that the mind wanted curing more than the body, her parents consulted
the family doctor, who said that he could not perceive there was much
the matter with her; he, however, recommended fresh air and exercise,
and suggested that perhaps a few weeks by the seaside might do her
good. Now, this latter advice Fanny liked very much; it added to her
importance as a lady that she should be taken to the seaside because
she was in delicate health. However, as Fanny meant to be delicate,
she was as much so on her return as before, until at last it became an
allowed fact in the family that Fanny was "so delicate" that she was
left to do pretty much as she pleased.
Time passed on, and Fanny became a wife, and, with a vague idea that
she was to secure to herself the affections of her husband, just in
proportion that she made demands upon his sympathy, her elegant ailings
became more numerous than ever, and she has fully established her claim
to be classed among "delicate women."
Perhaps the custom of giving calomel to destroy health, as if it were
a weed too rank to be allowed to grow, is not very much practised; but
other injurious customs are taught and practised which as certainly
injure health.
The custom of confining the body in tight stays, or tight clothes of
any kind, is exceedingly hurtful to the health of both body and mind.
A girl has learned a very bad lesson, when she has been taught that
to gain the admiration of her fellow-creatures, she must, even to the
endangering of health and life, distort her figure from that which
nature has made, to something which fashion presumes to dictate as more
admirable.
The custom of preventing the active use of the limbs, and free
exercise of the body generally, and restricting every movement to the
artificial notions of boarding-school propriety, is attended with
mental and physical evils of all sorts. While a child is forbidden
to take the bodily exercise which nature would impel her to do, the
humors grow thick and stagnate for want of motion to warm and dilate
them; the general circulation is impeded; the muscles stiffen, because
deprived of their necessary moisture; obstructions take place, which
produce weakness in every animal function; and nature, no longer able
to discharge the morbid matter which constantly accumulates from all
her imperfect operations, gradually sickens, and the child is either
carried to a premature grave, or continues an existence of physical and
mental languor and listlessness; and another is added to the class of
"delicate women."
We cannot be far from right in saying that almost all the mental and
physical ailings of "delicate women" may be traced to a defective
education. And those who are now engaged in training girls, whether
at home or in schools, cannot too seriously consider the weight of
responsibility resting upon them. Upon their management depend much of
future health, and, consequently, the usefulness and happiness of those
committed to their charge.
As requisites to the promotion of bodily vigor, we will mention:--
A strict attention to personal cleanliness, which children should be
taught to cultivate, because it is healthy and right that they should
be clean, and not because "it would look so if they were dirty!"
The use of apartments that are well ventilated.
Frequent and sufficient active bodily exercise in the open air.
Entire freedom from any pressure upon the person by the use of tight
clothes.
A sufficiency of nourishing and digestible food.
And, in winter, the use of such firing as is needed to keep up a
healthful warmth.
All these will tend to promote health, but we shall have no security
against "delicate women" unless there be also added the cultivation of
mental health.
For this, it is necessary that girls should be taught to cultivate
_mental purity and mental activity_, by sufficient and well-regulated
exercise of the mind.
Habits of benevolence, contentment, and cheerful gratitude should
be inculcated, both by precept and example, to the exclusion of
selfishness.
And, above all, should be strongly impressed upon the mind the
necessity of the strictest integrity, which will lead to the abhorrence
of every species of affectation, which is, indeed, only a modified sort
of deceit.
Girls should also be early taught that they are responsible beings;
responsible to God for the right use of all the mercies bestowed upon
them; and that health is one of the chief of earthly blessings, and
that it is their duty to value and preserve it.
But much is learnt from example as well as from precept; therefore, let
no affectation of languid airs in a teacher give a child the idea that
there can be anything admirable in the absence of strength. We do not
wish that girls should cultivate anything masculine; for an unfeminine
woman cannot be an object of admiration to the right judging of either
sex. But a female has no occasion to affect to be feminine; she is
so naturally, and if she will but let nature have its perfect work,
she will, most likely, be not only feminine, but also graceful and
admirable.
The school studies of girls should be so arranged that they may afford
mental food and satisfaction; otherwise, as soon as the lesson hours
are over, they will, most likely, turn with avidity to any nonsense
they can learn from foolish conversation, or to reading some of the
trashy books of the day, to the injury of all mental and moral health,
and the almost certain production of "delicate women."
To those who are already women, and are unfortunately classed among
the "delicate," we would say: For the sake of your husbands, and all
connected with you, strive resolutely to lose your claim to such an
unenviable distinction. If you are conscious of the least feeling of
satisfaction in hearing yourself spoken of as delicate, be assured it
is a degree of mental disease that allows the feeling. If you ever
suppose that you gain your husband's sympathy by weakness, remember
you might gain more of his esteem and satisfied affection by strength.
Fifty years ago, it was well said that, "To a man of feeling, extreme
delicacy in the partner of his life and fortune is an object of great
and constant concern; but a _semblance_ of such delicacy, where it
does not really exist, is an insult on his discernment, and must
ultimately inspire him with aversion and disgust." It is not for
us to say how many put on the semblance of delicacy as a covering
for idleness, or from any of the weak motives that prompt such an
affectation--conscience will whisper where this is the case--and happy
will it be for the household of any one who can be roused from such a
pitiable state.
Could woman only know how many husbands are bankrupt because their
wives are "delicate;" how many children are physically, mentally, and
morally neglected and ruined, because their mothers are "delicate;"
how many servants become dishonest and inefficient, because their
mistresses are "delicate"--the list would be so appalling that possibly
we might hear of an Anti-delicate-ladies Association, for the better
promotion of family happiness and family economy.
Meanwhile, let each listen to her own conscience and the dictates of
her better judgment, and remember that health is a gift of God, and we
cannot slight a gift without also slighting the Giver.
[Illustration: Painted by F. Poole.
THE GLEANER.]
POETRY.
THE GLEANER.
BY RICHARD COE.
(_See Plate._)
NOT the raven's glossy wing
Is so beautiful a thing
As thy locks of jet-black hair,
Maiden, all so bright and fair!
And a soul of beauty lies
In the midnight of thine eyes;
And a sweet, expressive grace
Sitteth meekly on thy face,
Like unto a statue seen
Of some gentle, loving queen!
Whatsoe'er thy name or station,
Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;
'Neath the dome that God hath spread
All above and round thy head;
Taking in the healthful breeze
From the mountain-tops and trees;
Thou dost toil from day to day,
Knowing that "to work's to pray!"
Conscious of reward well won
At the setting of the sun.
From thy thought-revealing brow
Strength of intellect hast thou;
In the harvest-fields of Thought
Mighty minds of old have wrought;
Thou hast followed in their way,
Gleaning richly day by day:
Gems of purest ray serene
In the intervals between
Constant toil and needful rest,
Thou hast garnered in thy breast.
In the brighter fields above,
'Neath the beaming eye of Love,
While the heavenly reapers stand,
Each with sickle in his hand,
Thou shalt take thy final rest
On the Master's kindly breast;
Ever, evermore to be
Blest throughout eternity;
Never, nevermore to roam
From thy gladsome Harvest Home!
* * * * *
THE PET.
BY ROSA MONTROSE.
I HAVE a little nephew,
He is scarcely three years old,
With eyes of heaven's deepest blue,
And ringlets palely gold;
His mouth, a velvet rosebud red,
All hung with honey-dew;
But sweeter far our darling's lips
Than rose that ever grew!
I ne'er have found so dear a child,
Or one so strangely fair,
Or saw on infant brow like his
The mind that's slumb'ring there!
And oftentimes he utters things,
Confounding wise and old;
And from his baby lips we hear
What wisdom bath not told!
He's like a breath of summer air--
A dew-drop pure and bright,
That falls from Evening's closing eye,
To kiss the morning light:
A ray of sunshine, soft and warm--
A straying golden beam--
A silver singing rivulet--
Or joyous dancing stream!
He is the treasure of our heart--
The sunlight and the joy;
He'll lisp to you the names he bears,
Sweet, lovely, darling boy!
And when he comes with pleading words,
My work is laid away,
Or classic volume closed at once,
To join him in his play.
His voice is like a tiny lute,
And when he sweetly sings,
You'd think he was an angel, and
Be looking for his wings!
And oft I clasp him to my heart
With strange foreboding fear
That he's a straying seraph child
God only lends us here!
Such thoughts as these intruding come,
For in this world of ours
The loveliest things the soonest droop;
The fairest human flowers
Are ever first to pass away,
The first to fade and die--
Thus teaching us our treasures should
Be sought beyond the sky!
But we will love our "angel boy,"
And never cease to pray
That seraph forms may guide him here,
_But call him not away!_
And hope that till life's closing breath,
As on his infant brow,
So Intellect and Innocence
May blend as pure as now!
* * * * *
DISAPPOINTED LOVE.
BY W. S. GAFFNEY.
OH! scorn him not--the noble soul
Whose happy dreams have sped:
Whose cherished hopes of blissful love
Have ever, ever fled!
For, oh! 'tis hard at best to bear
Misfortunes from above;
But deathlike to the manly heart
Is cruel, shipwrecked love!
Oh! scorn him not--but gently strive
To soothe his troubled breast;
For man's vocation here on earth
Is wearisome at best:
Then metre out true sympathy--
Pour oil upon the smart--
And, smiling angels, oh! beware
To crush a manly heart!
* * * * *
STANZAS.
BY H. B. WILDMAN.
I STOOD beside a pleasant stream,
Where spicy boughs were wreathing;
Its gentle ripples came and went
Like sleeping infants breathing.
The lily press'd its dewy cheek
Upon the kissing billow,
And slumber'd like a summer bride
Upon her nuptial pillow.
Yet, by this stream a dark rock tower'd
Like fane in forest waving;
Deep furrows shown within its side,
Wrought by the ripples laving!
I gazed upon the sunny stream,
And thought of sunny faces,
And wonder'd how such gentle waves
Could leave such angry traces.
Again I stood within the hall
Where Wealth her glow was shedding;
The spacious dome seem'd lighted up
For some grand princely wedding.
The moon look'd down on golden spires,
As if to give a greeting;
One would have thought, amid the show,
'Twas Pleasure's natal meeting.
Yet there, within that hall, that night
I saw the discontented;
I saw pale faces mark'd with care,
Like spirits unrepented.
I gazed upon the princely hall
Where wealth had blown her bubble,
And wonder'd how, amid such show,
There could be aught of trouble.
And thus, I said, amid Life's glare--
Amid this world of hurry--
'Tis true that "tongues we find in trees,
And sermons in the quarry!"
Our life is like yon little stream,
Where ripples are retreating;
And Pleasure, though array'd in smiles,
Hath spots where Care is eating.
Our life is like a summer stream
That lulls us into slumber;
We dream we're happy for a while,
While waves in countless number,
Though gentle in their ceaseless flow,
Are every day and morrow,
Still chafing in the shores of Life
Some secret marks of sorrow!
* * * * *
BRIGHT FLOWERS FOR HER I LOVE.
BY WILLIAM RODERICK LAWRENCE.
BRIGHT flowers for her I love
Yes, flowers rich and rare,
The rose-bud and the violet
To grace her golden hair;
Yet nature's gems--though beautiful
And pure and bright they be--
Are not so fair as she I love,
Or beautiful to me.
Rare gems for her I love!
All sparkling in their light,
A diadem to grace that brow
So beautifully bright;
Yet earthly crowns must fade--
Immortal crowns above
Alone are worthy to be sought
By her I fondly love.
Music for her I love!
Melodiously low,
Breathed soft from harps whose golden strings
With songs of rapture glow;
Such music as the angels make
In worlds of light above--
Such music would I have to cheer
The heart of her I love.
And peace for her I love!
The peace religion brings,
Renouncing fleeting, transient joys
For bright and heavenly things;
Let happiness be hers,
And heaven her rest above;
May this, my prayer, accepted rise
For her I truly love.
* * * * *
STANZAS.
BY HELEN HAMILTON.
THOUGH thou art dying, yet I may not weep
Such grief I leave to those who part for years;
_We_ only part for days; it may be--hours;
We have no need of tears.
Ere thy last kiss is cold upon my lips,
Thy dying clasp is loosened from my hand;
I will be with thee--thou but goest before
Into the better land.
When thou hast reached Heav'n's golden portal, pause
And cast one look adown Death's shadowy road;
I will be near, nor tremble as I walk
The road thou first hast trod.
Would that together we might pass away!
Would that one sound might ring our passing knell!
Yet soon we'll meet where partings are unknown;
For the last time--farewell.
* * * * *
SONNET.--NATURE.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
NATURE! Well hath the Poet said: "Who can
Paint like to thee?" Inimitably fine
Seem all the hues and colorings of thine,
Though microscopic eye may closely scan:
Close search but lifts the mystic veil that hides
Thy scenes of beauty. In the tiny cup
Of thy fair flowers, what wonders open up!
Lo! a whole insect nation there resides,
Clad in rich vests of fine embroidery,
Or coats of living purple, green, and gold.
Such fairy scenes, so constantly unrolled,
Declare design most manifest to be;
And the least path Omnipotence hath trod
Exhibits footprints of our glorious God.
* * * * *
TO ONE WHO RESTS.
BY WINNIE WOODFERN.
I THOUGHT my heart had cast away
Each memory of its early day;
I thought nor grief, nor change, nor fear,
Could teach these eyes to shed a tear;
And yet, a very child I be,
Alas, I still remember thee!
I often gaze with heart unmoved
On lips that smile like thine, beloved;
I often catch a deep low tone,
That bears the music of thine own;
Yet pass, without a tear or smile,
My pulses calm and cool, the while.
Thou, dearest, hast been linked to me
By things which never more can be;
By memories of that lovely place,
That village, _quiet in its grace_,
Like lilies, in the summer air,
That stir not; knowing they are fair.
And those who trod its mossy walks,
And shared with me those woodland talks,
'Till our hearts, hungry for the pain
Of loving, to be loved again,
Learned the deep meaning of a word
Which had been better never heard.
Thou, and thy love, were of that time
When life was but a passion--rhyme;
When I knew not that care might come
Even to that sweet mountain home;
When stars and streams and flowers were part
Of this, then calmly beating heart.
So, when the martyr's cross was mine,
I chose another love than thine;
Our hearts, but not our souls, were mates,
Our love the same, but not our fates;
And he who, in these later years,
Seeks me, seeks also scorching tears.
'Tis long since I have breathed thy name!
It once could turn my heart to flame;
But now, so changed and cold am I,
I only speak it with a sigh,
That dreams, whose proper home is Heaven,
To hearts o'ertasked with Earth, are given!
Oh, long forsaken! no fond dream,
Floating (like flowers on a stream),
Down the wild current of my mind,
Counts o'er the joys I've left behind,
A little thing has drawn these tears,
For thee, and for our early years!
A moment since I cast a look
Within the pages of a book
Which thou to me hast often read,
Thy shoulder pillowing my head;
A faint, sweet perfume thence arose;
_There lay thy gift_--a faded rose!
It was as if an altar burned
With sacrifices, and I turned--
Beloved, do not think me weak!
Tears, wild with grief, fled down my cheek,
And to my lips arose a prayer
That I might _die_ while pausing there!
My song is o'er; 'twill only tell,
To some who know and love me well,
At times, within my inmost soul,
Are thoughts I cannot quite control,
Because they breathe and speak of thee,
Who can be nothing now to me!
* * * * *
THEY SAY THAT SHE IS BEAUTIFUL.
BY MARY GRACE HALPING.
THEY say that she is beautiful;
They praise that speaking eye,
That fair and softly rounded cheek,
Its bright and changeful dye,
That pure and polished brow that towers
Like ivory temple high.
But is that radiant being fair
The light and joy of _home?_
Doth from its loving inmates there
Her heart forget to roam?
Oh, is she not as false and fair
As ocean's snowy foam?
They say, unlike the tones of earth
Rings out that music free;
But only from the halls of mirth
Are heard those tones of glee;
They say that she is beautiful--
She is not so to me.
I've seen that sweet and smiling lip
Give back a stern reply;
I've seen the cloud of passion dim
That proudly glorious eye,
And on that pure transparent brow
The shade of anger lie.
I know that outward beauty sits
Upon that queenly brow;
Before its proud and gorgeous shrine
Doth man admiring bow,
While she, with false, capricious smile,
Repays each idle vow.
I know with seeming truth doth flash
That darkly radiant eye,
Yet beauty oft will sell for cash
What love can never buy,
Aside a loving heart will dash
That time and change defy.
Upon the thickly crowded street,
I many a form have past,
Whom grace gave not proportion meet
From beauty's model cast,
To whom the _soul_ a glory lends
A radiance that will last,
When beauty's tender floweret bends
Before time's wintry blast.
Yet _there_ I see no loving _heart_,
No spirit pure and free,
Though like a whited sepulchre
An outward gloss may be;
They say that she is beautiful,
She is not so to me.
* * * * *
ODE TO THE AIR IN MAY.
BY NICHOLAS NETTLEBY.
AWAKE, O Muse! my trembling pen inspire!
Infuse my words with unpolluted song;
Touch every line with thine own sacred fire,
And bear me by thy impulses along!
To thee, sweet Air, that dost around me play,
Touching ethereally each silv'ry string
That vibrates in the golden Harp of May,
To thee I dedicate this offering.
Soft, gentle Air! unnumbered missions thine,
Missions of mercy, kindness, and of love;
Guardian to man thou art, almost divine,
Doing below as angel hosts above.
Thine is it, Air, at morn's first op'ning light,
To hang rich curtains in the eastern sky,
Which, casting back their own refulgence bright,
Proclaim to earth that glorious day is nigh.
Thine is the task, as heaven's all-wondrous orb
Fills the eternal arch that o'er us spans,
Within thyself its fiercest rays t' absorb,
And make its milder, softer radiance man's.
O'er the broad earth thou wingest; every day
Lighting bright smiles in mansions high and low;
Blessings uncounted strewing in thy way,
Bright'ning the eye, kindling the cheek with glow.
When burning fever mantles o'er the brow,
And dire disease foretells the angel Death,
Welcome is thy refreshing entrance. Now
Gold hath not there the sweetness of thy breath.
With flowers thou lov'st to sport in fondest glee,
Sipping from velvet cups their rich perfume;
Thou lov'st to dally with the old oak-tree,
And with its broad green crest sweetly commune.
That sombre cloud that far on high is seen,
Shading the earth from Sol's intensest rays,
Is upward borne by thee, a wondrous screen,
Which both thy goodness and thy power displays.
Within our path thy liquid waves are found,
Constant attendant upon every hour,
Bearing unto us many a moving sound,
And messages from each surrounding flower.
And if (when weary of a long repose),
Thou dost invite an earth-refreshing storm,
When three-tongued lightnings in the heavens disclose
Terrific thunderclouds of grandest form,
Mantling the sky in blackest robes of night,
And rushing onward in confusion dire,
While deep explosions cause the timid fright,
And heaven and earth are filled with lurid fire;
Then is it that thy majesty we love;
Then we behold the wonders of thy power;
Thou hold'st the elements that rage above,
And guidest them in that sublimest hour!
But over thee, sweet Air, another hand,
Higher and stronger, holier than thine own,
Presides. 'Tis He, who by a seraph band,
Is circled round. HE upon Heaven's Throne!
* * * * *
ANNOYANCE.
BY BEATA.
I WAS thinking of the "Godey;" that it was out I knew,
The month was just beginning, and the papers said so too;
"A charming number," "brilliant," "a treat for ladies all,"
And I wished to see its contents, and read "Fashion" on the fall.
A rainy afternoon it was--not a dashing, roaring rain,
With a trumpet-sounding wind, or a stirring hurricane;
It did not rattle 'gainst the glass a lively, merry chime,
But a dull and dreary drizzle, a stupid, yawning time.
I almost had a mind to venture on the street,
But I do detest the pavements, even when they're clean and neat;
So I thought upon the "Godey," with its fresh and uncut page,
And longed for something pretty, my moments to engage.
It struck me that some pleasant chat would restore a cheerful tone,
And rising with a sigh (for I, musing, sat alone),
I gathered up my sewing and quickly took my way,
Where it always wears an aspect bright, despite a rainy day.
But scarcely had I entered, ere there fell, distinct and clear,
The sound of _cutting pages_ upon my wondering ear;
There sat my quiet brother, this dismal afternoon,
With my number in his hand, as I perceived full soon.
I asked, "Is that 'Littell' you have?" but I knew only too well
The answer which I should receive, that it was not "Littell;"
And had he read my wishes, and offered me the "Book,"
I would not have accepted; but I love the first, fresh look.
So I waited very patiently, and my reward was near;
I saw that he was pleased, though it cost me rather dear;
And when the day was closing, and the rain at last was done,
I enjoyed the precious "Godey," and the glorious setting sun.
* * * * *
'TIS O'ER.
BY I. J. STINE.
'TIS o'er! the tender tie is broke
Which bound my heart so close to thee;
Though painful, though severe the stroke,
I now can smile that I am free.
The grief, the sorrow, and the woe
That I was called to undergo,
The bitter pangs, the heartfelt pain,
All, all have ceased their tyrant reign.
'Twas but a moment's pain, 'tis gone;
I'm happy, though unhappy now;
And Melancholy, meek and wan,
Sits peaceful on my thoughtful brow.
The world, with all its loss and gain,
Me neither pleasure gives nor pain;
With thee, false, heartless one, with thee
I lost all joy--all misery.
OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR
[Illustration]
DESCRIPTION OF THE ENGRAVING.
_Headdress of the Lady on the Right._--Hair in bandeaux _à la Niobe;_
torsade of pearls. Moire dress, low body, with progressive revers
opening over a modestie of embroidered muslin edged with lace; short
open sleeves _à la Watteau;_ undersleeves of embroidered muslin;
half-long gloves; bracelets of pearls, or more often worn different,
according to choice.
_The other Figure_ (_Lady seated_).--Cap of tulle trimmed with lace and
ribbon. Low body, with revers open to waist; loose bell-shaped sleeves,
edged with a bouillonne; two skirts trimmed with the same; modestie of
embroidered muslin, edged with point de Venise; black velvet bracelets,
half-long gloves, and Venetian fan.
DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS.
(_See next page._)
Fig. 1.--Front of body as shown in the engraving.
Fig. 2.--Back of body, by placing the letters _a_ _a_.