burnt carmine, burnt sienna, gamboge, deep chrome, vermilion, red-lead,
emerald-green, sap-green, Vandyke-brown, lamp-black, and Chinese-white,
are those most necessary. Persons who are not already provided with
colors will do well to purchase those which are prepared expressly for
illuminating, as they are more brilliant. Pure gold, green gold, and
silver shells; fine sable hair-pencils, some gum-water, a lead-pencil, H.
H. H; some tracing and some transferring paper; and an agate burnisher,
which consists of a piece of polished agate, in the shape of a cut pencil,
set in a handle; a flat ruler and a tracing pen, are the materials
requisite; all of which should be obtained at one of the first-rate
artists' color repositories.
Illuminated paintings may be made either on vellum or fine Bristol-board;
the vellum is prepared expressly for the purpose, and not that commonly
sold; it must be mounted on, or affixed to, a drawing-board (which has
previously been covered with cartridge-paper) with artists' glue, before
it can be painted on. Great care is requisite in sketching or transferring
the outlines to its surface, for it is by no means easy to efface any
marks once made; bread is usually more efficacious for this purpose than
India-rubber; but, as it must be stale, it can only be used with caution,
being likely to scratch or roughen the surface.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.]
In all illuminated drawings the background is more or less ornamented;
and this may be done according to the fancy of the artist himself; the
leading characteristics of these fundamental ornamentations are delicacy,
simplicity, and grace. In the different compartments of Fig. 6, four of
the most common patterns are given. They are either put in with a darker
shade of the grounding tint, or wrought in gold or silver, or painted in
white or black. The straight lines must be firm and even, and equidistant;
the curved lines flowing and graceful; the dots or spots all equal in
size, and at even distances from the lines and from each other. The upper
and lower compartments of this cut are pure gold and green gold, on a
black and an ultramarine ground; the right-hand side is grounded with
a light tint of emerald-green, and worked over with ornamentation in
sap-green; the left-hand compartment is silver, on a delicate blue ground.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
This damask pattern (see Fig. 7), which may be enlarged or diminished, is
worked in carmine, on a ground of red-lead, or a light tint of vermilion.
It is as well to observe that these groundwork patterns are almost
always very minute and delicate; and, therefore, should never be traced
with a pencil, or the line will show; but must be worked in with a fine
sable-hair brush, and the requisite tint, or with a very fine pen, charged
with diluted color; but the brush is preferable.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.]
[Illustration: Fig. 9.]
Such ornamentations as those in Figs. 8 and 9 may be worked in on the
outer or metallic borders, which frequently surround the chief border.
Our readers must not suppose that we profess to give all, or half the
forms of decoration used for groundwork in illuminated drawings. We only
attempt to sketch those most frequently met with, and which may serve as
models of style. Various threefold ornaments—originating, doubtless, in
the spirit of that class of men who at first chiefly used this decoration
for MSS., and symbolical of the triune nature of the Deity—are frequently
observed. In Fig. 10 are two of the most common specimens; the third is a
spider-like ornament, also often introduced. Fig. 11 is another simple and
common decoration.
[Illustration: Fig. 10.]
[Illustration: Fig. 11.]
[Illustration]
THE LAST KISS.
BY JENNY A. M'EWAN.
THE last, the last! it lingers still,
Though weary days have fled,
Though summer's bloom
Is in the tomb,
And autumn's glory dead.
The last, the last! upon my brow
Thy seal of truth is pressed,
And in my heart
Love's echoes start;
Their music ne'er can rest.
The bright, blue heaven is clouded now,
And moans the wintry blast;
Fond memory sighs,
But hope replies,
"That kiss was not the last."
'Tis when I yield my wearied frame
To slumber's magic powers,
By thy dear side,
Thine own loved bride,
I rove through Dreamland's bowers.
Oh, dim are all my earthly joys
To those that greet me there,
And in my dream
It ne'er doth seem
That Heaven can be more fair.
Gray morning breaks o'er yonder hill;
My visions bright are past,
Yet ere they fly,
The spirits sigh,
"Thy dream-kiss was the last!"
When twilight's magic hour draws nigh,
And Thought is roaming free,
When evening's breeze
Sighs through the trees,
Thy spirit comes to me.
Oh, 'tis a holy presence then
That's stealing o'er my breast;
The magic power
Of that sweet hour
Lulls my sad heart to rest.
And on my brow I feel a touch,
A breathing touch of bliss;
The spirit-sigh
Is hovering nigh,
That touch, the spirit-kiss.
'Tis here, 'tis here! I feel it now—
Yes, o'er my heart 'tis cast,
And voices sweet
Once more repeat
"The spirit-kiss is last."
SECRET LOVE.
BY KATE HARRINGTON.
RAISE me gently—gently, sister, that my brow may catch the breeze
Softly gliding through the casement from yon grove of orange-trees;
That mine ear may drink the music gushing forth in mellow lays,
Made by song-birds sweetly warbling their evening hymns of praise;
That mine eye again may wander to the bosom of yon stream,
Where the ripples dance as lightly as young fairies in a dream.
Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,
And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;
It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,
For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.
It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,
And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.
Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we played
On the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?
Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,
And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,
How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,
And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestle _there_?
Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,
When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,
When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speak
Made thy spirit leap for gladness and sent blushes to thy cheek?
I had worshipped him in secret; he knew not my distress,
And in secret I resigned him, but loved thee none the less.
In vain I tried to banish from my crushed and bleeding heart
The image it had cherished long as of itself a part;
My will was weak, for when I came to breathe a sad good-by,
I could not, could not smother on my lips the bursting sigh.
None knew the wild, deep anguish, the torturing pangs of grief,
That closed the fount of feeling and refused a tear's relief.
Thou hast often wondered, sister, why mine eye has lost its light,
Why I've spoken of existence as a gloomy, starless night;
Thou hast sat for days together, and, in accents low, hast told
How thy Clarence soon will hasten from the distant land of gold.
Whene'er his name was mentioned, I have felt a strange, wild thrill;
But I've learned long since, my sister, to suffer and be still.
Nay, weep not; for, believe me, ere awakes yon setting sun
Earth's struggles will be over, and life's conflicts will be done;
My disembodied spirit upon wings of love will rise
To roam with shining seraphs through the realms of Paradise.
My soul is only waiting till the silken cord is riven,
To burst its earthly fetters and soar away to Heaven.
Draw nearer to me, sister, on my bosom bow thy head,
And take my fervent blessing ere I'm numbered with the dead;
And Clarence, he must never know the words I've breathed to thee,
As a loving sister only let him learn to think of me.
Tell him I longed to see him, but could not wait his time,
For the angels came to waft me to a never-changing clime.
Thou wilt not forget me, sister, though long the parting seems,
Yet, oh, believe me, often will I come to thee in dreams;
And, if I gain permission of the true, unchanging Friend,
I will be thy guardian angel till He calls thee to ascend.
Then, as here on earth we've wandered, through fields of light
we'll rove,
With our spirits joined together by the silken cord of love.
THE SCHOTTISCH PARTNER.
BY MOTTE HALL.
OH, I danced with him the schottisch!
'Twas the first time that we met;
He was such a dashing creature,
With orbs as black as jet.
And he wore a lovely diamond;
How it flashed into my eyes!
As he drew me closely to him
I saw its wondrous size.
Oh, at ball, and rout, and party,
I was his schottisch belle;
He said I danced so charmingly,
And knew the step so well.
And we grew so very loving,
As we stood upon the floor,
That people said the schottisch step
Would lead to Hymen's door.
But, though I schottisched every night,
I reached not Hymen's dwelling;
The god must live a long way off,
But where, there is no telling.
And, only think, one festal night,
The ungrateful, wicked Harry!
I heard my schottisch partner say—
"She'll do—but not to marry.
"She'll do to twirl in mazy dance,
She'll do for giddy pleasure;
She'll do to meet out Folly's gauds
With Fashion's line and measure;
"But she'll _not_ do for sacred home,
A meek and gentle woman,
An angel in her purity,
But in her love a human."
TWO MOTHERS?
BY MRS. S. F. JENNINGS.
A LITTLE dirty ragged boy, in the streets of New York, selling penny
songs, is asked by a gentleman if he has a mother. "Neow don't—where's
yourn? Does she know you're out?" he says, with that impudent
_nonchalance_ which is the more pitiful because so common among that
class. But the gentleman buys some of his songs, and that act is the
sesame to his heart. Upon a second putting of the question, he is ready,
though with the same reckless air, to answer, "No; folks don't have two
mothers, do they? and mine's dead's long ago's I can remember."
Two mothers? Never, little one;
No merit brings such meed;
God gave thee _one_—if she be gone
God help thee feel thy need!
For a dangerous way, stormy and wild,
Thou goest, without thy mother, child.
The throbbing heart of this mighty town,
How beats its pulse for thee?
The tide of life swells up and down
The paths of this restless sea.
Will they dash thy bark on the surf away,
Like a straw or leaf on the ocean spray?
Poor boy! for thee how ruthless time
All tender ties hath riven!
Thy father's love—all seared with crime;
Thy mother—gone to Heaven.
No brother, sister, guards the shrine,
When God hath set his seal divine.
Thy mother _dead_? long, long ago?
No soft eye beams on thee?
No kindly voice says firmly "No,"
To bid thy tempter flee?
And snares are thick, and pitfalls deep,
And the upward way is rough and steep.
And thou heedest not, in thy soul's deep night,
That God hath so bereft thee;
And thou carest not for the trembling light
Dim in thy memory left thee.
God save thee from the world's sure blight!
God save thee from an _endless_ night!
A LOVING HEART.
BY W. S. GAFFNEY.
SWEETER than the sweetest flower,
Brighter than the brightest gem,
Richer far than Flora's bower,
Art or nature's diadem—
Fairer, sweeter,
Purer, meeter,
Is a kind and loving heart!
Wealth may prove a toy caressing;
Beauty's charms a world of light;
But Affection is a blessing
From a soul serene and bright;
Kindest, purest,
Best and surest,
Is a faithful, loving heart!
EVENING THOUGHTS.
BY H. MERRAN PARKE.
TWILIGHT deepens upon the lea,
And shadows come dancing in play with me;
Little brown birds have hurried away
To their nests in the tree-tops old and gray,
While here at my window I lean and gaze
Earnestly into the misty haze,
Watching the coming of one sweet star
Which thou'rt now seeking from me afar.
Absent and dearest, my spirit's life
Dost ever forget, 'mid the din and strife,
That one fond heart o'er the line of hills
Sighs for thy presence, yet bounds and fills
With measureless bliss when this sweet hour
Gathers around with its magic power.
Visions of brightness come and go
Like the falling and melting of winter snow;
But one, a presence like thine remains,
And winds my heart in its golden chains.
Then, sweet as the music in Assam's bowers,
When winds go singing among the flowers,
Or like the leaves of the lotus-tree
That touch each other in melody,
So sweetly a voice creeps into my soul
To woo my senses from earth's control,
And point to a world of rarer joy
Where pleasures are found that never cloy,
Where bliss supernal forever reigns,
And rapture gushes in seraph strains.
Oh, earth is darkly beautiful now,
With her garland of flowers upon her brow;
And the stars have come with their golden eyes
To light up the portals of Paradise;
The visions of sweetness have left my heart,
But the voice of music will never depart;
And when I look to the shining skies,
Where the bright pavilions of glory rise,
I'll think of the gardens of matchless flowers,
Where angels walk 'mid the wingless hours;
And, dearest, I'll think we'll sometimes go
The peace and rapture of heaven to know.
But, hark! the sound of ringing bells
Comes on the wind, and softly tells
Midnight—and earth doth sweetly rest,
With her beautiful children on her breast.
SONNET.—FLOWERS.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
WINTER scarce o'er, as messenger of Spring,
Walks forth bright Snowdrop, clad in green and white,
Which simple beauties every eye delight,
Till Violet scents the gale and Bluebirds sing;
Come now the Windflower and the Tulip tall,
And Naiad Lily of the lowly vale,
The lover's flower, which is true passion pale;
Up, next, Narcissus springs, more fair than all,
Reflecting in the brook, that purls anigh,
Her image, and, like Echo, hastes to die;
Then the sweet lady Rose, at Zephyr's call,
Like nymph, comes forth to show her glowing breast,
While Flora holds her proudest carnival,
And yields the palm to her, as queen of all the rest.
MY TULIPS.
BY H. S. D.
STERN old Janus shook his sceptre
Over a shivering land,
Yet spring, one day, with a warning came
And slipped it from his hand.
She brought him torrents from the skies,
And rivers down the street;
Melted his crown about his eyes,
And thawed his icy feet.
My tulip bulbs in goodly rows,
Scenting the loosened springs,
Shot up in haste to look around;
But ah, the silly things!
They did not know that when spring comes
In such a vapory way,
She only thinks to try her power,
And never means to stay.
So when the reckless sprouts had seen
Their fill of mist and mud,
Spring went away and left them e'en
To manage as they could.
Then winter rose in fearful rage,
And fumed and flurried round;
He shut the waters in a cage,
And closed the opening ground.
Like true philosophers, my plants,
Though sorely pinched and frayed,
Braved the old tyrant in his rants,
And stood there undismayed,
Till spring, with airs and sunny smile,
Came tripping o'er the ground,
Leading her orchestra, the while,
In many a tricksy sound.
And buds above, below, burst forth,
In tints of emerald dressed,
To see the wild spring gain the north,
My tulips with the rest.
When she'd subdued the rigid earth,
And conquered all the cold,
My plants, to grace her victory, donned
Their crimson and their gold.
Out flashed their flames, their feathers tossed
Upon the ambient air,
And nicest choice was dazed between
By bloemen and Bizarre.
But when the gentle sway of spring
Must yield to summer's pride,
My tulips fainted with regret,
And dropped their heads and died.
THE DEAD TREE.
I SAW it with leafy honors crowned
By a crystal streamlet's side,
And its long, fair boughs in their graceful play
Stooped down to the gentle tide.
I lingered once beneath its shade
At the noon of a summer day;
When youth's high pulse through my temples beat
In its swift and burning way.
And many a thought of my questioning heart
Went out on restless wing,
To the unseen's far and shoreless waves,
Some tidings thence to bring.
Blest, blest and beautiful seemed all things,
Green earth and the holy sky,
And _soul_ with its wondrous, fearful gifts,
And doom of mystery.
Years passed; from distant and stranger homes
I came with a colder brow;
But at nature's altars wreathed and pure,
My spirit still could bow.
The crystal stream on its winding way
My footsteps traced once more,
And a dim sweet thought of other days
Led softly on before,
To where a circling emerald wall
Caught the laughing waves to rest,
For a moment charmed and placidly
In its violet-scented breast.
And there, far down in the stillness glossed,
All riven, bleak, and gray,
Was a giant form that frowned above,
Though kissed by the summer ray.
Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light,
The breeze swept chillingly,
And something mourned within my heart,
But not for the blighted tree.
For a vision came with a lordly bow,
And stood beside me there,
With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye—
Away—'twas a thing of air.
Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt,
With men thus high and cold;
But the valley's clods press heavily
And mute o'er the spoils they hold.
A deep pall covered the wasted corse,
A deeper the passing soul;
A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree,
Was the proud man's earthly goal.
LET ME DIE!
BY S. M. MONTGOMERY.
OH! who would live on in this dreary world,
When the light of Hope has fled,
And the friends of old are changed and false,
And faith and trust are dead;
When the heart is crushed 'neath its weight of grief,
And the smile of joy is gone,
When "love's young dream" is past—all past,
Say, who would linger on?
Let me die! ay, lay me down to rest
In the dreamless sleep of death,
Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve,
Their pure and perfumed breath;
Where the bright sunshine will gently fall,
And soft winds murmuring by,
Will my requiem chant, in whispers low,
Through the green grass waving high.
LINES TO A BRONCHITIS BIRDIE.
A FRAGMENT.
BY N. W. BRIDGE.
NOW heed the counsel of a sage,
And closely keep in thy warm cage
This cold and dreary winter through;
See that ye shun the winds of March,
No April showers thy plumes unstarch,
Nor skies of May thy crest bedew.
And then, perchance, sweet airs of June
Will find our Birdie's throat in tune,
And ye through valleys green may rove,
And o'er the sunlit emerald hills,
Within the cool refreshing grove,
Along the marge of winding rills;
And gather flowers of varied hue,
'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks,
And on them smile, and kiss them, too,
While they will sweetly blush their thanks,
And drink thy health in drops of dew;
Inhale the blossom-scented breeze
Within thy oscillating zone,
And never cough, nor even sneeze,
So sound thy swan-like throat has grown.
Then will thy happy voice be heard
Amid sweet spring's melodious throng;
No other heavenly warbling bird
Will sing so joyous, oft, and long.
L'ISOLEMENT.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE,
BY WM. A. KENYON.
OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side,
Beneath an aged oak I take my seat,
My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide,
Whose panorama opens at my feet.
Here scolds the river, thus in foam to break,
Then slow meanders down the dim afar,
Toward the spread waters of the sleeping lake,
Where smiles in azure the fair evening star.
To these crowned summits—dim old colonnades—
The gentle twilight still a last ray lends,
E'en while the cloud-car of the queen of shades
White o'er yon far horizon's verge ascends.
Spreading through all the air, with gothic swell,
Soft sounds of worship bid the ear attend;
The trav'ler stops to hear the distant bell
With day's last noises holy concerts blend.
But these fair tableaux have no charm for me;
My sight indifferent is o'er them led,
Like the fleet shadows that at noon I see:
Suns for the living cannot warm the dead.
From hill to hill in vain I turn my glance,
From south to north, from sunrise to his rest,
I search at every point this vast expanse;
Nowhere doth fortune wait on my behest.
What make these valleys and these homes? I cry;
Vain objects all; their charm for me has flown:
Rocks, rivers, forests, loved retreats, I sigh,
One being absent, every soul is gone.
What signifies the sun to rise or set?
And what a heaven sombre or serene?
Returning days no joy for me beget,
And still unmoved I gaze on every scene.
Round could I follow the sun's vast career,
My eyes would see but deserts wild and void;
Nothing he shines on can my bosom cheer:
I wish for nothing here below enjoyed.
Perchance beyond the borders of this earth,
Where the true sun looks down from other skies,
Could I but cast the slough of this world's birth,
What I so much have dreamed would meet my eyes.
There, filled from fountains whither thought aspires,
There might I find again, with hope and love,
This fair ideal every soul desires—
Find her who has no name save there above.
Borne on Aurora's car, why can I not,
Vague object of my vows, launch forth to thee?
Why on this earth of exile is my lot,
With nothing common between it and me?
Leaves in the prairie fall, with passage brief,
And evening breezes to some dale convey;
And I—am I not like a withered leaf?
Ye stormy north winds, bear me hence away!
TO A FRIEND ON THE DAY OF HIS MARRIAGE.
A STORE of happiness to thee
This day auspicious brings,
And o'er the future fairy Hope
Her robe of promise flings.
Oh, fair is she whom thou hast won
To be thy gentle bride,
A fairer none could ever wish
"To grace a lover's side."
But well for thee thy chosen one
Hath charms that brighter shine,
And these by strong, though tiny cords,
Shall make her doubly thine.
Beneath the potent hand of Time
That graceful form must bow,
And age his furrowed lines shall trace
Upon that lovely brow.
And years of care shall dim those eyes
Sparkling with love's own light,
And 'mid those dark and glossy braids
Shall mingle threads of white.
But outward change shall only prove
That heart more true to thee,
And, though the eyes their lustre lose,
_It_ will unaltered be.
And oh, when sorrow's storm shall come,
For come it surely will,
'Twill only bind that loving heart
To thee more closely still.
And now, though many friends are near,
Wishing thee perfect bliss,
Not _one_, I know, is more _sincere_
_Than she_ who sends you _this_.—V.
CAPS AND HEADDRESS.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]
[Illustration: Fig. 4.]
AS it is impossible to describe the various shades of trimming that are
seen in the new styles of caps and headdresses, we resort to cuts to
illustrate them.
Fig. 1 is a breakfast-cap for a young married lady, of a very simple
style; the foundation is of a plain net; this is traversed by plaitings of
lace, through which is passed a flat plaid ribbon of bright hues. Loops
and bows in profusion at each ear. It will be found a very stylish model.
Fig. 2.—A more complicated and less youthful cap, composed of insertions
and edgings, trimmed with mantua ribbon of a good quality.
Fig. 3.—A graceful style of headdress for a young person, when simplicity
is to be preserved. It is merely of full _bandeaux_, slightly waved; the
flowers, a light drooping spray, are arranged in the _bandeaux_, instead
of the back of the hair, or across the brow. The back of the hair, as seen
in Fig. 4, is dressed in three puffs, and secured by a low ornamental
comb. We have still newer designs of headdresses in preparation to
illustrate the topic of the coming month—dress at watering-places.
[Illustration]
JUVENILE FASHIONS
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
WE are very much pleased—nor is it to be wondered at—with the
communications that frequently reach us with regard to this especial
department.
"Indeed," writes a correspondent, whose opinion is of value, "the good
ideas you have given me concerning children's dresses and many other
things, during the three months I have received the 'Lady's Book,' I
consider worth the whole year's subscription."
Once, at least, every season we devote our chitchat especially to the
young people; and to show they are not forgotten in the mean time, select
a design from Mrs. Suplee's large establishment—of children's clothing,
etc.—of a boy's summer suit.