Saturday exhibited to a few ladies and gentlemen his method of causing
plants to blow almost instantaneously. The plants selected--a group
of geraniums and a rose-tree--were planted in two rather deep boxes
of garden mould, previously prepared with some chemical manure, and
were then covered with glass shades. M. Herbert next proceeded to pour
over the roots, from a small watering-pot, a chemical mixture, which,
uniting with the ingredients already in the earth, caused a great
heat, as was shown by an intense steam or vapor, which was evolved
within the shades, and allowed to some extent to escape through a small
hole in the top, which at first was kept closed. The effect upon the
geraniums was certainly almost instantaneous, the buds beginning to
burst in about five or six minutes, and the plants being in full bloom
within ten minutes, when the blossoms were gathered by M. Herbert
and distributed amongst the ladies present. With the rose-tree the
exhibitor was less fortunate, M. Herbert explaining that it had only
been in his possession about half or three-quarters of an hour, and he
had therefore not had sufficient time to prepare for the experiment,
thereby evincing that it occupies more time than would appear to the
casual observer to be the case. The invention may prove useful where
ladies require to decorate their drawing-rooms or boudoirs with the
beauties of Flora somewhat earlier in the seasons than can otherwise be
obtained. The experiments took place at the residence of M. Laurent,
Onslow-house, Brompton. [How far does this account for the Chinese
"magical" method?]
Poetry.
THE EVENING WALK.
BY RICHARD COE.
(_See Plate._)
Upon her head she gently threw
A veil of fabric light,
To shield her from the pearly dew
That mingled with the night:
Then with a motion light and free--
No proud and stately stalk--
The lady of the mansion rose
To take her evening walk.
Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars,
That nightly deck the sky,
Ye must not look in envy on
The brightness of her eye;
And you, ye babbling waters near,
That make my soul rejoice,
Ye must be silent when ye hear
The music of her voice!
Ye moon and stars and babbling fount,
Your choicest blessings throw
Across the pathway of my fair,
Wherever she may go!
And if I soothe her cares the while,
With fine poetic talk,
Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile,
In some sweet evening walk!
THE CHILDREN-ANGELS.
BY JAMES A. BARTLEY.
Seven bright ones in the angel-land,
With stars to crown each brow;
The mother spied them hand in hand,
Around the Saviour bow;
And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland,
That clothed their bodies now!
Seven bright ones in that sunny clime,
Hope would her tears condemn,
She blessed the eagle wings of Time
Which bore her nearer them,
Where she would join the seraph chime,
And wear a diadem.
Seven dear ones born of her heart's love,
Now safely housed in heaven,
She humbly sought that test to prove,
To every mortal given,
To labor for her King above,
Who keepeth these her seven.
And ofttimes, at her daily toil,
Seven bright ones would alight,
And each with sweet and holy smile,
Fill her with deep delight,
Until the very earthly wild,
To her, looked strangely bright.
And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high,
And silence reigned around,
She heard their pinions sweeping by,
A far, unearthly sound;
And then her spirit reached the sky,
At one ecstatic bound.
Seven bright ones in the land called Light,
And oft with her below!
Far fled the frighted shades of Night
From Faith's celestial glow,
Wherein she walked with humble might,
Till she lay humbly low.
Then her free spirit walked in Light,
And smiled, but wept no more,
And with her, seven, all dazzling bright,
Beheld all perils o'er;
The goal of which mysterious flight,
None living may explore.
WORKING AND DREAMING.
BY MRS. A. L. LAWRIE.
All the while my needle traces
Stitches in a prosy seam,
Flit before me little faces,
And for them the while I dream.
Building castle, light and airy,
For my merry little Kate,
Wond'ring if the wayward fairy
Will unlock its golden gate.
Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,
Just as all fond mothers do,
And for her, my thoughtful Lily,
Twining laurel leaflets too.
In the far-off future roving,
Where the skies are bright and fair;
Hearing voices charmed and loving,
Calling all my darlings there.
Through the distant years I'm tracing
Dewy pathways bright with flowers,
And along their borders placing
Here and there these pets of ours.
And the while my fancy lingers
In that hope-born summer clime,
Pretty garments prove my fingers
Have been busy all the time.
And I care not, though around me
Romp the little merry band;
Never could the spell that bound me
Break at touch of softer hand
Than the little hand of Nora,
Soiled in search of blossoms rare;
For she says they're gifts that Flora
Bade her bring to deck my hair.
So my summer days are flying
On their swift oblivious track;
But while love meets fond replying,
I would never wish them back.
But their precious fragrant roses
I would gather and entwine
In a wreath, ere summer closes
For the autumn's pale decline.
THE MISER.
BY CHARLES LELAND PORTER.
Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze,
In his damp and mouldering cell,
Away from the rustle of waving trees,
Alone did the miser dwell;
Around his wrinkled and careworn brow
Hung wild his hoary hair,
And the spectre look of death e'en now,
And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow,
Sat grim on his temples there.
He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,
And counts it o'er again,
And he envies the snuggling beam of light
That creeps through the broken pane;
And he starts at every passing sound,
And hastily turns the key,
And casts a hurried glance around,
And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground
To his god he bows the knee.
The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,
And moans a plaintive strain,
And grimly peers with his glassy eye
Over the golden gain;
And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls
Away from its mean abode;
It cannot rise to heaven, but falls
Adown the damp and mouldering walls,
And hurries beneath the sod.
Oh, I have thought that a mother's love
Was the fondest passion yet,
As she breathes the breath of her infant babe--
Still, a mother may forget;
But the miser's throne is his gold alone,
His passion is centred there;
His life, his love, his dearest one,
The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,
Gold, gold is his fondest fair.
The midnight moon looks lovingly down
On the sleeping laborer's head;
Hushed and still is the busy mill,
And the infant's cradle bed;
But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,
Like a wild beast from his lair;
He feels the poison of conscience stings,
He fears the robber a bandit brings,
And he creeps to his golden care.
The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,
And paused at the miser's stone,
Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare
To cross the word "_begone!_"
The wretch felt not for others' woes,
No soul in his body dwelt;
The trembling sprite took a final flight--
Though he seemed to live--on the dismal night
When he first to the gold-god knelt.
In a village near, his sister lay
At the door of the demon death;
_Starving_ was written on her brow,
And hot was her fevered breath:
"_Oh, give me bread!_" in accents low,
Was the burden of her prayer--
"_I'm dying, brother!_" 'twas even so;
While her eye was glazing, the miser's "_No!_"
Startled the chilly air.
Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells,
And from each hush'd abode
The aged sire, and the cheerful child
Moved on to the house of God;
While prayer was ascending towards the Throne,
The miser also prayed;
To his golden altar he bowed, alone,
And prayed from out his heart of stone
That his god would lend him aid.
He lieth upon the bed of death,
And alone he pines away;
As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,
And clay is mingled with clay;
No marble is there to mark the spot,
No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;
Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,
Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot--
The miser has gone to his doom!
Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth
Go to the poor man's home;
Comfort the sick--employ your gold
As gain for the world to come;
And the widow's heart shall leap for joy,
And the orphan upon your bier,
When the summons bears you from earth away
To dwell in the mansions of endless day,
Shall pour the sorrowing tear.
SONNET.--WASHINGTON
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise,
That they eternize may thy honored name;
Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise,
So blended with thy glorious country's fame.
Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field,
Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow,
Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield,
To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow.
Around thy lone and ever-honored grave,
The Muses of thy noble country sing,
While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave,
To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring.
Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage,
Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page.
THE ORPHAN BOY.
I saw a smiling little boy,
Not to childish pastime given;
His countenance radiant with joy,
He seemed just ripe for Heaven.
I asked, "Where are thy parents dear?
Hast thou from them been riven?"
He said, "My parents are not here,
They have gone home to heaven."
A year had sped--I passed that way
On the eve of a balmy autumn day;
I asked, "Where is the charming orphan boy,
With face so radiant with joy?
Is he to the cold world driven?"
The answer was, "He had gone home to Heaven."
EDNA.
BY ELLEN ALICE MORIARTY.
Hear you not the night-wind moaning,
Sadly moaning all the time,
Like a spirit doomed to wander
O'er the earth for some dark crime?
Round the door it ever lingers,
Calling mortal aid in vain,
And with gaunt and spectral fingers,
Feebly knocks upon the pane.
Love I well to hear it wailing,
And I listen, pensively;
Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,
Mournfully it wakes in me.
Such a night did Edna leave us,
When she with Lord Ronald fled;
Better, ere she thus had grieved us,
She was numbered with the dead.
Yet my mother, we'd forgive her
Did she seek her home at last,
Kindly in our arms receive her,
Bidding her forget the past.
Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly;
She was young and sweetly fair;
Loved--and we were all forgotten--
When Lord Ronald tarried here.
Dost remember, mother dearest,
The sad day before she went,
How the fleetly passing moments
By thy side she fondly spent?
And I marked her, mother dearest,
When was said the soft "good-night,"
How her cheek so sadly faded--
Faded to a marble white.
To her door I followed gently,
Raised the latch, and in I went,
And the thoughts that so oppressed me
Found in gushing tears a vent.
"Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna,
"Weeping sister! Why is this?"
And she pressed with gentle fondness
On my brow a soothing kiss.
Spoke I not. My heart was breaking
'Neath some vague, uncertain woe;
Wept I, on her breast reclining,
Mother--and I slumbered so.
When from out that sleep, awaking,
I upon her pillow lay,
Through the half-divided curtain
Faintly streamed the dawning day.
Then we missed her. Oh, my mother,
Who our woe's excess can speak!
Not a father, not a brother--
Who the loved and lost could seek.
Mother dearest, you are weeping!
Why did I remembrance wake?
I should bear my grief in silence,
Oh, my mother, for thy sake.
Listen listen! on the night-blast
Heard you not a well-known tone?
Oh, it seemed so much, my mother,
Like my sister Edna's own!
There are feet upon the threshold!
And a hand is on the door--
Mother! mother!--it is Edna,
Coming back to us once more!
"Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!"
Thus my sister Edna prayed--
"Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!"
That was all my mother said.
But she oped her arms unto her,
Drew her upward to her breast,
And in fair and tearful beauty
Bowed that gentle head to rest.
"Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother,
Ay, far better than my life;
Home I come to thee," said Edna,
"Proudly his acknowledged _wife_.
"Cared he not for rank or station,
But a loving heart sought he;
Mother, sister, love my husband--
See, he claims it now of ye."
Turned we then. He stood beside us,
Bending low with manly grace,
With his soul's true love for Edna
Lighting up his noble face.
We are happy, I and mother,
Now that all our care has gone;
Ever seems it like a shadow
Scarcely cast ere it had flown.
VETERAN SAILOR'S SONG.
BY "CARYL."
The flag that floats above us, boys,
So proudly in the gale,
Old Neptune never yet had seen,
When first I clewed a sail;
St. George's cross flamed o'er the seas
With undisputed sway,
With English oak, and British tars,
Beneath it, in that day.
The Stars and Stripes above us, boys,
Since then have been unfurled;
In tempest tried, baptized in blood;
'Tis the pride of Ocean-world!
And freer, nobler hearts sustain
Your banner floating proud;
Than e'er before Atlantic bore,
Or wrapped in seaman's shroud.
The glorious flag above us, boys,
Was ne'er disgraced in fight;
No foeman ever saw it struck,
But dearly bought the sight;
Wherever prow has cleft the waves,
In every zone and sea,
'Tis known and honored as the flag
Of a nation brave and free.
REMEMBER THE POOR.
BY MRS. C. H. ESLING.
Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice,
As the shadow of evening grew dim,
And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down,
Benumbing each half-covered limb;
Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the child
Was as white as the thick-falling snow,
And my heart, how it readily aided my hand,
In the little I had to bestow!
A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye,
As she clasped the small alms in her hand,
And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours,
The wealthy might have at command;
To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart,
To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed,
To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face,
With a pittance that scarce would buy bread.
Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,
As ye sit by the firelight's glow,
Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,
Of the poor little feet in the snow.
Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,
With a light from the diamond's mine,
Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,
That else were as dainty as thine.
God fashioned thee both--the poor, shivering child,
Alone in the cold winter night,
Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who bask
Forever in luxury's light.
Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few;
Let thy _much_ but a _little_ insure
To the needy; the world will be better, by far,
When the rich shall remember the poor.
A VALENTINE.
BY CLARA MORETON.
Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold,
Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue;
Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold,
Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue.
The silken lashes of those violet eyes
Droop with a sunny curve from snowy lid,
Half shading all the purity that lies
Within their quiet depths so sweetly hid.
The matchless arching of thy coral lip,
The glittering pearl thy smile discloses,
Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip,
And redolent of sweets as budding roses.
Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace!
Never a poet could thy charms combine,
Nor artist draw thee in thy winning grace
Unless a monarch of his art divine.
For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire?
Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee,
No Persian worshipper of flaming fire
E'er bent his god a more devoted knee.
DYING
BY BELL.
Is this dying? round me gathers
Such a silent, countless throng,
Beaming on me smiles that beckon,
As if I with them belong.
This is dying! raise my pillow;
Come and kiss me, mother dear;
When I'm gone away you'll miss me,
But for me weep not a tear.
Is this dying? waters rolling
Bear me on to yonder shore,
Love to Christ my bark has freighted,
Not a billow surges o'er.
This is dying! pain, returning,
Shows how nature clings to earth,
While the prisoned soul is panting
For the clime that gave it birth.
Is this dying? strains of music
Seem upon the air to float,
Such could only come from angels,
And I almost catch the note.
Now my crown and harp are coming,
Borne by seraphs' hands along,
And a robe of whitest linen
Clothes me like the angel throng.
Is this dying? pain may writhe me,
But has Death not lost his sting?
And since Christ has gone to glory,
Death is but a conquered king!
TO THE GAND'HRAJ.[A]
WRITTEN IN INDIA, BY MRS. E. LOCK.
Oh! beautiful Gánd'hraj! sweet is thy breath;
Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death,
Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's[B] wing,
Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling,
Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun;
To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one!
Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer,
Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,
Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,
Then ours the blessings that ever endure.
Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,
Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!
The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!
The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;
The delicate tintings that vein thy array
Must be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,
And heavenly ones thy aroma will bear
Away to the gardens more pure and more fair.
As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast,
Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west;
Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes,
With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies,
Such peaceful and holy departure is thine;
Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Gardenia florida.]
[Footnote B: The Kokila, or Koil, is the Indian Cuckoo.]
DECORATED PARLOR WINDOWS.
(_See Plate._)
Our readers will notice that the models for parlor window drapery are,
as usual, furnished by Mr. W. H. Carryl, who is rare authority in
such matters. Draperies arranged by him are shutting out the cold air
from northern firesides, and excluding the already fervent glow of a
southern sun. His constantly increasing, establishment is filled with
busy workmen; and the choicest materials that are manufactured abroad,
whether in silk or lace, are to be found among his importations. Among
the public calls upon his taste and skill, we notice particularly the
fitting up of the La Pierre House, the new and model Philadelphia
hotel; and, still more recently, the draperies of the State House at
Harrisburg.
The La Pierre is situated on Broad, our finest street, and was opened
to the public the past October. It is not one of the mammoth toy-shops
now so much the rage, where everything is too fine to use, and comfort
is swallowed up in carving and gilding. Comfort is, in fact, the
distinguishing characteristic of the La Pierre, the rooms being of an
inhabitable size, and furnished with united neatness and elegance,
giving the traveller a cheerful welcome and a homelike feeling. To this
the draperies of Mr. Carryl, which are found all through the house,
even in the fifth story, contribute; for it is now an undisputed axiom
in decorating, that nothing goes so far as curtains in furnishing a
room. On the principal floor, we find the drawing-room windows draped
with crimson, garnet, and gold brocatelle, finished by heavy cornices
and the richest corresponding decorations, as will be seen in Fig.
1. which is nearly identical with the style. Of course, there are
exquisite lace curtains, as in the plate, falling below. The reading
and sitting-rooms, appropriated to the gentlemen, are made cheerful
by crimson brocatelle draperies, while the tea-room is distinguished
by the heavy green lambrequins, with their rich bullion fringe. It
would take a practised eye to detect it from gold bullion, so perfect
is the imitation. The effect, especially in the evening, is precisely
the same. In the elegant suite of parlors on the second floor, Mr.
Carryl has placed curtains of brocatelle, crimson, yellow, and green
and gold, equally rich and suited to the style of the apartments, as in
the drawing-room below (see Fig. 2); while throughout the bed-chambers,
many entire suites, curtains of Paris stripe, in _satin laine_, give
the cheerful aspect we at first noticed.
The bridal chamber--that modern abomination to good taste and common
sense, yet demanded by the fashion of hotels--is, of course, the
_chef-d'œuvre_ of the whole house. Mr. Carryl has chosen "celestial
_rosy_ red, love's proper hue," instead of the pure white of the St.
Nicholas, or the staring yellow of the Metropolitan, for the draperies
of the apartment. A _rose_ red, be it understood, of the most delicate
shade, softened still more by the pure transparency of the lace
embroideries falling from the rich canopy above the bed, or shrouding
the broad arch that divides the two apartments--a triumphal arch to Mr.
Carryl's decorative art. The whole house is decorated in good keeping
with the already far-famed character of this luxurious hotel, which may
be justly regarded as one of the most fashionable and distinguished in
the United States.
The State House at Harrisburg is fitted from drawings made expressly
for it, in a style now become classic in public buildings. The deep
crimson India damask of our grandmothers' times, lined with white
India silk--the most judicious choice, as it never grows yellow by
age--is disposed in full folds above the Speaker's chair; and from
these, which take the place of a lambrequin in a modern curtain, falls
a similar heavy drapery to the floor. The whole is surmounted by a
superbly carved eagle in gilt, with expanded wings, done expressly
for Mr. Carryl from a life model. The curtains of the windows are
to be in the same rich and simple style, and the clock has also a
decorative drapery. The whole is arranged with a classic taste far
more appropriate to the hall than modern French fripperies, and will
add much to Mr. Carryl's rapidly growing celebrity in this branch of
domestic art. Mr. Carryl has also furnished the State House at Austin,
Texas, with rich brocatelle hangings, diversified with emblems and
mottoes of the Southern State of the Gulf, all finished in superb style.
Through the very extensive establishment of Mr. Carryl, No. 169
Chestnut Street, our Southern and Western merchants can conveniently
fill their orders for curtains and trimmings, gilt ornaments, &c.,
being sure to get the newest styles and the best qualities. The height
from _floor_ to top of _window-frame_, and width of frame at the top,
should always accompany an order.
THE SALAMANCA AND THE MOSCOW WRAPPER.
[From the establishment of G. BRODIE, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]
[Illustration: THE SALAMANCA.]
The engravings presented this month are so very dear in the design,
that any person at all conversant with the fabrication of garments can
construct either of them without the aid of any special information.
We, however, will merely say that
THE SALAMANCA.
Is composed of maroon or black satin. The skirt is set in box plaits
upon the yoke in the back; it is plain in front. The yoke is deep,
and is pointed in front. The sleeves are flowing. A trimming of very
deep black lace (from ten to twelve inches) ornaments the skirt and
the bottom of the yoke. The whole is finished by a neat ornament made
of a succession of small loops of No. 6 satin ribbon terminating in
streamers.
THE MOSCOW WRAPPER.
(_See Plate in front of Book._)
Consists of three three-quarter circular capes upon a circular skirt.
The first is plain, the others full, and are of equal depth. The
skirt, however, is about one-third less in depth below the capes than
they are with each other. It may be constructed of cloth, but the
one illustrated is of royal purple velvet, edged around each cape
with royal ermine six inches wide. The bottom of the skirt, however,
is wider, the fur there being eight inches. It is lined with white
enamelled satin.
OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.
[Illustration]
This dress, which is a combination of the "Polka Jacket" and ordinary
dress, is exceedingly pretty and elegant, and well calculated to show
off the figure to advantage. It is made up in silk or French merino,
and the trimming consists of broad ribbon velvet, about an inch in
width, of the same color as the dress, or one in good contrast. To
those who are averse to wearing the jacket as a single garment, this
may form a pleasing substitute.
DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS.
Fig. 1.--The front of body--the trimming to be brought up in the form
of stomacher.
Fig. 2.--Back of body. Join _a_ to _a_ (Fig. 1), _b_ to _b_, _c_ to
_c_, _d_ to _d_.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Jacket. Join _e_ to _e_ (Fig. 1) _f_ to _f_
(Fig. 2). Fig. 4.--Sleeve.]
[Illustration: EMBROIDERY FOR SHIRTS.]
NOVELTIES FOR THE COMING SEASON.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]