But if she can't read, or spell, or learn, you should only hear her sing,

Nell! It is like a wild bird. She warbles every air she hears. Music

seems to gush from her like water from a fountain. Once she was caught

playing, and they say it sounded like the rejoicing of good spirits; but

she cried when they wanted her to do it again, and has never touched the

instrument since. She dances more like a fairy than a human being. And

yet when Monsieur Viaulon (the French dancing-master) attempted to teach

her the polka, she ran away and hid herself behind the great globe in the

music-room. The truth is, her dancing has nothing of the ball-room in it.

She flits about so restlessly, it makes your eyes wink to look at her. Her

feet never seem happy on the ground, and I always have a curious fear when

the window is opened that Jessie will fly out of it.

The girls are rather frightened at her restless ways and her strange

beauty, which seem to belong more to the air than to the earth. They

declare that she is a fairy changeling; and that the tale which is told of

her father being shot in a duel, and of her mother dying when Jessie was

born, is all a story. Jessie rarely goes home. The only person who comes

to see her is an aged aunt, with a face all over lines, like a railway

map. She brings her plenty of toys and plenty of sweeties; but Jessie,

apparently, does not care the least about her. The only person her flighty

disposition stops in its giddy career to alight upon is Amy Darling. She

listens to no one else without impatience--she will play with no one else,

except it is a young kitten that belongs to the cook--she will obey no one

else. But then I believe, if Amy spoke to the lightning, that she would

stop it.

I am so tired of scribbling, dear Nelly, that I can't write any more

to-day, though I could fill a whole band-box with particulars about this

place. So no more at present from your dear affectionate.

KITTY.

[Illustration]

SOME THOUGHTS ON TRAINING FEMALE TEACHERS.

BY MISS M. S. G.

IN a former communication, we sought to awaken the more lively and

_practising_ interest of ladies generally (especially those possessed

of large means and influence), in the subject of teacher-training to an

extent and thoroughness of method which have hitherto been scarcely deemed

requisite, especially in those portions of the country where education

has been conducted too much, if we may say so, at _hap-hazard_. Such of

our readers as have traversed various sections of our wide-spread land

will realize what we mean, as they recall juvenile groups, collected

or _bustled_ together, because something must be done with them, to be

coaxed, awed, or driven by a leader who occupied the post as a _pis

aller_, or as a mere half-way house to some less wearisome or more

lucrative avocation. We are not fearful here of wounding the self-love

or better feelings of any truly estimable or conscientious teacher,

for such we have ever found the most prompt to welcome improvement,

the most open to suggestions of amendment. But perceiving, as we do,

throughout the community, marked signs of a willingness, a desire to

assign to instructors a more elevated position, a post of honor among the

benefactors of the race, and knowing, by experience, the readiness of many

to meet the requisite claims of expenditure, it is to teachers themselves,

to young teachers especially, and to those aspiring to that high and

responsible office, that we would now offer a few earnest, and we trust

heart-stirring questions and remarks.

We would ask on whom and on what must _mainly_ rest the position they are

to hold, the _character_ of the work to be effected? Surely, in themselves

and in the disinterested and docile spirit with which it is entered on

and pursued. Short of high aims and pure motives, no course can leave its

valuable impress, and it is an acknowledged, even if too little credited,

maxim, that they who best learn to obey and submit to lawful rule, best

know how to govern. Let us therefore be permitted to persuade the young

and high-spirited to remember that _their time will come_ to take the

lead, and that no premature assumption of authority or airs of control

will avail for half the benefit to be derived from a teachable spirit,

and quiet observing and waiting for opportunity. We know full well and

practically that this simple method is capable of eliciting the most

harmonious and beautiful results, and that between teachers of experience

and those seeking preparation for the work, a friendship will grow of a

character the most extended and the most varied in its points of interest.

We will not pause to enlarge on the sad contrast to this state of things,

its multiform evils--for we do not like looking on the dark side of

subjects which should bring out every latent grace and virtue of the soul.

Moreover, we are fully persuaded of better things, so far at least as

intention and desire are concerned, yet a friendly hand may offer some

warning hints of evils which are wont to creep in and mar the benefit and

beauty of fulfilment.

A trite motto tells us that "manners make the man!" It is, at least, by

all conceded that they are the outward garb and indication of that which

is within, and that to a degree of which the actor is often unaware and

unconscious. Can the young teacher then deem unimportant any measure of

care in deportment, or regard as too severe a self-sacrifice the gentle

and habitual control of those ebullitions of spirits, those out-of-place

familiarities which we have oftentimes seen sweeping away the outguards

of reverence by action, word, or look? If these are in an isolated

individual annoying or unseemly, how great are their effect and potency

when a sympathetic influence pervades a number met for the same purpose,

and that avowedly one of the highest improvement and culture! A little

true _reflection_ on this point would, we are assured, convert many a

well-meaning, but unpolished, and therefore ill-prepared young woman into

the well-mannered lady, the true helper of her presiding teacher, and, in

time, the consistently dignified instructress of others.

Again, we know that _simplicity_ is ever the expression of the highest

truth, of elegance, and of purity. We need not rake up classical

authority, or quote the poets, to prove what makes its own way to every

unsophisticated mind and heart. But would indeed that the "daughters of

the land" might consider this, and reflect on St. Paul's caution, "Not

the outward adorning of plaiting the hair, or of wearing of gold, or of

putting on of apparel," ere they present themselves as examples to the

young, so especially, on _this_ point, prone to imitation and emulation.

Far higher, we feel assured, would they then rise in the _true_ esteem of

their juniors, far more secure would they be of reaching and maintaining

that position to which _every_ teacher should aspire, that of feeling that

in a _real_ superiority none has the claim or the power to surpass them.

Our time and space are limited, and we do not desire to crowd on our

readers too much of our own practical experience, and "notes taken from

life by the way." If welcomed, however, with the sincere good-will with

which they are offered, other "thoughts" may yet find utterance, and, we

would fondly trust, find their counterpart in the efficient action of many

an unknown young teacher, and their reflection in many a childish scholar.

[Illustration]

DON'T OVERTASK THE YOUNG BRAIN.

THE minds of children ought to be little, if at all, tasked, till the

brain's development is nearly completed, or until the age of six or seven

years. And will those years be wasted? or will the future man be more

likely to be deficient in mental power and capability, than one who is

differently treated? Those years will not be wasted. The great book of

nature is open to the infant's and the child's prying investigation;

and from nature's page may be learned more useful information than is

contained in all the children's books that have ever been published. But

even supposing those years to have been absolutely lost, which is anything

but the case, will the child be eventually a loser thereby? We contend,

with our author, that he will not. Task the mind during the earlier years,

and you not only expose the child to a greater risk of a disordered

brain--not only, it may be, lay the foundation for a morbid excitability

of brain, that may one day end in insanity--but you debilitate its bodily

powers, and by so doing, to all intents and purposes, the mind will

eventually be a loser in its powers and capabilities.--_Dr. Robertson._

THE SOUVENIR; OR, THE ARRIVAL OF THE "LADY'S BOOK."

A SKETCH OF SOUTHERN LIFE.

BY PAULINE FORSYTH.

(_See Plate._)

"You may train the eagle

To stoop to your fist,

Or you may inveigle

The Phœnix of the East;

The lioness, you may move her

To give up her prey;

But you'll ne'er stop a lover,

He will find out the way."--_Old Song._

A SOUTHERN plantation lying, as so many of them do, at some distance from

any town or village, presents a phase of life peculiar to itself, and

very singular to one unaccustomed to it from childhood. It has not the

loneliness of isolation, for each planter's house is in its way a sort

of a palace, the residence of the superior authority, while at a little

distance are clustered together the cabins of his retainers, sometimes

in such numbers as to form almost a little village of their own. Yet the

members of the family are often separated for weeks or months from all

congenial companionship, excepting what they can find in each other; for,

besides the distance, the state of the roads is often an insuperable

obstacle to all intercourse with their far-off neighbors. Eminently social

as Southerners usually are, this is no slight drawback to their enjoyment,

and the arrival of the post is looked forward to as the one great weekly

event to relieve the monotony of "the leaden-footed hours."

Bessie Egerton was in this respect more fortunate than many of her

companions, her father's plantation being but about five miles from the

village of Oxford, in South Carolina. This was only a pleasant ride when

the roads were good; but there were weeks during the winter and early

spring when even Bessie Egerton, general belle and favorite as she was

throughout the surrounding country, had nothing but the mails to remind

her that there were other interests and more stirring events in the world

than those of which her home was the centre.

Mr. Egerton was not one of those wealthy planters whose income rivals

that of the merchant princes of the North, and would be a pretty fortune

for a person of moderate wants; but he was in comfortable circumstances,

and Bessie's home was a very pleasant one. The house stood on a gentle

slope, and with its wide verandas covered with roses, jessamine, and honey

suckles, and overhung by live-oak trees, from whose gnarled branches

hung drooping long fringes of the gray moss, giving them the venerable

appearance of age, it suggested ideas of coolness and shade, the peculiar

comforts of that part of the country.

It was in the latter part of February; the early spring was already coming

on with the laggard steps of one sure of its dominion, and therefore in

no haste to assert it. The rose-bushes, that had but a few weeks before

shaken off their summer's burden of leaves and flowers, gave tokens that

they were about to take it up once more, and the yellow jessamine in the

woods, with those many beautiful, but as yet unnamed vines and flowers

that adorn the swamps and marshes of the South, had already begun to

awaken from their winter's slumber.

Bessie had been busy all the morning. Her mother was a confirmed invalid,

and upon the eldest daughter of the house were devolved all the active

duties that belong to the mistress of a plantation--much heavier and more

arduous than those of a Northern housekeeper, requiring the exercise of

more thought and discretion. After breakfast, with her basket of keys,

that invariable accompaniment of a Southern housekeeper, she went to the

store-room to give out the dinner for the family. There, after having

measured out the flour and spices, and counted the eggs, and portioned off

the vegetables required, she stood to see that everything was replaced

in its proper order. Her next visit was to the smoke-house for the

meat, and there she was often required to superintend the distribution

of certain portions of it, both to the house and field-servants on her

father's place. Then giving a scrutinizing glance at the poultry-yard

as she passed, she sought the spring-house, which was a dairy also, and

remained there for an hour overlooking the operations of the dairy-woman.

From thence she bent her steps to the negro-quarter, where there were

two or three sick servants, of whose condition her mother wished to

have a particular account. To obtain an idea of their ailments and their

needs was the work of no little time, for to be sparing of words is not

a characteristic of either the ignorant or the suffering. She ended her

duties here by a visit to her nurse, now a bedridden old woman, and, after

talking with her for a little while, and reading to her, as was Bessie's

daily practice, she returned to what was called, _par excellence_, "the

house."

When she entered her mother's room to give a detailed account of all that

she had done, she was greeted with--

"Bessie, dear, I want you to cut out directly a shirt and a pair of

trowsers for Peter. He has just been in to say that his old ones are not

fit to wear to church, and, if he don't have some new ones, he cannot

go next Sunday; and, as it is communion-day, I do not like to have him

compelled to stay away by any neglect of mine."

"But he ought to have given us a little more time, I think," said Bessie.

"To-day is Friday."

"Yes, dear; but Dinah can make the shirt, and you can have Elsie,

your little maid, to help you with the trowsers. She is quite a neat

seamstress."

"But I told Elsie to sew on my new dress to-day. I intended to wear it

next Sunday."

"You have plenty of old ones that you can wear, my dear. Peter must be

attended to first in this case, I think."

Bessie was so accustomed to be the hands to do the bidding of her mother's

thoughtful and considerate head and heart, that she made no farther

objection to complying with Mrs. Egerton's suggestion. Since she was

fifteen, she had been in the habit of cutting out, under her mother's

supervision, not only nearly all her own clothing, including her dresses,

that very abstruse and difficult portion of female attire, but also the

clothing for all the servants, men, women, and children, on her father's

place; so that the particular portion of the work assigned her was quickly

and skilfully performed. But, pressed for time as they were, she had also

to assist in the sewing, and she was busily employed with her needle,

preparing for Peter his Sunday habiliments, when the noise of a carriage

driving up to the door attracted her attention.

"It is Nannie and Virginia Lanning," said Bessie to her mother, after a

glance from the window, and she ran to welcome her guests.

"Now, I hope you have come to stay with me two or three days," said

Bessie, after the first greetings were over, with the hospitable warmth

common to the class to which she belonged; an invitation to pass the

night at their houses being usually the shortest time to which a Southern

planter restricts his invitations, equivalent to the "Stay and take tea

with us," of the Northerners.

"Yes," replied Nannie, "we have come to pass Sunday with you, and the idea

of going to church once more is quite a treat; it is three months since

we have been off our place. The roads have been so bad, and Prince got

lame, and pa, who thinks almost as much of his horses as he does of us,

would neither sell him and buy another, nor allow him to be used till he

was quite well; so that we have really been prisoners. It is a great favor

that he allowed us to drive with him so far, but we promised to come very

slowly. We have been nearly six hours coming these ten or eleven miles."

"Don't you often feel very lonely?" asked Bessie.

"Yes, indeed. Sometimes for two or three weeks we do not see a human being

out of our own family; and it comes very hard at first, after we have

been travelling about all summer; but it is astonishing how soon we get

accustomed to it. We have occasional visitors, though, that break in on

the monotony, if they do nothing else. You know we have no tavern within

twelve or fifteen miles of us, and, as father has the largest house in the

neighborhood, travellers are often directed there to pass the night, and

sometimes they prove to be very agreeable people."

"Yes," said Virginia, "there was a lawyer from Philadelphia travelling

through the country on business, that Nannie declares she fell in love

with; and then there was a Yankee quack doctor that stayed with us

nearly a week, and amused us very much. He took our house for a tavern,

and ordered the servants about, and made himself quite at home. He told

father that he thought that he had rather a tumble-down sort of a place,

but, if he would just spry up a little and go to work, he might fix up

considerable."

"And," continued Nannie, "when he was going away, he pulled out an old

pocket-book and said, 'Wall, Squire, what's the damage?' And when pa told

him, 'Nothing, that it was a private house, but that he was very happy to

afford travellers the shelter they could procure nowhere else,' the man

looked quite confounded. 'Wall, really,' said he, 'ef I ain't beat out. I

hadn't the least idea that this wasn't a public house; but I thought you

had a dreadful shiftless way of doin' business. Why, there was enough

on your table at dinner to last our folks to hum for a hull week. But, I

must say, you've treated me fust rate; and, of you ever get up as far as

old Connecticut, and will come to Peterboro', just ask for Isa Jeffries,

and I will do as much for you.' And he went to see if his horse was ready;

but he soon came back with a bottle in his hand. 'Here, Squire,' said he,

'that youngest darter of your'n has a very peaked sort of look. Ef she

will take some of my Electron here, it will do her a sight of good.' And

so he left the bottle for Virginia. Poor Virginia! It was quite a shock to

her to hear herself called peaked-looking, especially since Mr. Chapman

has persuaded her that she was sylph-like."

"It only shows with what different eyes different people look on the same

thing," said Virginia, with philosophic composure. "And now let us go to

your mother."

"You seem to be very busy, Bessie," said Nannie, after they were seated in

Mrs. Egerton's room. "What are you doing?"

"Making some clothes for Peter, our waiter. He is something of a dandy,

and made the discovery this morning that he had nothing fit to wear to

church next Sunday, so we have been a little hurried about it."

"Oh, we can help you after dinner; and, together, we can soon finish

them," said Virginia.

At dinner, Bessie asked her father if he could not send Peter to the

post-office that afternoon.

"Why, Bessie," said her father, "I sent him for you yesterday, and

I cannot conveniently spare him to go every day. You seem to have a

post-office mania lately, coming on at regular intervals."

"Yes, father," said Agnes, Bessie's younger sister; "ever since the

'Lady's Book' began to come so mysteriously, Bessie is never easy till she

gets it; and I want it quite as much. Do, please, send for it."

Of course, Mr. Egerton could not resist his children's entreaties, and

Bessie had the satisfaction of seeing Peter set out for Oxford soon after

dinner.

Towards the close of the afternoon, Bessie proposed that the work now

nearly completed should be left to Elsie to finish, while they went out

to enjoy the fresh, soft air, full of the sunshine and life of the early

spring.

"Don't you think the other side of the house is less sunny?" suggested

Nannie, as Bessie seated herself on the green bank by the house, with

Agnes standing at her side.

"This is much pleasanter, I think, and the sun will soon be away. But

take my parasol, dear; I have a bonnet, and do not need it."

"Oh no, thank you; I am going to finish this story, and could not trouble

myself to hold it. Virginia and I pride ourselves on complexions that

neither sun nor wind can affect."

And, in truth, their clear, dark, colorless, yet healthful complexions

gave to their features the firm, unimpressible look of finely polished

marble.

"I will tell you," said Agnes, "why sister always chooses this seat. We

can see Peter from here long before he reaches the gate."

"Then," said Nannie, "I quite agree with her in thinking it decidedly the

pleasantest. I am as impatient as she can be to see the 'Book;' but I

candidly confess that the fashions are its chief attraction to me. It is a

great thing to know exactly how other people dress, so as to be sure, when

you come out of your winter's shell, that you are not making a fright of

yourself."

"Pa and I like the stories," said Agnes.

"So do I," said Virginia.

"But ma likes the serious part of it," continued Agnes, "and Bessie the

poetry, especially if it is marked. I see her crying over it sometimes."

"Oh, Agnes!" said Bessie, while her face flushed suddenly.

"I would like to know what all those blushes mean," said Nannie; "whenever

we mention the 'Lady's Book,' I see Bessie's cheeks growing red. What can

be the association of ideas that produces such a remarkable effect?"

"You know Wallace Cuthbert?" said Agnes.

"Agnes, hush; you do not know anything about it," interrupted Bessie.

"Yes, dear, I know Wallace Cuthbert. Go on," said Nannie, encouragingly.

"Do, just let me tell this," said Agnes, too eager to impart what she

considered her wonderfully acute conjecture to show her usual deference

to her elder sister. "You know, Wallace Cuthbert asked pa if he might not

write occasionally to Bessie when he went away, and pa would not consent

to it. But ever since he first went to Philadelphia the 'Lady's Book' has

been coming regularly, and I have no doubt he sends it, and marks the

poetry, too."

"Now, Agnes, I hope you have finished your revelations," said Bessie, a

little impatiently. "Of course," continued she, turning to Nannie, "this

is a mere conjecture of Agnes's, and a very childish one."

"On the contrary, I think it a very shrewd one; it is putting cause and

effect together in a wise and discreet way that is entirely satisfactory

to me. For one, I feel myself under great obligations to Wallace Cuthbert,

and intend to tell him, when I see him, that he could not have chosen a

more judicious means if he wished 'to keep his memory green,' and connect

pleasant associations with thoughts of himself. Pa has promised me that,

when I am eighteen, I may take the 'Lady's Book' for myself, and I am

quite impatient for my next birthday to come."

"See, there is Peter!" said Virginia, who had, with her usual quiet

sagacity, seated herself so that she could catch the first glimpse of him.

"He seems to be waving something."

"Oh, he has brought it!" said Agnes, springing up joyfully. "I am so glad!

I was afraid it would not come before Monday, because, when you wait and

watch so for anything, you are almost sure to be disappointed."

"Peter seems to understand what we are expecting, and to be as delighted

as any of us," said Nannie.

"Oh, yes," replied Agnes; "he knows how glad we are to get it; besides,

he feels sure that it comes from Wallace Cuthbert, and he has always been

very fond of him. He said to me one day, after the 'Book' first began to

come regularly, and when we were all wondering about it, I am certain

sure, Miss Agnes, Mas'r Wallace has a finger in dat pie.' That gave me

my first suspicions about Mr. Cuthbert; and I asked pa about it, and he

said, 'Very likely.' Peter says, too, that if 'Miss Bessie will only marry

Mas'r Wallace, and take him for her head waiter, his earthly hopes will be

suspended.'"

"Agnes, how can you repeat such nonsense?" said Bessie, in a state of

desperate confusion.

"I like to hear little people talk," said Nannie; "a great deal of useful

information can be obtained from them. You seem to have a wonderful

faculty, Agnes, for putting this and that together; but I have a little

sister at home that is almost equal to you."

"Give it to me, Peter," said Virginia, springing forward to take the

offered prize; "the others seem to be absorbed in such an interesting

discussion that they will not care about it."

But, notwithstanding this assertion, the cover was no sooner torn off,

which Bessie took an opportunity, when unobserved, to slip into her

pocket, than the four heads were crowded together over the engravings and

fashion plate with an eagerness and delight that it would be difficult to

express. For the first few minutes they all talked at once, exclaiming,

"Isn't this pretty?" "Isn't it lovely?" "I wonder what it means!" "Let's

read the story about it."

"Do look, what an odd fashion! It is pretty, though. I mean to make my new

dress so."

"See here, girls," said Mr. Egerton, leaning over the veranda, "if you go

on in that way I shall have to make the same rule the Scotch laird did

with his thirteen daughters--that not more than seven of them should speak

at a time. What has caused this outburst of enthusiasm?"

"The 'Lady's Book,' pa," said Bessie. "Look at that picture; isn't it

beautiful?"

"It is, indeed," replied he, taking the "Book." "How much they have

improved lately in the art of engravings! Why, when I was a boy, a picture

like that would have been considered wonderfully fine, and would have

been carefully laid away and preserved as a rare treasure; and now they

are flying about on the wings of the post-office department into the most

distant parts and by-places of the country. They must be of no small

advantage in cultivating the taste of the community, coming as they do to

many persons who see but few other books during the year. Here, Bessie,

you had better take the 'Book' to your mother; she is always pleased to

see it, and this evening we will have a family reading party."

Excusing herself to her companions, Bessie hastened to comply with her

father's suggestion, but returned with the welcome arrival after a few

minutes, when an animated discussion was held over the fashion-plates

and the descriptions of them. The conversation was serious and earnest.

No assembly of divines ever debated a knotty point in theology with more

intent gravity than these young girls wasted over the questions as to

whether bodices, which were evidently going out, were not in the main

superior to round waists, which were coming in; whether basques were

likely to be a permanent fashion, or a mere fleeting freak of fancy, was

also warmly discussed; and the question of trailing skirts, or those

just long enough to touch the ground, might have caused a schism, if

Bessie, with great presence of mind, had not changed the conversation to

the arrangement of the hair. Here all differences were swept away by the

unanimous agreement that _bandeaux_ of curls, _à la_ Jenny Lind, was a

much prettier and easier way of dressing the head than any other.

A summons to tea interrupted all farther discussion. After tea, the

whole family assembled, as was their custom, in Mrs. Egerton's room. Mr.

Egerton, without his hat, which many Southerners seem to think as useful

in the house as out of it, was seated in the large arm-chair by the side

of a blazing fire, which the chilliness of the evenings still rendered

necessary; Nannie heaped up the cushions on the lounge, a home-made,

chintz-covered affair, and made herself perfectly comfortable; the other

two girls, constituting themselves the readers for the rest, seated

themselves by the centre-table; while Agnes sometimes sat on the bed by

her mother, and sometimes hung over the reader, to make sure with her own

eyes that they were scrupulously giving each word--skipping was, in her

eyes, a most unjustifiable and unpardonable act.

"There is still enough to occupy us to-morrow evening," said Bessie, as

she closed the "Book;" "but it is time now for mother to go to sleep."

As she bent over to kiss her mother for good-night, Mrs. Egerton

whispered--

"That was a very cunning plan Wallace hit upon, dear, to evade your

father's prohibition about letters. He gives us all so much pleasure that

we do not think of objecting to it. Don't you think he must be a very

designing sort of a man?"

"We don't know at all that it is Wallace," said Bessie, stoutly.

"We shall see what we shall see. Has he marked anything?"

"There are a few foolish verses marked; but I do not know who did it,"

replied Bessie.

"Well, leave the 'Book' with me; I would like to read them."

That was very hard. Bessie had only had time to glance hastily over some

lines signed W. C., and speaking in woful strains of the pangs of absence

and hope deferred, but breathing the most devoted constancy and love.

These verses which, in her reckless confusion, she had stigmatized as

foolish, she was longing to read over and over in the silence of her own

room. But she would not, for the whole of Carolina, have expressed her

wish. She quietly laid the "Book" on her mother's bed, placed the candles

near her, and retired with her companions.

"Did you hear, my dear," said Mrs. Egerton to her husband, when they were

left alone, "what Mr. Littleton, who has just returned from Philadelphia,

says of Wallace Cuthbert--about the high estimation in which the

professors of the university hold him? One of them told Mr. Littleton that

he regarded Mr. Cuthbert as one of their most promising students, and that

he bid fair to become one of the first physicians in the country."

"No, I have not heard it before; but I always had a good opinion of

him. I refused to allow him to write to Bessie when he went away, three

years ago, because they were both too young, I thought, to entangle

themselves in any way. Bessie was hardly sixteen, and he but four or five

years older. And he had not only his profession to acquire, but also to

establish himself; for he has little else than his own talents to depend

upon. Besides, I did not think Bessie cared much about him; she did not

appear to."

"I think she always preferred him; but her preference was not a very

decided one when he went away," said Mrs. Egerton. "Indeed, she was too

young to know herself exactly whether she loved him or not; but it has

happened that in each one of these monthly souvenirs that Mr. Cuthbert

has been sending, there has been some pathetic story or touching little

poem, by marking which he has contrived to indicate his own feelings, and

not only preserve, but deepen Bessie's interest in him. I can perceive, I

think, that her liking for him has grown stronger almost day by day. It is

very clear that she cares for no one else. Here were George Musgrave and

Robert Linn, two of the richest and finest young men about, whom Bessie

dismissed without a moment's hesitation."

"Well," said Mr. Egerton, "I am perfectly willing to trust Bessie to make

her own choice, now that she is old enough to judge for herself. We will

leave the matter to time to settle."

Time justified Mrs. Egerton's previsions. Wallace Cuthbert did not

disappoint the high expectations that had been formed of him, and was soon

able to claim Bessie's hand as a reward for his assiduity and devotion to

his profession.

"I think you may thank the 'Lady's Book' for Bessie's constancy," said

Mrs. Egerton one day to Mr. Cuthbert. "If it had not been for some such

suggestive memorial, I am afraid she would hardly have resisted all the

attacks made upon her."

"Very likely," said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. But, though his words

expressed such proper humility, in his inmost heart, with that generous

self-appreciation so unusual perhaps in his modest sex, he attributed

the love and the patient waiting of Bessie Egerton entirely to his own

peculiar merits.

Peter's "earthly hopes _were_ suspended."

THE WILD FLOWERS OF EARLY SPRING-TIME.

"There is at times a solemn gloom

Ere yet the lovely Spring assume

Sole empire, with the lingering cold

Content divided sway to hold;

A sort of interreign, which throws

On all around its dull repose;

Dull, not unpleasing; when the rest

Nor snow, nor rains, nor winds molest;

Nor aught by listening ear is heard

Save first-fruit notes of vernal bird,

Alone, or with responsive call,

Or sound of twinklings waterfall;

Yet is no radiant brightness seen

To pierce the cloud's opposing screen,

Or hazy vapor to illume

The thickness of that solemn gloom."

MANT.

THOSE accustomed to the gay and busy life of a city know little of the

_ennui_ that _generally_ attends a rural life. Those who live in the bosom

of nature, as it were--in the very midst of God's beautiful works--ought

not to feel wearisome; and they would not if their eyes were open to the

interesting phenomena that continually go on around them. Every season of

the year, every day, nay every hour, brings about some instructive change

on the face of Nature; and there is no more interesting and improving

pursuit than the observation of natural phenomena. To watch the opening

of the buds, the leafing of the trees, the blooming of the flowers, the

ripening of the fruit, and the decay and death which autumn brings, is

of itself an interesting occupation; but when we connect these various

events with their proximate causes, and endeavor to trace those general

laws by whose operation they are regulated, then the study becomes a truly

philosophical as well as a pleasant one. We may also gather spiritual

wisdom from such contemplations. Our beloved Saviour sought to illustrate

his teachings by a reference to the phenomena of plants; we are directed

to "Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, neither do they

spin; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed

like one of these." Every reader of this page may have "considered" the

lilies and admired the beauty of their various parts; but in the passage

which has been quoted there is, perhaps, a deeper meaning than many have

guessed at. Consider the lilies _how they grow;_ examine their structure,

and their beautiful mode of development; see how the fair form of this

beauteous flower rises, "like a resurrection from the dead," out of its

scaly, withered-like bulbous root, perfects its fruit, and then decays.

To know _how_ the lily _grows_ is to know the most important principles

of vegetable physiology. It is a gratifying fact that the physical

sciences are now becoming important branches of general education, and no

department is more popular than botany. It is a science peculiarly adapted

for ladies; the objects whose purpose it is to investigate are beautiful,

and esteemed by every one--a striking contrast to the forbidding

directions and dirty experiments which are necessary in the prosecution of

many other departments of natural science; even Entomology--the study of

insects--requires the bottling of poor beetles in spirituous solutions,

the pinning of innocent moths and gay butterflies, and other cruel

operations, at which every kind-hearted woman ought to shudder.

In pursuing botanical investigations, even very slightly, it is necessary

to form a _herbarium_, or collection of dried specimens of plants. In

these collections much taste may be displayed in the arrangement, as

well as in the careful drying of the specimens; and the writer of these

observations--a public teacher of botany to extensive classes of both

ladies and gentlemen--can testify to the fact that the herbaria formed

by ladies are, as a general rule, pre-eminent for neatness and artistic

beauty in the arrangement of the specimens. It is difficult, however,

for ladies who have not the benefit of a teacher, nor friends devoted to

botanical pursuits, to get an acquaintance with the method of preserving

plants properly; and it is therefore deemed advisable to offer a few

observations on this subject on the present occasion, before going on to

consider the characteristics of the Spring Flora.

The process of preparing botanical specimens may be shortly described to

be, the pressure of plants between sheets of soft absorbent paper for the

purpose of extracting their moisture without destroying their beauty, and

thus enabling them to be kept for an indefinite period in an arranged

form, for future reference and study. When well dried, plants may be kept

for hundreds of years; they are almost as indestructible as books, if

properly cared for.

German botanists excel in the beauty, and well-preserved specific

characters, of their specimens; as is well evidenced by the beautiful

specimens which they send to this country. One reason of their success

is no doubt to be attributed to the very soft paper (made from woollen

rags) which they use in the process; but it is no doubt due, in a larger

measure, to the great care which they take, and the time and patience

which they bestow upon their specimens.

Plants ought, in all cases where practicable, to be gathered when _dry_;

or, if moist with rain or dew when gathered, they ought to be exposed to

the atmosphere of a dry room for an hour or two previous to being put into

papers. For the conveyance of specimens a tin box, called a _vasculum_,

is used, which prevents the plants withering during a long journey, and

otherwise protects them. Some of our readers may not think the japanned

tin vasculum a very elegant accoutrement, but it is quite usual for ladies

to carry such along the streets of Modern Athens, where, through the

labors of Professor Balfour and others, botany has, of late years, become

of high repute as a feminine accomplishment.

In proceeding to dry the plants, procure a quantity of soft

blotting-paper. Four or five sheets are to be laid down on the table (each

folded within the other, as in a ream), and on the uppermost one the

specimen is to be laid. Spread it out carefully, separating the branches

and leaves so that they do not overlap; and after this is done, a slip

of paper or "label" put beside the specimen, indicating its botanical

name, the locality where collected, and the date when; then another four

or five sheets, folded as before, are to be laid over the plant. On the

surface of this latter layer of paper, another specimen or specimens may

be spread--an additional layer of four or five sheets being placed over

them--and so on until all the specimens collected are spread out. A board

of the same size as the paper is to be placed above the uppermost sheet,

and on the top of that a heavy weight, fifty or sixty pounds. A bundle

of large volumes will serve the purpose of a weight, if no better is at

hand. Some recommend a screw-press for pressing the plants, instead of a

weight; but presses of all kinds are objectionable, as the shrinking of

the plants renders the pressure unequal from the want of elasticity, which

is so easily attained by means of an ordinary weight. After the specimens

have been allowed to stand in this manner twenty-four hours or so, they

should be taken carefully out; such leaves as are disarranged should be

spread out properly, and the whole put into _dry_ paper, in the same way

as in the previous operation. The moist paper from which they are taken

should be spread before the fire to dry; it will be ready for use another

time. The plants are to be supplied with dry paper, in this manner, once

every twenty-four hours, until they have become quite dry, when they may

be taken out and put apart in single sheets of gray paper.

The operation of _drying_ the specimens has been here described, but that

of _mounting_ them on _white_ paper is equally important. Gum Arabic is

generally used for this purpose, but it is very bad; does not adhere

sufficiently, and thus allows the specimens to spring off from the sheets.

Fine glue, prepared in a very thin state, is the best material for fixing

the plants. The melted glue should, when very hot, be spread over the

specimen carefully with a brush, a sheet of dirty absorbent paper lying

beneath the specimen to prevent the glue soiling anything, and then the

specimen is to be put down upon the sheet of white paper previously laid

out for its reception. A towel is then taken to press the different

branches or leaves gently down upon the surface of the paper. After this

is done, a few sheets of drying paper are to be laid over the specimen,

and on the top of this another sheet of white paper for the reception of

another glued specimen, and so on until all are completed. A board is then

to be placed over the whole, and a weight, in order to press all parts of

the plants equally to the sheets of paper, until they are made firm by

the drying of the glue. After the specimens have stood in this manner a

few hours, they are to be taken out, their names, localities, and dates

written at the bottom of the sheet, and the whole arranged in such manner

as the possessor may think proper. Any refractory stems or branches that

have sprung up from the paper in spite of the glue, may be fastened down

by slips of gummed paper. The marginal portion of postage-stamp sheets

supplies these to those who can obtain them in sufficient quantity.

The plants of each genus are to be put together inside of a double sheet

of paper, with their _generic_ name written at the bottom of the sheet

upon the outside at the left hand corner; for instance, the pansy, the

sweet violet, the dog violet, the yellow mountain violet, &c., are all to

be put inside of one double sheet, the generic name "VIOLA" being written

upon the corner of it. This is to facilitate references.

We now proceed to point out what spring flowers are likely to reward the

exertions of those who go in search of them among the woods and fields.

And first of all the primrose and the cowslip demand attention as general

favorites. The wild plant, with its modest flower of pale yellow hue

(which has given rise to the name of a tint known as primrose yellow), is

probably familiar to every one, but it may not be so well known that the

gay polyanthus of our florists, and the rich double-flowered primroses

of every hue which decorate our gardens, all owe their existence to

the wild plant as their original stock. The cowslip, although local in

its geographical distribution, is abundant in many localities, and is

associated right pleasantly with cowslip wine. Beneath the hedges in

early spring-time there is a pretty little plant which seldom catches the

eye of the passer-by; it is aptly styled the "gloryless," for its little

flowers are of greenish-yellow hue, and so small as to be inconspicuous

to any one save the botanical explorer. When examined, however, it is an

object of great, though simple beauty. It sends up a delicate stem, which

bears a little rosette of divided leaves, and from amidst this rises the

flower-stalk, pale and slender, bearing on its summit a compact head of a

few tiny showless flowers. Its botanical name is Adoxa Moschatellina.

It is summer time before the buttercups begem the pastures; but one

member of the family already welcomes us by hedge-rows; it is the Lesser

Celandine of Wordsworth, which received a special favor from his pen in

the dedication of a pretty little poem. The Lesser Celandine (Ranunculus

Ficaria) grows abundantly on wet shady banks, and produces a profusion of

its bright glossy golden flowers, which, in fading, assume a pure white

hue. This ranks as one of the economical plants of Britain; and humble as

it is, it has been brought forward as a substitute for that unfortunate

vegetable, the potato. Plants of the Lesser Celandine, raised from roots

which had been gathered in Silesia by the Rev. Mr. Wade in 1848, were

grown in the Edinburgh Botanic Garden, and exhibited by Mr. M'Nab, the

curator of the garden, to the Botanical Society. These roots had been

exposed over a large extent of country in Austria by heavy rains, and the

common people gathered them and used them as an article of food. Their

sudden appearance gave rise to various conjectures as to their nature and

origin, and in the Austrian journals they were spoken of as if they had

fallen from the sky. The "small bodies" (roots) were used as peas by the

inhabitants. Either in a dried state, or when fresh, they are found, on

boiling, to be very amylaceous; that is, they contain much starchy matter.

There is no acridity in the roots even in a fresh state, which is a

remarkable fact when we take into consideration the acrid and poisonous

nature of the entire race of plants allied to it in structure, viz.,

the Ranunculaceæ, to which order it belongs. For instance, one of these

plants, the Indian Aconite, is thus spoken of by Professor Balfour:--

"The root of the plant possesses extreme acrimony, and very marked

narcotic properties. It is said to be the most poisonous of the genus, and

as such has been employed in India. Wallich says that in the Turraye, or

low forest-lands which skirt the approach to Nipal, and among the lower

range of hills, especially at a place called Hetounra, quantities of the

bruised root were thrown into wells and reservoirs, for the purpose of

poisoning our men and cattle. By the vigilant precaution of our troops,

however, these nefarious designs were providentially frustrated. In the

northern parts of Hindoostan, arrows poisoned with the root are used

for destroying tigers. The root, according to Rayle, is sent down into

the plains, and used in the cure of chronic rheumatism, under the name

of _Metha tellia_. Roots, apparently of this plant, were sent by Dr.

Christison from Madras under the name of Nabee. Pereira made a series

of experiments on the roots which had been kept for ten years, and

still retained their poisonous properties. The roots were administered

to animals in the form of a powder, and spirituous and watery extract.

The spirituous extract was the most energetic, the effects produced

being difficulty of breathing, weakness, and subsequent paralysis, which

generally showed itself first in the posterior extremities, vertigo,

convulsions, dilatation of the pupil, and death apparently from asphyxia."

One grain of the alcoholic extract killed a rabbit in nine and a half

minutes, and two grains introduced into the jugular vein of a strong dog

caused death in three minutes.

This is the general character of the crowfoots, and they are indeed the

most destructive cattle poisons that infect our pastures; it is a curious

fact, therefore, that one of them should be so harmless and so nutritious

as we have seen the Lesser Celandine to be; and a still more curious

fact that Linnæus, the father of naturalists, should have thought that

agriculturists should endeavor to extirpate this pretty flower, not only

as acrid and poisonous, but as injurious to all plants growing near it.

BEAUTY.

BY MISS M. H. BUTT.

YES, there is beauty in this world of ours. In looking throughout Nature,

we see its impress everywhere. At early morn, wander forth to the verdant

fields, mark the flowers of every tint, and inhale their perfume. When

Spring dawns, see the trees laden with delicate blossoms, foretelling

a plentiful harvest; watch the tall grass waving so gracefully as the

zephyrs sport there. Surely such a sight is beautiful.

Stop for a moment and list to the murmuring of the streams as they skip on

joyfully; watch the pearly bells which dance upon their brow all sparkling

and bright. Look above, and view the thousand birds on gay wing, singing

so merrily, welcoming the dawn of Spring, and chanting a lay as a requiem

to the departure of Winter. Look around still, and view the myriads of

insects sporting in the sunlight or sipping nectar from flowers. Oh, is

not beauty there?

When Night comes forth with spangled robes and diadem of gems upon her

brow, while each planet and star with tiny harps welcome her coming,

touching those gentle chords, the echo of which glides like a bright

meteor to earth, charming the very soul--is this not beautiful? Or, when

spirits from dream-land watch by our couch during the hours of repose,

painting scenes to enchant us--are they not beautiful?

Nor are all these scenes alone lovely. There is that which hath greater

beauty: it is woman. She stands forth, like some brilliant star, to guide

man through the path of life and cheer his way. Whether she be in the

lofty or lowly walks of life, if she possess certain mental qualifications

and traits of character, she is beautiful. Her beauty does not consist

alone in the bright flashing eye, which seems to speak the sentiments of

her heart; it depends not upon the graceful form or gorgeous equipage;

it is her mind, well cultivated and endowed with all those intellectual

qualifications, which will make her a brilliant star, and which will

enable her to enlighten those with whom she may become conversant. It

may be found, also, in her heart, one which possesses all those fine and

exquisite feelings whereby she can sympathize with the sufferings of

others and minister to their wants. Woman holds a dignified position in

life, and she should cultivate all those traits which will cause her to be

the very pillar of the society in which she moves. Yes, woman is truly

beautiful; she is earth's greatest ornament; of her too much cannot be

said. In whatever light we view her, she is lovely.

Although Nature possesses so much beauty, Art has also her share, for she

endeavors to copy her works and invest them with beauty, as one has said

of man--

"He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,

Admiring beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's shape,

And mocks his own Creator's skill."

Look at the artist, who toils day after day upon a painting which he has

copied from Nature; he endeavors to paint the flowers with accuracy, give

that exquisite emerald hue to the leaves of the trees, the same tints

to the horizon, and that gorgeous light to the sun. Why? He saw beauty

in Nature, and desired to imitate it. The sculptor works with all his

skill upon the bust of some celebrated person, all his power is employed;

he wishes to delineate every feature with accuracy, and determines, if

possible, to accomplish it. Soon he has the gratification of seeing the

soulless and once rugged block of marble transformed into an image of

symmetry and beauty.

Is there not great pleasure to be felt while beholding works of art? We

can but admire and love the fruits of genius. It is very true that there

are many who can look upon the works of art, still no effect will be

produced; yet a person of nice perception and correct taste could gaze for

hours upon them, and see each time something to admire. It is so in Nature

even. Many might walk forth on a lovely morning when Spring first smiles,

yet see no beauty whatever, but merely cast a careless eye upon all

around. One may see much to admire in the storm-cloud which rises darkly

o'er the sea, while streaks of lightning dive 'neath the briny waves,

and the peals of thunder rattle furiously; we may have feelings of awe,

yet, at the same time, see sublimity, and in our hearts we exclaim, "How

beautiful!"

Yes, beauty dwelleth everywhere; from the tiny flower which blooms, to

the stupendous heavens at night lighted with innumerable stars, being the

impress of the One who created all things.

DRESS--AS A FINE ART.

BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.

ORNAMENT--ECONOMY.

ORNAMENT, although not an integral part of dress, is so intimately

connected with it that we must devote a few words to the subject.

Under the general term of ornament, we shall include bows of ribbon,

artificial flowers, feathers, jewels, lace, fringes, and trimming of all

kinds. Some of these articles appear to be suited to one period of life,

some to another. Jewels, for instance, though suitable to middle age, seem

misplaced on youth, which should always be characterized by simplicity

of apparel; while flowers, which are so peculiarly adapted to youth,

are unbecoming to those advanced in years: in the latter case, there is

contrast without harmony--it is like uniting May with December.

The great principle to be observed with regard to ornament is that it

should be appropriate, and appear designed to answer some useful purpose.

A brooch, or a bow of ribbon, for instance, should fasten some part of the

dress; a gold chain should support a watch or an eye-glass. Trimmings are

useful to mark the borders or edges of the different parts of the dress,

and in this light they add to the variety, while by their repetition they

conduce to the regularity of the ornamentation.

The subject of economy in dress, an essential object with many persons,

now claims our attention. We venture to offer a few remarks on this head.

Our first recommendation is to have but few dresses at a time, and those

extremely good. If we have but few dresses, we wear them, and wear them

out while they are in fashion; but, if we have many dresses at once, some

of them become quite old-fashioned before we have done with them. If we

are rich enough to afford the sacrifice, the old-fashioned dress is got

rid of; if not, we must be content to appear in a fashion that has long

been superseded, and we look as if we had come out of the tombs, or as if

one of our ancestors had stepped out of her picture-frame and again walked

the earth.

As to the economy of selecting the best material for dresses, we argue

thus: Every dress must be lined and made up, and we pay as much for making

and lining an inferior article as we do for one of the best quality. Now,

a good silk or merino will wear out two bad ones, therefore one good

dress, lining and making, will cost less than two inferior ones, with the

expenses of lining and making them. In point of appearance, also, there is

no comparison between the two; the good dress will look well to the last,

while one of inferior quality will soon look shabby. When a good silk

dress has become too shabby to be worn longer as a dress, it becomes, when

cut up, useful for a variety of purposes, whereas an inferior silk, or one

purely ornamental, is, when left off, good for nothing.

Plain dresses, that is to say, those of a single color, and without a

pattern, are more economical, as well as more quiet in their appearance,

than those of various colors. They are also generally less expensive,

because something is always paid for the novelty of the fashion; besides,

colored and figured dresses bear the date on the face of them as plainly

as if it was there in printed characters; the ages of dress fabrics are

known by the pattern, therefore dresses of this description should be

put on as soon as purchased, and worn out at once, or they will appear

old-fashioned. There is another reason why dresses of various colors are

less economical than others. Where there are several colors, they may

not all be equally fast, and, if only one of them fades, the dress will

lose its beauty. Trimmings are not economical; besides their cost in the

first instance, they become shabby before the dress, and, if removed, they

generally leave a mark where they have been, and so spoil the appearance

of the dress.

Dresses made of one kind of material only are more durable than those

composed of two, as, for instance, of cotton and silk, of cotton and

worsted, or of silk and worsted. When the silk is merely thrown on the

face of the material, it soon wears off. This is also the case in those

woollen or cotton goods which have a silken stripe.

The question of economy also extends to colors, some of which are much

more durable than others. For this we can give no rule, except that drabs

and other "quaker colors," as they are frequently called, are amongst the

most permanent of all colors. For other colors, we must take the word of

the draper. There is no doubt, however, that the most durable colors are

the cheapest in the end. In the selection of colors, the expense is not

always a criterion; something must be paid for fashion and novelty, and

perhaps for the cost of the dye. The newest and most expensive colors are

not always those which last the longest.

It is not economical to have the dresses made in the extremity of the

fashion, because such soon become remarkable; but the fashions should be

followed at such a distance that the wearer may not attract the epithet of

old-fashioned.

We conclude this part of our subject with a few suggestions relative to

the selection of different styles and materials of dress.

The style of dress should be adapted to the age of the wearer. As a

general rule, we should say that in youth the dress should be simple and

elegant, the ornaments being flowers. In middle age, the dress may be

of rich materials, and more splendid in its character; jewels are the

appropriate ornaments. In the decline of life, the materials of which the

dress is composed may be equally rich, but with less vivacious colors; the

tertiaries and broken colors are particularly suitable, and the character

of the whole costume should be quiet, simple, and dignified. The French,

whose taste in dress is so far in advance of our own, say that ladies who

are fifty years old should neither wear gay colors nor dresses of slight

materials, flowers, feathers, or much jewelry; that they should cover

their hair, wear high dresses, and long sleeves.

Tall ladies may wear flounces and tucks, but they are less appropriate for

short persons. As a general rule, vertical stripes make persons appear

taller than they really are, but horizontal stripes have a contrary

effect. The latter are not admissible in garment fabrics, "since, crossing

the person, the pattern quarrels with all the motions of the human figure,

as well as with the form of the long folds in the skirts of the garment.

For this reason, large and pronounced checks, however fashionable, are

often in bad taste, and interfere with the graceful arrangement of

drapery." Is it to show their entire contempt for the principles of design

that our manufacturers introduced last year not only horizontal stripes

of conspicuous colors, but checks and plaids of immense size, as autumnal

fashions for dress fabrics? We had hoped that the ladies would show the

correctness of their taste by their disapproval of these unbecoming

designs, but the prevalence of the fashion at the present time is another

evidence of the triumph of fashion over good taste.

A white and light-colored dress makes the wearers appear larger, while a

black or dark dress causes them to appear smaller than they actually are.

A judicious person will therefore avail herself of these known effects, by

adopting the style of dress most suitable to her stature.

To sum up in a few words our impressions on this subject, we should say

that the best style of dress is that which, being exactly adapted to

the climate and the individual, is at once modest, quiet, and retiring,

harmonious in color and decoration, and of good materials.

We conclude with the following admirable extract from Tobin's "Honeymoon,"

which we earnestly recommend to the attention of our fair readers:--

"I'll have no glittering gew-gaws stuck about you,

To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder,

And make men stare upon a piece of earth,

As on the star-wrought firmament--no feathers,

To wave as streamers to your vanity--

Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,

Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned

Amply that in her husband's eye looks lovely--

The truest mirror that an honest wife

Can see her beauty in!

_Julia._ I shall observe, sir.

_Duke._ I should like well to see you in the dress I last presented

you.

_Julia._ The blue one, sir?

_Duke._ No, love--the white. Thus modestly attired,

A half blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,

With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,

No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,

Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,

With the pure red and white, which that same hand

Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks;

This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter)

In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,

And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,

Thou'lt fix as much observance as chaste dames

Can meet without a blush."

[Illustration]

THE TURKISH COSTUME.

"I REMEMBER," says Mr. St. John, "once seeing a Falstaff fasten his

Kashmire, six or seven yards long, to a door-handle, and having gone with

the other extremity to the opposite side of his court-yard, began to wind

his huge form into it with as much gravity and decorum as if he were

performing a pious mystery. He had a peculiar theory as to the position

of every fold, and if he failed in arranging them exactly, would unwind

himself again with a rapid rotary motion, his hands raised in the air. The

operation, with all its vicissitudes, generally lasted about half an hour;

and I have rarely seen a magnificent Effendi, without thinking of how he

must have looked whilst putting on his shawl."

DAIRY-HOUSE AND PIGGERY.

[Illustration: CHEESE DAIRY-HOUSE.]

WE do not present our readers the following as model cottages; but we give

them a model "Dairy Building" and a model "Piggery." They are from C. M.

Saxton's work on "Rural Architecture."

CHEESE DAIRY-HOUSE.

This building is one and a half stories high, with a broad, spreading roof

of 45° pitch; the ground plan is 10 feet between joists, and the posts 16

feet high. An ice-house is at one end, and a wood-shed at the opposite

end, of the same size. This building is supposed to be erected near the

milking-sheds of the farm, and in contiguity to the feeding-troughs of the

cows, or the piggery, and adapted to the convenience of feeding the whey

to whichever of these animals the dairyman may select, as both, or either

are required to consume it; and to which it may be conveyed in spouts from

the dairy-room.

[Illustration: GROUND PLAN.]

_Interior Arrangement._--The front door is protected by a light porch _a_,

entering by a door _b_, the main dairy-room. The cheese-presses _c_, _c_,

occupy the left end of the room, between which a passage leads through a

door _l_, into the wood-shed _h_, open on all sides, with its roof resting

on four posts set in the ground. The large cheese-table _d_ stands on

the opposite end, and is three feet wide. In the centre of the room is a

chimney _e_, with a whey and water boiler, and vats on each side. A flight

of stairs _f_, leading into the storage-room above, is in the rear. A

door _b_, on the extreme right, leads into the ice-house _g_. There are

four windows to the room--two on each side, front and rear. In the loft

are placed the shelves for storing the cheese, as soon as sufficiently

prepared on the temporary table below. This loft is thoroughly ventilated

by windows, and the heat of the sun upon it ripens the cheese rapidly

for market. A trapdoor, through the floors, over which is hung a tackle,

admits the cheese from below, or passes it down when prepared for market.

The cheese-house should, if possible, be placed on a sloping bank, when

it is designed to feed the whey to pigs; and even when it is fed to cows,

it is more convenient to pass it to them on a lower level than to carry

it out in buckets. It may, however, if on level ground, be discharged

into vats, in a cellar below, and pumped out as wanted. A cellar is

convenient--indeed, almost indispensable--under the cheese dairy; and

water should be so near as to be easily pumped or drawn into the vats and

kettles used in running up the curd, or for washing the utensils used in

the work. When the milk is kept over night for the next morning's curd,

temporary tables may be placed near the ice-room, to hold the pans or

tubs in which it may be set, and the ice used to temper the milk to the

proper degree for raising the cream. If the dairy be of such extent as to

require larger accommodations than the plan here suggested, a room or two

may be partitioned off from the main milk and pressing-room for washing

the vessels and other articles employed, and for setting the milk. Every

facility should be made for neatness in all the operations connected with

the work.

Different accommodations are required for making the different kinds of

cheese which our varied markets demand, and in the fitting up of the

dairy-house, no _positive_ plan of arrangement can be laid down, suited

alike to all the work which may be demanded. The dairyman, therefore, will

best arrange all these for the particular convenience which he requires.

The main plan and style of building, however, we think will be generally

approved, as being in an agreeable architectural style, and of convenient

construction and shape for the objects intended.

PIGGERY.

THE design here given is for a building 36 feet long and 24 feet wide,

with twelve-feet posts; the lower, or living-room for the swine, 9 feet

high, and a storage chamber above for the grain and other food required

for his keeping. The roof has a pitch of 40° from a horizontal line,

spreading over the sides and gables at least 20 inches, and coarsely

bracketed. The entrance front projects 6 feet from the main building, by

12 feet in length. Over its main door, in the gable, is a door with a

hoisting beam and tackle above it, to take in the grain, and a floor over

the whole area receives it. A window is in each gable end. A ventilator

passes up through this chamber and the roof, to let off the steam from the

cooking vats below, and the foul air emitted by the swine, by the side of

which is the furnace-chimney, giving it, on the whole, as respectable an

appearance as a pigsty need pretend to.

_Interior Arrangement._--At the left of the entrance is a flight of stairs

_b_, leading to the chamber above. On the right is a small area _a_, with

a window to light it. A door from this leads into the main room _c_, where

stands a chimney _d_, with a furnace to receive the fuel for cooking the

food, for which are two kettles, or boilers, with wooden vats on the top,

if the extent of food demands them; these are secured with broad wooden

covers, to keep in the steam when cooking. An iron valve is placed in the

back flue of the furnace, which may fall upon either side, to shut off the

fire from either of the kettles, around which the fire may revolve; or the

valve may stand in a perpendicular position, at will, if both kettles be

heated at the same time. But, as the most economical mode is to cook one

kettle while the other is in process of feeding out, and _vice versa_,

scarcely more than one at a time will be required in use. Over each kettle

is a sliding door, with a short spout to slide the food into them when

wanted. If necessary, and it can be conveniently done, a well may be sunk

under this room, and a pump inserted at a convenient place; or, if equally

convenient, a pipe may bring the water in from a neighboring stream or

spring. On three sides of this room are feeding pens _e_, and sleeping

partitions _f_, for the swine. These several apartments are accommodated

with doors, which open into separate yards on the sides and in rear, or a

large one for the entire family, as may be desired.

_Construction._--The frame of this building is of strong timber, and stout

for its size. The sills should be eight inches square, the corner posts

of the same size, and the intermediate posts 8 by 6 inches in diameter. In

the centre of these posts, grooves should be made, two inches wide, and

deep, to receive the _plank_ sides, which should be two inches thick, and

let in from the level of the chamber by a flush cutting for that purpose,

out of the grooves inside, thus using no nails or spikes, and holding the

planks tight in their place that they may not be rooted out or rubbed off

by the hogs, and the inner projection of the main posts left to serve as

rubbing posts for them. Above the chamber floor thinner planks may be

used. The centre post in the floor plan of the engraving is omitted, by

mistake, but it should stand there, like the others. Inside posts at the

corners, and in the sides of the partitions, like the outside ones, should

be also placed and grooved to receive the planking, four and a half feet

high, and their upper ends be secured by tenons into mortices in the beams

overhead. The troughs should be made of cast-iron, or the hardest white

oak plank, strongly spiked on to the floor and sides.

[Illustration: PIGGERY.]

[Illustration: GROUND PLAN.]

Poetry.

* * * * *

THE INTERVIEW.

BY T. HEMPSTEAD.

THERE are oracles true in the depths of the mind,

There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,

There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,

To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;

There are voices of night with a language as plain

As the accents of love or the moanings of pain,

And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,

To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.

There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,

There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,

And thy summer of beauty has faded away,

Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray

Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,

And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen

As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,

As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,

Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,

As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.

Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;

Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,

And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart

Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.

In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,

In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,

In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,

Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,

In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,

My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!

My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,

Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,

From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,

Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;

Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,

The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;

In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,

I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;

Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,

Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!

Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,

Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,

But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,

There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,

And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine

Has died with the lustre that made it divine.

Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows

Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs;

By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,

Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!

Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour--

May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;

They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,

But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!

Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,

From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,

Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,

On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.

Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,

Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,

Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,

Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,

Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,

To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!

Had thy heart been as true--ah, no! never my tongue

May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;

'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,

On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,

Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore

Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.

As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,

Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,

Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,

When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.

On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,

Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,

Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyss

Of black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,

It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,

Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.

There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,

Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;

Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,

Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the dome

Of the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanse

Of chill vapor and spray by the terrible glance

Of the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;

From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;

By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine path

Of the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,

I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,

In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.

Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear

Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;

The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,

To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;

With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,

Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;

Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain

Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;

Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,

I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!

That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,

Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;

No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;

While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;

Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,

Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!

Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,

And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

* * * * *

SONNET.--CLOUDS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

YE welcome clouds! what praises have ye won!

Host after host ye ever thronging come,

Careering on athwart the ethereal dome,

To tell of tempests past or hastening on.

With magic hues ye often deck the sky,

Enamelling it with red and purple, gold;

Like molten silver oft ye are unrolled,

And oft changed into palaces, ye lie.

The rainbow oft is pictured on your breast,

To tell of peace and plenty ye do bring;

Hail, snow, ye bear oft 'neath your ebon wing,

And tempests in your blackest mantle rest.

The thirsty earth ye wet with freshening showers,

Floods flowing from ye speak your desolating powers.

* * * * *

WILLIE MAYLIE.

BY CORNELIA M. DOWLING.

OH! do you not remember, love,

The sunny morn when we were plighted?

Your eye was bright in loving light,

And dancing like a star benighted.

That eye is dim and sunken now,

But still around it love reposes;

And bright the smile upon your cheek,

Though withered long are all its roses.

Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,

My true, my noble Willie Maylie,

Years have rolled,

And we are old,

But _still together_, Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love,

The baby bright we used to cherish,

Not dreaming that so fair a bud

Might early fade away and perish?

Oh! sad it seemed to lay the form

So bright upon an earthy pillow;

Now, she is softly sleeping, love,

Alone, beneath the drooping willow!

Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,

My loving, earnest Willie Maylie,

Roses bloom

Upon the tomb

Of her we loved, my Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love,

That we have journeyed long together,

The heart-light ever gilding o'er

The path of life in wintry weather?

We've almost crossed the ocean now,

Still breasting every billow gayly;

We soon shall reach the heavenly shore,

And rest together, Willie Maylie!

Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,

My own true-hearted Willie Maylie,

Heart to heart,

And ne'er to part,

We'll rest together, Willie Maylie!

* * * * *

ELLIE MAYLIE.

BY JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.

THE light of other days, my love,

Is o'er my vision softly stealing;

The music of thy bridal vows,

Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing.

But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow,

Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted,

Were half so dear to me as now,

When years have proved the love we plighted.

Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,

My ever-winning Ellie Maylie,

Love like thine

To hearts like mine

Is air and sunlight, Ellie Maylie.

Down Youth's bright tide, our shallop light

Went floating on through banks of flowers;

But riper years brought clouds and night,

For Life must have both _sun_ and _showers_

Well _might_ thy Willie brave the storm,

And "breast the adverse billow gayly;"

For what were Youth and Flowers to Love,

Or all the world to Ellie Maylie

Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,

My artless, clinging Ellie Maylie,

Breath to being,

Eye to seeing,

Wert thou to me, my Ellie Maylie.

Not where above a little grave

The early summer buds are springing,

Where willows in the sunlight wave,

Not there--not there my heart is clinging;

But _there_, amid those deathless flowers,

That up from Heav'n's pure soil are springing,

Where waits that angel-babe of ours,

'Tis there--'tis there my heart is clinging!

Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,

My gentle, trusting Ellie Maylie,

Lulled to rest

On Jesus' breast,

We'll meet in Heav'n, my Ellie Maylie!

* * * * *

THERE'S MUSIC.

BY HORACE G. BOUGHMAN.

THERE'S solemn music in the billows

Of the mighty, restless sea;

Lively music poured from brooklets,

As they gambol in their glee.

There's stirring music in the gale;

Soft music in the breeze;

Music sweet when winged minstrels

Carol 'mid the verdant trees.

There's awful music in the thunders;

Lulling music in the rains;

Music echoed from the forest,

In a thousand living strains.

There's silent music in the flowers,

And in the planet's genial fires;

Music grandest in the rivers,

Where they tune their cat'ract lyres.

There 's cheering music all around us,

Thrilling music from above;

And those magic tones should teach us

Sweeter, nobler strains of love.

* * * * *

DREAM PICTURE.

AN IMPROMPTU.

BY MRS. A. F. LAW.

BEHOLD, upon Life's swelling tide,

A little boat doth gently glide!

Its freight a Soul; Sin guides the helm,

And steers for Pleasure's baseless realm:

At prow, the gay-robed Tempter stands,

Obscuring, with his jewelled hands,

The Spirit's view; whilst shines afar

Hope's radiant, but _deceiving_ star;

For, see, _it fades_, e'en as we gazing stand,

And leaves that bark a wreck upon the strand!

* * * * *

I WAS ROBBED OF MY SPIRIT'S LOVE.

BY JARONETTE.

ON! give me some strong human will,

To lull this dream of woe;

It binds me with its iron chain,

And will not let me go.

Oh! give me strength to curb this strife,

And make my spirit know

My early days of happy life,

Of days long, long ago.

But now there's darkness on my path,

A shadow on my heart;

I each fond feeling seek to hide,

Trembling in ev'ry part!

They think that I'm forgetting thee;

But ah! they do not see

The coursing tears, when I'm alone,

Flowing so fast and free!

I list my bird's sweet matin song,

Its wild and gladsome chants;

But no, the dead'ning weight is here,

And still my spirit pants

For long-lost dreamy hours of joy,

When thou wert by my side,

And care seemed but a thing of name,

Not to my life allied.

Now, when the smile is on my lip,

It turns that smile to tears,

Stemming the life-blood of my heart

With weary weight of years.

It makes the strong proud limbs refuse

To roam this gladsome earth,

And sends me reeling, mad, within,

From out the sounds of mirth.

I pet each blossom from my shrubs,

And call them by thy name;

I ask them if their spirits tell

That I am still the same.

A pure white rose that bloomed this morn

I went this eve to take;

"The spirit of the flow'r" had fled,

The _cold_ its _heart_ did break!

They tell me that thou carest not

For woman's love or fame;

That thou speak'st _lightly_ of them all

That bear the gentle name.

But oh! I heed them not the while,

_They_ have not read thy heart;

I know you have not chang'd so much

Since we were forced to part.

And though they bid me see thee not,

My spirit meets thee oft

In dream-land, where the flow'rs bloom bright,

The air so calm and soft.

The angels then are by my side,

They kiss me with thy lips,

And clasp hope's rainbow round my heart,

In that dream-hour of bliss.

And sometimes in thy weary hours

Recall the past, and weave

The dream of hallowed love and hope

I'll ever for thee breathe.

Then wander forth amid the throng,

And seek some gentle one,

One that will honor thy dear name,

And take her _to thy home_.

* * * * *

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.

The following lines were suggested by a remark in Washington Irving's

"Student of Salamanca," that the old alchymist died just as he was on the

point of discovering the philosopher's stone.

THE walls were sweating with a festering damp,

An icy coldness filled the dreary room,

A little solitary flickering lamp

With sickly radiance glimmered through the gloom,

While on a tattered couch an old man lay,

Half-starved with hunger, weary, gaunt, and gray.

His feeble eyes with ardor yet were strained

Upon a yellow parchment dull with age,

As, while one lingering ray of life remained,

That single ray must shine on Learning's page;

And while he lay immersed in study deep,

He murmured thus, as one who speaks in sleep:--

"One little hour more, and all is mine!

Mine the bright prize so long I've sought in vain!

Mine the lost secret, which for countless time

Philosophers have labored to regain!

Mine wealth, and youth, and joy, and nevermore,

O Death! shall I be subject to thy power!

"One hour more, and all these golden dreams

Which still have cheered me on from day to day,

Shall be no more like fleeting radiant beams,

Glancing one moment bright, then snatched away;

But all my visions, howe'er bright their hue,

No more be false, no more be aught but true!

"Ye elementary spirits, who so long

With ready wiles have baffled all my art

One hour more, and I in power strong

Shall see ye all in helpless rage depart!

At last your devilish malice all o'erthrown,

At last the great elixir all my own!"

Thus spoke the alchymist; but ruthless Death,

Who strikes alike the mighty and the low,

And stops the monarch's and plebeian's breath

With equal haste, and with the selfsame blow,

Had laid his icy hand upon his heart,

While bidding him in iron tones "depart!"

The lamp burnt lower, still his eye was fixed

Upon the parchment, while his trembling hand

Within a crucible the compound mixed,

With which completed he would soon command

Unending treasure, boundless glittering wealth,

The priceless draught of endless youth and health.

But from his stiffening band the parchment dropped,

As from his lips broke forth a hollow moan,

The coursing current of his life-blood stopped,

His spirit fled just as its task was done!

Closing his eyes upon the lifelong strife,

He left untouched the sparkling cup of Life.

* * * * *

THE SONG-BIRDS OF SPRING.

BY NORMAN W. BRIDGE.

FROM out the airy balcony

Of many a sylvan cot and dome,

Is poured soul-melting minstrelsy,

That cheers my lonely heart and home.

Around each warbler's chosen haunt

Are heard sweet notes of joy and praise;

From fruit-trees comes the robin's chant,

And from each bush the sparrow's lays.

Amid the poplar's trembling lyre,

That o'er the lawn its shadow throws,

Rich warblings of a linnet-choir

My soul with melody o'erflows;

While from a willow waving near,

And where the vine its trellis girds,

Steals softly o'er the tuneful ear

The symphony of yellow-birds.

Upon the elm-tree's lofty bough

The oriole serenely sings,

While from a puerile branch below

His loved one in her castle swings:

And in the flower-enamelled leas,

Where alders grace the streamlet's brink,

I hear the charming melodies

Of many a sweet-voiced bobolink.

And from yon wildwood's emerald crown

Come oft, in notes of heavenly tone,

The hymns of thrushes, "wood," and "brown,"

And warbling throats to me unknown.

Bird-notes are all so rich and clear,

It seems as though their vocal powers

Were borrowed from some higher sphere

Than this discordant world of ours.

Nor is their magic gift of song

The only charm they o'er me throw;

They ne'er the poor and helpless wrong,

Nor swell the tide of human woe.

Their voice is ne'er with slander fraught,

Or friendships in misfortune change,

Nor speech or deed betrayeth aught

Of av'rice, hatred, and revenge.

They seek not, with malicious tongue,

To stir the bosom with mistrust,

By telling what 's been said and sung,

How all our faults have been discussed;

Till Jealousy within awakes,

And Love with doubt is much annoyed,

The golden clasp of Friendship breaks,

And peace of families destroyed.

No rival's fame they derogate,

A brother falsely charge with sin,

Hoping thereby to elevate

Their name above more worthy kin:

They seem not e'er to envy those

Whose brilliant plumes their own outshine,

Or to rejoice at others' woes

Whose powers of song are more divine.

Nor have their hearts the cruel pride

O'er humbler garbs and gifts to sneer;

The lame, their hapless fate deride,

Or o'er the weak to domineer.

No bitter taunt, unfeeling jest,

The boast of pow'r, wealth, rank, or birth,

E'er flow from soaring warbler's breast,

To wound the heart of lowly worth.

Nor do they play the hypocrite

With faithful, fond, confiding friends,

Looks, manners, language counterfeit,

To gain ignobly selfish ends.

No word or act their aim belies,

Or yield they e'er to sin's control,

And sell, for worldly merchandise,

The jewels of a virtuous soul.

* * * * *

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

BY MARY NEAL.

THY heart is young and light, maiden;

Thy sunny brow is fair;

For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave

Life's brightest sunbeams there.

Brothers and sisters turn to bless

Thy ever-welcome form,

And a father's arm is near to shield

Thee from life's lightest storm.

But more, still more than this, maiden--

A mother's heart is near,

To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush--

To note each starting tear--

To gaze upon thy happy face,

And pray that thy young heart

May long be spared the bitter woe

From cherished friends to part.

Oh, Love will make fond hearts, maiden,

To offer at thy shrine;

And Friendship many a blooming wreath

Around thy path entwine:

But the tears that o'er thy restless couch

From a mother's eyes were shed,

Will moist a green spot in thy heart

When _those_ bright flowers are dead!

Then watch those loving eyes, maiden,

That beam upon thee now;

And cherish every silver hair

That stealeth o'er that brow:

For a mother's love's the purest ray,

The brightest day-star given,

To light us o'er Life's darkened way,

And lead us up to Heaven.

* * * * *

TO AN ABSENT DEAR ONE.

BY FANNIE M. C.

OH, where art thou, beloved one, at this hour,

So meet for fond affection's holy power,

For all the tender memories that will

The lonely bosoms of the absent fill?

Far, far away! Yet as my tearful eye

Dwells on yon little watchfire in the sky,

This thought comes stealing on its beam of light,

_Our hearts shall meet at Mercy's throne to-night_!

* * * * *

TO IDA.

BY HORACE PHELPS, M. D.

THE gale is fresh upon my brow,

The evening dew my cheek has wet,

The bark moves merrily, and now

The moonlight and the wave have met;

The mountain heights their shadows throw,

In dark and frowning majesty,

Upon the rolling waters' flow,

As sorrows cross young memory:

What wants this scene to be divine?

Thy gentle heart to beat with mine.

The lover's star her watch doth keep

In the blue vault of yonder sky;

While all around is hushed to sleep,

I deem thy angel spirit nigh;

'Twere rapture never felt before

In this serene and midnight noon,

To hear from yonder lonely shore

The watch-dog bay the full bright moon,

Couldst thou be here to share this hour

My heart's beloved and buried flower.

There is a spirit rides the air;

I hear its murmur on the stream,

I see its form of beauty fair

Disporting in the moonlight beam

It is the spirit of delight

Of young affection's ecstasy,

And in its form and features bright

Thine own fair face and form I see:

It hovers o'er my head, and now

I feel its hand upon my brow.

I see the light of feeling play

And sparkle in its winning smile,

To chase my brooding cares away,

And all my sorrows to beguile;

I hear the voice I loved to hear

Mix with the music of the stream;

The well-known accents strike my ear:

Away! 'tis fancy's wildest dream:

I am alone beneath the star,

And thou art in thy grave afar!

* * * * *

THE _WAS_ AND THE _IS_.

BY O. EVERTS, M. D.

AWAY in the mist of past ages,

The _was-life_ of wondrous renown--

(Which lives but in History's pages,

And the tales which Traditions hand down,

Or in marbles that still o'er us frown)--

Yet looks as if towering away

Far above all the _Is_ or _To-be_

And a power still seemeth to sway,

Though the present convulse to be free,

And the future no prophet-eyes see.

But only it seemeth--not real!

A shadowy monster untruth!

An image of vapors ideal,

That floats in the sky of our youth,

Ere we see with strong visions in sooth!

And thus, while we gaze it departs,

And a better, a nobler appears;

The _Is-life_ more wonderful starts

From its home in the heavenly spheres,

And fills us with hopes and with fears!

And we rise, while our hearts strongly beat,

And say to our fears, all begone!

They vanish, like clouds that retreat

Before the all-conquering sun--

And we nerve for the deeds to be done!

Ah! now does the youth feel his strength!

See his cheeks, how they glow! and his eye,

How it sparkles and gleams! till at length

His soul reaches out to the sky,

And his thoughts through the universe fly!

And his steps are elastic as air,

Yet consciously proud--and his tread

Over ruins of temples that were--

And religion whose priesthoods are dead,

Is as if _there_ no prayer had been said.

The _Is-life_ is now all to him!

With a glance toward the future, inspired

He moves with his might every limb--

His soul with ambition is fired--

And he grows in his task never tired.

He triumphs! The truth is his sword,

And the _shams_ and the _phantoms_ that are,

Shrink back to antiquity's horde,

To be buried with falsehoods that were,

Whilst fame everlasting's his share!

Oh! the _Is_ is the life then for me!

The _Was_ had its tasks and its men;

And others will crowd the _To-be_,

And laugh at all this that hath been--

But to me, what matters it then?

* * * * *

THE LAST MOMENTS.

BY R. GRIFFIN STAPLES.

IT was a beauteous eve! On high,

The moon's bright silver ray,

And stars gleamed softly down, to guide

The traveller's weary way.

Gently the balmy breath of night

Sighed o'er the distant lea,

And birds their cheerful warblings hushed

With eve's serenity.

The shades of death were falling slow

Within a chamber, where

A meek one lay, and, sinking, gazed

Into a world more fair.

Sweet hour for one so pure to die,

To pass from earth away

To that bright land where naught corrupts,

And all is "perfect day."

"Father!" she breathed, "Thy will be done!"

And closed her eyes in death;

"Father!" re-echoed through the sky,

"Thy will be done on earth!"

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

[Illustration]

THE newest style of mantle is the Scarf Mantelet. Its graceful shape,

lightness, and elegance have made it a great favorite. This mantle is made

of muslin or silk, and trimmed with lace as fancy dictates.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

Fig. 1.--Front.

Fig. 2.--Back. Join _a_ to _a_ and _b_ to _b_.

We also add the diagrams of a very pretty jacket.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S JACKET.

Fig. 3.--Front.

Fig. 4.--Back.

Fig. 5.--Side-piece. Join _a_, _a_, _a_.

Fig. 6.--Sleeve _in full_. (This shape is very much worn for morning and

evening dress.) A Shoulder.

[Illustration: DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S SCARF MANTELET, AND LADY'S JACKET.]

[Illustration]

CROCHET TASSEL COVER.

_Material._--Crochet thread, No. 1; Penelope needle, No. 3.

COMMENCE with 12 chain, make it round by working a single stitch in the

first chain stitch.

_1st round._--(4 chain and 2 plain in the foundation chain, 7 times.)

_2d._--1 chain (2 treble, 3 chain and 2 treble, all in the 4 chain of the

first round), then 1 chain, 1 plain on the 2 plain. Repeat 6 times more.

_3d._--Miss 1, 1 plain in the 1 chain, 3 chain, miss 2 (3 treble, 3 chain

and 3 treble, in the 3 chain of the last round), then 3 chain, miss 2, 1

plain in the next 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_4th._--5 chain, keep this chain at the back of the last round, and work 1

plain between the 2 plain stitches of the last round. Repeat 6 times more,

leaving the points formed in the last round in front.

[Illustration]

_5th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, 3 times, in each of the 5 chains of the last

round.)

_6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_10th._--(1 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_11th._--42 plain.

_12th._--41 plain, 1 single.

_13th._--(6 chain, miss 4, and 2 plain, on the _lower edge_ of the

stitches of the last round, 7 times), the upper edge of the stitches of

the 12th round are left at the back to form the foundation of the inner

part of the tassel.

_14th._--2 chain (3 treble, 3 chain, and 3 treble, all in the 6 chain);

then 2 chain and 1 plain, on the 2 plain of the 13th round. Repeat 6 times

more.

_15th._--1 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the 2 chain; then 2 chain, miss 2 (3

treble, 3 chain and 3 treble, in the 3 chain), 2 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in

the 2 chain. Repeat 6 times more; then 1 plain in the 1st chain stitch.

_16th._--4 chain, miss 6, 3 treble in the 3 chain; then 5 chain, turn,

miss 4, 1 single on the 1st stitch of these 5 chain to form a round loop;

turn, and work (5 chain and 1 plain, in the round loop, 5 times), then 3

treble in the same 3 chain of the 15th round as before, 4 chain, miss 6, 1

plain in the 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more, and fasten off, which finishes

the outside.

To form the under part of the tassel, return to the 12th round, the upper

edge of the stitches having been left on the inside of the tassel, and

commencing on the first stitch, work for the

_1st round._--42 plain, 1 single on the 1st stitch of the round.

_2d._--(5 chain, miss 2, and 1 plain, 14 times.)

_3d._--(5 chain, miss 4, and 1 plain, in the 5 chain, 14 times.)

_4th._--1 chain, miss 4, 1 plain in the 5 chain, then 9 chain, 1 plain in

the same 5 chain, then 1 chain, 6 treble in the next 5 chain. Repeat 6

times more.

_5th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the 9 chain (then 3 chain and 1

treble in the same 9 chain, 3 times); 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d

stitch of the 6 treble, then 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times

more.

_6th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss 3

(2 long, 5 chain and 2 long, all in the next 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3,

1 plain in the next 3 chain, 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d treble

stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_7th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 2 chain, miss 3, 1

plain in the 5 chain, then (5 chain and 1 plain, in the same 5 chain, 5

times) 2 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 1 chain, miss 5, 3

treble in the 3d treble stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6

times more.

_8th._--3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain in the 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble

in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3

chain, 1 treble in the same 5 chain as before, 3 chain, miss 5, and 1

treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the next 5 chain,

3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain on the centre of the 6 treble. Repeat 6 times

more; then 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the first 3 chain.

_9th._--3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss

3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, 3 chain, miss 3 (1 long, 3 chain, 1

long, both in the 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1

treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, miss 1, 1 plain in the

next 3 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_10th._--Miss 2, 3 plain in the 3 chain, *, miss 1, 1 plain, 1 treble,

3 chain, 1 treble, and 1 plain, all in the next 3 chain. Repeat from

* 4 times more; then miss 1, 3 plain in the 3 chain. Repeat from the

commencement of the round, 6 times more, and fasten off.

[Illustration]

NETTED CAP, FOR MORNING WEAR.

_Materials._--Crochet thread, No. 4; and, to embroider the pattern,

a skein of pink or blue Shetland wool, or embroidery cotton, No. 16;

steel mesh, No. 14, and a flat ivory mesh, one quarter of an inch

in width--this will make an ordinary cap; but, if any other size is

required, the meshes and thread must be coarser or finer.

COMMENCE with the crochet thread, and No. 14 mesh, on a foundation of 20

stitches; work 40 rows of 20 stitches each. This piece forms the centre

of the crown, cut it off the foundation, and run a string along the four

sides, about four or five stitches from the edges, so as to work all round

the square.

_1st round._--Work down the first side thus: net a stitch plain, then net

2 stitches in one stitch, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, 2 plain, and along

the other side, *, net 2 stitches in one, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, and

2 plain. Repeat from * twice more.

_2d._--Net 3 plain then (2 stitches in one, and 10 plain, 8 times).

_3d._--Plain.

_4th._--(Net 11 plain, and 2 stitches in one, 8 times.)

It will now be advisable to take out the string, and run it into the 1st

round to keep the work even. Net 15 rounds plain.

_20th._--Net 2 stitches in one, then 20 plain, 2 stitches in one, 79

plain. Net 4 rounds more the same as last, working 2 stitches more at the

end of each round, so that the 20 plain stitches are always over those of

the preceding round; when finished, turn back. Net to within 20 stitches

of the end of the round, turn back again, and leaving the 20 stitches

to form the back of the cap, work for the front, 8 rows plain, netting

two stitches in the last stitch of each row. Then 12 rows plain without

increasing; and for the foundation of the border double the cotton and

work 6 rows plain.

[Illustration]

Embroider the cap with the pink wool in darning stitch, passing the needle

about 6 times in each square of the netting.

THE BORDER.--With the thread, and No. 14 mesh, net 6 stitches plain, and

continue working backwards and forwards for about 9 yards; then to form.

THE EDGE.--Run a string in the loops which form the selvedge, so as to

work on the other selvedge.

_1st row._--With flat mesh, net 4 stitches in every other stitch of the

selvedge.

_2d._--With 14 mesh, plain netting, working a stitch in every stitch of

the first row. Then, with the pink wool, embroider the plain netting.

To make up the cap, sew a row of the border to the last thick row of the

cap, fulling it at the ears, plain across the front to the centre, then

draw 5 loops close together to make it rather pointed, plain again, and

full at the other ear, and across the back, sew on another row of the

border the same, attaching it to the first thick row; then sew on a third

border, very full, and in a zigzag form on the ears, but the same as

before across the front.

THE STRINGS.--With the thread and No. 14 mesh, net 12 stitches, and

continue working backwards and forwards for 5 inches, then net 2 stitches

in one at the end of every third row, until it is increased to 28

stitches; then net 8 rows, leaving 3 stitches unworked at the end of each

row; and for

THE EDGE.--With the flat mesh, commence in the last stitch of the side,

and net 4 stitches in every other stitch across the uneven rows; then one

row plain, with No. 14 mesh. Work another string the same, and embroider

them as the cap.

[Illustration]

BORDER AND CORNER FOR POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

[Illustration]

CHEMISETTES, UNDERSLEEVES, AND CAPS.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

[Illustration: Fig. 3.]

[Illustration: Fig. 4.]

OUR readers can scarcely imagine the difficulty we meet with in presenting

_novelties_ in this department. The shades of fashion are so various, and

yet so slight, that, in giving new designs from month to month, those not

accustomed to scrutinize closely may not notice the peculiarities they are

intended to present, or that each month has its peculiar and seasonable

adaptation. For instance--

[Illustration: APRON IN BRODERIE EN LACET.]

Fig. 1, a wrought lace chemisette and stomacher, is intended for the

mild opening season, when cambric embroideries would be too heavy for the

style of dress. The prevailing form of the opening of the basque corsage

is also denoted by it--low, square, or a broad oval on the bust. The

construction of the chemisette of broad scalloped lace, is simple enough,

on a foundation of Grecian net or coach blonde.

Fig. 2 is an undersleeve to correspond, made sufficiently loose at the

wrist for the hand to pass through. The box plaiting or quilling of satin

ribbon, which heads the lace in both Figs. 1 and 2, is fastened in the

sleeve by a rosette. This is of course only caught on, and is easily

removed when the lace is to be done up; it may be of any shade, and is

very stylish in evening dress.

Fig. 3 is a rather close morning cap for a lady of middle age, made of

alternate rows of clean muslin puffs and fine Valenciennes insertion. It

has a crown, front piece, and frill. The border is a medium Valenciennes

edge sewn in the insertion, two rows slightly frilled. Bows and strings of

violet-colored satin ribbon.

Fig. 4.--Breakfast cap for a young married lady, consisting of a crown

piece, and two rows of edging, of Maltese lace. Bows and ends of rich

ribbon, medium width between the rows, a knot of broader ribbon behind,

a little to the right. For description of _Maltese_ lace, see fashion

article.

[Illustration]

APRON IN BRODERIE EN LACET.

(_See Blue Plate in front of Book._)

_Materials._--Seven-eighths of a yard of wide black glace silk,

two knots of cerise Russia silk braid, one knot of pale vert-islay

ditto, and a dozen skeins of sewing-silk to match each braid.

BRODERIE EN LACET signifies a design out-lined as if merely for braiding,

but with the flowers and other parts filled in with point lace stitches,

so as to make a solid piece of embroidering on the silk. For no article is

this novel style of work more suitable than for aprons, which it renders

exceedingly ornamental, at a very small expenditure of time and trouble,

the very simplest of the point lace stitches only being used in this work.

Of course, the size of our page precludes our giving even the half of the

apron the full size. The design must be enlarged according to the size

required, the pattern procured, and the silk marked in the same way as

ordinary braiding or embroidery.

Braiding should always be done with a strand of the silk of which the

braid is made. Before beginning, cut off a yard of the braid and draw

out the threads for sewing with. Thread the end of the braid on a large

darning-needle, and draw it through the silk to the wrong side for the

commencement, and do the same at every necessary break, sending the ends

down. Run the braid on very smoothly, taking the stitches across it

slanting and cut along the centre, as is usually done. The braid should

lie perfectly flat, and the edges be smooth and even.

The knots at the side suspending the wreath are done in the green braid,

the two parallel lines of which are connected by close herring-bone

stitch, or point d'Alençon, as it is called in lace-work. All the fancy

stitches are done with the common sewing-silk, not with the strands of

the braid. The leaves need have merely the veinings worked in Venetian

bars; those, however, who do not mind the trouble, will do well to fill

them first with Brussels lace, and work the fibres over that; the improved

effect will quite repay the extra work. The roses are filled up closely

in the Brussels and Venetian lace, the narrow parts being connected

with English bars. The lower part of each bud has a rosette in it, the

remainder is filled with Venetian lace.

[Illustration]

LADY'S SLIPPER.

Gold braid on velvet or cloth.

[Illustration]

JACKET FOR A RIDING-DRESS.

[Illustration]

THE material is merino, or very fine lady's cloth; the color a light shade

of cinnamon brown. The basque, or skirt, at the waist is rather long, and

the jacket is edged all round with a Greek border in soutache. It is made

rather open in front, so as to show a waistcoat of plain blue cashmere

fastened with gold buttons. The collar to be worn with this jacket is

of cambric, and may be either worked or plain. The undersleeves, also

of cambric, are full, and the fulness gathered at the wrists on bands

of needlework. Necktie of black velvet. Our illustration shows only the

jacket of this riding-dress; but we may mention that the skirt of the

habit should be of the same material, and that the hat worn with it should

be of gray felt, ornamented with a feather of the same color, and the

crown encircled by a band of blue ribbon fastened in a rosette on one side.

[Illustration]

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

[Illustration: The above figure is a handsome pattern for a couch. The

castors are sunk in the legs.]

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

[Illustration]

EDITORS' TABLE.

WE put aside, for this month, a number of short articles, in order to

give our readers the pleasure of an introduction to the celebrated

singing-master, to whose instructions the Swedish Nightingale owes,

in a great measure, the restoration of her wonderful voice, and her

unequalled power in using it. Very important lessons are contained in this

interesting sketch, translated from the German of Elise Polko.

* * * * *