-pil- grims, women especially, who, dreaming over the surface of things, sit down tired out on the confines of this ques- tion, and cannot be persuaded to get up and go on. There they sit, blocking the path, and mourn that woman, who would ornament social life, the embodiment of every dainty grace and charm, should desire to transform herself into a stoop-shouldered, early-spectacled being of an inquisitive and aggressive turn of mind. To be a student in the mod- ern sense means to them to be strong-minded in the ancient und obnoxious sense. They doubt if at the same time a VOLUME XXIIL, NO. 46. woman can have good manners and yet hold what they call ** views.” Higher education has a tendency, so far us they can see, to make girls ‘‘ peculiar,” and ready to espouse radical mef- sures of reform. ‘'Educate a woman beyond her com- panions,” said one of this class to me not long ago, ‘‘ and at once she talks over the heads of her beaux; goes to summer resorts not to dance and flirt and enjoy herself, but to bota- nize or geologize, to read metaphysics or to write a book. Her heels are low, her soles wide and flat, her hair is her own, her back is humpless, her corset discarded, and ako- gether her higher education is only a wall that shuts her out from the gayeties and charm of social life. She is unsuited for the world as it is, and unequal to its reform.” If this is what higher education proposes to American taste as the future genius that is to preside over the American salon, they will have none of it, since what is gained in intelligence is so much subtracted from the woman's chance of being ‘* well received in youth, and well settled a litle further on.” We must not pause here to help such loiterers on the way by any attempt to prove to them that ‘things are not what they seem.” Neither should we waste time in chiding the blind because they do not see how bright the outlook, how fair the unseen opening on before. Soon or late the truth, that silent finger of God, touches both sealed lids and silent lips. Already are many saying, ‘ Whereas I was blind, now I see.” Already at many points are yielding the cast-iron views that have acted like bolts and bars and patent locks in keeping women outside the closed doors of our colleges. Already it is beginning to be recognized that whatever lib- erty in learning granted to women may mean to men or to society depends on what it may mean to woman herself. This is the primary problem which, decided, settles all the rest, and the decision as to what training may be given her depends in its turn upon the place assigned her in the uni- verse of God. Has she found and taken it, or is she still to be regarded as a problem unsolved, an element in social and national life whose ultimate development, use, and place are as yet undetermined? Woman, like electricity, has heretofore been known by effects. Like this subtle magnetic force, she has defied an- alysis, evaded control, declined to be driven, readily glowed to enlighten and warm, or flashed gloriously only to bewil- der and destroy. She is the electric element in human na ture, the universal element in human affairs. From no in- terest, great or small, public or private, can we eliminate her influence, and in none can we predict with certainty the character of her manifestation. For good or evil she is ev- erywhere. Pouring out floods of blessed light or blacken ing with a glance and staying with a touch, she at once be- guiles and baffles analysis, and sets the world, that cannot get on without her, wild with its problem of what to do with her unmeasured power. Held within the lines of nature, turned with all their sweetness and strength in the channels of wifehood and motherhood, the womanly forces rarely failed of beneficent action, like the mysterious agent to which we have likened them, that works no mischief in its upper world, where it holds storms in check, opens the floods that refresh and gladden the life below, and keeps the atmosphere pure of poison taint; attract her forces by the highest motives, draw them to serve mankind through the tender ministry to suffering and along lines of human help- fulness, and the best currents of her being become to the in- ner world what the telegraph is to the outer, the swift, sure messenger of the brightest intelligence and the bighest af fections, the subtle revealer of man to man, the link be tween the distant and the near, the interpreter of the di vinest mysteries of God. But the lightning scorches and shrivels the rough or care less hand that grasps it, and sends its swift shock of destruc tion through whatever tampers with its power. And just this is what has happened all through the ages to whatever hand has held woman back from the best that she could be. There can be no shaking off or separation. The attraction that holds the burning hand is stronger than the hurt But if the best is wifehood and motherhood, what need of higher education? Along those lines has not nature taught her all that woman needs to know? Said a brilliant woman of our day: ‘To be a wife and mother is not the end of my existence; the end is to be a woman. 1am only a wife and mother in passing.” But even if wifehood and motherhood were the end and aim, the higher the development of the woman the better the wife and mother. Conjugal affection, maternal instinct, are none the less powerful when under the control of enlightened intelligence. Indeed the highest ideal of devotion is consistent with the highest conditions of culture, and she who knows most of what man knows is certainly better fitted to be his companion than is she who meets his nature only on the side of his physical comfort. For a woman to know how to look pretty, to dress tasteful- ly, to preside graciously, to make her house charming, and her home delightful to all who feel its social atmosphere, for her to be interested in her church and her charities, to like good books, to appreciate good music—all this is in- volved in the highest, if not in the so-called ** higher,” edu cation. We mean that all this keeps in exercise and con sequent development the highest part of her nature. But to know how to look pretty does uot demand that « woman should know nothing else, and many a woman graduate has discovered and is ready to testify that in all things that en- ter into the glory of the true home life she is able to do bet- ter and to be more because of that widening of judgment and development of mental powers that came as the result of college work. Possessed of the same intellectual endowments that per- tain to man, woman has seen at last what a sorry piece of work it has been for man to find her proper place in life, to put her into it, and keep her there. She has realized that just when he thought he had found her out thoroughly and adjusted her completely, sure he knew all that was good for her and all she was good for, many-sided and incon sistent as it seemed, she was yet something quite unlike his thought. She has taken many a tour of discovery for her- self within this aforetime masculine hunting-ground. Wo- man has become a student of woman. She has found that even the wifehood and motherhood of our day demand a different type of womanhvod from the former days; that the manhood of the day calls for women alive not only to all the dear old home interests, but to the world’s wider interests as well; that the childhood of the age calls for that power of thought and breadth of culture that shall enable women to help in the moulding of the educational forces of the time. They have seen the world’s work of ministry to poverty and sickness and suffering reaching out imploringly, and they find how unequal they are to life’s reasonable demands, how untrained in all their powers, how barren in resources, how weaponless their hands. With wide-open eyes they see in the better education the help they need. Why should it seem a marvel that with eager feet they press forward to take the best the world can give?

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NOVEMBER 15, 1890. THE WEDDING SEASON. BY MARY GAY HUMPHREYS. FULFILMENT. a is rarely any effort at elaborate floral decoration at a church wedding. Palms are placed to make a bacsground of green ip the chancel, and baskets of flowers are set here and there. Aside from the size of a church, which is against it, there is an artistic reason, as color, to be effective, must be used in large masses, and this would entail enormous expense. The guests, who are iu walking and visiting costumes, are seated by the ushers, who give their arms, so far as they will go, to the ladies while they conduct them up the aisles. The front seats are reserved for the families of the wedded pair, who are in reception toilettes. This space is occasionally guarded by a white satin barrier. While the guests are wait- ing, the organist softly plays familiar and suitable music. The groom and the best man await the arrival of the bridal party in the vestry with the clergyman. But at a recent Newport wedding the groom, with admirable composure, came forward and beguiled the time by chatting with the wedding guests. He wears morning costume—a frock-coat of black Melton, with uncut edges and without silk facings on the revers, a black waistcoat of the same material, lighter trousers (gray, diversified by fine stripes, are advised), pearl- colored gloves with black stitching, and a stephanotis or gar- denia in the button-hole, which men have agreed to adorn. The costume of the best man and of the ushers differs from this only in non-essentials, The duties of the best man are not usually arduous, but they may be, as we have all read in the Story of the Gadsbys, where the terror-stricken groom was only kept from desert- ing by the stern cavalry tactics hissed into his ear by the best man. In any case, he is to support the groom through all the vicissitudes of the ordeal, hold the ring, and afterward recompense the clergyman. At length the organ bursts into the joyous strains of the Wedding March from Lohengrin. The great doors are thrown open. At the same moment the groom, the best man, and the clergyman appear in the chancel, and advance to meet the coming procession. The ushers advance in a solid phalanx, followed by the bridemaids,two by two. The maid of honor walks alone, followed by the bride on the arm of her father. The maid of honor is not infrequently a little sister, who carries, instead of a bouquet, a basket of flowers on her arm. The groom steps forward; and the father, leaving his daughter by the side of her future husband, steps back ward a pace, leaving the best man and the maid of honor support- ing the right and left flank of the main division. The bride- maids and ushers group themselves around, It is a pretty sight in form, color, and significance. The bride hands her prayer-book to the clergyman, who turns to the marriage service. When the preacher asks, ‘Who giveth this woman?” ete., etc., the father steps for- ward, and taking the bride’s hand, gives it to the clergyman, who puts it in that of the groom. When the rite is over, the clergyman retires; the organ, which has been softly play- ing, breaks into a triumphant strain now, possibly of the time-honored Wedding March. The procession reforms, the wedded pair now taking the lead, with the maid of honor on the arm of the best man, the bridemaids following, the ushers bringing up the rear. The bridal party are now driven home, where the guests that have been bidden follow, and offer their good wishes to the bride and congratulations to the groom. The bridal party still support the bride and groom, contributing life and color to the picture they help to form The breakfast-room is immediately opened, for although the occasion is more properly a wedding reception than a wedding breakfast, we use the conventional term. As wed dings ure always popular, there is a buffet table. Few houses are spacious enough to seat the guests. But one wedding is kuown in this city where the guests were seated. This Was last spring, when a breakfast was served in courses to over three hundred guests seated at round tables. The buffet table is made beautiful with silver candelabra avd low baskets of flowers. Among these are placed the sandwiches, salads, croquettes, game, galantines, ices, and sweets. From this the guests are served, it must be ad- mitted, for the most part standing. A wedding breakfast is a substantial meal, beginning with bouillon, oysters, and fortified by wines, where the seru- ples of the hosts do not forbid, otherwise lemonade, served from punch-bowls, coffee, and chocolate are not amiss. The guests come and go, thus relieving the pressure on both drawing-room and breakfast-room. When the congratula- tions are over, the bridal party go to the breakfast-room, where it is seated around a table. The old-fashioned bridal cake, that marvellous towering structure, is no more. There muy be a simple round cake for the bridal party alone, which the bride cuts, and in which is hidden the magical ring, but the most approved manner of testing fate is in small sugared white cakes, in one of which is a pretty ring. These are handed to the bridemaids and maid of honor on a silver salver, and bring to the lucky one blushes and con- gratulations. The wedding-cake proper is a fruit cake baked in flat tins, so that it may be cut to suit the small boxes in which it is afterward distributed among the guests. These small lus- trous white boxes are daintily lined with lace paper and tied with satin ribbons. On occasion these boxes are worthy to be kept as souvenirs. Those provided for Mr. Cleveland’s wedding were covered with white satin. On one corner was a monogram of the high contracting parties in silver; on au- other, the date. These were tied with painted white satin ribbons. It is no longer good form to display the wedding presents. These have been sent immediately on receiving the invita- tion, and are now put away. The propricty of omitting this display has already appealed to every one. After the break- fast the bride changes her wedding gown for a travelling costume, and the married pair drive away in a coach and two, amid hail-storms of rice and showers of old slippers; and where to is a secret most scrupulously guarded for at least two weeks, the abridged period of the honey-moon. A wedding at home usually takes place in the evening. The invitation in this case is restricted to a single sheet of note-paper, and here again it is ‘‘the pleasure of your com- paeg * that is craved. The groom and his attendants in this “ase Wear evening dress, while that of the bride is the same as at a church wedding, allowing perhaps a little ameliora- tion in the severity of throat covering and sleeves. <A dé- colleté gown would be bad form. The bridemaids have more liberty, and of course dispense with head coverings. The drawing-room is lavishly adorned with flowers. ~ The conventional marriage bell is no longer rung. A bower of smilax wreathed with roses is a graceful substitute. Ata HARPER’S BAZAR. wedding of some prominence one end of the room was trans- formed into a floral chancel and altar. Ata recent wedding the ceremony was performed under a floral wish-bone. But neither this nor the horseshoe, whicli offers also a humorous suggestion, seems to be in keeping with either the seriousness or the sentiment of the occasion. It is a pretty fancy to give some flower especial honor at a wedding. 3 the spring, lilies-of-the-valley, uarcissus, or apple blossoms. In the summer, roses. In the autumn, the royal chrysanthemums, the many-hued asters, and autumn leaves. Bridal bouquets of white Japanese chrysanthemutms are in vogue this season. The usher has by no means lost his occupation at a home wedding. It is his place and that of his fellows to form an aisle with long satin ribbons from the door to the consecrated spot through which the bridal party is to pass. The supper at an evening wedding is of the same character as the wedding breakfast, but lighter in respect to game aud the heavier dishes. Croquettes are served, but here, as at the breakfast, without any accompaniments. The supper room is opened immediately after the ceremony. Dancing is not a feature of a wedding, but it may be a charming ad- junct, in which case the bride opens the first quadrille. At Lenox, where marrying is a fine art, Sir Roger de Coverley danced on the lawn, in which all the older people joined, was the joyous and picturesque close of a beautiful wed- ding. Where a wedding is private, guests are often asked to a wedding breakfast. It is an innovation to have such iuvita- tions engraved on note-paper in the form of a paragraph, and enclosing the cards of the young people. But the effect of the paragraph is too nearly that of a dress-maker’s circular to be approved. The same form has been observed in wedding invitations. The announcements of a marriage are sent af- ter the wedded pair have departed on their honey-moon, The formality of an announcement is observed in the prefix to the bride’s name, thus: Mr. and Mrs. John Smythe announce the marriage of their daughter, Miss Marie Smythe, to Mr. Thomas Browne, on Thursday, October the Twenty-fifth, Highteen hundred and ninety.

An announcement of Mr. Cleveland’s marriage was so characteristically sententious that it may be quoted for those who love brevity: . Grover Cleveland and Frances Folsom married, ete., White House, ete., ete. NEW YORK FASHIONS. THE PELISSE. i, pes pelisse is an old name revived for the new long cloaks that can scarcely be distinguished from gowns, as many of them have a round bodice and gored skirt, while others have a full waist gathered under a Swiss girdle or a deeper corselet. “A new French model has the front in three- cornered shape, beginning in a point at the throat, and widen- ing gradually until it extends far back on the sides at the foot. The back of the bodice is round, and the bias skirt is gored by a sloped seam in the middle. The fabric is blue cloth wrought with blue silks in flowers outlined with green, und the neck and skirt are finished with a ruche of blue- green and gold peacock feathers. Changeable plush is used for very rich carriage cloaks, and even this heavy fabric has a corselet of passementerie. A light drab cloth cloak is gathered to a Swiss belt of dark velvet embroidered with tan silk cords and with gold. A quaint addition to a belted pelisse of blue cloth is a cape pendent from the shoulders to the waist in the back only, This cape is a large pleated square easily detachable, as it is held on by two large hooks to eyes that are covered with silk, and ure considered ornamental. To remodel long cloaks made within the last two winters is an easy matter. The fulness below the waist in the back may be lessened or pressed very flat, the sleeves must be enlarged, and a thick ruff of velvet or silk added around the neck. To enlarge the sleeves add a high pointed puff of silk or velvet from the shoulder to the elbow, or heighten them in effect by two standing ruffles set above the armholes. If the sleeves are now moderately large they need only be raised above the armhole, and then lengthened by deep cuffs of velvet. A good plan for concealing defaced parts of the waist is to add a graduated velvet ruffle in bretelle shape in back and front, or else pointed in front only, and crossivg the back. A short boa and cuffs of ostrich feathers may take the place of the velvet ruff. Entire sleeves of fur or of velvet are used to modernize expensive cloaks. Shorter coats fitted with hip seams are made of faced cloths embroidered with very fine jet beads, and trimmed with black Persian fur, the red and drab cloths being especially effective with black garniture. Black velvet coats are again restored to favor as outside garments, one pretty model having an over-jacket, in short Spanish shape, of black Persian fur embroidered with gold cord and jet beads, and studded with turquoises. A coat called the Sur- prise is of silver-gray cloth, with straight fronts fastened by a single strap at the top when worn in the street; but when the fronts are rolled open in the house, a vest of purple velvet is disclosed, with rich braiding of silver upon it. A white cloth coat, copied from one worn by the young Empress of Germany, is closely fitted, with vest, collar, and buttons of red velvet. The Elizabethan cloak is a comfortable and elegant cir- cular of great size, commended by Worth for carriage and evening wear, as its ample folds will cover but not crush the costume beneath. It is made of black cloth taken bias, with sloping seams on the sides and back, the top gathered to a shallow yoke of black lace puffed on silk, and almost con- cealed by an enormous flaring collar of gold passementerie, with an Elizabethan ruff of lace inside. Wide frills of lace descend on each edge of the fronts, with pendent gold strands in their gathers. The lining of pearl satin covers a warm interlining. This model is:also made in white cloth with gold passementerie, and in pink or turquoise cloth, with a collar of jewelled passementerie and black lace frills. STYLISH CLOTH GOWNS. Some cloth gowns recently made by Pingat are stylishly simple in design, and are handsomely braided and furred. The skirts are merely two breadths of fifty-four-inch cloth joined by seams down the middle of the front and back. n the front each breadth is cut seven inches narrower at 891 the top than at the bottom, making the seam which joins them slope outward toward the foot, widening the skirt gradually, and preventing it from clinging too closely. This sloped seam also does away with short darts or gores about the hips; the top of the front and sides is curved to fit the wearer, and ‘‘eased as it is sewed to the belt, the entire fulness being thrown to the middle of the back, and thickly pleated there into a space of about three inches. The bodice is a short cuirass trimmed with lengthwise rows of braid that give a slender effect, and are turned up in loops below the edge. The coat sleeves, quite large at the top, are also braided lengthwise, and furred at the wrists; the standing collar is similarly trimmed. ‘This is handsomely carried out in amethyst cloth, with black silk braid woven sleazily, like Hereules braid, and edges of wavy black Astrakhan. <A fawn-colored gown of Bedford cord (ribbed like corduroy) is trimmed with gold galloon and natural beaver. Darker brown cloth bands are inlaid between the galloon on the skirt and bodice. A separate silk skirt is provided instead of making these cloth skirts on a foundation skirt, BREAKFAST AND LOUNGING GOWNS, Breakfast gowns for home wear are of cashmere in warm red shades, réséda, fawn, or gray-blue, made with a jacket bodice braided all over with black soutache. The bodice fits like a cuirass in the back, and falls « pen from the throat over a full vest of cashmere gathered adios a braided girdle. The skirt may be straight and plain, or else in accordion pleats sewed to the edge of the bodice; flowing sleeves in accordion pleats may be added over close inner sleeves. Lounging robes of rough-surfaced Scotch suitings in large plaids of brown, yellow, and black are cut in redingote atria, with seams across the hips and large pockets. The front is closed on the left by very large hooks and eyes covered with yellow or black silks. WALKING BOOTS, SLIPPERS, ETC. Handsome buttoned boots for dressy afternoon wear are made of glove kid, with wide foxing of patent-leather. They are cut in English fashion, with pointed Piccadilly toes, per- forated across to give straight tips, and are also perforated around the foxing. Similar boots, with French calf foxing and low heels, are worn by athletic young women when taking long walks. For general wear are thick-soled boots . of malt kid, with low vamp of glossy French kid, and broad patent-leather tips. For winter are laced boots of French calf-skin, cut high about the ankle, with lew vamp, perforated tip, and low comfortable heel. Very stylish slippers of patent-leather Lave the pointed Piccadilly toe, and a pointed flap on the instep held by a strap and buckle; for dress these slippers have the high Louis Quinze heel, but those for home wear have low heels. Straps over the instep are on ovher stylish slippers, and the Pompadour slippers have a wide tongue and buckle of cut steel, silver, gold, or Rhine-stones. Low-cut slippers are still very popular in French kid, patent-leather, and in undressed kid, of white black, pearl, gray, and tan shades. Satin slippers and low Oxford ties are studded with steel or jet, or embrvidered with fine beads in small sprays, stars, or fleurs-de-lis. Quilt- ed satin slippers or low shoes are worn in the morning, in colors to match the breakfast dress. Toilet slippers and mules are made of Suede kid or of quilted satin, with sharply pointed toe and French heel. To wear pointed toes with a degree of comfort, the shoe must be longer than the foot, and long shoes give the feet the slender appearance which is now sought. Thanks for information are due Mrs. M. and Messrs. ARNOLD, CONSTABLE, & Co. ; & Co.; and Lorp & Tayior. CONNELLY; JAMES MCCREERY PERSONAL, CARDINAL NEWMAN Was as warm a lover of ‘‘The Wizard of the North” as is Mr. Gladstone, knowing both his prose and poetry almost by heart. Every year he offered the Waverley novels as prizes in the Oratory School at Edgbarton, and the boys were expected to pass creditable examinations in them. To Scott’s granddaughter, Mrs. Hope-Scott, who in vited him to visit Abbotsford, the cardinal wrote: ‘‘I have ever had the extremest sympathy for Walter Scott, and it would delight me to see his place. When he was dying, I was saying prayers (whatever they were worth) for him, and continually thinking of Keble’s words, ‘Think on the minstrel as ye kneel.’” —A striking illustration of the present importance given to women in educational matters Was the meeting lately held in Boston of women trustees of American colleges. Welles ley sent its former President, Mrs. Alice Freeman Palmer; 3oston University sent Miss Marion Talbot, the efficient secretary of the Collegiate Alumne Association; Smith Col lege sent Mrs. Kate Morris Cone and Mrs. Charlotte Cheever Tucker; and Vassar, Miss F. M. Cushing. These women, themselves college graduates, seek to promote a closer under standing and more wholesome unity among coeges for women, us well as more efficient and intelligent service on the part of trustees, and especially of alumme trustees. —Miss Mary Cooke, who, among many good deeds re- membered by every one but herself, had during her lifetime endowed two beds in St Mary s Free Hospital for Children, in West Thirty-fourth Street, New York, is now reported to have left $100,000 more in her will to that excellent char ity. At present the hospital has sixty beds, one of which was endowed by the little readers of HARPER’s YouNG Pro PLE, besides supporting a summer home, crowded with little patients, at Rockaway Beach, and a quiet asylum for chronic cases at Peekskill, and Miss Cooke's donation will greatly extend its usefulness —-Mr. Eugene Field is authority for the statement that that obnoxious but ever-triumphant folly the stove-pipe hat is really indigenous to American soil, aud exotic in the London, where it long since became an article of faith. Benjamin Franklin, who Sgr in Paris in Quaker garb in 1790, wore the low-crowned, broad-brimmed head-gear which has since narrowed and heightened into the present fashionable tile The new hat took the fancy of the leaders, and in three days’ time the chapeau Franklin, as it was called, was the mode, as, in its various modifications, it has ever since remained. —The.trade of an Emperor is thought to unfit a man for most other employments, but Dom Pedro, ex-sovereign of Brazil, finds plenty to do. He is living at Versailles, in rather feeble health, but he spends much time in studying the gallery pictures; he is digging hard at Sanserit and He- brew, with daily lessons from a famous German professor; and as he is a ‘corresponding member of all the important scientific associations of Europe, he fills up any chinks of leisure with scientific reading or writing, Besides this, he cultivates music, and greatly enjoys the visits of the clever people who go to see him.

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892 SPANISH WINTER HATS. NOME beautiful Paris hats here illustrated \) are models selected from the ateliers of the most celebrated milliners The Spanish toque draped in handkerchief fashion is of typical coloring, the cloth of vivid red and the large pompons at the back of black ostrich feathers. The entire hat is studded with steel spangles, and small fleur- de-lis pins are thrust in here and there. The large round hat for a young lady is a harmony in yellow and black. The low black velvet hat is covered on the outside of the brim with pale cream-color,the lace barbe looped about the crown is of black Chantilly, and the large Japanese chrysanthemums are of gorgeous yellow tones A second toque is of pansy velvet draped in graceful folds over a slender frame with HARPER’S TOQUE. pointed front. A panache of black ostrich feathers further increases the height in front, and supports the body of a jet dragon-fly, whose long wings extend back on the sides. A capote of distinctively Parisian style, for wearing with visiting costumes, has a crown of white velvet embroidered with gray, the brim draped with lace, and twin gray birds nestling in front with a high gray aigrette. Gray velvet ribbon surrounds the crown, and is brought forward from the back in narrow strings. PARISIAN VISITING TOILETTE. See illustration on front page. t ie fair young woman, emerging from an afternoon call, is clad in a costume by Worth. The dress, of gray-blue bengaline barred with black satin, is accompanied by TOQUE WITH AIGRETTE. BAZAR. VELVET HAT WITH an elegant ‘‘ confection,” one of Worth’s most charming creations. Black velvet is used for the body of the paletot, with sleeves of lace over silk, and long scarfs of lace in front falling nearly to the foot of the gown. Rich passementerie of black and gold forms a col- oo —_ VOLUME XXIII., NO. 46 CHRYSANTHEMUMS lar, yoke, and appliqué ornaments. The ex ceedingly becoming hat, one of Virot’s, is of black velvet with full gathered lining and a ruche of lace on its undulating brim. The pompon is of black ostrich feathers, with high aigrette. The gloves are of pearl-colored kid VISITING OR CONCERT BONNET.

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NOVEMBER 15, 1890. HARPER’S BAZAR. > Fie) y Nat z — = es %S = 4 a ¥ eA ¥ stitched with black. To supplement this costume for warmth is a long cloak or large fur wrap, which is left in the anteroom or the carriage while calling. WINTER COSTUMES. COSTUME of light gray cloth shown in the illustration is embroidered around the skirt in vandykes done in several gray tones, The jacket, of stylish cut and length, is of darker gray cloth, nearly covered with embroidery. Ostrich feathers of the new Solferino-rose shades are the trimming, covering the long notched collar, the vest, sleeves, and muff. The large hat with peak- ed brim is of black felt, with Solferino tips surrounding the crown and a pompon in front. The long pelisse of black cloth has a rem- iniscence of Directoire styles in its wide re- vers and large buttons. The sumptuous bro- cade of the bell sleeves and the revers is of black velvet, with the large design in uncut velvet. The vest of black ostrich feathers closes on the left side. A ruche of ostrich WINTER COSTUMES. feathers trims the neck and sleeves. The bonnet of black velvet has yellow lining in the pleats along the brim. ° Black ostrich tips are set on the back, and a military pompon of black and gold trims the front. The second jacket of seal-skin fits the wearer as closely as if it were made of the most pliable cloth. The high sleeves and the long collar are of wavy black Astrakhan, a favorite fur for combining with seal-skin. The cloth gown is bordered with Astrakhan, and has lines of the fur edging folds above. The hat of brown beaver-felt is turned up in the back and trimmed with a band of velvet, a buckle, and a cluster of brown ostrich plumes. WHAT EVERY WOMAN OUGHT 10 KNOW. 4 Te things people ought to know and don’t know make me desperate.” The speaker was a vivacious young wo- man to whose lot fell the task—no sinecure at times—of answering the queries propounded in the correspondence column of a popular domestic periodical. «Just see these letters!” she continued. ‘*Here is one from a woman who wishes to know whether it is not customary ‘in our best circles’ to serve at least four courses of sweets at a luncheon; another asks if salad should not be the final course at a dinner; and a third inquires if one finger- bow] would not be enough for a party of six people. That is the second query I have had on the finger-bow] question within a week. The other seeker for knowledge begged me to in- form her whether a napkin or a towel should be carried around with the finger-bow]!” Any one who has bestowed a little study upon the columns of home magazines where- in subscribers’ questions are replied to will have marvelled at the singular queries of fered by women upon points of polite observ- ance and social etiquette, as well as of do- mestic economy. One reason for the crass ignorance manifested upon many topics of this kind may be found in the general per- suasion that there are some things every one knows. Therein lies the mistake. Every one does not know these things. Women who have il i a been too busy to think of items of ceremony while they had charge of their little babies find themselves wofully deficient when the time comes to entertain the friends of the now grown children. Ashamed to expose their lack of ignorance to their ordinary sc- quaintances, they fly for aid to their favorite home journal, fondly imagining that those whose personality is concealed behind the editorial ‘‘ we” cannot fail to show the right way to seeking sisters. In this matter of the finger-bowls there is some excuse for what seems like absurd blind- ness. At one time,many years ago,it was not unusual to pass around the table one finger- bowl only, into which the guests might dip their fingers. Traditions of those days have doubtless been handed down to the house wives who now seek the latest light upon the fashions. For their benefit be it stated that which those already instructed will consider unnecessary, namely, that at the present date it is the mode to serve each guest with a finger-bow] for himself or herself. Such a bow], whether of china or glass, is to be one-third filled with water, and set on

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89+ a doily or a fruit napkin laid upon a plate. The water may be scented, or a geranium leaf or a spray of citron aloes may float upon the surface; but pure water, not ice cold, is more in vogue. The finger-bowls are usual- ly put on the table with the fruit or the des- sert at the conclusion of a meal. Another often overlooked point in dining- room etiquette is that of leaving the napkin un- folded on quitting a table where one has been a guest for but a single meal. The inference produced by folding the napkin is that it will be used again, and this is an unpleasant sug- gestion when one knows that she herself, the only person who ought to make use of the tumbled damask will be absent at the next repast, Since no one else will care to take the napkin into service again before it is washed, she lays it unfolded by her plate as she rises from the table. If mothers would but teach their children certain items of ordinary politeness, the lat- ter would possess an ease of manner far sur- passing anything they can attain by the study of manuals of etiquette in their riper years. Good manners should be inculeated at so early an age that they would be second na- ture to the child, youth, and man or woman, “Third helps” should be discountenanced, as well as the custom of permitting a child to make his or her entire meal of one ar- ticle of food, and the trick. of hovering over the contents of a dish of bread, cake, or fruit, in order to pick out some coveted bonne bouche. ‘*Take the piece nearest you” is an old rule, and a good one. Promptness at meals is a virtue of which absence has caused deep anguish of spirit to countless long-suffering housewives. The tardiness at breakfast from indulgence in a Just nap, or at luncheon from a too protract- ed shopping expedition, or at dinner from an over extended round of calls, may seem a trifle to the delinquent, but to the house-keeper jt means injury to the food and disturbance of her own peace of mind. The habit of al- ways being ready when a meal is announced should be especially binding upon a guest. For one who is receiving the hospitality of” liome, to requite it by disregarding its cus- toms is the extreme of ill-breeding. Con- formity to the rules of the house in this re- spect, and in the particular of not presenting one’s self in the drawing-room at an uncanny hour in the morning, should be observed by all visitors, while the duty of being always ready on time when invited to take a drive, or to go to some entertainment, would seem too obvious to be mentioned were it not that one see’ tliis unwritten law so constantly vio- lated. A mistake occasionally made by the un- accustomed hostess is that of using the wrong form in presenting her friends to one anoth- er. The introduction should be made @ the older person, or to the one chiefly to be hon- ored. For instance, Mr. Jones is a grave and reverend senior, Mr. Smith a lively young man about town. ‘Therefore the Yorm of presentation should be, ‘* Mr. Jones, Jet me introduce Mr. Smith.” In presenting a gentleman to a lady, the lady’s name should be mentioned first. Quite out of date is the phrase, *‘ Let me make you acquainted with Mr. or Miss So-and-so.” Such points of common civility as a wo- man’s thanking a man for yielding his seat to her in a car or ferry-boat have been so ex- tensively discussed of late that their reitera tion may be tiresome; yet it would be well to preach their practice until the present public manners or Jack of manners had un- dergone a radical reform. The gracious courtesy which should mark the entire con- duct of the true lady is never more apparent than when she thanks a weary man for the kindness which spares her fatigue at the cost of bis own comfort. AS DECREED BY FATE. A STORY OF ALL-HALLOWS EVE BY FLAVEL SCOTT MINES. * \TOW, old man, do make up your mind N to accept, and come with us to the mountains. We only need you to complete a pleasant party, and you can paint in New Hampshire as well if not better than in New York. You can do just as you please, too.” ‘That certainly is an inducement, Frank,” returned Tom Graham, lazily. ‘* How many are in the party?” ‘“‘Six. Mother and father, my cousin May Warren, her friend Miss Dorothy Seymour, and yours truly start to-morrow to Boston by boat, and you can complete the number as soon as you wish.” “Dorothy Seymour,” mused Tom, ‘‘is a very charming name.” “Yes,” interrupted Warren; ‘‘and she is as charming herself as possible. Jo come, old man. I can’t possibly take care of two girls for three months. I'll leave Miss Sey- mour to your tender mercies, and devote my- self to my cousin; she’s only a sixth cousin, you know.” ‘So? Clever scheme of yours, Frank. One moment you say I may do as I wish, and in the next breath you kindly hand a young lady over to my safe-keeping for three months. I'ma bachelor, Frank, a confirmed bachelor—confirmed a B.A. by my alma ma- ter—and now—" “Pooh!” said Frank, derisively. ‘‘ You're a crank, that's all, and an outing of this kind will go toward making a companionable fel- low of you.” : HARPER “Frank” (reproachfully), ‘haven't I al- ways been a good friend?” **Oh yes, Tom; but will you come 2?” ‘Why, of course,” assented Tom, gravely, as though the matter had been decided some time before. ‘‘Give me the necessary direc- tions, and I'll be on hand Friday—no, Satur- day. Give me a week's trial—will you ?—to see how | like it.” No one was ever more aggravating than Tom Graham. He was devoted to his art, and worked at it with unfailing vigor, but he liked to pose as a lazy man. ‘‘ Laziness,” he remarked, ‘‘is an art in itself, and I am trying to perfect it.” And yet, notwithstand- ing his professions, he did a great deal of good, honest work, and at the age of twenty- six had made a name for himself in the world of art. He was an imaginative man, a poet in thought, and he put all the poetry of his nature into his pictures, and Jaughed at the commonplace world if it failed to appreciate the hidden meanings of his painted poem. He and Frank Warren had passed through college side by side, and were the best of friends, Frank’s practical mind serving as a foil for the other's dreams. ‘*Dorothy Seymour,” repeated Tom, after his chum had gone, ‘‘and as charming as her name, Well, maybe I can put her in a picture, and thus make amends for any ex- ertion on my part. Really, if it wasn't Frank who had asked me I would hesitate. No, no, perhaps I wouldn’t; the name fasci- nates me, and I must meet her. Another Marjory Daw case, possibly, with the un- lucky sequel of finding an image with feet of clay Would it be better, after all, not to go?” he asked himself; and then, after a minute, replied, ‘* No, I will,” and, rising, he walked over to a piece of statuary, and re- peated, ‘‘T will go.” That apparently set- tled it, for he appeared at Hazelwood a few days later, and soon found himself tumbled over the mountain roads on the way to the Warren's cottage, with Miss Seymour at his side. He had not been disappointed in meeting her. The name fitted the owner precisely, he thought. She was dignified in her man- ner and beautiful to look at, and the two were necessary in a girl, according to Tom’s mind. He's peculiar,” Frank had_re- marked of him, ‘‘ but an artist,” and with this introduction Miss Seymour had to draw her own conclusion. Their eyes met once on the drive, and each langhed. ‘* Some day we'll exchange confidences on first impressions,” suggested Tom; ‘‘ they are always interesting.” Miss Seymour smiled and blushed, shak- ing her head, and, with a sudden sinking of heart, Tom realized that perhaps she was right. Let two young people meet daily for a week in pursuit of common pleasure, and if congenial to one another, these two are apt to be fast friends, and feel as though they had been acquainted for life. Within that time they have learned each other's tastes and also perceived their failings, and, if no third person interrupts, their enjoyment of the moment is apt to make a lasting impres- sion upon their thought. Tom Grabam fondly imagined himself invulnerable as far as Cupid was concerned, but Tom was given to vain thoughts, and when he found his vi- sions dispelled and himself at fault, he ac- cepted the inevitable. At the close of the first week Tom was deeply interested in his fair companion. They walked and drove together, and were left to rely upon each other, for the engagement of Frank and his cousin was practically a settled thing. “Isn't it nice,” said Miss Seymour, as they climbed a mountain one day,and were seated on a big rock enjoying the panorama—‘‘ isn’t it nice to be friends! May is miserable if Frank leaves her side an instant, and Frank grows moody if May isn’t with him, while—” Miss Seymour suddenly realized that she was becoming involved in her comparisons and stopped short. Tom took up her words: ‘‘ While I might go away to-morrow, and you’d never miss me.” ‘* Not that,” exclaimed the girl. ‘ No matter what is taken away—that is, I mean to say, that you have come to bea part of the life here, and going from it would create a vacancy, and you would be missed.” ‘That's nice,” murmured Tom. **So,” continued Miss: Seymour, deter- mined to make herself clear, *‘ I’m glad we are friends.” **So am I,” responded Tom, holding forth his hand; “and may we never regard our- selves as anything less.” It was a happy re- mark, he thought, and left the future unde- cided. There was rowing to be done on the lake near the cottage, and every evening Tom and Miss Seymour would make the circuit and wake the mountain echoes with wild holloes or merry songs. Day by day they knew each other better, day by day there grew in Tom's mind a sense of the beautiful personality of his companion, and daily she absorbed his thought. The mere fact of life was pleasant to them both, for they enjoyed the same pleasures and consulted each other’s tastes in everything. There seemed to be an un spoken agreement between them that the fu- ture was not to be touched upon while the present passed so delightfully, and though by a single word or a thoughtful action Tom at times almost told his secret, he was very care- ful, and kept the compact to the letter. To Tom himself it became at length no secret

"S BAZAN. that he loved Dorothy Seymour, but he tried manfully to keep it to himself. He dared not run the risk of being exiled from his paradise, and though he felt bound to tell her all some day, he restrained himself tem- porarily. They had been acquainted but a few weeks, and Tom’s good sense prevailed. She might have guessed his feeling, but her manner toward him never changed. She gave no indication that she cared for him more than asa friend, and spoke to him of her other friends with entire confidence. It was nearly Utopia, but the sense of reality was missing about it all. A few words might dis- pel the illusion, and both were on their guard against it, So the summer passed away, and the part- ings came. It was a decidedly dismal pro- ceeding, and though Tom wanted to speak, at the last moment he decided to wait. Re- turning to the old life would force the reality of his belief upon him or, he argued, dismiss it. It was a remarkably philosophical way of looking at love, but Tom’s sense of honor was deep, and he acted as his honor dic- tated. ‘‘If she loves me she will believe in me,” he told himself; and then, with a sigh, he rattled away to the depot. “*T will see you soon, I trust,” she had said at parting, and in the lingering clasp of her hand he read the truth. ‘‘I go to- morrow to Mount Desert to meet my sister and mother, and will be in New York in ten days.” Tom returned to the city, and went to work again. It was the middle of September, and he wanted to finish some pictures for the Academy exhibition. He had made a few sketches of scenery in the mountains, and one or two of Miss Seymour, and discarding all but the latter, he started a new painting, and left his half-completed work untouched. ITe seemed almost inspired, and in a week the painting was outlined and filled in with color—about one-third done. He decided to call it simply ‘‘ Dorothy.” <A single figure stood in the gathering twilight, looking tow- ard the distant mountains outlined 1n silhou- ette against the twilight sky. The picture had no particular significance—it was just an effect —but under Tom's touch it was fraught with a mystery and a suggestion of something great. It inspired thoughts of love. for the girl was drawn with a loving hand, and in her eyes there was a look of questioning, As he worked upon it daily, Tom came to the conclusion that it was his finest work, and Frank, who dropped in of- ten, agreed with him. Although Miss Sey- mour had returned to the city, Tom had not called. <A note from her informed him of the death of a near relative, and he refrained from intruding upon her grief, acknowledging her note by a card of sympathy. But with Frank's aid he was kept informed of her, and he sent frequent remembrances by Frank, who 1n turn intrusted them to Miss Warren, by whom they were delivered. The picture was receiving its finishing touches when Frank came in ove afternoon. More than a month had passed since it had been begun, and Tom,who had lingered over it, was at last compelled to acknowledge that he had done all he could. He also decided that he would call at Miss Seymour's house whether she received him or not, for he was beginning to feel desperate. The test he had put upon himself convinced him that he loved her madly, and he was anxious to know the truth. ‘Simply superb!” remarked Frank that afternoon. ‘‘| love that picture; it reminds me of May.” **Poesn’t look like her,” growled Tom; ** does it?” “No, oh no; but it doesn’t exactly look like Miss Seymour. I never saw her with that expression.” **No?” said Tom, curtly. ‘**Did you hear the news?” suddenly asked Frank. ‘‘ Miss Seymour's uncle has left her a hundred thousand dollars.” Tom rose from his seat abruptly. “‘ What!” he cried. ‘One hundred thousand American dol- lars,” said Frank, coolly. ‘‘ Nice sum, eh?” ‘*No,” Tom answered. And then he sat down and gazed at the floor. ‘* But it is,” disputed Frank. May at once if I had it.” Tom looked up. ‘‘ But would you marry her if she had it?” Frank’s eyes opened. he said. ‘*Well, 1 wouldn't,” Tom answered, grimly **T wouldn't marry her for her money,” corrected Frank, ** but because I loved her. “It would look so. Why don’t you marry her now?” “I'm going to, my dear fellow—I’m going to; our engagement is not announced, but it is settled,as far as we are concerned, without the money.” Tom’s comment was a short laugh. ‘I congratulate you,” he said, with an effort. ‘“* Now look here, Tom,” said Frank, seri- ously, “are you going to forget Dorothy Seymour because she has some money ?” *‘T couldn’t forget her.” Tom spoke ina low tone. ‘Are you going to marry her?” “‘No,” said Tom, angrily; ‘‘ I'm not a for- tune-hunter. Frank,” he went on, taking his friend by the arm, ‘‘ excuse me, but I’m all upset. Come in to-morrow, and I'll be bet- ter.” “‘T understand. All right; to-morrow,” and then Frank, with a smile at his friend’s “Td marry “Why, of course, ” VOLUME XXIII, NO. 46. idea, went out, and Tom was left alone with his thoughts. They were not pleasant thoughts. He wished that he had told her all before they had left the mountains, for now—now it was too late. He felt that he would look like a fortune-hunter if he should offer himself after learning that she had received a small for- tune. Tom Graham was an honest fellow, and his ideals were high. He prided himself upon his sense of right, and it would be di- rectly opposed to any such idea to even «ap- pear in a false light. He did not know— that is, he was not certain--that she cared for him, and it was too late to learn. His modest bank account amounted to ten thou- sand dollars, but it shrank into insignificant proportions by the side of the larger sum. It was quite dark when he arose from his seat and lighted the gas. His mind was made up. He would go.away for a month or two and seek new scenes. He called in his carta and gave directions in regard to the keeping of his studio during his absence. Then he took a pen and wrote: Dear FrRANK,-—I am going away for a month or two. Will see you on my return. Affectionately, Tom. October 81st. He could say nothing more, and Frank would understand. This he also gave to his janitor, with instructions to hand it to War- ren on the morrow, and then he went to his rooms to pack. There was a cheerful fire blazing in the grate as he entered, and his heart sank within him. How many times he had built castles in the ruddy coals, and they were thus to be fated! He lit a cigar, and sat down a moment to think and read. The evening paper contained a note on All- Halloween, and he found himself repeating: ‘*Can any one really make himself invisi- ble to-night? Bosh! What nonsense!” Then he went on; ‘* This is the eve of All-Saints, when the future is opened to one. It has been a sad revelation to me. Dorothy! Dorothy!” he repeated. ‘‘ Why is fate so cruel?” There was no answer in the fire at which he gazed; no help was given him, Suddenly it seemed to him as though he stood in a great square surrounded by mas- sive buildings. Leaning against a column stood a soldier clad in the dress of olden Rome, and his spear rested by his side. Tom glanced around. It most certainly was Rome—the Rome of the Ceesars. Here were the temples he had seen in ruins restored to their original state. Here were wondrous statues that the New World knew not of. Around au urn in the door of one of the buildings were gathered a lot of merry maid ens, while several young men surveyed them from a distance. Tom looked down. He was clad in a toga, but he thought it nothing strange, and acting upon a sudden impulse, he addressed the soldier, ‘* What is this going on here?” he asked. The soldier looked surprised. ‘‘ The Feast of Juno,” he replied. ‘* The maidens yonder are seeking their husbands whom the Fates allot.” ‘Tom drew near to the crowd. As he did so he caught sight of a face of one of the girls. ‘ Dorothy! Dorothy!” he said to him- self. ‘‘I am dreaming!” It was the face and figure of his ideal, and, as he wondered, he saw the girl go forward. Dipping her hand in the urn, she drew forth a piece of parchment on which was written aname. Her companions drew near to read, and one of them called out, ‘‘ Thomas, an artist!” The youths who had stood by ex pectantly as the maiden drew the slip looked about disconsolately, ‘Who is Thomas, the artist?” cried one of the girls. ‘‘Ha! ha! the Fates are fooling thee! Thou art to have no husband because thou art poor!” Tom could no longer restrain himself, With a wild cry he rushed forward — for- ward — forward, Was there no end? Was italladream?.... He stood invisible by the side of a fire around which were seated several girls in the dress of the Middle Ages. Every now and again some one would cast a bunch of fagots on the fire, which blazed up. **Why so sad, Dorothea?” inquired one who sat about the fire. ‘*‘ Thou wouldst not try thy fortune to-day, and thou dost not know what the good saints have in store for thee.” The girl addressed was sobbing with her face hid in her hands, and as Tom, who had started at the name, saw the weeping girl, he felt inclined to take her in his arms, but, alas! he saw his presence was not heeded. ‘Thy lover has been dead a sixth month, Dorothea. Why dost thou weep so? See there, these flames will drive away the wick- ed fiends who to-night have liberty, and the good spirits will be near. Mayhap thy lover standeth within our circle even now.” The comforter lifted the tearful face, and pressed a kiss upon the brow of the girl. “Dorothy! Dorothy!” called Tom, as he saw it, ‘*Hearken! thy lover called thee. thou not hear?” whispered another ‘* Dorothy! Dorothy!” The girl seemed to catch the sound of his voice, and raised her arms toward him be- seechingly. It was the face of Dorothy that Didst he had painted in the picture. ‘Dorothy! Dorothy!”, . Tom stood before the fire in his room with his arms outstretched. For a moment he

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~~ | NOVEMBER 15, 1890. was dazed, and then he sat down with a sigh. ‘A strange dream for All-hallows,” he said. ‘Perhaps it was not a dream.” He glanced at the evening paper, which he still held. The ‘‘society notes” were unin- teresting as he ran down the column, until a name caught his eye, and he read, ‘*Miss Dorothy Seymour has had added to her already large fortune the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, left by her uncle.” ‘* Her already large fortune!” Tom could scarcely believe hiseyes. ‘‘ Her already large fortune!” Then she was an heiress even when he met her, and he knew it not. Frank had not told him. Why had he failed to do 80? One hundred thousand dollars, then, was nothing to what she had possessed before! Then his heart rose at the thought. He might win her, after all. The conditions had not been changed. He had loved the heiress unconsciously, and she—she believed in him! He hurriedly arose, and looked. at his watch. He had been dreaming for two hours, and it was nearly nine-o’clock. Nev- ertheless, he would see her—he would go to her. ‘You are a nice fellow,” said Frank, tum- bling into the studio next day. ‘* What do you mean by this base fabrication?” and he waved aloft the note Tom had written the night before. ‘*That was a mistake,” laughed Tom. ‘I haven't gone away.” E ‘So I perceive,” Frank remarked. “ What did you mean?” ‘“ Why didn’t you tell me four months ago that Miss Seymour was a rich woman? Or why didn’t you let me know even yesterday?” retorted Tom. ‘‘Four months ago,” said Frank, calmly, “T knew that Miss Seymour did not wish the fact proclaimed abroad, and yesterday I thought you were in possession of all know- ledge of the subject. Well, what are you going to do?” ‘*To marry Dorothy as soon as possible,” rejoined Tom. “She appears to be willing.” WHAT TO EAT AND HOW TO SERVE IT. BY CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK XXIX.—FAMILY DINNERS FOR WINTE 1 Turnip Purée, Roast Turkey. Fried Parsnips. Browned Onions Mashed Potatoes, Orange Rolly-Poly. Turnip Purée.—Eight turnips, 1 onion, 1 stalk celery, 4 cups water, 2 cups milk, 1 table-spoonful butter, 1 table-spoonful flour, pepper and salt to taste, Peel and eut up the turnips, and put them ever the fire with the onion in the four cups of water; let them cook until tender, and then rub them through the colander, and put them back on the fire. Cook the butter and flour together in a sauce- pan; add the milk, stir into the turnip, season to tuste, and serve Browned Onions,—Peel rather small onions, and boil them until tender; drain off the wa- ter, and pour over the onions a cupful of soup or gravy; let the onions simmer in this for ten minutes; then take them out, and keep them hot while you thicken the gravy with browned flour. Pour over the onions just before sending to the table Orange Rolly- Poly Two cups flour, 14 cups milk, 1 table-spoonful butter, 1 table spoonful lard, 2 teaspoonfuls baking-powder, 1 salt-spoonful salt, 4 fair-sized sweet or- anges, half cup sugar. Sift the baking-pow- der and the salt with the flour; rub the but- ter and lard into it; add the milk, and roll out the dough into a sheet about half as wide as it is long; spread this with the oranges peeled, sliced, and seeded ; sprinkle these with sugar; roll up the dough with the fruit in- side, pinching the ends together that the juice may not run out; tie the pudding up in a cloth, allowing it room to swell; drop it into a pot of boiling water, and boil it stead- ily for an hour and a half; remove from the cloth, and lay on a hot dish. Eat with hard sauce flavored with lemon. 2 Turkey Soup. Roast Pork. Apple-Sance Boiled Potatoes. Stewed Tomatoes, Chocolate Custards, Turkey Soup.—Break up the carcass of the cold turkey after all the meat has been cut from it, and put it, with bits of skin and gristle and the stuffing, over the fire in enough water to cover it; cook gently for several hours, and then let the soup get cold on the bones; strain it off, skim it, and put it back on the fire. Have ready in a saucepan two cupfuls of milk, thickened with a table- spoonful of butter and two of flour; stir this into the turkey liquor, boil up, and serve. Chocolate Custards.—Four cups milk,4 eggs, 1 cup sugar, 4 table-spoonfuls grated choco- late, 2 teaspoonfuls vanilla. Put the choco- late over the fire in a double boiler with part of the milk, and let it cook until smooth; add the rest of the milk, and when this is hot, pour it upon the sugar mixed with the beaten yolks of the eggs; return to the stove, and cook until the custard begins to thicken; HARPER'S BAZAR. when cool, pour into glasses or small cups, and heap on the top of each a méringue made of the whites of the eggs whipped stiff with a little powdered sugar. 3. Oyster Soup. Broiled Steak. Baked Cabbage. Fried Potatoes. Cup Puddings. Oyster Soup.—One quart oysters, 2 cups milk, 1 egg, 1 table-spoonful butter, pepper and salt to taste. Strain the liquor from the oysters, and bring it to the boiling-point in one vessel while the milk is heating in an- other; drop the oysters into the scalding liquor, and leave them there until they begin to crimp; stir the butter into the milk, and pour this upon the beaten egg; turn this in with the oysters; cook together one minute, and serve immediately. Scie persons like a pinch of ground mace added to oyster soup. Baked Cabbage.—W ash and quarter a small cabbage; put it on in plenty of boiling water, and let it boil furiously (uncovered) for twen- ty minutes; by doing this, and having a cup of vinegar on the stove at the same time, you do away with the disagreeable odor which usually accompanies the cooking of cab- bage; drain it when done, and chop it fine; add to it a table-spoonful of butter, one egg beaten light, a scant half cupful of milk, and pepper and salt to taste. Bake in a pudding dish to a good brown, Cup Puddings.—One cup sugar, 2 table- spoonfuls butter, 1 cup milk, 2 eggs, 2 cups flour, 2 small teaspoonfuls baking-powder, 1 salt-spoonful salt. Beat the yolks of the eggs light, and mix with the creamed butter and sugar; add the milk and the flour, mixed well with the salt and baking-powder; bake in small cups or deep patty-pans, and serve one to each person, Eat with either hard or liquid sauce. 4. Corn-beef Soup. Stewed Rabbits. Baked Corn, Fried Sweet-Potatoes, Plain Fruit Pudding. Corn-beef Soup.—Heat to boiling with a sliced onion a quart of the liquor in which a piece of corn-beef was boiled; just before it begins to bubble, drop into it the freshly broken shell of an egg, boil up once, and strain. Put the cleared soup back on the fire, and when it boils again, add to it two cups of milk in which have been dissolved two ta- ble-spoonfuls of flour; pour a little of this on a beaten egg, and return all to the fire for a minute before serving. Baked Corn.—Two cups canned corn chopped fine, 1 egg, half cupful milk, 1 ta- ble-spoonful butter, pepper and salt to taste. Beat the egg light, stir this and the milk into the corn, season, and bake in a buttered pud- ding dish until firm Plain Fruit Pudding.—One cup molasses, 1 cup milk, 14 enps flour, quarter cup seed- ed raisins, quarter cup currants washed and dried, quarter cup shredded citron, 1 eup suet, 1 salt-spoonful salt, 1 small teaspoonful soda. Chop the suet into the flour, first mix- ing the latter with the salt and soda; add the milk and molasses, and beat thoroughly; dredge the fruit and stir it into the pudding; boil in a brown-bread mould two hours and ahalf. Serve hard sauce with it. 5. Roast Duck. Canned Green Pease. Boiled Potatoes, Lettuce Cracker and Cheese. Lemon Tarts. Canned Green Pease.—Turn the pease from the can into a colander; pour over them sev eral quarts of cold water, so as to rinse the pease thoroughly from the liquor in which they were canned; after this, pour as much boiling water over them, and set the colander over a pot of boiling water, covering the pease; let them steam there until heated through, dish, and put on them a couple of teaspoonfuls of butter, and pepper and salt to taste. Lemon Tarts.—Line small patty-pans with a good puff paste, and fill them with the fol- lowing mixture: half cup butter, 1 cup gran- ulated sugar, 3 eggs, juice and grated rind of a lemon, 2 table-spoonfuls brandy, nutmeg to taste. Beat the yolks into the creamed but- ter and sugar; add the lemon, spice, brandy, and whites; bake in a steady oven, and eat when cold. 6. Black Bean Soup. Halibut Steak. Browned Potato. Scalloped Cauliflower. Coffee Jelly. Black Bean Soup.—Two cups black beans, 6 cups cold water, 1 onion, 2 sprays parsley, 4 or 5 cloves, 1 teaspoonful mixed thyme and sweet-marjoram, 1 quart corn-beef liquor, Pick the beans over carefully, wash them, and put them in soak in the cold water; let them stand all night, and in the morning transfer them to the soup kettle; put with them the onion, herbs, and cloves, and sim- mer all together gently until the beans are soft; rub them through a colander, return to the fire, add the corn-beef liquor, and boil for an hour; pour on two hard boiled eggs, quar- tered, and a few thin slices of lemon, laid in the tureen. Scalloped Cauliflower.—Boil the cauliflower tender; hang it in a piece of net before put- ting it in the boiling water; cut the clusters apart, and arrange them, stems downward, in a pudding dish; pour a cup of drawn but- ter over them, season with pepper and salt, sprinkle with fine bread or cracker crumbs, and bake until of a good brown. Coffee Jelly.—T wo cups clear strong coffee, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup boiling water, half cup cold water, half box gelatine. Let the gela tine soak in the cold water an hour; stir the sugar into it, and pour over both the boiling water and the hot coffee, strain into a mould. When cold, turn out in a glass dish, and serve with whipped cream ACROSS THE WAY. AVE you no friends across the way ?” A. My little city darling said ; “And when there comes a rainy day, Can’t you look out, and nod your head To some one else, as I can do To Will and Fred and baby Sue? I heard you tell mamma to-day You had no friends across the way.” “But I have friends—dear friends,” I cried, With quick, remorseful thought of home. “A band of brothers, side by side, To greet me if I go or come, How dear they are, 1 cannot say! Nor how it cheers me day by day To see across the valley far liow strong and beautiful they are! “And you should see the robes they wear— Their mantles thick and soft of green, Then rainbow-tinted, yet more fair, Or ermine wraps with silver sheen. But yet I think I love them best When, all in sombre shadows drest, Their broken ranks in silence lie Beneath the solemn midnight sky. “Sometimes a misty curtain drawn Between us hides these friends from me; But when at sunset it is gone, Dear child, how fair the sight IT see! - For where the nearer ranks divide, The gates of glory open wide; And lo! in that’ unearthly light The farther hills transfigured quite ; While yet another and another Peeps o’er the shoulder of his brother, And smiles through rosy mist, and seems to say, } ‘Heaven lies bevond ns—such a Jittle war “Such friends are nice,” she softly said, “For any one as old as you; And when I’m old and you are dead, Perhaps Vll go and see them too. But now I'd rather watch to see Children across the street from me; And nod to Will, and play peep-bo With cunning little baby Sue.” Susan H. Lvpiem. ANCIENT ROMAN CHANDELIER. \ N exquisite bronze candelabrum it was, d fashioned like unto the branchlet of a tree, and from an almost leafless twig, four two-flamed lamps were suspended, flooding with light the ample apartment, richly dow- ered with gems of art and storied lore of scholars and poets. The ceiling of this pa- latial salon was richly gilt and ingeniously inlaid with ivory; from the lofty height other lamps of lesser size gleamed out, so that every corner of the magnificent room yielded mar- vellous revelations of human genius and sub tle handicraft. “AFTER FROST,” bg we comes the wine of the year. What though flowers are nipped and summer birds all gone, the world lies lapped in liquid melting haze, the scent of fruit and corn comes keen from field and orchard; over all, soft late sunshine sifts in long low slanting lines. Frostitselfiscruel. It comes herald- ed maybe by a thunder-gust; there is the pour of big drops or the pitiless pelting of hail, and vivid flash or two, and crashing peals overhead. Then out of the northwest sweeps something keen and deadly. The clouds vanish. All night long that biting breath sweeps over the face of earth. At dawn the world looks much the same, only flowers and creepers are oddly stiff. Half an hour of sunshine shows what havoc has been wrought. Summer lies in ashes, with hardly a rose left for her bier. All day the sharp wind blows, and for yet another day. Then it veers west, southwest, south, and sits steady for a fortnight. Breath- ing rather than blowing, you can barely feel it as you walk abroad. The nut woods are a glory of yellow leaves. Overhead they have thinned to a mere gold-lace against, the blue. Underfoot they lie knee-deep, a rustling, fragrant carpet, in whose depths you find scaly barks, chestnuts, big hickory nuts, or white walnuts. Black walnuts are so big and plenty that the sparse leaves can- not hidethem. A fruitful tree will complete- ly cover the spread of its branches with the round yellow-brown globes. For hazel-nuts and chincapins you must go to the thick- ets. Both love and cling to deep, rich, sun- ny virgin soil. Unless they are very plenty, the squirrels will be apt to get them all. They are something of epicures, those small 895 saney fellows, and disdain mere acorns if they can feed on choice sweet nuts. They love green corn too, and mulberries; black- berries as well. See! They have rifled the nut clusters; but you need not go away empty-handed. A wild grape runs riot here, and hangs its black sweet clusters in easy reach—quite too easy in fact. ‘ You have only to pluck and fill your basket, whereas the orthodox thing for a grape hunter is either to *‘ pull down the vine,” or else to climb the sapling that up- bears it to the very top, then clasp it with both hands and swing off, bringing tree and vine to earth. Grapes so obtained have al most the savor of forbidden fruit—a wild, fresh, woodsy flavor, with a hint of dawn and dew that no clusters from the vineyard may hope to equal. A little further on stand persimmon-trees in clumps. The little clear space about them held a pioneer’s cabin eighty odd years ago. There is no trace of it now, save the big fiat stones that mark the hearth and these thick- growing trees Persimmon beer was the height of liquid luxury in those days. To make it, the ripe fruit was gathered, mashed, and kneaded with corn meal into big flat cakes an inch thick. After baking, these were broken up in water, and allowed to ferment. The re sult was a clear pale yellow liquid, sweetish- sour, with a faint sparkle to it—in short, the champagne of that primitive era. These trees did not furnish it. Instead they sprung from seed thrown away in beer-making They are bare of leaves now, but hung thick, with soft, sweet, tawny yellcw globes, thick- dusted with purple bloom. A week ago they looked fully ripe, but if you had tasted one the bitter roughness would have clung to your mouth half the day. Frost has sweet ened them, as adversity does some men and women. It is the same with black haws. Children and ‘possums count them well worth eating Some folk are apt to find too little fruit to the amount of seed. Even the birds, save in stress of snow, refuse the big coarse red ones that shine like rubies all over thorny branch es. The rare small red ones, growing in clusters much like the garden currant, are dainty morsels for any palate. It loves the lowland—all the hawthorns do—and seldom grows twenty feet away from water Its leaves are among the last to fall. Gather laden branches of it, if only for their beauty, Box - elderberries are the only things that compare with it. Mark the grace of them: round beads, true coral red, hang in clusters by white stalks from out a thick crimson fleshed bract. See how thickly they are sown along smooth slender green branches that join at almost right angles to make up a big bough! The boughs come out as squarely from a smooth yellow-gray trunk, The tree never grows very tall—thirty feet at most. Frost fairies may well choose it for their revels. If it is so lovely hy dayligh think what it must be all aglitter with dia mond dust in the gray shine of stars! Here the ground is thick with buckeyes Steal one when nobody is looking, and slip it in your pocket to ward off rheumatism. If anybody sees, the charm is broken. Take a handful of crab-apples, too, for perfume They will smell of the wilds while they keep a drop of juice. Gather silk-weed pods for luck. The darkies say that if, when they burst into a torrent of white floss, your breath will not blow it away, good fortune will abide with you till the silk-weed is again in seed Flowers are scarce enough to be precious. This cluster of blue gentian bloom ing in the thicket brings more joy than all the milky way of blossom the asters spread last week. Bear it home in triumph; and if you care for curious forms, go through the deep oak wood, and dig up a clump of wax white Indian-pipe as well. Take along som« of its native earth, and plant the flower, that is without leaf or root, in a low, flat bow] Wreathe it with oak leaves and fern, and lay a handful of scarlet sumach so the Indian pipes will peep up through it; or if you are weary of the color riot, leave the earth bare except for a few acorns and acorn cups. The over-cup, fringed half an inch deep about the edge, is the handsomest of all acorns. Fail ing that, white oak or post oak will do ex cellently well. Through days of splendid languor the south wind blows on to dawns of mist. where in spectral trees weep slow tears. Upland pastures and hedge-rows are hung with lace of cobweb, all agleam with pearls. Low land, the meadows are greener than in May Each grass blade wears a diamond. Rabbits frisk and nibble in dew-dim clover. At the far verge a red-bird, aperch on a tall swaying weed, swings and sings, and at Jast flies away Wood-doves in clouds hover and settle in the corn field. A flight of larks preen their yel low breasts, and chatter noisily in the big bare sassafras that has been a hedge-row landmark this many a year. Out of the mist above comes the appealing ery of a young hawk He is lost in the world of vapor, and calls for his elders. Something glimmers in the grass too tenderly yellow for the hue of de cay. A dandelion, too impatient to await the spring, has flung wide its unminted gold That means sunshine within the hour. The flower never opens in face of persistent clouds. Even now the ghostly glamour fades, a ball of red fire swims overhead, the low sky lifts, and an every-day world lies smiling up to its maker and builder. ‘e

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t 89 4 HARPER'S BAZAR. AT ‘ ie wil i hi nt

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THE Cuercn o1 IN fINGUEZ, Manvurr I PAINTING BY rHE FROM —ENGRAVED By Cu. Bavpt CARMEN... DE DAME tk NOTI

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898 HER LOVE AND WIS LIFE* BY F. W. ROBINSON, Avutnon or “ Her Faor was Her Fortune,” *Livree Kate Kiray,” “ Lazarus 1x Lonpon,” eto. BOOK IV.—SEVEN YEARS AFTER. VARD. CHAPTER XV. THE OLD PLACE, (ie fair bright weather—more significant of Jate summer than mid-autumn—lin gered at Pengavissy after its wonted fashion. It did not vanish readily from this part of the Cornish country; there were days of daz- zling sunshine, of soft warm winds, of calm translucent seas, long after most of the wa tering-places were bereft of humankind, and one could hardly believe that the cold winter was so close at hand, only waiting a turn or two of the hour-glass to be once more dom. inant, lord of the storm and the wind, and the driving snows and hail, and the furious sea with its toll of wreckage and of human life, ever ravenous and remorseless. There was peace at Pengavissy yet. The tourist and the tripper came but seldom, busi- ness was slack, it was the end of October almost; the four-horse coaches from Pil- chardtown, from Truro, and elsewhere, were off the road; business men were back in town, pale-faced and anxious, at their stools and desks and counters; the fashionables were returning from their foreign pilgrimages, and the holiday season was at end for most folk. But Pengavissy remained in all its beauty, as though it were the home of an eternal summer, dedicated to Daddy Kerts and the landlady of the White Lion, and the few aborigines who were hovering about and praying already for next season and next year’s largesse. The White Lion had been startled by two visitors, a lady and gentleman, the lady after a hasty repast proceeding at onve down the cove, escorted by the gentleman, the gentle- man returning escorted by Mr. Kerts in the darkness along the dangerous pathway which meandered up the cliff-side to the level coun- try beyond. The lady was left at the ser- pentine-worker’s home—her own old home for some years of her girl’s life—and the gen- tleman came back to make a home for a while at the White Lion. ‘* Yours is a breakneck kind of a locality, Mr. Kerts,” said Sir Felix, when they were in the sitting-room of the White Lion to- gether. ‘I don’t think I should care about spending my life here.” ‘*It takes time to get used to it; but once used to it, you would not want to live any- where else,” replied Kerts. “You think so?” “I’m sure so.” ‘*The place is not wholly strange to me,” said Sir Felix; ‘‘but I never took to it with enthusiasm, as some people do. When I was at Pilchardtown Hospital I came over by the coach one day. Once was enough for me. I never wanted to see the place again.” ‘You're not a poet or an artist, that’s pretty evident,” said Kerts. ‘Lam neither, unfortunately.” ‘Ah, sir, you're a great doctor, and that's better than either of those fancy kinds of earning a crust,” Mr. Kerts remarked. ‘‘I have heaps of poets and artists come to see me in the course of the season, but I don't think much of them.” ‘* Perhaps they think enough of themselves to make up for it.” - “Aye, sir, they do, that’s true.” And Kerts threw out his chest and gave a sono- rous laugh of approval at the other's jest. Daddy Kerts was in high spirits; Patty had come to see him, and to share his home, shad- owed though it was by a sick woman’s pre sence in his best rooms—a woman waiting to die—and the serpentine-worker was elated by the sudden appearance of the girl who had been as a daughter to him, whom he had loved as a father, whose greatest trial and trouble had been her going away for good. ‘Will you sit down, Mr. Kerts, for a few minutes?” ‘Thank you, I think I will,” said Kerts, suiting the action to the word. ‘‘ The hills get more steepish to me, and a man feels it round his loins a bit when he tries to do too much of up-and-down work in a day; not that I feel old—God be praised!—for I've a lot to do. I’m never idle—never shall be— never want to be.” “Most praiseworthy of you, Mr. Kerts,” said Sir Felix, a little absently, and already a trifle bored by Mr. Kerts’s self-assertiveness ‘*Can I offer you a glass of—” ‘“Water. No, thankee; I never take any- thing between meals.” ‘ Nor I—of that description,” Felix added. “I've been wanting a kind of a talk with you for ever so long about yourself and my Patty,” said Mr. Kerts; “‘ about your life and hers together presently—wanting, in fact, to give you two young persons—not that you are, sir, particularly young yourself, mind, and mayn't be even a trifle too old for her— a bitof sound advice. I'm a poor man—one of the people, Sir Felix—but I think I can advise you well, and give you many comfort- ing words.” ‘* Weshall find some better time for all that business,” said Sir Felix, restlessly. ‘‘ You don’t mean beginning to-night, of course?” * Begun in Haurer’s Bazaz No. 29, Vol. XXIIL HARPER’ ‘‘ Well, how long are you going to stay in these parts?” inquired Kerts. ‘‘T cannot say. It depends upon Sister Edith’s state of health.” ‘**So long as you can do her any good?” Yes, exactly so.” **Then you won't be here long. For,” re- marked Kerts, ‘‘ it isn’t in you, sir, clever as people say you are, to give new life to that woman.” ‘‘T am afraid you are right, Kerts,” said the surgeon; ‘‘but we will speak of that fur- ther on.” ‘“*You seem to want to speak of every- thing further on,” Sampson Kerts remarked, in mild protest or astonishment. ‘‘T am of a procrastinating disposition, you perceive.” ‘‘Ye-es. It looks like it, but it isn’t.” **Why not?” ‘“The man who puts things aside for an- other time never succeeds in this world as you have done,” said Kerts. **‘ Why, I re- member you myself, long before you knew me by sight, a half-starved, herring-gutted young sawbones in Pilchardtown, trying hard to make ends meet, and not succeeding very well, and now you're a big man.” ‘*Who tells you I am a big man? Patri- cia?” ‘*No; she hasn’t mentioned your name.” **Oh, indeed!” “T have heard a lot from Miss Kean—I can’t abide calling her Sister this and that— and Pilchardtown is proud of you.” ‘Tam very much obliged to Pilchardtown, I am sure, for its good opinion.” ‘* And Mike mentions you in all his letters, and thinks a lot of you; and so,” he added, surprising Sir Felix by extending his huge hard hand to him, ‘‘ you've come—almost without my thinking of it—to look like one of the family. One of us!” ““Thank you, thank you,” said Sir Felix, taking the serpentine- worker's hand, and shaking it up and down in a rather flabby fashion. ‘‘I am grateful for all men’s con- sideration of me.” **So you ought tobe. Why not?” Sir Felix did not know why not; did not want to talk of himself, or what his friends thought of him. And the man facing him had given him a cue. ‘‘Ah, Mike! There’s a clever young fel- low for you, indeed; one with the fire of genius in him, Mr. Kerts.” Yes, he’s clever—so they say,” he added, a little doubtfully. ‘*He is not one of the artist lot of whom you think so little, and who think so much of themselves. He does not know how clever he is,” said Sir Felix; ‘‘does not see his fu- ture as I see it, as Ulric Consterdine saw it years ago.” “ And I don’t see it myself,” said Mr. Kerts, sorrowfully. ‘‘I only see how much he holds aloof from me; goes abroad for years at a time; never comes down here, after all his promises not to forget a man—after all his precious talk.” ‘When did you see him last?’ “‘T haven't seen him since— Oh, good Lord! this must be the very chap, or his ghost grown up, or something. Mike, is it you? Say it is, if you can, will you?” he exclaimed, in his sudden confusion and sur- prise. ‘* Yes, uncle, it is I,” said the figure, stand- ing in the doorway. ‘** And I was just saying—never mind what I was saying—but I'm very glad you've come to Pengavissy,” said his uncle. Sampson Kerts got up and shook hands with his nephew, put both hands upon his shoulders, and shook them too in their turn, and then addressed Sir Felix again: “Why, we’re getting quite a big and hap- py family, you see. You and Patty, and Mike and—” ‘* Patty—is she here?” asked Mike, in a voice almost of affright. ‘Yes; she came to-night.” “You have brought her down, Felix, to my uncle's?” asked Mike, turning to his friend. at ‘It has been a very sudden resolution of hers—or yours?” he asked, in a bewildered fashion. ‘‘I do not seem to make it out. I understood you were both in town for good.” ‘Sister Edith, her aunt, is very ill—we have just heard that—and Patricia has in- sisted upon coming down to nurse her. It is lucky for us all, Mike, to meet in this fashion.” **Lucky, you call it?’ ei Ss ‘*May it not be the finger of Fate?” **Oh, bosh! Fate has no fingers, and there is no Fate,” cried the doctor, lightly. ‘** Well, it is a dream, then,” cried Mike, essaying a light vein himself to match that of his friend, but not succeeding very well in it; ‘‘ will that do?” ‘* Yes, it is of the dream type, because it is all unexpected and strange, and full of sur prise,” said Sir Felix ‘*We shall wake soon,” answered Mike: then he took off his light overcoat and pitched it into a corner of the room, and sat down. ‘* Wake up in Pengavissy, as though life had never been branched away from it—eh, uncle?” ‘Perhaps so; don't quite follow you, though,” answered the serpentine - worker, dubiously. ‘* And what will the waking be, I wonder?” said Michael Garwood to himself. S BAZAR. CHAPTER XVI. THE WHOLE MISERABLE TRUTH OF IT. In the morning of the following day—a bright, breezy morning for Pengavissy was it—two women were seated at a little dis- tance from the serpentine-worker’s cottage. They sat side by side in the sunshine, and both were looking out to sea, as though their interest lay beyond there—afar off—where the sky and water met. It was Patricia’s first day in the old home and with the old home surroundings. Yes- terday she had arrived, and it had taken time to get over the surprises, the welcomes, the transfer of the household gods from South Kensington to Cornish land; to-day was the beginning of new duties self-imposed by Pa- tricia Consterdine, even of the new life alto- gether. Sister Edith was ensconced in a capacious chair of basket work, which, a short while ago, had been carried by Sampson Kerts from the cottage to a point where a view of the cove, and the sands, and the rocks, and the blue sea constituted a fair picture, and at her side was the niece of whom she had seen so little of late days, but who had at last come with a rush to her, and to her complete aston- ishment. Time had changed the Sister of Mercy as surely as it had done Patricia Consterdine, only in the former case it was not for the better. In the younger woman it had trans- formed the brisk, dark-eyed girl, whom Ulric Consterdine had christened ‘‘ Little Speck,” into a stately and somewhat reserved being; in the elder, time had taken away much health and vigor, laying its hand heavily upon Edith Kean, and whispering in her willing ears that presently time should be no more; that it was time’s decree—which is God’s—that she should go. A decree which the woman had accepted without a murmur, without a re- gret. She had lived her life out, and of late years it had not been profitless; she believed implicitly that it had been blessed. Now it was as if she were living apart from it—hov- ering upon the threshold of the new exist- ence, looking at it through the gates ajar, untroubled by all the petty strifes, ambitions, hopes which appertained to the world she was quitting. Well for us all if we could set out on the last journey with the simple faith of this Sister of ours; with life’s long- ings lying far away, or gone for good; with the mistakes rectified and sins atoned for, and the angel hands held out to clasp our own as we toil up the hill toward them! Sister Edith stood so apart from the pre- sent life already that Patricia regarded her wonderingly. ‘The sick woman was so near the journey’s end that Patricia hesitated to speak of her own young, strong life, with all the pomps and vanities of the world flourish- ing about it in full strength and troubling her not a little. And yet Sister Edith was curi- ous concerning her niece. Patricia’s life had interest for her, it was evident. They were speaking of Sir Felix Durant, He had not yet come down from the inn that morning to see them, and Patricia, though surprised at his tardiness, was a little glad; there was left to her more time to talk to her aunt, to think for herself. She had risen early—at the old Pengavissy hour—to have breakfast with Sampson Kerts; and there had been many reminiscences exchanged, and much gossip between the two. There had been some talk of Mike, but this was under restraint, for Sampson Kerts had displayed so much embarrassment, and even confusion, that the subject had been changed. Patri- cia did not quite know how to account for Sampson’s manner. She thought that he was hurt at Mike’s long silence, long absence from him, and that that might be presently explained to Daddy’s satisfaction; she did not dream Mike Garwood was already at Pengavissy, and that the serpentine-worker had promised Mike to keep the little matter a secret till his arrival on the scene. Mike had asked him as a favor to be silent, and the serpentine-worker, suspecting nothing, had readily assented. ‘** Well, I’m a bad hand at secrets. But it will be a bit of fun to pop in upon them all,” Mr. Kerts had said; and as fun was an ex- ceedingly rare article in Pengavissy Cove, he had taken to the idea, which was almost com- pletely collapsed by one question with which Patty suddenly confounded him. ‘When did you see Mike last, Daddy?” she asked. ‘Last, eh? Oh, did you say ‘last’?” “Was it when he and I went away togeth- er one morning—and yet went our separate ways?” Sampson Kerts was not great at con- cealment. No, secrets never had been much in his line. He felt that he was blushing deeply as Patty looked toward him unsus- pectingly. ‘*T fancy I have seen him once since,” said Mr. Kerts, very slowly, in reply. ‘‘Why, when was that?” exclaimed Patty. Mr. Kerts had got to the end of his fen- cing, and was very red in the face—quite of a brick-dust hue. Bother that young Mike, to let him in for all this vile subterfuge for the sake of his joke! ‘‘T'll tell you about that presently, Patty,” he announced, in an oracular way, and then went at once into his shop to commence work and evade further cross-examination. He was sorry for Patty’s thoughtful and in- quiring stare after him; he knew that she would think there was a grave reason for his reticence. But he was better away from her VOLUME XXIII, NO. 46. questioning at present; it made him so terri- bly hot. Patty went away to find her aunt, and here we find her in her turn, by the side of Sister Edith, looking out to sea. And the talk is of Felix Durant now, not of Michael Garwood. “T often think it is strange, Patricia,” said her aunt, ‘‘that you and Sir Felix are en- gaged to be married.” _ Very strange, do you think?” asked her niece. ‘“* Very strange and very fortunate.” ‘For him or for me?” asked Patty, with her old quickness apparent. ‘*Let me say fortunate for both of you,” said the Sister, smiling at this; ‘‘ for him, be- cause he marries well in the worldly accepta- tion of the term, but well, in my estimation, because he will have a good, affectionate, trustful helpmate, without a hope in which he will not share; without—” ‘Stop, stop, Aunt Edith!” cried Patricia, to the other's surprise. ‘' You do not know. You must not take me upon trust so much. Young girls have many secrets, many hopes, in which men do not share.” ‘“Do you think so?” ‘There's not a book one reads which is not made up of these secrets.” ‘Novels are you speaking of?” ‘*Any books. Even the Bible tells us of them, and of the troubles they have brought about. And in life it is always so,” ‘* Patricia, what is on your mind? May I ask?” ‘*Presently, aunt, and if you will,” said the niece, very gently now; ‘‘but I have not come to harass you with all my little troubles, They are set aside—neatly stowed away— till I get back to town.” ‘*T don’t know whether you are jesting or not,” said Edith, regarding her with a scru- tinizing air. ‘‘I shall see that more clearly when I understand you better, for you and [ have not met for so long a time, Patricia, and very possibly have not understood each other in our lives. I learn by hearsay, from Mr. Kerts, from your father, from your aunt Wilhelmina, from Sir Felix himself, of all your virtues and accomplishments, and your friends are not likely to be wrong.” ‘“They think the best of me,” murmured Patricia; “they are very generous in their estimate. But—” ‘** But?” said Sister Edith, interrogatively. “But they are not good judges of charac- ter,” concluded the niece. ‘* Self-depreciation is no more of a recom- mendation than self-praise, Patricia,” said Edith, dryly. ‘At least not to me.” Patricia laughed musically at this. ‘*T was only intimating that Sir Felix Du- rant might not be considered so very fortu- nate a man,” she said, demurely, the instant afterward. “Well, you are fortunate, at least.” atricia did not answer; she looked out to sea again. It was all to be read clearly over there, perhaps; certainly not here. She started when she felt a thin cold hand touch hers gently. ‘*Don’t you think so?” asked the Sister. Patricia’s full, clear, dark eyes met her aunt's searching gaze. ‘‘T am in doubt.” “You are a pessimist, Patricia.” “No; Lam a Consterdine, and the Conster dines doubt everything and everybody,” was the answer. ‘“You should consider yourself fortunate,” urged her aunt. ‘‘ You are about to marry a good man; as clever as he is good; as atf- fectionate and grateful as he is clever. I have known him several years, and I knew his worth very quickly. Of his kindness, his thought for others, his generosity, his scorn of anything that was mean or under- handed or unjust, I have always heard.” ‘‘He is quite a model character, then—a Bayard,” said Patricia, satirically. ‘‘Have you not found him so?” “Hardly.” “Then you do not love him very much?” ‘* Not so well as he deserves.” “That is very likely.” ‘Aunt Edith, may I tell yon the truth?” asked Patricia, suddenly. ‘‘ Will it distress you to hear it?” ‘«—In the truth there is always consolation.” ‘“No, no; I don’t believe it.” ‘* Patricia!” ‘‘There, there; I do distress you. I am cruel; I will say no more,” cried the niece. ‘But it had struck me that you, looking calmly and deliberately at life, and upward and away from life, not swayed by passing events as I am, as they are at home, might advise me what todo. But 1am very selfish, too womanly, and too worldly.” ‘* You must tell me now,” said Edith. “In a few words, then, for you can guess already at what I wish to tell you.” “Can I?” “Yes.” “That you do not love Felix Durant—is that it?” ‘Yes, that is the whole miserable truth of it.” CHAPTER XVII. “THIS IS THE MAN.” Iv was a confession quickly made, and without that melodramatic outburst which one has a right to expect from a heroine. There was not even a tremor of the voice in the acknowledgment; only a slight contrac- tion of the brow, and a steadier, graver look

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SOREL TG NOVEMBER 15, 1890. out at sea, When it was told, Patricia her- self wondered that it had escaped her so calmly, so unemotionally. She had evaded the truth, and feared the disc:osure of it to Aunt Wilhelmina, but with Aunt Edith she was not the least afraid. And yet Aunt Wilhelmina would have stood by her side stanchly, helped her to fight her battle, to resist, perhaps to conquer, all opposing wills, and even have gloried somewhat in the fight. True, Wilhelmina might have been in the wrong, and advised her w rongly; for Patri- cia wondered what it was right to do, and whether Sister Edith knew. At all events, Patricia would learn what an earnest, un- selfish woman thought of it all—how the story would read to one standing complete- ly apart from it, and so better able to judge from the vantage-ground of a purer, higher life. And yet Aunt Edith was only a woman, after all—as selfish, as generous, as sensible, and as inconsiderate as are most of her sex in one delightful and aggravating combina- tion. It was Jate in her life for the Sister to hear a love story, but it interested ber. On the brink of the grave the flowers will grow occasionally. ‘I am sorry, last. She was not moved at the recital, she could listen calmly, possibly judge calmly. Patricia inclined her head as to a reproof, but did not answer. ‘* How has it come about, Patricia, that an earnest, honest man has been deceived like this ?” she asked, gravely. ‘Deceived by himself—by my father— hardly, I hope, by me. But I cannot tell,” Patricia said, helplessly. ‘‘It is not easy to apportion my share of the blame, and I do not wish in any way to excuse the weakness —the folly—which has brought this thing to pass. I only know,” she added, sadly enough, ‘that Iam sorry too—that I have tried to love him, thinking it my duty almost, and that I have irredeemably failed.” ‘You are slow to love, perhaps.” ** No—too quick.” ‘Meaning that you love where love is not returned, or that you have learned to love some other man who came too late for your own peace or happiness?” Patricia glanced at her questioner, and then looked out to sea again, with the height- ened color flickering on her face ‘Ts that it?” asked Edith, after a pause ‘ Yes,” came the slow answer back. am afraid it is, though I have not owned it to myself until to day—though I have been too proud to own it.” ‘This may be all fancy on your part, Pa- tricia—a romantic idea born of the novels we were speaking of just now—a passing cloud across your sky, and easy to dispel. You ave bound to Sir Felix by a solemn con- tract,” added the Sister, ‘and, if I judge him correctly, as I think I do, all his happiness is hound up with it.” ‘Tam not bound. Never by a word have I consented to this wretched engagement. And yet it has come about somehow,” she cried, passionately. ‘‘Step by step it has gone on, and I have been passive, non-resist- ing—a fool, I own that!—and they have fashioned out my life for me as you see. And it has come to this.” “T should have thought you had been made of sterner stuff, Patricia.” **IT did not know my own heart at the first,’ was the reply. ‘‘It is only of late days that the spirit of resistance in me has been gathering strength and courage—that I feel approaching a crisis when I must tell Felix to go from me—-that I love him not, and never, never can.” ‘And you have the courage to do this?” ‘Yes, presently. At my own time, aunt; in my own way It is best.” ‘Is my advice any good to you, Patricia?” her annt asked. ‘IT don’t know,” Patty confessed advise me, Aunt Edith. think is best and right.” ‘And the—other man?” ‘What of him?” ‘Does he love you? Is he aware that you love iim? Have you and he been plotting together the breaking down of the pride of Felix Durant?” ‘No, no! To everything—no!” ed Patricia. ‘“‘T will not ask you who has stepped be- tween and marred more lives than one,” Sis- ter Edith said; ‘‘ that does not matter much, now the mischief is done, and I would rather not try to guess at him. I should say he was a villain who counts upon your weak- ness as well as your affection—a poor, calcu- )h: ating, mone y-seeking man!” ‘Oh, you are mistaken altogether. You do not know, and—and I cannot explain.” Sister Edith did not speak for a while. She sat there very silent, and Patricia did not attempt to resume the conversation. ‘‘There is only one thing I can advise,” she said at last. ‘* And that is—” “The truth. It is my creed—my one text now,” she continued. “‘If you are really sure that there is no love in your heart for Felix Durant, it is only right that you should tell him so and set him free. Others might not think this. I may stand alone. I may be deceiving myself as well as you; but for the truth’s sake—for his sake—you must tell him everything.” ‘At once?” ‘* At once.” * she said, in a low voice at Still Tell me what you asked Edith. exclaim- HARPER'S BAZAR. Patricia clasped her hands together and wrung them very hard, was afraid you would say this,” she confessed. ‘“ Where's the necessity for delay?” “Tt is too sudden—too brutal—too hard upon him!” ‘Ha! you doubt. You are not sure.” ‘Tam a woman,” murmured Patricia. ‘What am I to understand by that?” **T do not wish to be quick to stab him, and if he cares for me so much,” said Patri- cia. ‘‘Sometimes I think he does not; that his first love, his greatest, is in the profession he ennobles, and so it would be an easy task to tell him. And sometimes I think differ- ently, and then my heart sinks.” “Men like Felix Durant feel the deepest,’ said Sister Edith. ‘‘It is not your poetical, emotional, hysterical nature which suffers most or longest.” ‘Then you would advise me to wait—to give him time, and myself time?” said Pa- tricia, eagerly. “Tf you have the least doubt in your heart.” **T have not.” “Then tell him at once,” sternly, and like a mandate. Patricia still fought faintly against this decree. ‘*T—I do not wish to break it to him here —he has been so kind and gentle and unsus- pecting all along—so sure of me,” she added. ‘*And you have been so weak ” ‘*No; I have tried hard to like him,” Pa- tricia replied. ‘‘I have been so sure that my love would come in time—that it would please my father—everybody—that no one vared for me save him; and now—I can’t bear it any longer!” cried Patricia. “Yes, you are weak,” said Edith, thought- fully; ‘‘one of those weaklings vain of her own strength, my poor Patricia, and so com. ing swiftly and surely to the trouble which is in store for those who do not know what is right. . ‘Who does know?” asked Patricia, a little rebelliously. ‘Those who trust in their God,” solemn answer. “Ah! yes, yes—I had forgotten,” said Pa- tricia. ‘‘ You are religious; your thoughts are not of this world; you have faith.” ‘*And you have not?” *T would act justly—at the sacrifice of my own happiness, even—if I were sure it was right.” ‘You would marry Felix Durant?” “That cannot be right, Aunt Edith.” “No. Harm would come of it. I have said so.” ‘Very well Patricia. day?” ‘If the opportunity presents itself, why not? He is one day nearer the peace of mind which will come to him, I hope.” ‘Do you doubt that?” “He has not religion to help him keep strong,” said Edith, with a sigh; ‘‘ but that may come at any time to such a man as he. I have often prayed that it would—but God has not answered me yet.” Patricia turned quickly to her aunt. There Was a strange ring in the voice which per plexed her, which might have its story to tell even, and she drew a quick breath of sur- prise. Was it possible? was it likely? had it been at any time likely that Sister Edith should have loved this Felix Durant, her junior by several years, a boy when she was a grown-up woman? Was taking the rigid vows of her grave order a reason for it even? There had been things as strange as this, as wonderful, as real, as full of Turid romance and deep affection — unguessed at, unac knowledged, unknown. ‘There! do your duty, Patricia, and God speed you!” said Sister Edith, hastily, and with a faint peevishness, as one tired of the subject; ‘‘I can hear him coming toward oa" > ‘So soon—as this!” ‘I know his step. I can tell his quick, impetuous step from any one’s,” said the sick woman. It was not easy to guess, with the shingle sliding and crackling under the feet of the person advancing, blurring the distinctness of the step altogether. They were sitting at a bend of the cliff where the serpentine-work- er’s cottage was not in view, where the man would turn suddenly and be in full front of them, like one rising out of the earth. The Pengavissy rocks and paths were full of odd twists and turns; and as the steps advanced nearer and nearer both women kept their gaze fixed on the curve of the rock round which he would come—recking not of the cares which were waiting for him, watching sadly, anxiously, and with their hearts beat- ing with a singular rapidity. They were so near the great change of a man’s life, the demolition of an idol, and the tragedy of it, the pity of it, smote with a greater force than one had imagined that it might do For the old Joves are uprooted and lying in the dust with such terrible freque ney, ‘and hearts break every day! It is all so very common. Edith felt Patricia's hand steal into hers, and without looking at her she whispered one word softly. ‘Courage!” she said. ‘* Yes, I will be brave,” replied Patricia. Then round the curve of the cliff path came Michael Garwood, and the instant afterward he was standing before them. ‘* Mike!” exclaimed Patricia, snatching her was given forth was the It is all settled, then,” said “When shall I tell him? To- hand from Sister Edith’s, springing to her feet, and then sitting down again, and strug gling vainly with her breath—‘‘ Mike, you here!” “This is the man,” herself. said Sister Edith to (To BE CONTINUFD.] GOTHS IN THE COURT OF THE ALHAMBRA. See illustration on double page, Supplement. FTER all, the modern Goth is a great improvement on his forebears. These would have flung their battle-axes against the glorious walls, and sent their flying darts shivering through the lace traceries of the doorway. The Goth of our day only wants to as sociate his somewhat obtrusive personality with historic places. This is not disrespect. He does not want to picnic in Whitechapel or be photographed in the Ghetto. On the contrary, this is his way of expressing ap- proval of a place. It is appreciation in its rudimentary form, like the sense of smell in savages. It is for this reason we can laugh good humoredly at the smug-faced British tourist —for the artist, who is German, has taken pains to define the nationality, and of course no American ever does such things—who, unabashed by the centuries looking down upon him, sits astride one of the lions of the court, and makes a hat rack of another. Always the British husband and father, he groups his family about him, and calls in the glorious sun of Spain and the historic stones to witness to his comfortable domesticity. He has come long distances to see a well-spo- ken-of but untenanted palace, hereafter he will regard it with even greater favor, speak of it approvingly to his friends, and point out particularly the virtues of the lion on which he sat. It is through himself and his relation to things that, like many another, he arrives at a knowledge of the value of things themselves. But the ghosts of bearded Moors and proud hidalgos that onght to people the Alhambra are used to the ways of tourists. Now they press around and look with wondering awe in one another’s eyes about the trim girl with her mysterious shadow box, who, with semi professional air, stretches out her hand. A little more to the left. Lift your chin a trifle, Mr. Bull. There!” Then, as ghosts can look, they peer into the dark recesses, and in the twinkling of an eye see the scene transferred to the thin film within ‘‘ This is magic. These mannerless people have mastered the black -art,” the Moor whispers, while the hidalgo crosses himself and mutters, ‘Retro me, Sathanas.” ‘* Nonsense, brothers!’ exclaims some keen eyed acquaintance of Galileo or Columbus. ‘Science, in whose pursuit our eyes grew dim and our beards gray, has become the plaything of girls and boys. We have lived too soon,” he exclaims, regretfully, and turns away. Another group watches the scene with more composure, knowing that grateful tour- ists are apt to drop coins behind them, and that these are worth waiting for. It is in- teresting to observe how this alone of the human element introduced falls naturally into artistic relations with the scene. By the grace of the artist, to serve his humorous idea, the prosperous citizen and the independent girl tourists are admitted into the Court of Lions, but the peasant and his seated spouse are here by all the laws of art, which are a part of the divine right. “NOTRE DAME DE CARMEN.” See illustration on donble page. N° theme which ever moved the heart and iN brain of man has been such a source of artistic inspiration as that of the Madonna and Holy Child. Its evolution from its sim- plest form of mother love has been as inter- esting and important historically to art as it has been as a dogma of the Church. No one needs to look for explanation of this beyond his own most elementary con- ceptions. It is like a leit motif in music, a comparison we have all learned of late, whose few simple notes a child can catch, but which echoed and re-echoed, caught up here and there, reappearing in new combina- tions, braided in with glorious attendant har- monies, is always new, yet always familiar Until the fourteenth century the mother was always represented standing, holding out her Child to be adored. Then, from be- ing seated in a simple chair, with the child John only admitted at her side, still render- ing the more human side of affection, it was but an easy step to her enthronement, and from that to her glorification among the clouds, as in later works. Near her throne were allowed only the four orders, angels, saints, virgins, martyrs. Then the glorious company of apostles and prophets was admitted. Still later came the dignitaries of the Church and its orders; and after these its defenders, and the noble fami lies that were its supporters rather than its followers. Thus, step by step, through the triumphal progress of art, were reflected the growth and magnificence of that marvellons ecclesiastical hierarchy; and now art, while delighting the eye, serves also to quicken the historical sense. S99 In ‘‘ Notre Dame de Carmen ” we have one of the later and more sumptuous manifesta tions. Its richness of line we can see, and the beauty of the coloring we can imagine from the rich textures—the marbles, em broideries, and stuffs — whose values are so finely rendered in the engraving. It needs neither the name of the artist nor the name of the painting to declare its nationality, so Spanish is the type of the Madonna. Yet how unlike, in its proud gaze, to the bewil- dering sweetness of the Murillo types! ‘Notre Dame de Carmen”: was painted by Manuel Dominguez, a contemporary painter, whose ‘‘Sancho Panza among the Duchess and her Ladies” some transatlantic travellers may have seen. It hangs in a chapel of Charles IIL. in the Church of San Francisco el Grande, where it is known under the title of ‘‘ Presentation of the Scapular of the Car melite Order by the Virgin to the General and other Holy Men of the Order ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. X. Y. Z.—It is not good form to take an escort to A private house, unless yon have asked an invitation for him. E. M. R.—Mre. B. should certainly ask for Mra. A., and leave a card for her Tatton Gowns.—You will find fashionable designs for tailor gowns in Bazare Nos. 40, 33, and 31, with diagrams and Supplement patterns that w ve Of great assistance to you. M. W., Way our West, an» Orners.—The ad dresses you wish will be sent privately on receipt of a stamped addressed envelope A Constant Reaper.—Miss Furniss’s play A Ve- neered Savage appeared in Bazar No. 25, vol. _ XXI.; A Box of Monkeys was printed in Vol x Xi , No. 51 Mazerra.”—The groom wears morning costume, that is to say, black frock-coat of Melton, waistcoat of the same, and trousers with fine stripes and of lighter tint; gray is a snitable color. The gloves should be pearl with black stitching B. F —Plain cloths and plaids are preferred to plush i girls’ coata. Make them long, with a cape, and trim them with fur or velvet Critic. —Girls of fourteen will wear fur capes, gra krimmer and seal in preference Their coats are with lengthwise tucks in the back, lapped fro large revers collar of velvet or far. Tan orb and plaid wools are made in this way. May.—Mark household linen with your initials in large Latin script. It is correct to send a calling card in both cases you mention. If the reception is given by an intimate friend, you may prefer to write a friend- ly informal note of regret 3. N.—Get plain black canvas grenadine for a skirt, and use that you have for a pointed bodice with large sleeves. Do not try to stiffen it. **My dear Mr. S."is the more formal mode of address. Newport.—The tailor gowns illustrated in ee No. 38 are snitable designs for black wool dresses w« as mourning. A patte rn of the plaid gown you nen tion is give n in the Supplement of Bazar No. 27 Ramona.—Such mirrors are still used. The lor coat will make a tea gown in the way you suggest. Twi Cittes.—To make your black faille styl nse the simple design illustrated on the third fig on page 728 of Bazar No. 38. Trim with black silk muslin and passementerie. Bind the worn edges of your plush cloak with Astrakhan. The patterns on the Supplement do not allow for seams, Ianoranor.—The cloth travelling dress is correct You can supp oly your further needs in London and Paris. Take a dark silk dress with you. On steamer you will also need a comfortable w ire the rapper, ai ulster, and changes of under-clothing. Ladies wear full dress at the opera in Europe. Luan R.—Bazar No. 48 of Jast year’s volume eo tains an article on Halloween customs came too late for an answer in last week's issue Quren Ann¥.—Braiding the hair tightly at night will give it the finffy effect. India silks and em! ered white muslins make the prettiest curtains country honse. We are not familiar with the knitting pattern you mention. Hxtowe.—For black skirts that can be washed ocx sionally, get merino or delaine of pure wool, and make with straight breadths, hemmed, und separ from a foundation skirt. Use alpaca or moreen for a separate petticoat. A pretty laced corselet could be worn, of the merino or delaine, with a blouse of the same, or of striped flannel. snit for = stree Iowa.—Get an As strakhan shoulder cape, either gray or black, and a tailor jacket of cloth. Have a r yuna bolster about twelve inches in diameter. New Enouanp Moruer, Ionta, anp Orurns.—For children’s clothing read New York Fashions of Bazar No. 41. Mature Matprn.—Do not change your style of dress- ing because you are thirty years old. Use any of the pretty designs for gowns and jackets worn by your younger sister, choosing dark shades of warm A jacket of black cloth « mnpletes the rich colors because ‘of your “undec ided complexion.” For the street have tailor gowns of maroon or bine cloth or serge, and for house ¢ rowns wear cashmere or benga- line of Js acqneminot-rose color, the dark violet shades, or pinkish heliotrope, and also very dressy black gowns of net or bengaline, with gilt and velvet in their trimmings. Liwa.—Use the velvet of your jacket for a deep V-shaped yoke and high flaring collar, and complete a mantle by making high-shonidered side pieces of the silk of your other wrap. An edging of ostrich-feather bands will be becoming, and will conceal marred places on the velvet J. A. T.—Get dotted Swiss muslin curtains, and trim a a gathered ruffle four or five inches wide. \ breadth ‘of linen is used for sheet shams. The newer fashion is to carry the spread either over or under the bolster, yet pillow and sheet shams are still used Mink shoulder ¢ apes are fashionable. Certainly it is worth while to have one made with pointed front, high shoulders, and flaring collar, out of those have. M. E. N.—There are two exchanges for women’s work in this city; the original one is at 329 Fifth Av- enne. Young ladies’ house dresses are made to lie on the floor from two to five inches M. E.—A seal-skin cape is fashionable and useful f« a young lady; it will cost $50 or $60 Dor.—Use dark red cloth for the vest of your gown. Make a slashed coat with open jacket front, large slee - and a straight habit skirt. F. W. F.—Read snggestions just given “ Dot” for your green cashmere. Have a black benguline vest and trim with black velvet. Use blue Senaudine sa vest and sleeves of your gray cashmere, with a corsclet and plain skirt of cashmere, banded with the blue Iint crowns are low, this season you » silk, The one you suggest will answer Skirts are still quite plain; much trimmed, and collars are high. capes are less fashionable than they have been. Monnor.—Use your silk for large sleeves and a plain habit skirt, and get either blue brocade or black velvet for a bodice or coat-basqne to go with it. Trim with black passementerie. M. H.—Faced cloth, brocade, or hengaline in silver gray or beige colors will be suitable for a hvuse wed- ding, and afterward for the theatre, visiting, ete. Have a velvet slashed bodice, with sleeves and skirt of the cloth or bengaline. Send a card in an envelope to Mr and Mra. Smith, another to the Misses Smith, and a third to the son. Make the black faille with a pointed bodice fastened on the left side, and trimmed in yoke shape with two_or three rows of turquoise and jet passementerie. Have full sleeves and straight babit skirt. hodices are Small triple

Page 12

900 Fig. 1 CLotn Gown.—FRonT.—[See Fig. 2. For pattern and description see Supplement, No. 1., Figs. 1-9. PARIS FASHIONS. [From Ovr Own CorresPponpent. | ) Nese ‘MINENT among the autumn reception toilettes worn at the chateaux are the light cloth dresses, in cream, pale pink, pale blue, heliotrope, and gray-green. Most of these are of the slender sheath-like type, with perhaps a pinked ruche of silk at the foot of the skirt and encircling the neck. gold braiding, or trimmed with sable fur. Cream is richly ornamented with Silk embroidery is also used on such gowns, bordering the hem of the skirt, and on collar, sleeves, and girdle of the bodice. es is of willow green cloth One of the prettiest of these dress- The clinging skirt opens at the front, disclosing a full inner front of old-rose crépe de Chine. The bodice is a short jacket of cloth opening on a full vest of crépe de Chine. Another model is of ‘‘ripe almond” cloth, made in close-fitting princesse shape, with silk embroidery in dark almond mingled with bronze steel defining a high corselet on the bodice; epaulettes and Fig. 2.—Back or CLOTH Gown, Fie. 1. For pattern and description see Supplement, No. L, Figs. 1-9. cuffs of the sleeves and a flaring Medici collar are similarly embroid- ered, and on the skirt the ornamen- tation takes the form of four points across the bottom of the front, sep- arated from one another by a large chou of silk placed on the edge of the skirt between. For similar oc- casions young girls are wearing dresses of white or light-colored camel's-hair, moderately trimmed with velvet or silk. These dresses serve them for before-dinner recep- tions. India silks, which hitherto have been reserved for summer sole- ly, are to be worn this season until late in the autumn, and young girls will continue to wear them all win- ter for evening gowns, in light col- ors only, however. The pea-spotted, small-flowered, and large-branched varieties continue to be worn as they have been all summer, trimmed with black or white lace, disposed in festooned floineces on the skirt and in jabots on the bodice, with an epaulette of the lace on the shoul ders. Lace dresses, black or white, are by no means renounced, though they are always varied according to age and circumstances. For a lady no longer young either black or cream lace, mounted over black or cream silk, and trimmed with bands and choux of emerald green velvet ribbon, is a most distinguished toi- lette. The bodice of a lace dress may be wholly or only partially covered with lace, and as a substi- tute for it a short jacket may be sometimes worn, of silk or velvet, perhaps with lace sleeves; the color of the jacket may be pink, light HARPER’S BAZAR. blue, light green, or, for a lady of maturer years, emer- ald green. A violet jacket with a cream lace skirt is very fashionable. To judge by the dresses produced thus far this sea- son, the tournure is gone for good, at least for the pre- sent time. Some of the winter cloth dresses still have a small cushion bustle in the back of the skirt to sup- port the weight of the folds, but its presence must not be suspected from the outside appearance. Long cloaks for the winter, the so-called tailor-made redingotes, are in such close-clinging shapes as to preclude all idea of drapery or tournure underneath. These cloaks are of plain cloth and of broché woollens, with revers of the same material opening their entire length on a vest of velvet or of kid, with or without braiding or embroid- ery. While skirts will remain very much as they have been during the past eighteen months, sleeves will be less protuberant than they have been about the shoul- ders, though still remaining fuller than an ordinary coat sleeve; from the wrist to the elbow they are close to the arm; above the elbow they expand, the fulness drooping at the shoulder, and there perhaps a ‘‘ jockey ” is added, likewise drooping instead of rising in a crest above. All sleeves are longer, covering the wrist in- stead of stopping short of it, as for some years past. Elbow sleeves are used only with dressy evening toi- lettes. There are some small movable ‘‘ jockeys” or epaulettes which can be assumed or removed at will, some of passementerie with a spike fringe, while others are simply knots of ribbon with several ends of un- JACKET FOR GIRL FROM 10 TO 12 YEARS OLD FRONT AND BAck. For pattern and description see Suppl., No. IL, Figs. 10-16. VOLUME XXIII, NO. 46. Back OF BRAIDED JACKET ON PAGE 901. For pattern, design, and description see Supplement, No. VIL, 9 rigs. 38-49. equal length, satin-backed velvet ribbon being most generally used. The epaulettes are removed from the sleeve when a wrap is put on; they are usually accom- panied by a collar of the same ribbon, fastened at the side by an artistic metal button, and sometimes a half- belt is added. A pretty movable trimming for a young lady’s dress consists of a diagonal trellis of very narrow black velvet ribbon, held at points of intersec- tion by a tiny ball or small loops of chenille. Of this trellis a border is formed for the skirt, or else only for the front of it, and there are various pieces for the cor- sage—a yoke with square or pointed edge, a belt or corselet, epaulettes and cuffs for the sleeves—all of which can speedily be tacked on when wanted, and completely transform the aspect of a dress. Four-but- ton gloves are amply long for the long sleeves of day dresses. Both Suéde and dressed kid are used, the col- ors preferred being first light pearl gray, then the light tan, sand, and mastic shades. A new small wrap is the Henri II. cape. It is ina straight piece, long enough to droop about ten inches below the waist, full enough to fall in easy folds about the body, and gathered to a slightly flaring collar, which does not meet at the neck, but is fastened with a large handsome clasp. One model is sand gray cloth, the lower edge embroidered in aubergine silk and silver thread, which are very effective on the gray cloth; an aubergine feather band trims the neck, and the lining is aubergine silk. It is sometimes made with a velvet yoke, | Tf (in a lla CAMEL’S-HAIR COSTUME. For description see Supplement. SEAL-SKIN CAPE WITH Tabs, For pattern and description see Suppl., No. V., Figs. 34-36

Page 13

NOVEMBER 15, 1890. HARPER’S BAZAR. 901 with a salamander or red-hot shovel. Garnish with sprigs of parsley. Potato Salad.—S\lice treshly boiled potatoes (still warm) into a bow]; add a white onion cut into rings, a table plain or embroidered, but its invari- able characteristic is the open throat held by a large clasp. Clasps are largely worn on all sorts of wraps. Theatre wraps are being made in the same style, of black lace, with a spoonful of capers, pepper, salt, and feather band at the neck. Numbers chopped parsley pour over it a of tours de cou are being worn, of i ; i ae mii MIT i sf Pie ebaitge dita: gg French dressing, or mask with ma ostrich or cocks’ feathers, and of y ol # i ii TER yonnaise gauze or net edged with narrow lace i SA, “a ih Ny Potato Soup.—Slice six or eight po and pleated. They are tied at the i i g 4 1) tatoes into three pints of mixed milk throat in a ribbon bow with long : ned i ume and water; add a carrot, two or three ends, or they may be tied at the back, stalks of celery, and a leek minced to a custom which is coming in again. gether, a few whole peppers, and Long fur boas are still worn, but are some salt. Boil an hour, strain into rivalled by fur collarettes and the the tureen, and serve with hot crossed Russian collar. Fur muffs MW ry NA tons (stale bread cut into dice and are a trifle larger than they have been ge al me 1 WE fried crisp) a oe gage ; TT ' ) ied 1 for some years past. | | Potatoes as a G sh.—These are EMMELINE RAYMOND. cut into tiny balls, by means of a scoop coming for the purpose, and boiled in salt-water; with chopped parsley POTATOES. i i and melted butter poured over them Y\HEAP and commonplace as it is, they form an excellent garnish for fish / the potato finds its way to the ta- | When used to garnish roast beef o1 ble once a day or oftener in every all veal, they are boiled to a delicat ; household; yet there are so many brown in fat or lard. The remnants . ways of preparing the vegetable that i Ki of the potato which result from the : it might be served even more fre mil cutting of these balls are boiled sep quently and never appear twice in T arately, mashed, and reserved fot one week in the same form. The croquettes i average cook professes, of course, to Potatoes when properly warmed 4 know them all, but generally after she over are as appetizing as freshly pre : has presented them as boiled, baked, pared ones, and frequently allow one fried, and mashed her skill is ex to economize time as well as material hausted. Even when prepared in these every-day forms, a certain amount of culinary skill is required to render the potato pleasant to the Among the following recipes will be found a few desirable dishes for breakfast or luncheon Potato Omelet Cut cold boiled 7 ° A po eye as well as to the palate. Boiled tatoes into dice or small lumps. Rub potatoes when properly prepared pre- smoothly together, without scorching, sent a firm, snowy surface, the steam rising from their midst being the only a table-spoon each of butter and flour thin slightly with stock or water: evidence of moisture; they are uni when boiling, add the diced potatoes form in size and shape, are easily and heat thoroughly Melt a table broken by the fork, and almost melt : spoonful of butter in a spider, pout in the mouth. They must be pared — SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS=_N_— into it the potatoes, brown under with a sharp knife, quartered length ; neath, add chopped parsley, and fold wise, all eyes and discolorations re Surr ror Boy rrom 5 To 7 YEARS OLD. Frock ror GirL FROM 5 TO 7 YEARS OLD. like an omelet. Serve quickly. This moved, and then plunged into cold makes an excellent accompaniment water A salt spoonful of baking For pattern and description see Suppl., No. IIL, Figs. 17-25. For pattern and description see Suppl., No. 1V., Figs. 26-33, for hash. If minced meat has been left soda thrown into the salted water in from a previous meal, warm it,and fold which they are to be boiled helps to Within the omelet instead of parsley enhance the ‘ mealiness”’ which makes the boiled potato spe- them two table-spoons of melted butter and one of minced Creamed Potatoes.—Slice cold boiled potatoes into a sauce cially attractive. When done, the water is drained fromthe _ parsley, or half an onion finely chopped and fried crisp in made by thinning a table-spoonful of butter and one of flour potatoes, and the latter, closely covered, save for an outlet for butter or drippings. Baked potatoes are chosen uniform in (thickened and smoothed over the fire) with hot milk. Heat the steam, are set at the back of the range until served. As __ size, are scrubbed clean witha tiny brush kept exclusively for through, and sprinkle with minced parsley a variation, just before serving in the heated dish, dash over this purpose, are wiped dry with a towel, and then placed in IsABEL A. WALLACH a hot oven; or they may be pared, glazed with egg, dust- ed with pepper and salt, and roasted in a pan. slightly greased. Prepared in the latter way, they can also be served as stuffed potatoes Removed from the oven when done, the top end of each is cut off, the inner part re moved and mixed with chopped and spiced spinach, or else with an egg and cream, and then returned to the emp ty shell, to be heated through before being sent to the table. To successfully fry potatoes two important items must not be overlooked: the pie ces of potato, whether in quarters or in slices (Saratoga chips) must first be wiped dry with a towel,and then plunged into deep and boiling lard Oo! drip pings. The intense heat en- crusts the outer surface of the potato the moment it touches the fat, thus entirely prevent ing the slightest absorption of grease, and the pieces turn delicately brown the moment they are cooked through. To mash potatoes they are first boiled and steamed as de- scribed above, then trans- ferred to a heated bowl, where they are softened by adding a little warm milk or cream, a lump of butter, and pepper and salt. When well mixed and mashed the mass is piled upon a dish, smoothed with a wooden spoon, and garnished with sprigs of parsley. Pota- to snow, or vermicelli as it is sometimes called, is made by pressing the mashed potato through a colander held over the dish in which it is served. Potato Croquette 8. Add the yolks of two eggs, a pinch of nutmeg, and one of cayenne to warm mashed potatoes; mould into tiny little cones or cylinders, dip into beaten egg and cracker dust, and drop into boiling fat. When done, remove with a wire spoon, and drain a moment upon tissue-paper. Potato Seallops. — Butter scallop pans, fill with mashed potato lightly beaten, stamp each with a pattern, glaze with beaten egg applied with a feather, and brown in the oven. Crust Potato.—Fill a bak- ing dish with mashed potato ~ SEAL-SKIN JACKET WITH PeRstIAN LAMB COLLAR AND SLEEVES. ready for the table, glaze with BRAIDED JACKET WITH VELVET SLEEVES.—FRONT.—For Back, see For description see Supplement. beaten egg, and brown the top Page 900.—(For pattern, design, and description see Suppl., No. VIL., Figs. 35-49.] Rey

Page 14

902 MRS. WINSLOW'S SOOTHING SYRUP } has been used for over fifty years by miilions of | mothers for their children while teething, with perfect success. It soothes the child, softens the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best remedy for diarrhea. Sold by druggists in every pari of the world. Twenty-five cents a bottle.—[Adv.) Extracts are aud best.—[{Ad FLAvorine i the purest Burnert's invariably | acknow ] | ledye J ADVER'TISEMEN'’LS. GOLD MEDAL, PARIS, 1878. | W. BAKER & COUS | Breaklast Cocoa Is absolutely pure and | it is soluble. | No Chemicals Absolutely Pure. e used in its preparation. than three times the strength of Cocoa mixed with Starch, Arrowroot or Sugar, A cream-of-tartar baking powder. High- est of all in leavening strength.—U. S. Government Report, Aug. 17, 1889. It has more { and is therefore far more economical, costing less than one cent acup. It is delicious, nourishing, strengthening, Ea- SILLY DIGESTED, and admirably adapted for invalids as well as persons in health, Sold by Grocers everywhere. W. BAKER & co., Dorchester, Mass. BARBOUR’ Ss IRISH FLAX THREADS in Ever ry Variety. LADIES, Use the Best! Buttou-sewing, Lace-making, Embroidery, | Sold by all Respectable Dealers throughout be Yy ? ASK FOR BARBOUR’S. | EE | ANOY WORK. Sent to any address on receipt of ca Complete Form, $6.50. Skirt Form, to which bust can be add- ed, $3.50. Skirt Form in case, dato. For Further Particulars Send for | IHustrated Circulars. Mention IIARPER’S BAZAR. Ths : Lt FIEL D WisTt PERFORATED BUCKSKIN UNDERWEAR, (Smith’s Pat.) for men and women, afford the best protection against Colds, Rheuma- usin, Poeumonia, and all lang dis- eases. Send for illustrated circular. D.C. HALL & CO., | SOLE MANUFACTURERS, 86 Leonard St., New York. ae uN’ ZGEN vO Skirt and Complete Form, closed and opened. HALL’S BAZAR FORM CO., 833 Broadway, ae We consider Hall’s Bazar Forms the best ever in- | troduced, and recommend them to our patrons every- | where. The Butterick Publishing c oO. HAVILAND CHINA AT FIRST HANDS. | One of our Latest Designs. Shaded colors, rich gold and design, made with color old rose, olive gray, turquoise green, English red, and a beautiful shade of brown maroon. FRANK HAVILAND, 14 BARCLAY STREET, NEW YORK CITY. TEA OR COFFEE CUP, in SERVICE PLATE. Skeleton Bang, , © Patented Nov. 15, 1887. , Feather-light, lifelike, Py % and be autiful. Al- - 4 - ° ’ ° ° ” withou, “It’s like reading letters, one woman who takes the Housekeeper’s Weekly. “Somuch of it iswritten by its readers. You feel as though you were at a tea party where the talk was uncommonly bright and spicy. Then Marion Har- land’s weekly “Talks” are so good,—you know she’s chief editor now. But the best of all is to get it every week ” $1.00 a year. No free samples sent; but if you will send the addresses of ten friends, with % cents (eilver, o* = ~ ways in order, from R $3.00 upw ds. Co- coanut Balm for the Complexion, $1.00 per box. ‘Turkish Rose Leaves for the lips and face, wrapped), it will be sent FOUR MONTHS ON TRIAL It $1.00 and $1.50 per bottle. Send for Catalogue | Bintan’ anewsensation HOUSEKEEPER’S WEEKLY, L. SHAW, a feat 14th Street, New York. | Sixt and Arch, Philadelphia. Re ae RELIEVES INSTANTLY. ¥ BROTHERS, 66 Warren 8t., New York. Price 60cts says | | past fifteen years, BECAUSE SHE’S TRIED IT. | | ments, especially | whom I do busi- sent. Also be par- fe to give correct measure- HARPER'S BAZAR. NEWEST FASHIONS IN EFuoRS. EARLY FALL PRICES g Or rip : Furs Manufactured Ve The styles shown are the very latest designs, and are the most popular styles worn. Special at- tention has been paid to the perfect fit of garments, ev- ery garment is man- ufactured in my own workshop by skilled workmen, and can be relied upon as being the best Furs that can be produced at the prices for which they are of- fered. My Sealskin CoPytight, 1890, by C. C. Shayne. Design No. 295. The most popular Sealskin Cape manufactured, the col- lar turns up, aud can be worn close around the neck or turned dewn as shown in cut. Write for prices. garments are made from genuine Alaska Seal, London dress- ed and dyed, the very best goods in the world. The most popular Furs this season which are worn in shoulder - capes are Rus- sian Sable, Hudson Bay Sable, Mink, Alaska Sa- ble, Persian Lamb, and Sealskin. Parties desir- ing to purchase my goods who cannot visit my stores in the city, can secure them by sending their or- ders direct to my Whole- sale House, where they will receive my personal attention. Goods will be shipped to any part of the country C.O.D., with the privilege of examination ; if the purchase price is sent with the order, the ex- press charges will be prepaid, and goods will be shipped with the understanding that, if they are not entirely satis- factory,the mon- ey willbe refund- ed less the ex- press charges. Where parties are known to the house, or refer- Copyright, 1890, by C. C. Shayne Design No. 309. (SEAL COAT.) The most popular garment worn by young ladies or middle-aged ladies of good figure. Write for prices, ences are given, will be sent on approval. Please be particular and write the name plainly, giving city, town, county, and state,and by what ex- press you wish the goods go 1s bust measure, all around under arms, all around over arms. Any orders intrusted to my care will be filled to the best of my ability and to your en- tire satisfaction. — Money will be re- funded if goods: are not satisfac- tory, if returned & within three days after receipt. We are filling orders from old custom- ers with whom we have dealt for the Z ies 7, COP ALA VA tOLDFSA MES Bp SALSA SES Sita 7 Se id and I hope to be able to secure the good-will and cus- tom of all with Copyright, 1890, by C. C. Shayne, Design No, 306. (SEAL SACQUE.) tepresents London dressed and dyed Alaska Sealskin Sacque, a garment which is always fash- jonable. Popular lengths, 83, 36, 39, 42, and 45 inches, Write for prices. C. C. SHAYNE, Manufacturing Furrier, NEW YORK. Wholesale House: 103 Prince St., near Broadway. Retail House: 124 West 42d St., near 6th Ave, Furs retailed at both Stores. ness. Tilustrated circular Sree, For further in- Sormation address VOLUME XXIII. NO, 46, ™horoughly cleanses the teeth ana purifies the breath. Absolutely pureand harmless, Put up in metal boxes with Patent Extension Measuring Tube. Price, 25c. AN ELECANT TOILET LUXURY. Very Convenient for Tourists. % Sold by all Dealers or mailed on receipt of ric Address Dr. I. W. LYON, 88 Maiden Lane, N. Y. The 9 “Dragon TRADE MARIK Fast Blacks FOR WOMEN’S WEAR In Sheer India Linons, Fancy Satin Stripes and Plaids, Lace Effects in great variety, WILL NOT CROCK, WILL NOT FADE, IMPROVE BY WASHING. Sofd only under above Grade-Marhs. iw hat! Corns and Bunions all gone!” ‘Ve ain happy to say, through the merits of HANSON'S MAG Ic CORN SALVE I can now walk with ease EZANSON’S MAGIC CORN SALVE. If your druggist does not keep it, do not Jet him con- vince you that some imitation is just as good; send by mailto W. T. HANSON & CO., Schenectady, N.Y. Every box is warranted to cure, or money refunded. Price, 15 and 25 cents. HEADACHE Guaranteed to cure any kind 0 headache in fifteen minutes. Thes wders contair no ther tn morphine, loral, gutiozsine or other injurious sub- cure for oea Sickness. OALINE 5 cents per box, each containing six Mogae! a 3 ‘gold by all druggists. or mailed on receipt of price by the Coaline Company, Buffalo, N.Y lexions beautified. The Form ; Hair, Brows and Lashes 1d restored. Interesting Book (seaicd), 4¢-, with sample Cre- ory Powder 10c. Mme.Velaro, 414 W. 47th wy N, ¥. City. TO STAY sa ung Gone apne and addrees fon a rth ms Fe aAses, Lapin Slain “oe CURED ata. N i. — Madame Porter’ 5 Cough Balsam, Pleasant, Reliable, Effectual. Successfully used for more than fifty years, Try it,

Page 15

NOVEMBER 15, 1890.

A. E. BURKHARDT & CO., CINCINNATI, OHLO. import, make, and sell FURS AND FUR GARMENTS unexcelled for style, quality, and moderate cost. Ilustrated catalogue sent free to any address, A. E. Burkuaxpr & Co., Crnoinnatt, O. 500 pieces Colored Pongee Silk, 21 inch, in all the new tints for evening 47¢c and decorative work, worth 65c., at. 7 250 pieces of Colored Punjun Sill.) 22 inch, in 50 varieties of b sacs g oat ;59c street shades, worth S5c. - 100 pieces of Colored Plush, 24 inch, ) for decorative and fancy work, cost > $1. 39 to import (new ‘Tariff) $2.50, at...... Le Boutillier Brothers, 48,50, and 52 West 23d Street, New York City. Silks and Dress Goods a Specialty. Established half a Century. Satisfaction guaranteed. CORSETS, WAISTS Rey and jeer

Catalogue / y EA), \ asents >) was WANTED. |

and $ | Price List.

DELSARTE CORSET CO., " \ 142 West 23d Street, New York.

This Label is on the Best Ribbon Made. Ask your Dealer for it.

Sold everywhere. 25 cts. Cake; 65 cts. Box, 3 Cakes; or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by Charles E. Cornell, Box 2148, N.Y. = mee HONEY DEW SUGAR CORK THE BEST, Prepared for Fancy trade from the tenderest and sweetest ears of Corn that grow. Un- surpassed in flavor, sweetness, and color. Every can guar- anteed. Kept by all fancy Grocers, who find profit and satisfaction in handling Hon- ey Dew Brand. Address, ERIE PRESERVING CO., Buffalo, New York. BANDY LEGS PREVEN'TED. The PATENT CORSET SHOES K are recommended by Physi- ] ( cians and Surgeons for children 3 learning to walk, and those Xs <a troubled with weak orsprained (x:

ankles. Send stamp for Cata- logue. B. NATHAN, 221 Sixth Avenue, New York. HARPER'S BAZAR.. ‘Le Boutilier Bros.. Broadway aud 14th St, N.Y.

yee ( AND

IMPORTERS | | : | , RETAILERS, GREAT BARGAINS previous to Removal } to our uew stores on 14th St. BLANKETS. Are Now Offering in Their 11-4 California Blankets, extra fine, worth $7.50 per pair. eS WaNttetbacedtnes canes $5.98 R R Sateen Down Quilts, full size, worth $7.00. 4.98 FU DE PA ™ id NT | SILES. | Black Armure Régence, reversible, all | pure silk, worth $1.50... . 1.00 EXCLUSIVE | Black Pekin Stripes, Satin ‘and "Régence, | | all pure silk, wortli $1.50..... = 1.00 | NOVELTIES | 40 Fancy and Evening sh: ides of India | fs | Régence Silk, ull pure silk, worth T5c 44 | —IN— DRESS GOODS AND ROBES. Shoulder 36-inch Camel’s- Hair, all wool, worth 68c.. 49 36-inch Checks, Stripes, and Plaids, all WEE 6 oe aks Gxdete ce crease P 44 | 50-inch Cheviots, all wean all ‘colors and black, worth $1.25. ..... - 1.00 | Our Leapmn in Robes is “Astrachan Trimmed on French Broadcloth, «ll . IN SEAL, SABLE, re A ROR: a re 50 MINK . | g@ Send for illustrated and descriptive circular, MINK, } - ¥ : | UNDERWEAR AND HOSE. SEER SOAR, 200 dozen Ladies’ White Merino Vests and PERSIAN LAMB, Drawers, Winter weight, worth 65c. .39 Cc S 1 | 75 dozen Ladies’ Imported Swiss Ribbed Wool Vests, worth $1.15......-..... 69 ape ca 200 dozen Men's Camel’s - Hair Shirts and ETC. | Drawers, worth $1.50 each. 1.15 | 300 dozen ladies’ Black Cotton ‘Hose, Warranted | ye temas A fast black, worth : menage 25 | 140 dozen Ladies’ English Cashmere Hose, y prop PWT We IWPRRODT KIT | black aud colored, worth S5c.........6+0+++- 49 CORRECT STYLES, PERFECT FIT, | EXQUISITE WORKMANSHIP. | Broadway and Lath aL, ‘New York At one third less than asked for similar goods | by so-calle d manu fac luring Furrie rs FOR DELICACY For purity, and for improvement of the come plexion nothing equals Pozzoni’s Powder.

6th Ave. and 20th St., N.Y. 2 Alohabets ty "pe 15c. Bfor$l. Satisfaction Guaracteed. EAGLE SUPPLY CO. NEW DAVEN, CONS.

/ ee Sew eo Dr. WARNER’S CORALINE DRESS STAY. Dressmake’s like it because it is superior to whalebone. Ladies who wear it like it because it cannot break or rust or punch holes in the dress, and always keeps the dress in perfect shape. Put up in yard lengths, same as whalebone, and also in short lengths, 6 to 10 inches, covered with fine Silesia. Samples for one dress sent to Dressmakers FREE on application. WARNER BROTHERS, 203 Jackson Street, Chicago. 359 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

AITHEN, SON co CO.., IMPORTERS, SOLE AGENTS FOR THE BEST CORSET MADE. BROADWAY, CORNER 18th STREET, - - - NEW YORK. PRIDE OF THE WEST. Special attention is called to this celebrated brand of Bleached Muslin, which for fineness and durability is unsurpassed, This cloth is manufactured with great care, particularly for Ladies’ Underwear and Gentle- men’s Shirts, in 36, guaranteed not to CRACK OR TURN YELLOW. Inquire for this brand, and take No suBstTITUTE. In purchasing garments, ask for Pride of the West. For sale by all leading retail Dry-Goods dealers in the United States.

Ghe Qu veieitis) ARE THE MOST POPULAR | TRANE MARK

Sephyzs WASH_ FABRIC

Because they are

LOW IN PRICE, IN STYLES AND COLORINGS TO THE BEST IMPORTED GINGHAMS EQUAL

" Whisinates you visit the shops in deen, Looking for Braid to bind your gown, Secure the Clasp, wherever found, That holds the Roll on which is wound The ane that is known the world aroun, @ & 2 + $5 *aivua $.4409

iL

COURTAULD'S BLACK ENGLISH CRAPES are made of pure silk and are thoroughly reliable goods. They are for sale by the principal dealers throughout the United States, and in New York City by James McCreery & Co., Lorp & Taytor, Stern Bros., B. Attwan & Co., Le Bootiiiier Bros., Simpson, Crawrorp, & Srupson, and others.

903 . ¢ | es C onstat ble ks = LYONS SILKS & VELVETS. | Brocaded Silks and Satins. Plain and Figured Veloutines, | PLAIN ald BROCADED WHITE FAILLE. Satin and Veloutine FOR WE DDING DRESS. Embroidere d anil Broche Grenadine Gaze and Crepe de Chine. EMBROIDERED MOUSSELINE DE SOIE. PLAIN AND FANOY-COLORED LYONS VELVETS. ry ) ) OL Jroadway AD | 9th dt. Cc NEW YORK CITY,

109KingsfonSt. Boston We beg to inform our customers that we are

| inal inventors and manufacturers of JERSEY FIT T ING | children’s clothing Union Undergarments, and that we hold Letters Patent for the same. Each garment is marked Pat. Feb.7,1885, and all garments not thus marked are infringements, for which all manufacturers and dealers will be held responsible. We make in High Grade, Silk, Silk and Wool, Silk and Jaeger, Silk and Merino, Natural Wool, Merino, Wool or Cotton in fast black, and Balbriggu: Winter and Summer Weight. These garments are Su perior in fit,in workmanship Equal to any, and Second to none. They have received the endorsement of the Leading Dress Reformers in the country, ** who are de voted to the practic al and beautiful in women’s and "and thousands of ladies have ex- | prensed t their unaske ~~ a ction as to fit, quality, rk Ww ‘ 41, and 45 inch widths, and is Pte

Steel Codliing utensils are a new inve ntion ; their trade mark is 'NEVER: BREAK” 2 good name, for you can’t break them, and they are clean, light, sweet, and wholesome. No more taste of pre- viously cooked food, no more grease, no more warping. Write for illus- trated circular. THE BRONSON SUPPLY CO., Cleveland, 0. Are AMERIGAN ~ PMILLER BROS STEEL PENS ‘gy the BEST, M.F.R.S. yowd PE s Ink Erasers®"° Po

MILLER BROS Gunter Go, MERIDEN,

MRS. K,. E. TIRNEY, | 114 W. 22d Street, New York City, Manufacturer of | Fine Costumes, Tatwor Soirs, anp Minuinery. | }

PurouaAsiIng AGENT. Silk Gowns from. occ SO Se Cloth Gowns from....... 45. | Worsted Gowns from 35. | Millinery from oaéane 5.

I buy all kinds of goods for parties living out of town. Promptness aud satisfactory service guaranteed. No commission charged and current prices not advanced. | I beg to emphasize the above, as so many complaints reach me of agents acting dishonorably in advancing | prices on goods and not content with the commission | allowed by sellers, Send for circular containing full | information regarding fitting customers at a distance and references from every State and Territory. | |

SHOPPIN In New York of all kinds j by a lady of experience, | good taste, &c., without charge. Circular references. Address MISS A. BOND, 336 4th Ave., N. Y. City.

Page 16

904 YOUNG WIFE (saying an affectionate good-by DEAREST °?” HARPER'S BAZAR. THE HONEY-MOON’S LAST QUARTER to her husband). GEORGE (of for a few days’ yachting). “* WELL, M’ DEAR, I CAN'T TELL A LIE YOUNG WIFE, “OH, DARLING, PLEASE DO! FACET. THE MAZOURKA. I saw some rural wights not long ago Essay a weirdish dance they called “ mazurky,” And giad was 1 the bumpkins dubbed it so— It chimes in so sugyestively with jerky. saliinenantingss “ Was Elizabeth an amiable queen ?” “Yes, I think so.” “In all the pictures I ever saw of her she appeared to be sumewlhat ruffled.” ee “ What's ‘caffy o° lay,’ anyhow, Jim ?” “Dunno”. Guess it must be coffee and eggs.” ecemetrealitie: Boces. * I had bard luck at the sea-shore one night last month. On the evening of the hop I met forty girls, and asked each one for a dance, while there were but fourteen dances altogether.” Fostrr. ** Well, what did you do?” Bo«es. ** Took the first train that night for home.” pereeliipiirdintiaen “Where's the proprietor?” asked a man as he en- tered a down-town restanrant * He’s gone home to dinner, sir,” replied a waiter. LY ; USE Ai LIveR Pits, \ at V\\\Wi} Mi al Li MA NA LOVE, THE JESTER. Love is dressed in motley garb, Love has donned the cap and bells, Thrown aside the golden barb, With a bauble weaves his spells. At his throne no subjects bend, At his word no captives bow, Love's domain is at an end, Love's a jester now Love ix nothing nowadays, fearts no longer he assails, With the youth and maid he plays, It is **Love” when some one fails And the name has lost its might, Bandied to and fro in sport; sove is now, unlucky wight, Jester of the tennis court Fiaven Seorr Mines. ccastigiiialla asiinpe Mavp. “ Whata dear, good chaperon you are! But how did you manage to get my rival out of the room just at that critical moment ?” Cuarrron, “I whispered to her, in a kind, con- fidential tone, that there was_a rip in the back of her silk waist.” THE SHAKES. “GOT ANYTHING FOR THE SHAKES, YOUNG MAN?” “THAT BOTTLE I SOLD YOU LAST NIGHT WAS FOR THAT PURPOSE.” “YES, BUT THE DIRECTIONS SAID SHAKE WELL BEFORE TAKING. OLD MAN WELL I WOULDN'T WANT THE MEDICINE. WELL WITHOUT SHAKING.” IF I COULD SHAKE THE I WANT SOMETHING THAT'LL MAKE HIM “NOW, DARLING, YOU CAN'T ENJOY A MOMENT WHILE YOU ARE GONE, CAN YOU, VOLUME XXIII, NO. 46. HE SHOULD GET THE JOB. Mosquito. ‘‘ Don’t strike me! I haven’t come to bite you, but to ask a favor.” Tuesrran, ‘* What is it?” Mosgvrro. ‘* My season is over now, and yours is commencing, and for the sake of old acquaintance- ship, if not friendship, don’t you think you might give me a job?” Tuespran, “ As a singer in the chorus?” Mosquito (waving his leg deprecatingly). ‘‘ Nothing so lofty! But don’t you think I'd be a suceces as a bill sticker ?” “That was a fine break you made in your tragedy of Raleigh.” ‘What was that ?” “You muke Raleigh say, ‘I have no fear of yo 5 ri hangman's axe ! ES The poet and the editor were playing tenz's, and the latcer was beaten. **You serve well, but you can’t return,” the oet. “Can't 12” asked the editor. ‘Send me a poem and see.” **Tt’s a striking picture of my wife; but isn't there a little too much paint on the cheeks?” “No, sir. Just like your wife’s.” qnaaniidiiiahindiite “You ought to take more exercise. Play tennis.” **T can’t play tennis.” “That don’t make any difference. You can get just as much exercise trying to play.” eeinipentdlippiaemiinn “Did you enjoy it off in the country, Jimmie ?” “Did 1? Had a bully time. 1 used to get uy - fore anybody in the hotel and change all the | ‘a and ring the fire-alarms, and I broke nine panes of giass in one week.” Mamma. “Sit down, Willie. Do you hear me?” (Five minutes elapse.) ‘* Willie Jones, if you don't sit up, you may leave the table!” — ——— Cumso. * My dear, what do you think of these ‘ d- lar dinners for four,’ that the family journals nu such a spread of 2?” Mas. Cumso. “I think it might be possible to one ap for four dollars.’ a I “Tt was a magnificent mine, but they ruined it.” ** How 2?” ; “The poor idiots took all the gold out of it!” 7 an Sue (after a lovers’ quarrel). “* You may return my letters.” He (editor). ‘* Did you enclose stamps ?” Sei te “ Papa,” said Mrs. Bunkum, “ here is that flannel shirt of yours, I washed it, and—well, I'm afraid ita usefulness is over.” **Oh no, my dear; I can use it for a pen-wiper.” ensigns “You should feel complimented by Mr. Starboard- er’s appetite, Miss Twoaweek.” “Either complimented or bankrupted,” returned the lady, with a stony glare at the hungry guest SIE (sarcastically). “DO YOU REALLY THINK SO? BUT HOW ABOUT THE AFFINITY TWEEN SOME MEN AND PUPPIES?” POOR MAN “ Consistency~ is a Autuor. “ Yes; bat Iam too poor to have jewels.” eee Primus. ‘Dodson made his début in tragedy last night.” Srounpus. ‘“* Was there much enthusiasm 2?” , Primus.“ Yes, immense. - The manager came out on the stage during the trial scene and dis- charged him on the spot.” coneeneentiiiaamenans “There are no flies on me,” remarked the antelope in the museum. “There may be a few on me,” replied the rhinoceros, “buat I don’t mind them.” iileenesvtelpienniciibcal “Till never take anything to that paper again. The editor made fun of my jokes.” “He did? He must be a gen- ius.” “The difference 'twixt Twee- diedum and Tweedledee? I suppose the first Mr. Tweedle couldn't speak,” said Mrs. Sprig- gins. And Mr. Spriggins took off his coat so that he might laugh in his sleeve. cthintietiilbcanpentaie “Porous plasters are good for a weak back.” “That's all right, but I want a plaster that will be good for a week hence.” BE- INDUCING A PUCKER. MR. TOOTUM (making preparations to play a fiute solo). **PETE, HAN’ ME DAT SACK O’ GREEN PERSIMMONS, I's NEX’ ON DE PROGRAM.”’ —

Page 17

SUPPLEMENT. CARRIAGE COMFORT YEARS AGO i le own a handsome equipage was consid- ered in the Middle Ages a matter of great moment, and few except royal person- ages could command such a luxury. We Jearn from ancient records account of an English family carriage of fourteenth-cen- tury times, for which no pains were spared to provide a turnout wonderful for ease and elegance. Something akin to a long wagon, both as to shape and size, was made for the pleasuring of this grand gentleman’s fam- ily and friends, “having rich side panels, and a covering stretched over curved bat- tens.” Cunningly carved was the wood- work; the awning of silken texture and cur- tains of glossy fabric combined to please the taste and gratify the pride of this aspiring household. A team of five horses was the essential complement for this stylish vehicle. In 1584 Walter Rippon, the first London coach-builder of whom we have record, made a chariot for her Majesty Queen Bess. An imperial crown rested upon four pillars, while in front two pillars were surmounted by a lion and a dragon—her armorial sup- porters, In ** The Squyr of Low Degree,” a poem anterior to Chaucer, is this description of a | sumptuous turnout: “To-morrow ye shall on hunting fare, And ride, my daughter, in a chare. It shall be covered with velvet red, And cloth of fine gold all about your head, With damask white and azure blue, Well-diapered with lilies new.”

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Children always SCOTT'S EMULSION of pure Cod Liver Oj! with Hypo- phosphitesa of Lime and Soda is aimost as palatable as milk. Children enjoy it rather than otherwise. A MARVELLOUS FLESH PRODUCER it Is Indeed, and the little lade and lassies who take cold easily, may be fortified against a cough that might prove serious, by taking Scott’s Emulsion after their meals during the winter season. Beware of substitutions and imitations. wwwrwesese A et enn enter y

—-

UNRIVALLED Sweet Perfumes for all who like delicate and concentrated Scents SOLD BY ALL Druggists, Perfumers

NEW-YORK

. . English Enamel. ————, Ready for use, in Self-Opening Tins. Can be applied by any- hone. Inventec by Thomas Griffiths, F.C. 2 S., M.S.A., original in- ventor. "All other ename! paints are imi- tations. For renovat- ing and decorating Furniture, Metal Ware, Wicker Work, etc. Also for Ladies’ Artistic Work By mall, 26 and 50 cents. Send for tint cards. resists boiling water. POSTACE, !0c. EXTRA. 60c. rnd $1.00. THE ENGLISH ENAMEL PAINT COMPANY, 106 East 15th Street, New York.

| no gripes.

“Vitros Bath Enamel” | HARPER'S BAZAR. The Daylight | Its name is not so much of an exag- geration as such names usually are. Piano, Banquet and Table sizes. Lamp. Made by The Craighead & Kintz Co., 33 Barclay St., New York. As k your Lamp dealer for it or send to the Daylight Lamp Co..38 Park Place, N.Y., for more informa- tion.

DO EASE d eis ¥ (uticura = E RY SKIN AND SCALP DISEASE, WHETHER 4 torturing, disfiguring, humiliating, itching, barn- | ing, bleeding, scaly, crusted, pimply, or blotchy, with | Remepies, consisting of Curioura, the loss of hair, from pimples to the most distressing eczemas, and every humor of the blood, whether simple, scrofulous, or hereditary, is speedily, per- manently, and economically cure ad by the Curroura great Skin Cure, Cutioura Soar, an exquisite Skin Purifier ahd Seantifier, the Curioura Resonvent, the new Blood and Skin Purifier and greatest of Humor Remedies, when the best physicians and all other remedies fail. This is strong language, but true. Thousands of grateful testimonials from infancy to age attest their wonderful, unfailing, and incomparable effics cy. Sold, everywhere. Price, Curieura, 50e.; Soar, 2. : Resonvent, $1. Prepared by Potter Drug and Chemical Corporation, Boston, Mass. Send for “*‘ How to Cure Skin and Blood Diseases.”

= Pimples, blackheads, chapped and oily “@a skin prevented by Cutioura Soar. “ea Rheumation, Kidney Pains, and Muscular \ Weakness relieved in one minute by the Curt- ouna Anti-Parn Piasrer. 25c.

You can live at home and make more money at work for ua t than at anything else in the world. Either sex : ail ages. Cost- Ue ae cut FREER. Terms FREE. Address, TRUE & Co., 7 Ye og ton

Packer's Tar Soap Shempoiing: Baby’s Bath. Complexion. ‘binckheads,’ Prof. D. G. Brinton, M.D., the distinguished scientist, says: Tar Soap is remarkubly pure,cleansing, and healing; excellent in Seborrhea | of the Scalp, Dandruff, Chafing, and Itching.’ Christine Terhune Herrick (Cradle and Nursery) says: who has ever used it for her babies wonld willingly do without it.’ Dr. Leo (Preservation of Beauty) says: “* Packer's Tar Soap removes blotches, and the shiny, oily appearance which is so objectionable, and * Packer's “ No mother establishes that healthfnl, brilliant, natural cuticle which must be the basis of all beantifal complexions.” For Sample mention the Bazar aud send 10 cents, stamps. Large Cakes, 25 cents. All Druggists, or THE PACKER M’F’G CO,, 100 Fulton Street, New York.

zeeer cooks can prepare it. Green Turtle, Terrapin, ble, Beef, Pearl Tapioca. Ready, too,—except the table. this? You must believe For sale by all Fancy Grocers.

To-day, To-morrow, Yes, and for eighteen days you may sit down to your sdinner-table and have a new soup served to you. more, every single one of our eighteen varieties is more carefully prepared than the most “thorough of your own Chicken, Consommé, Purée of Game, Mulligatawny, Mock Turtle, Ox- Tail, Tomato, Chicken Gumbo, French Bouillon, Julienne, Pea, Printanier, Mutton Broth, Vegeta- Is not this a tempting variety ? warming—for How can we emphasize it enough to try a can as we suggest. A sample can sent on re- ceipt of the price of postage, 14 cents. The Franco-American Food Cas, 42 West Broadway, New York. Nay,

wess a HEAD NOISES Fence H 4 3 INVISIBLE Tysula cusHions Whispers <a ~~ fortable. Suceessfal where al jes fail. Sold by F. HISCOX, _outs 068 Be’awe 8o3 Br’away, New Terk Wette fer book of sreot FREE. VILLACABRAS. The best Natural Mineral Purgative Water known. Stronger effects than any other uuder smaller volume. No smell—no repulsive taste—no after-constipation— A daily laxative mixed with milk or broth. Small bottles, 25 cents. Large bottles, 50 cents. Sold by all Leading Druggists.

|

-| Teething Made Easy. A pamphlet of value to every family in which there is a child under five years of age, will be sent free to any address on receipt of two- cent stamp for postage. The Reynolds Mfg. Co., Cincinnati, 0. Nervous Diseases or Fits, The Oxygen Ner- 0 vine cannot be excelled, Address COMPOUND OXYGEN ASSOCIATION, FT. WAYNE, IND. |

Every Mother should read it,

+How to Sterilize Milk for Infants Is the title of a beautiful Pamphlet just published by WILMOT CASTLE & CO., ROCHESTER, N. Ye aC — th on UXclas {84

Mailed free on application.

om Sailer pes pe lasive des CASH’S FRILLING

FOR LADIES’ AND CHILDREN’S WEAR. SOLD BY ALL LEADING RETAILERS. NEW BOOK OF STANDARD PAT- TERNS FREE BY POST, ADDRESS J. & J. CASH, 92 CREENE ST., N. Y.

Crosse & Blackwell's FRESH FRUIT JAMS, ‘Made from English Fresh Fruits AND REFINED SUCAR, ARE SOLD BY ALL GROCERS 6000 COOKING. All who desire good cooking in their houses should use

‘LIEBIG COMPANY'S

EXTRACT OF BEEF. A slight addition gives great strength and flavor to Soups, Sauces, and Made Dishes. One pound is equal to forty pounds of lean beef, of the value of about $7.50. | Genuine only with fac-simile of J. von Lie- big’s eee ees in blue ink across the label. , « Gayner FLORIDA. Send address, on postal card, for any information wanted about LANDS, HOTELS, ROUTES, etc., etc. Answered promptly. L. Y. JENNESS, SANFORD, FLORIDA. S ons~ wr ug al des. Monttles lerines, Cravat tes, 196 5 Moderate NiCes, Firtls iG Venae, /

ew York (\

Page 18

SUPPLEMENT TO HARPER'S BAZAR, GOTHS IN THE COURT OF 1

Page 19

§ BAZAR, NOVEMBER 15, dil, agit /HAMBRA.—{Sze Pace 899.

Page 20

908 GRATEFUL—COMFORTING. EPPS’S COCOA

BREAKFAST. “By a thorough knowledge of the natural jaws which govern the operations of digestion and nutri tion, and by a care ai application of the fine proper- Iles ted Cocoa, Mr. Eppes has provided our - ith a delicately flavored beverage 4 may s many heavy doctors’ bills. It is lie e of such articles of diet that a con viually built up until strong enough every ency to disease. Hundreds of subtle lies are floating around us ready to attack wher- re is a weak point. We may escape many a haft by keeping ourselves well forti fied ree und a properly nourished frame.”

" ply with boiling water or milk. Sold only alf-pound tins, by Grocers, labelled thus: JAMES EPPS & CO., Homeeopathic Chemists, London England -PERFECT-FITTING DRESSES. Dressmaking Simplified. Any Lady Can sow Laas to Ot Peto Piting Dre, on the Tallor’s Square Ever Invented. pojuum sfesatye euq one qq em genf of 97 fz0quUETo1g anos 0} 814) Bo4g ‘mEpyT The Only Improvement to Learn. Rapid to Use. Follows Every Fashion. \l First-class Dressmakers are adopting this Wonderful ment Drafting Machine. ITS SUCCESS HAS NEVER BEEN EQUALED. You can testit at your own house for30days Free, Write now for Illustrated Circular and Liberal Offer. The McDowell Garment Drafting Machine Co., 6 WEsT i4TH St., New YorE. - >& = ~ 4 Ga What Age nts say of Tokology. A com- pie La |

s’ Guide: okology” grows more popular eve dav!! An agent in Michigan who has sold several hundred says: “I love Tokolog' nd am delighted to be in its service. I can sel! just as well in territory that has been over.” Mra. E. J. MeElwain, writes: “I ook forty-five orders in five days last week, not- withstanding the storm I sell ‘ Tokology * be- | ause I know I am benefiting the buver.” Mrs Annie Sanderson reports: “I took eighty - nine orders for ‘Tokology’ in the last three weeks. There is no other book I feel like working so | hard for Agents who make a regular busi- ness of canvassing will find Tokology a splendid- selling book. Prepaid, $2.75. Sample pages ALICE B. STOCKHAM & CO., 161 La Salle St., Chleage, Tih, _ARMOURS | EXTRACT BEEF The best and most economical *‘*stock’’ for Soups, Sauces, Beef Tea, Etc. ARMOUR & CO., Chicago, Sole Mfrs. Hovland Odonto A Rare, F - parent, non-Gritty Tooth Powder, Whitens the Te meth event and Arrests Decay, Hardens the Gums, & Sweetens the Breath. Ask Druggists for Row-

Jand $s Odonto, of 20 Hatton Garden, London, Engjand, |

10cts. JOHN . WOODBURY, Dermatologist, 125 W. 42d S8t., New York City. WOODBURY’S FACIAL SOAP for =] | Skia and Scaip, at Druggiste or by mail, &O cents.

p>, @ : ACQUIRE and RETAIN iT. : How to remove Pimples, Wrinkles, Freckles and Superfluous Hair; to Develop the Form; to Increase or Reduce Flesh ; to Color and Restore the Hair, Brows and Lashes, and to Beautify the Complexion. A book of interest to every lady. Mailed (sealed and postpaid) for 20 cts. It contains many hints, testi- monials and valuable receipts (easily prepared at home), and shows how to obtain free samples ‘al Commatica. MADAME LAUTIER, Cosmetic Artiste, FRAGRANT git Wen 048 S Figs AND } N BEAUTIFIES THE SKIN. any A ht druggists or by mail, GO cents, (Mention this Paper ) co2 PERSONAL BEAUTY. |

accomplish. Address Mme. Jursan, 48 BE. plane -¥.

E.Burnham, 71 State-st.(Cent’! Music Hall)Chicago

HARPER'S BAZAR. SUPPLEMENT. Se RAIAVAINTINININININ NIRA NNT NTN NTN NIN NANA IS THE FAMOUS TENOR OF THE WO - CAMPANINI, viii ih i a a i eae ~ ~ 4 Ny

| Has written a helpful article on the care, cultivation, and preservation of the voice, of special interest to every girl and woman with vocal aspirations or talent, entitled : “HOW TO TRAIN THE VOICE,’ Which appears in the NOVEMBER number of

| The Ladies Home Journal’ Now ready, on the News Stands—Ten Cents a copy.

Some other special features of this particular issue are: s N Nc N S \ R\ RY R\ a \ N wW\ xX 6c ” rs x Liberties of our Daughters’. “hiirexen ww a3 mates ’ ” ustrated Sto m A Thanksgiving Surprise,” "%"stsaw’ coouwes. Full page Illustrated Poem Si “Elder Lamb's Donation Party” by WILL CARLETON. " ering Jou stecrne woe eae oy we NT CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY, Puitaperpuia, Pa VY SSS SSD SS IC aS SU PE RFs. Uw ou oe HAIR. BAR RY Ss 2 <pBLl y : CAUTION, Sscka Ron eseteesar bar th z) Tricopherous firs cific is the only unfaili na FOR THE remedy for removing perma- » HAIR & SKIN nently all annoying distige urements from face and body, without injuring the f Skin, which neither torturous Ves! electricity nor any of the ad- vertised poisonous stuffs can An elegant dressing ex- qnisitely” perfumed, s re- moves all impurities from the scalp, prevents bald. ness and gray hair, and causes the hair to grow | cng ns and Bn Infallible for curing erup- tions. diseases of the skin, glands and muscles, and | quickly healing cuts, burns, bruises, sprains, &e. / All Druggists or by Mail, 50 Cents, BARGLAY & CO., 44 Stone Street, New York cu sTIPATION DE S W. L. DOUGLAS con | * TEA HEADACHE $3 SHOE cenfXwen. — — -

\ A ZASIVIVINIwl

. “PARTED BANG” meee ado of nagural © Ke SY indies who wear their hair p. socgeding bo to size and co! or. Beautifying ask, with pre $2; Hair ree Cosmetics sent .D. an: Send to the mfr for 11 ast'd Price Lists

$6.00 Genuine Hand-sewed, an 74 and sty! ish dress noes which proche! ry 9 | $4.00 Hand-sewed Welt. A fine a ‘Shoe un- Pp | Ss '@) Ss : cS U R E F ‘e) be ogae pee ah ined eeute and di the etanhard dress Shoe, Best Cough Medicine. Recommended by Physicians. $350 F's ailccaned hoe ts eepectally adapted for Cures where all else fails. Pleasant and agreeable to the taste. Children take it without objection. By druggists. CONSUMPTION

rest made in Congteas ‘Button and Lace. $3 & $2 SHOES acids, have been most feverabty. received since introduced. Ask your Dealer, and if he cannot eee, you send di- | rect to factory, Ne mp 3 | pases toh epatal for