THE DISGUSTED WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.
"You promised to leave off your smoking,
The day I consented to wed;
How little I thought you were joking,
How fondly believed what you said!
Then alas! how completely you sold me,
With blandishments artful and vain;
When you emptied your snuff-box, and told me
You never would fill it again!
"Those fumes so oppressive from puffing,
Say, what is the solace that flows?
And whence the enjoyment of stuffing
A parcel of dust in your nose?
By the habits you thus are pursuing,
There can be no pleasure conferred,
How irrational, then, is so doing—
Now, isn't it very absurd?
"Cigars come to threepence each, nearly,
And sixpence an ounce is your snuff;
Consider how much, then, you yearly
Must waste on that horrible stuff!
Why the sums in tobacco you spend, love,
The wealth in your snuff-box you sink,
Would procure me of dresses no end, love,
And keep me in gloves—only think!
"What's worse, for your person I tremble—
'Tis going as fast as it can;
Oh! how should you like to resemble
A smoky and snuffy old man?
Then resign, at the call of affection,
The habits I can not endure;
Or you'll spoil both your nose and complexion,
And ruin your teeth, I am sure!"
Whatever may be said of smoking, it must be admitted to have been the cause of much pleasant writing; nor has it failed to be turned to profitable instruction in verse; as witness the lines on a pipe:
"The pipe that is so lily white,
In which so many take delight,
'Tis broke by the touch,
Man's life is but such—
Think of this when you're smoking tobacco!"
How admirably was this verse sung by the poor soldier in "St. Patrick's Eve," when he supposes he is smoking his last pipe!
There was an amusing account given some twenty years ago in an English periodical, of a footman to a gentleman in a provincial town (which was crowded with strangers on some week of rejoicing, or of some convention or other), being sent, as a favor, to cut the hair of a friend of his master's, who had "put up" at a neighboring inn. He had tried to shave a person once before, on an emergency, and cut his own thumb half-off through his cheek. His experience in hair-cutting was not much more fortunate; but let him tell his own story:
"The first sight of my new 'patient' set my nerves dancing in all directions. He was a large, tall, brawny, red-hot Irishman, with a head of hair bright orange, and curly as the wool of a negro.
"'Cut my hair!' he said, in a voice like the grating of wagon-wheels; 'and, you spalpeen, be handy wid ye, for it's these twenty-four hours that I'm after waiting for ye.'
"The stranger's hair was stiff as wire; of an inveterate tight round curl; and bushy to absolute frightfulness from excess of luxuriant growth. He had started from London with it rather too long; worn it uncombed on a three months' journey through Wales; and was waiting until he could arrive at some town where he could have it cut in the fashion.
"'Cut my hair! I say, you devil's baby!' said the rollicking, roystering Irishman, imbibing at the same time a large draught from a tumbler of brandy-and-water, which he was consuming while he dressed, and recommencing, in a horrible voice, to sing 'The Lads of Shillelagh,' a measure which my entrance had for a moment interrupted.
"I obeyed, but with a trembling hand. The very first sight of his head had discomposed all my faculties. I plunged into the operation of adjusting it as into a voyage over sea, without rudder or compass. I cut a bit here and a bit there, taking off very little at a time, for fear of losing my way; but the detestable round curl, rolling itself up at the very moment I let go the end, defeated every hope, every chance of regularity.
"'Thin the rest!' blasphemed the sufferer, 'for I'll not wait. Thin, it, and leave it.'
"This command put the finishing stroke to my perplexity. 'Thinning' was a process entirely beyond my skill; but a fresh execration, interrupting, 'The Lads of Shillelagh,' left me no longer any power of thought. I had seen the business of 'thinning' performed, although I did not at all comprehend it. I knew that the scissors were to be run through the hair from one side to another with a sort of snip—snip—snip, all the way, so I dashed on; snip—snip—snip—through the close, round, red curls, quite surprised at my own dexterity, for about a minute and a half; and then, taking up my comb, to collect the proceeds of the operation, more than three-fourths of the man's hair came off in my hands!
"What followed I have never exactly been clear in remembering. I think my victim must have felt the sudden chill occasioned by the departure of the thick-set hedge that constituted his head-gear. At all events, he put his hand to his head, and motioned as if he 'did address himself to rise.' I made a rush for the door, muttering something about being obliged to 'go for the heating-irons;' but as I turned round for a parting glance 'at that misguided man,' I saw discovery in his eye. Indeed, I see him in my mind's eye even now, with a countenance more in amazement than in anger, standing paralyzed, beside the chair upon, which he had been sitting, and rubbing his head with the left hand, as if doubting whether his right hand had not misinformed him; but at the moment when the thing occurred, I thought only of escape."
That extempore friseur was never caught afterward with a pair of "thinning-scissors" in his hand!
As we are nigh upon the season of immature fruits, it may not be amiss to give, as a "solemn warning," the following touching
SONNET
ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT-PIE.
Currants have checked the current of my blood,
And berries brought me to be buried here;
Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,
And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.
Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fare
Lessens not fate, but 'tis a lesson good:
Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed ware
Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.
Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,
That lies not, as it lies upon my clay;
But in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,
Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey;
Rehearses I was fruit-full to my hearse,
Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!
It will make any "Christian" laugh to read the account which follows, of the manner in which Eastern superstition was, on one occasion, overcome by a stubborn, matter-of-fact clockmaker, who was employed to repair the great clock in the tower of the Mosque at Tangier. He was from Genoa, and a Christian. How could the faithful followers of the Prophet manage to employ him? The clock was fixed in the wall of the tower, and it was of course a thing impossible to allow the "Kaffer" to defile GOD'S house of prayer by his sacrilegious steps. One proposed to abandon the clock altogether; another suggested the laying down of boards, over which the infidel might pass, without touching the sacred floor; but this was not held to be a sufficient safeguard; and it was finally decided to pull up that part of the pavement on which the "Kaffer" trod, and whitewash the walls over which he passed.
The Christian was now sent for, and was told what was required of him; and he was expressly commanded to take off his shoes and stockings, on entering the mosque.
"I shan't do it!" said the stout little watch-maker; "I never take them off when I enter the chapel of the most Holy Virgin, and I won't take them off in the house of your Prophet!"
They cursed in their hearts the watch-maker and all his race, and were in a state of vast perplexity. The "wise men" had met early in the morning: it was already noon, and yet, so far from having got over their difficulty, they were, in fact, exactly where they had been before breakfast; when a gray-haired muezzin, or priest, who had hitherto been silent, claimed permission to speak:
"If," said the venerable priest, "the mosque be out of repair, and lime and bricks have to be conveyed into the interior, for the use of the masons, do not asses carry those loads, and do they not enter with their shoes on?"
"You speak truly," was the general reply.
"And does the donkey," resumed the muezzin, "believe in the One God, or in Mohammed, the Prophet of God?"
"No, in truth—no," all replied.
"Then," said the muezzin, "let the Christian go in shod, as a donkey would do, and come out as a donkey!"
The argument of the muezzin was unanimously applauded. In the character of a donkey, therefore, did the Christian enter the great Mohammedan temple!
That was a capital burlesque which appeared in "Punch," about the time that Prince de Joinville bombarded Algiers, in the shape of a letter from a French soldier to his mother in Paris. It is brim full of good puns:
"Your kind letter, strange to say, found me alive. You ask me to send you an account of our Model Farm. The farm is surrounded by a stockade, and we mount not less than fifty forty-two pounders. These are constantly double-loaded with grape of the very best vintage. Thus our guns bear upon our fields, if nothing else does. Indeed, every thing about us may be said to be shooting, except the crops. Still, I do not despair. Two months ago we plowed two hundred Arabs into a field of four acres, and now find that they are coming up very nicely in turnips. The agricultural glory there is rotting like bone-dust.
"It is amazing to see how glory blesses us in this country. We feed the Gallic cock upon small-shot; and, strange to say, the hens lay nothing but bullets. Indeed, such is the violence of the Arabs, that we are compelled to stand to our guns at milking-time and feed the pigs with fixed bayonets. We are, however, exercising the milk-maids in platoon-firing, and trust they are quite able to take the field with the cows, now that the guns, which they are to carry, have been provided us.
"We yesterday held a court-martial on the sentinel who mounted guard at the ducks' house; a party of the enemy having scaled the wall at night, and carried off our only brood of ducklings. The drake and duck were found with their throats cut! Were there ever such barbarous villains as these Arabs? The sentinel was shot at six this morning, with all the honors. Although the villains stole our ducks, they fortunately missed the onions: I say fortunately, for they might have found at least a rope apiece.
"We are, however, preparing for a grand operation. We have deposited an immense quantity of gunpowder under the dunghill. We purpose to appear off our guard—shall suffer the enemy to scale our stockade, plant their banners on our dunghill, and then—as they think, in the moment of victory—blow them to atoms! Thus may true glory be obtained, like mushrooms, even from a dunghill!
"You will, from the above, judge of the delightful employment of cultivating beet-root and laurels in the same field.
"But I am called away. Our shepherd has returned without his nose and ears. Our two sheep are carried off! We hasten to make a sortie, to avenge the honor of outraged France! 'Vive la France!'"
They are building a railroad in Egypt; and late accounts from Alexandria tell us that nine or ten thousand workmen are actively engaged upon it. Think of that! Crossing the desert after a locomotive! Good-by to camels and dromedaries! Farewell to tents beneath the spacious blue firmament overhead! A "long farewell" to Arab guides and Arab extortions! Railroads and steamboats will yet thread through Palestine, and paddle the sluggish waters of the Dead Sea! Now look for trade in "pots and pearls," made from the "ash-apples" on "the Dead Sea's shore." Sing the following, on the twenty-sixth page, "irregular metre." Air: "Go ahead!"
Over the billows and over the brine,
Over the water to Palestine!
Am I awake, or do I dream?
Over the ocean to Syria by steam!
My say is sooth, by this right hand,
A steamer brave
Is on the wave,
Bound positively for the Holy Land!
Godfrey of Boulogne and thou
Richard, Lion-hearted King,
Candidly inform us now,
Did you ever
No, you never
Could have fancied such a thing.
Never such vociferations
Entered your imaginations
As the ensuing:
——"Ease her! stop her!"
"Any gentleman for Joppa?"
"'Mascus, 'Mascus?" "Ticket, please, sir;"
"Tyre or Sidon?" "Stop her! ease her!"
"Jerusalem, 'lem, 'lem!"—"Shur! Shur!"
"Do you go on to Egypt, sir?"
"Captain, is this the land of Pharaoh?"
"Now look alive there! Who's for Cairo!"
"Back her! stand clear, I say, old file!"
"What gent or lady's for the Nile?
Or Pyramids?" "Thebes, Thebes, sir, steady!"
"Now. Where's that party for Engeddi?"
Pilgrims, holy Red-Cross knights,
Had you e'er the least idea,
Even in your wildest flights,
Of a steam-trip to Judea?
What next marvel Time will show,
It is difficult to say:
"Omnibus to Jericho,
Only sixpence all the way?"
Cabs in Jerusalem may ply:
'Tis not an unlikely tale;
And from Dan the tourist hie
Unto Beersheba by rail.
A distinguished traveler mentions that in some instances in China, the "outside barbarians," are sometimes looked upon as gods, and at others as devils; and he mentions an absurd and very amusing story which goes to show the fear with which strangers are looked upon by this superstitious race:
"After my friend had visited the Porcelain Tower, being somewhat fatigued, he stepped into a barber's shop, and by way of employing his time, he desired the barber to shave his head. The gentleman wore a wig, but which, for the sake of coolness, he had placed in his pocket. This operation of shaving, so common in China, was speedily and skillfully executed, the barber seeming to be delighted with the honor of shaving one of the illustrious strangers. Previously to his leaving the shop, and while the man's attention was called in some other direction, my friend replaced his wig upon his head, little thinking of the result of his simple process. No sooner, however, had the barber turned round, and observed him whom he had so lately cleaned of every vestige of hair, suddenly covered with a most luxuriant growth, than taking one steady gaze at him. To make sure that he was not deceived, he let fall the razor, cleared his counter at a bound, and running madly through the crowd which was speedily collected, cried out that he was visited by the devil!
"No entreaties could induce him to return, until every 'outside barbarian' had left the neighborhood; so palpable a miracle as this being, in his opinion, quite beyond the powers of all the gods and demons in the Buddhist calendar!"
Here are a few "Hints on Popping the Question," which may be commended to the bashful, the hesitating, and the ignorant, as well as to the "instruction" of the lady-readers of "The Drawer:"
"If you call on the 'loved one,' and observe that she blushes as you approach, give her hand a gentle squeeze, and if she returns it, 'all right.' 'Get the parents out of the room; sit down on the sofa beside the most adorable of her sex,' and talk of the 'joys of wedded life.' If she appears pleased, rise, seem excited, and at once ask her to say the important, the life-or-death-deciding, the suicide-or-happiness-settling question. If she pulls out her cambric, be sure you are accepted. Call her 'My darling Fanny,' and 'my own dear creature,' and this completes the scene. Ask her to name the blessed day, and fancy yourself already in Paradise.
"A good plan is, to call on the 'object of your affections' in the forenoon; propose a walk; mamma consents, in the hope you will declare your intentions. Wander through the green fields; talk of 'love in a cottage,' 'requited attachment,' and 'rural felicity.' If a child happens to pass, of course intimate your fondness for the 'dear little creatures': this will be a splendid hit. If the coast is clear down you must fall on your knee, right or left, for there is no rule as to this, and swear never to rise till she agrees to take you 'for better or for worse.' If, however, the grass is wet, and you have white pantaloons on, or if your trowsers are tightly made, of course you must pursue another plan: say, vow, you will blow your brains out, or swallow arsenic, or drown yourself, if she won't say yes.
"If you are at a ball, and your charmer is there, captivating all around her, get her into a corner, and 'pop the question.' Some delay until after supper, but 'Delays are dangerous'—Round-hand copy.
"A young lady's 'tears,' when accepting you, mean only, 'I am too happy to speak.' The dumb-show of staring into each other's faces, squeezing fingers, and sighing, originated, we have reason to believe, with the ancient Romans. It is much practiced nowadays, as saving breath, and being much more lover-like than talking."
[CONTRIBUTIONS TO OUR DRAWER.]
Our city readers will doubtless recollect the public exhibition, at Niblo's Garden, a few years since, of a magnificent specimen of the American Century Plant in full bloom.
A certain worthy citizen, of considerable social distinction, but not remarkably famous for clearness or strength of intellectual vision, happened to be one morning at the period in question, describing to a fellow passenger in an omnibus "downward bound" the marvelous production of nature, which he had just been visiting. The description, although more immediately addressed to his companion, was (omnibus orators are not uncommon) leveled at the ten additional sixpences whom fate had thrown together in the same vehicle. Among the most earnest listeners, was a meek little man, who ventured, at the conclusion of our friend's account, to inquire mildly, "if the plant belonged to the family of the cactuses?"
"Not at all," replied the dignified narrator, with evident compassion for the ignorance of the questioner, "it belongs to the family of the Van Renssellaers!"
Shortly after the French Revolution of 1848, at a diplomatic party in London, the conversation happened to turn upon the extraordinary inconsistencies of Lamartine's political career, and more particularly upon the singularity of the conservative position he then occupied, when contrasted with his revolutionary activity a short time before.
"How does it strike you, Lady M——?" inquired in French an attaché from one of the continental courts, of a lady not less known as a literary celebrity, than as a witty conversationalist.
"Monsieur," she replied, without a moment's hesitation, "il me fait l'effet d'un incendiaire devenu pompier"—"Sir, he reminds me of an incendiary turned fireman."
Speaking of Lamartine, reminds us of a bitter taunt of M. Guizot's addressed to that gentleman some years before the last overthrow of the monarchy. It is well known that Lamartine entered public life as a stanch conservative, and gradually became almost an ultra-radical, changing, step by step, his seat in the Chamber of Deputies, from the extreme right to the extreme left. It is equally well known that many years ago, he made a sort of princely pilgrimage through certain sections of the East, and published an account of his travels, the statements in which are reputed to be more or less apocryphal.
Upon the occasion to which we allude, M. Guizot in reply to a violent attack upon the government by the poetical orator, addressed him ironically as "l'illustre voyageur," the illustrious traveler, a title indifferently applicable to his adversary's Oriental wanderings, or to his more limited Bedouinism within the four walls of the hall of legislation.
We should be unwilling to particularize how long since, but at a time when we were considerably more verdant than at present, we happened to be traveling in Ireland, that land whence so many travelers come, but to which so few go. Having one day an invitation to dine with a gentleman who lived a few miles from one of the second-rate towns, we engaged a nondescript vehicle and an equally nondescript driver, to take us to the residence of our friend. Paddy, with an independence as decided as if it had been nurtured under the stars and stripes, continued for a good part of the journey smoking villainous tobacco through a blackened pipe-stump, occasionally relieving his feelings by howling out some catch of a native melody not idealized by Moore. To us he did not condescend to address any conversation whatsoever, until suddenly at a turn of the road we found ourselves passing a grave-yard, i.e. Anglice, church-yard, thickly studded with monuments.
Jehu, turning toward us, rather startled us by the statement that "only the blind were buried in that spot." Noticing a fine mansion a short distance beyond, on the same side of the road, we modestly suggested that probably the imposing building before us was an institution for the blind.
"Not at all, yer honor," answered Paddy.
"But how then does it happen," we replied, "that this burying-ground is exclusively for the blind?"
"Why, d'ye see, yer honor," quickly answered the malicious Milesian (we were a nice young man then, and thought all jokes at our expense malicious), "we're not in the habit in Ireland of burying people until they can no longer see!"
We had no pipe of our own, not even a stump—so that we could not, if requested, have put that into it and smoked it.
Some time last summer, a gentleman of Massachusetts, who takes great interest in the subject of public instruction, and who, if we mistake not, has some official connection with the public schools of that State, visited, with an English friend, the Shaker settlement at New Lebanon. The worthy fraternity have a school of their own, which during the summer months is open for girls only, the boys taking their turn in the winter. Strangers are courteously permitted to visit the establishment, and to examine the scholars. Our two excursionists accordingly made the school the special object of their first visit to the village. At the instance of the head instructress our Eastern friend called out a little girl who possessed a face indicative of more than ordinary intelligence, to go through her paces in spelling.
"Will you oblige me by spelling the word feeling?" was the first question.
"F-two-e-l-i-n-g," replied the child, without a moment's hesitation.
"Try again, my dear," answered the examiner, with a shake of the head.
The pupil spelled the word over again, in precisely the same manner as at first.
With a dissatisfied expression of countenance the disappointed visitor was about calling for the "next," when, before he could do so, the instructress interposed with,
"Nay, friend, perhaps our system of spelling is not familiar to thee. Under no circumstances do we consent to doubling any thing here."
It is a singular sensation when on going abroad one for the first time finds oneself a foreigner. This is perhaps peculiarly the case with Americans, for several reasons which we will not trouble the reader with developing. We get into the habit at home of considering our national type the standard, a variation from which in any respect is an evidence of oddness and eccentricity. In ourselves we find nothing peculiar, and we can not conceive for a moment that in a strange land, our nationality can at once be detected by signs palpable and impalpable, but always appreciable to an intelligent eye and ear.
An American freshly arrived in Paris, whether Yankee or Southron, is certainly occasionally guilty of a class of absurdities, into which none but a citizen of the Great Republic, would by any accident fall. The lumber-room of our memory supplies us with an instance in point.
In one of the early years of the last decade, a friend of ours, an old "flaneur" in the Boulevards, met accidentally at Meurice's Hotel, an acquaintance just come over from one of the great commercial emporiums of the Union. "The acquaintance" was a personage of standing "on Change," but not over practiced in some of the conventionalities of artificial life. After a cordial greeting on both sides, the new comer put himself into the hands of his more experienced companion, to be initiated into the mysteries of Paris. Now the first wants that an American feels in the great metropolis are material wants; the right place to dine, before the Louvre; a tailor, before Notre-Dame; and a boot-maker, before the Palais de Justice. It is no small matter to carry a man through these necessities satisfactorily, and after all this had been done in the case in question, another want presented itself; some "lingerie" must be procured, such as pocket-handkerchiefs, &c.
Our man about town at once directed his steps to Doucet's magnificent establishment in the Rue de la Paix. When they entered the shop, M. Doucet was in a back room, and the two friends had ample time to examine and admire various marvelous dressing-gowns, cravats, &c., which lay broadcast upon the counters and chairs. Among the articles, was a lot of superlative pocket-handkerchiefs embroidered in the corner with a ducal coronet, and the initials of the owner underneath.
"These are uncommonly pretty," exclaimed our novice to his companion, "I should like wonderfully well to have some for myself embroidered in the same way."
"But, my dear fellow," replied the other, "these belong to some man of rank, and of course you would never think of having a coronet upon your handkerchiefs."
"And why not?" resumed his friend. "I take it, that it is only an ornament, I don't believe it means any thing, and I don't see why I should not make use of the same thing, if I like it."
Just then, to the horror of the man of the world, M. Doucet entered, all smiles and salutations.
"To whom do these pocket-handkerchiefs belong?" inquired our would-be fashionable friend of M. Doucet, who, by-the-bye, understood and spoke English.
"To the Duke d'O——, a Spanish nobleman," answered the shopkeeper.
"Could I not have a half-dozen, the exact counterpart of these, excepting the initials?" asked the customer.
"Undoubtedly, sir," answered Doucet, without the slightest indication of a smile upon his features.
At this point the unfortunate friend and introducer, who had already fidgeted his gloves on and off several times during the progress of the above short dialogue, interposed, and, in the most positive terms, protested against his companion's being guilty of such an absurdity.
The companion after a moment's dejection in consequence of the decided manner in which his Mentor had interposed to defeat the little gratification which he proposed to his vanity, suddenly turning once more to the expectant master of the establishment, exclaimed,
"But, M. Doucet, at least you can embroider an American Eagle in the corner of my handkerchiefs?"
This time, M. Doucet did smile, but after an instant he replied, with perfect seriousness,
"There can be no difficulty, sir, in embroidering an Eagle, but I am quite ignorant of the distinguishing peculiarities of your national bird."
"Oh, I can soon remedy that," rejoined the now well-pleased customer, and taking a half-dollar from his pocket, he handed it over as a sample of what he desired.
In due time, the handkerchiefs were embroidered and delivered. We are quite sure, however, that our friend, who was up to the proprieties of Paris life, never again voluntarily placed himself in a position in which his national pride could be mortified by the ignorance and vanity of a fellow-countryman.
Some time ago, there flourished, in one of the northern counties of this State, a Scotch divine who rejoiced in the name of "Caw," and who was particularly eager to ingratiate himself into the good opinions of his parishioners and his neighbors. As one means of accomplishing this, he became violently patriotic in his feelings toward his adopted country, and never omitted upon every possible occasion to throw overboard the Scotchman and to assume the American as much as possible.
In the process of time, the worthy doctor built him a house. The contractor was a shrewd Yankee, who had more respect for the doctor's dollars than he had for his theology or his transferred patriotism. One day as the two stood together in front of the nearly finished parsonage, the minister, turning to his companion, asked,
"Dinna ye think, Mister Doolittle, it would produce an uncommonly good effect, if ye should put up a carved eagle with spread wings over the entrance door?"
"You had better put a crow there, Mister Caw," was the prompt but not very civil reply.
We recollect a Scotch blacksmith who used to live, and very likely continues to do so, on the west side of Church-street in this city. His establishment was at the farther extremity of an alley-way, and over the street entrance the following sign attracted the eye of the passer by:
"Sinclair Lithgow, horse-shoeing smith,
Warks up this close wi' a' his pith;
He does his wark baith weel and soon,
But likes the siller when 'tis done!"
How thoroughly canny is this, particularly the allusion to the "siller."
Mr. Lithgow, however, deserves a fortune for his wit.
[Literary Notices.]
One of the most valuable publications of the month is The Life and Correspondence of Niebuhr, the celebrated Roman historian, containing a sketch of his biography, with copious selections from his familiar letters on a great variety of literary and personal topics. The character of Niebuhr is adapted to awaken a deep interest. He reveals his inner being with remarkable frankness in this correspondence. His private feelings, his studies, his literary projects, his plans of life, are all described without reserve. Rugged, unyielding, opinionated, but singularly honest and benevolent withal, with a decided infusion of the domestic and friendly element, Niebuhr was a fine model of Teutonic integrity. His writings are in keeping with his character. These volumes, moreover, are rich in sketches of contemporary literary men and politicians, presenting, in fact, a lucid commentary on the development of German culture during the last half century. (Harper and Brothers.)
Romance of Natural History, by C. W. Webber (published by Lippincott, Grambo, and Co.), is the title of a recent contribution to the illustration of American forest life, from the pen of a writer admirably qualified to do justice to the subject, both by his wide personal experience of romantic adventures on the frontier, and his uncommon power of bold and graphic description. The volume is composed of studies in natural history, narratives of remarkable incidents, pictures of silvan scenery, and sketches of the biography of celebrated pioneers and woodsmen. In addition to the personal reminiscences of the author, the work contains numerous striking selections from other writers, who have described the habits of animals, and scenes in the hunter's life. Books of this character must always be read with avidity. They bring us near to the heart of nature. Their influence, though singularly exciting, is pure and wholesome. The scenes which they depict present a refreshing contrast to the artificial life of cities, and open an impressive view of the wonders and glories of creation. Mr. Webber has won a high rank as a descriptive writer, by his previous productions. In this department of composition, he exhibits no less vigor than facility. The present volume is not unworthy of his reputation. Although occasionally prolix, its narratives, for the most part, are distinguished for their vivacity, reproducing the strange experiences of the wilderness with great freshness and brilliancy of coloring.
Ivar: or, The Skjuts-Boy, by Miss Carlen. (Harper and Brothers.) A translation of a Swedish novel, by Professor Krause. The writer, Miss Carlen, is a universal favorite in her native country, where she is said to sustain even a higher literary reputation than her gifted contemporary, Fredrika Bremer. She is not only known in the higher walks of society; but has won a cherished place in the cottages of the peasantry. She excels in the delineation of female character; her sketches in this kind combining an exquisite grace and beauty, with sculpture-like fidelity to nature. Her warmest sympathies are with the people, and in Sweden, her name is only spoken by their lips with grateful reverence. The present story abounds in pictures of Swedish social life—with a great variety of character and incident—embodied in a cordial, racy style, to which the translator seems to have done eminent justice.
A new venture in fictitious composition, by the successful authoress of "The Wide, Wide World," is issued by G. P. Putnam, bearing the harsh guttural appellation of Queechy. It is similar in construction and tone to the former work, presenting a series of lively portraitures of country life, and a fine specimen of character-drawing in the person of its heroine. Without claiming a conspicuous rank as a work of literary art, this novel shows great freshness of feeling, a high religious aim, and a genuine love of nature, combined with a quiet lurking humor, which serves to explain, in part, at least, the wide popularity of the young authoress. She has the elements of a still more enviable success, and if she would cherish a greater loyalty to the principles of dramatic harmony, and bear in mind the old dictum of Hesiod, that "the half is better than the whole," she would be able to leave this production quite in the back-ground.
The Daltons, by Charles Lever (published by Harper and Brothers), is the last novel of that popular author, displaying his usual dramatic force of representation with an unwonted vein of earnest reflection. In brilliancy of portraiture and vivacity of dialogue, it is not surpassed by any of his former productions, while in vigor of thought and high moral purpose it is greatly their superior.
Hungary in 1851, by C. L. Brace (published by Charles Scribner), records the adventures of the author in a tour through Hungary, after the Revolution, where, among other novelties, he gets a taste of the inside of an Austrian prison. The volume describes the domestic manners of the Hungarians, in a simple and unpretending narrative, giving us a highly favorable impression of the Magyar character, and of the excellent heart and modest enthusiasm of the author as well.
Pequinillo is the title of another story (published by Harper and Brothers), by G. P. R. James, written in a style of playful gayety, with frequent touches of sarcastic humor, and many felicitous delineations of character. We find no shadow of falling off in the productions of this inexhaustible author, and we trust he will live to see as many native Americans among the offspring of his genius, as he has before counted legitimate subjects of the "fast-anchored isle."
A new edition of English Synonyms, edited by Archbishop Whately, has been published by James Munroe and Co. It will be welcome to the lovers of nice philological distinctions. Without dealing in hair-splitting subtleties of discussion, it presents a variety of acute verbal analyses, which are no less adapted to promote accuracy of thought, than correctness of diction. It may be said that the noblest operations of the mind refuse to submit to such minute verbal legislation; and if we admit that the language of passion and imagination must ever be a law to itself, it is also certain that the processes of pure thought can not be served by too refined and delicate instruments; and accordingly, every successful attempt to fix and distinguish the meaning of words is a valuable service to clearness and efficiency of intellect. The definitions in this little volume may not always be accepted; in some instances, they would seem to rest on an arbitrary basis; but, as a whole, they are marked by good sense, as well as by critical acumen; and, rich, as they are in suggestions, even to the most accomplished word-fancier, they can not be studied without advantage.
Thomas, Cowperthwait, and Co. have published The Standard Speaker, by Epes Sargent, containing a selection of pieces adapted to declamation, from the great masters of American and British eloquence and poetry. It is also enriched with a number of original translations from the classics, and from eminent modern orators in France. The work is arranged in a convenient and natural order; excellent taste is displayed in the selection of matter; and the translations are spirited and faithful. It will undoubtedly prove a favorite manual of elocution for the use of schools. Nor is this its only merit. The editor is a poet himself, and a man of various accomplishments. His fine culture is every where betrayed in his volume, making it, in fact, a choice collection of the gems of elegant literature. Hence, it is no less adapted for family reading, than for seminaries of learning. Mr. Sargent is entitled to the thanks of all friends of good letters for the zeal, fidelity, and judgment with which he has performed his task.
The Glory of Christ, by Rev. Gardiner Spring, published in two volumes by M. W. Dodd, is a profound theological treatise, combining extensive research, great knowledge of the Scriptures, and practised skill in argument, with a chaste and animated style, which often rises into the sphere of vigorous popular eloquence. Dr. Spring discusses the principal offices in the mission of the Saviour, the glories of his divine and human natures, and the certain ultimate triumphs of his kingdom on earth. He treats the subject in an exhaustive method—leaving little to be said on the same topics—and blending the austere fervors of the Puritanic age, with the freer and more practical tendencies of modern times.
A Manual of Grecian Antiquities, by Professor Charles Anthon, is issued by Harper and Brothers, forming a companion volume to the recent work on Roman Antiquities by the same author. It is prepared chiefly from materials furnished by Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities, Bojesen's Hand-Book, and Hase's admirable treatise on the Public and Private Life of the Greeks. The convenience of the arrangement, the completeness of the information, and the condensation of space in this volume make it a most valuable work of reference, and it will soon be found on the table of every student of Greek History or Literature.
The Works of the late President Olin, in two volumes, have been published by Harper and Brothers, comprising a selection from his pulpit Discourses, his Lectures on Christian and University Education, and a variety of Missionary and other Addresses and Essays. This work is a valuable gift to the Christian community in general, and will be received with a grateful welcome especially by the religious connection, of which the author was a prominent and beloved member. Those who knew and honored Dr. Olin in life will cherish these volumes as an appropriate and expressive memorial of his admirable character and his abundant labors. The Sermons here given to the public, though not intended for the press, are models of profound religious thought, and present numerous specimens of chaste and effective pulpit eloquence. The Lectures on Education are filled with weighty suggestions; they exhibit the results of ripened wisdom; showing an equal knowledge of human nature and sound learning; and in a style of remarkable sobriety, force, directness, and point.
Thorpe, A Quiet English Town, by William Mountford, is a Vague, Dreamy Story of Humble English Life, mystical in its tone, and languid in its movement—with little interest in its plot, though presenting some delicate portraitures of character—displaying less strength than beauty—and pervaded with a streak of tender sentiment, which sometimes borders on effeminacy. As an imaginative work, it has slight pretensions; its lady-like softness and grace are not relieved by any masculine energy; but its purity of tone and its frequent exquisite beauty of language reveal a refined and elegant mind, and will recommend it to cultivated readers. (Boston; Ticknor, Reed, and Fields.)
Harper and Brothers have just issued the second volume of The Life of Burns, by Robert Chambers. The correspondence in this volume increases in interest, showing the character of the impulsive poet in some of its most extraordinary phases of strength and weakness. His letters, to Clorinda especially, present an odd experience in the life of a fair devotee of Scotch Presbyterianism. The circumstances connected with Burns' marriage to Jean Armour are detailed at length by the biographer.
Fancies of a Whimsical Man, by the author of "Musings of an Invalid." (Published by John S. Taylor.) There is meat in this book—not always strong, nor savory—but often spiced with piquant provocatives, and seldom insipid or flat. The tone of satire prevails throughout the volume; no one can complain of the author for taking things too easy; he is a grumbler by profession; he lays about him on the right hand and left with a certain spasmodic violence; but his weapons lack the curious temper and polished keenness of edge, without which satire is a mere bludgeon. It may serve to fell an ox, but it can not take off a man's head so deftly that the beguiled victim is for the moment unconscious of his loss. Still, this book is out of the common track, and is well worth reading. It indicates the possession of more power than was used in its composition.
Lyra and other Poems, by Alice Carey (published by Redfield), is a neat volume, containing a selection from the author's poetical writings, which have been already widely circulated in the public journals. They include her most characteristic productions, and are well suited to legitimate her claims to a high rank among our native poets. Though not distinguished for striking originality, or deep bursts of passion, they display a rare susceptibility to poetical impressions, and a flowing sweetness of versification which give them a peculiar charm, in spite of the uniform sadness of their tone. Several of the pieces are effusions of melting pathos, clothed in language of great terseness and simplicity—but the same theme too often recurs, producing the effect of a long-drawn plaintive wail. Miss Carey has a quick and accurate eye for nature; her fancy swarms with a profusion of rural images; the humblest forms of domestic life supply her with the materials of poetry; and with uncommon facility of expression, she finds the way to the heart by the true feeling and quiet tenderness of her verse. The most elaborate piece in this volume is entitled "Lyra, a Lament," and we presume is a favorite with Miss Carey's more enthusiastic admirers. It displays a rich luxuriance of imagery; all the flowers of the seasons are woven into the elegiac wreath; but it is too artificial, too curiously wrought for the subject; it seems more like an experiment in poetry, than the sincere outpouring of grief; it has an antique Miltonic flavor, instead of the freshness of native fruit; and, for our part, we much prefer the more simple poems, "Jessie Carol," "Annie Clayville," "Lily Lee," "Annuaries," "The Shepherdess," and the like, which are tender and tearful without pretension.
Hand-Book of Wines, by Thomas McMullen (Published by Appleton and Co.) Some will regard this work as a Natural History of Poisons, under a different name; others, as a Treatise on one of the branches of the Art of Enjoying Life. Both will find it to be a complete mine of knowledge on the subjects of which it treats. That portion of its contents which addresses itself to practical men, whether as physicians, dealers, or judicious consumers, is carefully and critically compiled from the most distinguished foreign authors, to whose observations Mr. McMullen's own long and extensive experience gives weight and sanction. His chapter on the "Purchasing of Wines" is replete with good sense and will open the eyes of many who think themselves connoisseurs. We believe that the conclusion at which he arrives is the true one, namely, that "the only security against being imposed upon, and the secret of procuring good wine, is to purchase from honorable and respectable merchants, whose character and judgment can be relied upon, and to whom a reputation for selling fine wines is of ten times more importance than any thing they could expect to make by adulteration."
Another chapter, entitled "Of the Art of Drinking Wine," appears to us likely to prove highly useful to such youthful or inexperienced hosts as may wish to dispense the bounties of their hospitality with the most approved elegance, yet somewhat doubt their own judgment on such points, or their acquaintance with established precedent.
To ourselves, Rechabites in principle if not in name, the work was attractive chiefly from its descriptions of the lands whence "the sweet poison of misused wine" is procured.
Having ourselves wandered through most of them, we could the better test the accuracy of our author, and we can assure our readers, both those who have trodden those fertile soils, where the amber and the purple grape yield such goodly produce, and those fireside travelers who would fain learn what Nature has done for other lands, that under Mr. McMullen's guidance they will make a pleasant and profitable tour, and on their return find themselves in their easy chairs, edified in mind and not fatigued in body.
A book which will delight many readers, the life of the veteran entomologist and Christian philosopher, Mr. Kirby, is announced for publication. It is drawn up chiefly from his own letters and journals, by the Rev. John Freeman, M.A., clergyman of a parish not far from that of which Mr. Kirby was long the rector. William Spence, whose name is ever associated with the subject of the memoir, supplies a "sketch of the history of his forty-five years' friendship with Mr. Kirby, and of the origin and progress of the 'Introduction to Entomology,' with numerous extracts from Mr. Kirby's letters to him." This will be not the least valuable portion of a volume to which we look forward with much interest.
Among other works announced for speedy publication by Messrs. Longman and Co. we observe a new book of travels, by Mr. Samuel Laing, Notes on the Political and Social State of Denmark and the Duchies of Holstein and Sleswick; also, Count Arenberg, a story of the times of Martin Luther, by Mr. Sortaine, whose tale of Hildebrand and the Emperor was favorably received by the public. In the Traveler's Library, a translation is to appear from the German, of an Expedition from Sennar to Taka, Basa, and Beni-Ameer, by Frederic Werne, author of the 'Expedition to the Sources of the White Nile.'
The Life and Correspondence of the late Lord Langdale, is in progress, and will be published by Mr. Bentley, who announces likewise two series of biographies that promise ample material of interest—1. Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury; 2. Lives of the Prime Ministers of England.
The Duke of Wellington, it recently transpired, has appointed the well known historical writer, Lord Mahon, to be his literary executor, and as his Lordship stands in the same relation to the late Sir Robert Peel, he will have enough to do.
A Memoir of the late Rev. Dr. Pye Smith is in preparation: also the publication, nearly ready, of the course of lectures on Christian Theology, prepared by that divine for the students in Homerton College; they have undergone revision, and will be edited by the Rev. William Farren, Librarian of New College.
Mary Howitt, who has already endeared herself to the hearts of all children by her many fascinating and interesting publications for the young, is about to undertake the editorship of a new juvenile magazine the first number of which was expected to appear in June.
The lectures of Niebuhr on Ancient History, translated from the German, with additions and corrections, by Dr. L. Schmitz, once a pupil of the historian, will shortly be published. The work consists of three volumes, comprising the history of all the nations of antiquity, with the exception of that of Rome. In his account of the Asiatic Empires and of Egypt, Niebuhr is reported to have foretold, more than twenty years ago, the splendid discoveries which have been made in our days by Mr. Layard and by others. By far the greater portion of the work is devoted to the history of the Greeks and Macedonians.
A translation has appeared, by Leonora and Joanna Horner, of Hans Christian Oersted's Soul of Nature. Professor Oersted died last year at the age of seventy-four, a few months after a jubilee was held in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of his eminent services at the University of Copenhagen. In 1836 he attended the British Association at Southampton, at the closing general meeting of which Sir John Herschel pronounced a high eulogy of the Danish philosopher, and described the new fields of research which he had opened up, including that important discovery which has led to the invention of the electric telegraph. A brief memoir of Oersted's life and labors is prefixed to the volume. Few men have so combined the patience and labor of experimental research with the genius and boldness of philosophical speculation. The writings of Oersted are eminently suggestive as well as instructive; and with the researches on electricity, magnetism, and other branches of natural science, there are interspersed many wonderful discourses on the relation of the material and the spiritual, of the body and "the soul in nature."
Of English literary gossip we have two or three stray fragments worth setting down. The one is, that Tennyson is busy with a new poem, of a totally different order from any he has yet published, unless the fragment of the Morte d'Arthur be counted; another is, that the gay and brilliant author of The Bachelor of the Albany has nearly completed a new novel of a philosophical and satirical turn. Thackeray, whose historical novel was to have been published last Christmas, has not finished much more than half of his work.
Johannes Ronge, resident in England, announces as in preparation, a new work, to be published by subscription, on The Reformation of the Nineteenth Century, or the Religion of Humanity—a subject, tasking the highest powers.
The London journals announce the resignation of his chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh by Prof. Wilson. The cause assigned by the veteran poet and critic is ill health.
The Americans, says The London Athenæum, are becoming a race of book-buyers. Every purchaser of old books—the literature of the period between Gower and Milton—has found by experience how much the demand which has sprung up within these dozen years across the Atlantic for such works has tended to enhance their value in this country. Every few days, too, we hear of some famous library, museum, or historical collection being swept off to the "New World." This week supplies two notable examples:—the Prince of Canino's valuable museum of natural history, his library, and his gallery of Art have all been purchased by a private American gentleman; and the library of Neander has been bought by the Senate of Rochester University in the State of New York. Neander's books constitute one of the best collections on theology in Germany.
Our cousin John across the water is "nothing if not critical." His notices of American books are exceedingly curious specimens in their kind, usually remarkable for their self-complacent insolence. "The Howadji in Syria," however, seems to have won golden opinions, as witness the following from The Morning Herald:
"Even those of our readers who have taken up Mr. Curtis's 'Nile Notes,' and have been unable to lay them down again till the last page too soon presented itself, can hardly conceive the fascination which his 'Wanderings in Syria,' just published, will be sure to exercise over their senses. Arabian poets have celebrated the beauty of Cairo and of Damascus, 'the pearl of the East,' and modern travelers have put forth all their powers of description, and have invoked fancy to aid them in their praise; but none of these latter have ever caught and been kindled by the Oriental charm in an equal degree with Mr. Curtis. His work is a perfect gem—a luxury of beauty, and grace, and poetry, which all must read, and none can ever forget."
The notice of the same work in The Examiner, bestows reluctant praise:
"Another book has also appeared on the East by a lively foreign visitor, an American, who sought only pleasure and adventure there, and of course found both. 'The Wanderer in Syria,' by Mr. George William Curtis, is a volume supplementary to his 'Nile Notes,' formerly published. The subjects are the Desert, Jerusalem, and Damascus; but the writer's manner and intention are less to describe what any other person may see in those places, and in eastern circumstances, than to tell us what thoughts and fancies, whimsical, poetical, fanciful, they suggested to him, the writer. His fault is to betray something too much of an effort both in his gravities and gayeties; but on the other hand the effort is not always unsuccessful. He is often undeniably gay, and as often says grave things worth listening to. We do not like him the worse for his love of America and occasional supercilious sneers at Cockneyism."
The following passage from a letter written recently by Leigh Hunt will excite much sympathy and regret:—"I have not been out of my house (by medical advice) for these two months; for a considerable time past, I have not been able to visit my nearest connections, even by day; and last year I was not able to indulge myself with a sight of what all the world were seeing, though for the greater part of its existence I was living not a mile from the spot. To complete this piece of confidence, into which your making me of so much importance to myself has led me, and not leave my friends with a more serious impression of the state of my health than I can help, I have reason to believe that the coming spring will be more gracious to me than the last; and many are the apparent overthrows from which I have recovered in the course of my life. But age warns me that I must take no more liberties with times and seasons."
Lady Morgan has addressed a letter to one of the auditors of the Benevolent Society of St. Patrick, proposing that a monument to Moore should be raised in the poet's native city. She says: "The name of Ireland's greatest poet suggests an idea which perhaps is already more ably anticipated, that some monumental testimony to his honor should be raised in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin; for Westminster might well deny such a distinction to the Irish bard as was refused to the remains of England's greatest poet since the time of Shakspeare and Milton—Byron. Nowhere could the monument of Moore be more appropriately placed than near that of Swift."
Thomas Hicks, the artist, exhibits this year at the National Academy, a full-length portrait of ex-Governor Fish, which is the picture of the exhibition. Mr. Hicks is the first of our artists. In just conception—splendor of color—vigor and accuracy of drawing—poetic imagination and living reality of impression, he has no master this side the sea.
A portion of Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson's Essays has been translated and published in Paris, by M. Emile Montegut. An interesting review of this volume has appeared in the Pays. The writer says that, "by a strange anomaly, in the classic land of daring and of novelty, all literary productions bear the same evidences of imitation; all are more or less remarkable for their close adherence to the style of some foreign model." Then he declares Cooper to be a disciple of Walter Scott, but at the same time, much more American than Washington Irving, who is the faithful copier of Robertson and Addison.
M. de Bacourt, one of the executors of the late Prince de Talleyrand, has written a letter to the public journals stating that frauds similar to those lately discovered in England relative to Shelley's letters, have been attempted in France with letters falsely stated to have been written by the late prince. "I have in my possession at present," says M. de Bacourt, "a certain number of those letters, imitating exceedingly well the writing of the deceased Prince—but which have been declared by the persons intimate with the deceased, such as M. Guizot, the Duke de Broglie, Count Molé, Duke Pasquier, &c., to be forgeries."
Railway Official.—"You'd better not smoke, sir!"
Traveler.—"That's what my Friends say."
Official.—"But you mustn't smoke, sir!"
Traveler.—"So my Doctor tells me."
Official (indignantly).—"But you sha'n't smoke, sir!"
Traveler.—"Ah! just what my wife says."
CHILDISH TEETOTAL MOVEMENT.
Grandpapa.—"But for Seventy Years, my Child, I have found that the moderate use of the Good Things of this Life has done me good."
Young Hopeful Teetotaller.—"All a mistake, Grandpa'. Total Abstinence is the thing. Look at me! I've not tasted Wine or Beer for years!"
DEFERENCE TO THE SEX.
"Will any Lady have the Politeness to ride outside, to accommodate a Young Gentleman?"
[Fashions for Early Summer.]
Figures 1 and 2. Ball Costumes and Coiffures.
We confine our illustrations of the Fashions for the month of June to in-door costumes, since, in our variable and uncertain climate, the general out-door costumes appropriate to the closing month of spring are equally adopted for the opening summer month. The three styles of coiffure, which we present, though very different in general effect, as well as in detail, are each strikingly elegant and beautiful.
Figure 1 represents a very elegant Ball Dress. Two pattes spring from the top of the head to the right and the left of the parting; they descend to the broad bandeaux, and are each entwined with a lock of the hair. The coiffure is ornamented with a wreath of reed-leaves, in velvet and gold, with here and there small golden reeds. The leaves, small in the middle, increase in size at the sides, where they are intermingled with two white plumes, gracefully curved. The robe is of taffeta, trimmed with velvet. The body is low in the neck, having two berthes of taffeta, which form the point in front, and rise to the shoulders, so as to form the châle behind. These berthes are not gathered. They are fastened to the body in front by three jeweled clasps. The body is somewhat pointed at the waist. The sleeves are close and short. The skirt is double. The lower one has two flounces; the upper one is held up on the left side by a bunch of white feathers, with a cordon of reed-leaves, similar to those of the coiffure. The lower flounce, of twelve inches in depth, has a ruby-colored velvet of three inches; the upper flounce, of ten inches, has a velvet of two and a half inches; and the tunic, one of two inches. These are all placed about an inch from the edge. The velvet upon the berthe and sleeves is not more than an inch and a quarter.
Figure 2.—Coiffure à la Jolie Femme.—The hair is knotted somewhat low behind, and retained by a jeweled comb; the bandeaux are very much waved; the hair, from the front parting, is somewhat raised. The robe is low, with very short sleeves; the skirt very elegant, with large folds. The body is sown with little bouquets of variegated roses, small at the waist, but growing larger toward the bottom. These flowers, which are painted, are apparently fastened by a rich ribbon which ties them together, and which is embroidered upon the silk in shaded white. The flowers are apparently suspended by strings of pearls, also produced by embroidering. This robe, of moir antique, is very rich. A lace pelerine, forming the circle behind, ornaments the body. This lace has a very light pattern upon the edge. It forms the point in front, and is ornamented all around with a lace volant, very slightly gathered. Lace sleeves, straight and rather short, leave the whole arm visible through them. A bunch of rose-leaves and rose-buds adorns the whole front of the body. This bunch is flattened at the bottom so as not to enlarge the waist. A long and elegant chain of gold, flung over the shoulders, falls down upon the skirt.
Fig. 3.—Full Dress for Evening.
The hair is ornamented with diamonds. Two plats beginning at each side of the centre parting of the forehead, are raised, and tied in the middle; they then descend at the sides, where they are enveloped by curls thrown backward. Behind, the hair twisted in a cord, forms four circles. The torsades are fastened by a jeweled comb. In that part which constitutes the bandeaux are three mounted agrafes on each side. The skirt is of white taffeta, with a lace flounce, of twelve inches in depth. Tunic-robe of white moire antique. The body is open in front, and trimmed with a pointed berthe, slit up at the shoulders. This berthe is decorated, at a distance of about half an inch from the edge, with a gold band of nearly an inch in width, fastened by a gold cord, passing through seven eyelet-holes. It is the same at the slit on the shoulders, only in these places the cords terminate in gold tassels hanging down. The edge of the tunic is ornamented with gold galloon, the lower galloon is one and a quarter inches wide, the second three-fourths of an inch, the third three-eighths. The first of these galloons is three-fourths of an inch from the edge, and the distance between them is half an inch, so that from the edge to the top of the last galloon the depth is about four inches. Each opening of the tunic has a conical shape; the corners are rounded. The sleeves are round, and edged with galloon. The chemisette, which reaches above the low front of the body, is composed of lace like the flounce, and forms fan-shaped fluted plaits, confined by a thread passing through, and supported by the lacing of the front.
The two following out-door costumes are decidedly pretty:
Carriage Costume.—Jupe of lilac silk, with three deep flounces; there is a figured band at the edge of each flounce woven in the material; body à la veste of purple velvet fitting close; it is open in the front, and has a small collar and lapel. The sleeves are wide; they have a broad cuff which turns back à mousquetaire. Waistcoat of white moire antique: it is closed at the throat and waist, it is then left open to show the frill of the habit-shirt. Transparent bonnet of light green crèpe, trimmed with white blonde: the brim is lined with a broad blonde with a deep vandyked edge, the points of which come to the edge of the brim: inside trimmings and strings of shaded ribbon, long shaded feather drooping on the right side.
Promenade Costume.—Silk dress, the skirt with three flounces: a rich chinée pattern is woven at the edge of each flounce, the last being headed by a band of the same. The body is plain, opens in the front nearly to the waist; the sleeves are wide, three-quarter length, and like the corsage, are finished to correspond with the flounces. Manteau à la valerie, this manteau takes the form of the waist, and is rounded gracefully at the back; it is embroidered and trimmed with a rich fringe en groupes: the fringe with which the cape is trimmed, reaches nearly to the waist: the ends, which are square in front, have a double row of fringe and embroidery. The bonnet is a mixture of white crèpe and fine straw; the strings shaded, to correspond: placed low at each side are feather rosettes shaded pink and white.
In the materials, we must call the attention of our fair readers to the unique and beautiful silks for dresses; besides the elegant designs woven at the edge of the flounce, there are patterns woven for each part of the dress—the sleeves, corsage, and basquire.
Figures 4 and 5.—Caps.
We give plates of two very elegant caps, which have made their appearance. Figure 4 is a dress cap, of tulle and blonde, trimmed with ribbon and small banches of flowers. Figure 5 is a morning cap, entirely of lace insertion, and between each row is a narrow gauze ribbon, rolled or twisted. The borders of rich lace.
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected.