Home Amusements

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Mitchell, Vance & Co.

836 & 838 BROADWAY,

And 13th Street,

NEW YORK,

Offer an Unequaled Assortment of

GAS FIXTURES,

IN CRYSTAL, GILT, BRONZE, AND DECORATIVE
PORCELAIN.

Fine Bronze and Marble Clocks.

MODERATOR AND OTHER LAMPS,
In Bronze, Gilt, Porcelain, Cloisonné, etc.

Elegant in Styles and in Greatest Variety.

A Cordial Invitation to all to examine our Stock.

CHAS. E. BENTLEY,
(SUCCESSOR TO BENTLEY BROS.)
Manufacturer of
DECORATIVE ART-NEEDLEWORK
In Crewel, Silk, and Floss.
NOVELTIES IN EMBROIDERIES,
With Work Commenced and Materials to Finish.
Perforating Machines, Stamping Patterns, etc., etc.

Wholesale, 39 & 41 EAST 13th ST.,
Retail, 854 BROADWAY.

FULL LINE OF MATERIALS USED IN FANCY-WORK.

ALL THE NEWEST STITCHES TAUGHT IN PRIVATE LESSONS BY THOROUGH EXPERTS.

STAMPING AND DESIGNING TO ORDER.

Send 3 cents for Catalogue.

Gatherings from an Artist’s Portfolio.

By JAMES E. FREEMAN.

One volume, 16mo.

Cloth $1.25.

“The gifted American artist, Mr. James E. Freeman, who has for many years been a resident of Rome, has brought together in this tasteful little volume a number of sketches of the noted men of letters, painters, sculptors, models, and other interesting personages whom he has had an opportunity to study during the practice of his profession abroad. Anecdotes and reminiscences of Thackeray, Hans Christian Andersen, John Gibson, Vernet, Delaroche, Ivanoff, Gordon, the Princess Borghese, Crawford, Thorwaldsen, and a crowd of equally famous characters, are mingled with romantic and amusing passages from the history of representatives of the upper classes of Italian society, or of the humble ranks from which artists secure the models for their statues and pictures.”—New York Tribune.

“‘An Artist’s Portfolio’ is a charming book. The writer has gathered incidents and reminiscences of some of the master writers, painters, and sculptors, and woven them into a golden thread of story upon which to string beautiful descriptions and delightful conversations. He talks about Leslie, John Gibson, Thackeray, and that inimitable writer, Father Prout (Mahony), in an irresistible manner.”—New York Independent.

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.

Appletons’ Home Books.

HOME AMUSEMENTS.

By M. E. W. S.,
AUTHOR OF “AMENITIES OF HOME,” ETC.

“There be some sports are painful; and their labour
Delight in them sets off.”

“Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,
When he comes back!”

I do invoke ye all.

NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET.
1881.

COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1881.

[CONTENTS.]

[HOME AMUSEMENTS.]

[I.]
PREFATORY.

Goethe, in “Wilhelm Meister,” struck the key-note of the universal underlying dramatic instinct. The boy begins to play the drama of life with his puppets, and afterward exploits the wild dreams of youth in the company of the strolling players. We are, indeed, all actors. We all know how early the strutting soldier-instinct crops out, and how soon the little girl assumes the cares of the amateur nursery.

“I have learned from neighbor Nelly

What the girl’s doll-instinct means.”

We begin early to play at living, until Life becomes too strong for us, and, seizing us in merciless and severe grip, returns our condescension by making of us the puppets with which the passing tragedy or comedy is presented. With this idea in mind we have begun our little book with the play in the garret—the humblest attempt at histrionics—and so going on, still endeavoring to help those more ambitious artists who, in remote and secluded spots, may essay to amuse themselves and others by attempting the rôle of a Cushman, a Wallack, a Sothern, a Booth, or a Gilbert.

Our subsequent task has been a more difficult one. To tell people how to give all sorts of entertainments—in fact, to tell our intelligent people how to do anything—is nearly as foolish a practice as to carry coals to Newcastle, and implies that sort of conceit which Thackeray so wittily suggests when, in his “Rebecca and Rowena,” he presents the picture of a little imp painting the lily. It is hard to know where to draw the line. It would be delightful to amuse—to help along with the great business of making home happy—to tell a mother what to do with her active young brood, and yet to avoid that dreadful bore of mentioning to her something which she already knows a great deal better than we do.

The Scylla of barrenness and the Charybdis of garrulity are before any author who tries to speak upon a familiar theme. Let us hope that, through the kindness of our readers, we may not have wrecked our little bark on either.

[II.]
THE GARRET.

Happy the children who have inherited a garret! We mean the good old country garret, wherein have been stowed away the accumulations of many generations of careful housewives. The more worthless these accumulations, the better for the children. An old aunt who saved all the old bonnets, an old uncle who had a wardrobe of cast-off garments to which he had appended the legend,

“Too poor to wear, too good to give away—”

these are the purveyors to the histrionic talents of nations yet unborn. Old garrets are really the factories of History, Poetry, and the Drama.

Into such a garret crept the lame little Walter Scott, and what did he not bring out of it! Talk of the lumber of a garret and the accumulations of a house, and you mention to the thoughtful the gold and diamond mines of a future literature. A bright boy or girl will unearth many a pearl of price from those old trunks, those dilapidated bureau-drawers, those piles of old love-letters, those garments of the past, that broken-down guitar, that stringless violin, that too-reedy flute. The taste for old furniture has rather emptied the garret of its time-honored chairs and old clocks, but there is still in its ghost-haunted corners quite enough goblin tapestry for the fancy of the growing child.

A country home is, of course, the most precious possession a child can have—a country home in which his ancestors have lived for years, and which has a large garret, a capacious cellar, and several barns. One might wish that every child might be born in Salem or Plymouth, or near one of those old settlements. But as that would be quite impossible, considering the acres which we are compelled to cover as a nation, we may as well see what can be done, in the way of Home Amusements, with the garret as well as the parlor. The garret, in both town and country, has been the earliest home of the legitimate drama since the first youthful aspirant for histrionic honors strapped on the sock and buskin. A good country barn has also been sometimes the scene not only of the strolling but of the resident player.

[III.]
PRIVATE THEATRICALS; ACTING PROVERBS AND CHARADES.

Wherever the amateur actor pitches his tent or erects his stage, he must consider wisely the extraneous space behind the acting arena necessary for his exits and entrances, and his theatrical properties. In an ordinary house the back parlor, with two doors opening into the dining-room, makes an ideal theatre; for the exits can be masked, and the space is specially useful. One door opening into a large hall is absolutely necessary, if no better arrangement can be made. The best stage is, of course, like that of a theatre, with areas all around and behind it, so that the actors have a space to retire into. This is difficult in a parlor, unless it be a very large one. The difficulty, however, has been and will be solved by the ingenious. Drawing up the big sofa in front of the footlights, and arranging a pair of screens and a curtain, has often served well for a parlor play.

It is hardly necessary to say that all these arrangements for a play depend, in the first place, on the requirements of the play itself and its legitimate business, which may demand a table, a bureau, a piano, a fireplace, etc. And here we would say to the youthful actor, Select your play at first with a view to its requiring little change of scene, and not much furniture. A young actor needs space; he is embarrassed by too many chairs and tables. Then, again, choose a play which has so much varied incident in it that it will, as it is said, “play itself.” Of this branch of our subject we will treat later.

The first thing to be built is the stage. Any carpenter will lay a few stout boards on end-pieces, which are simply squared joists, and for very little money will take away the boards and joists afterward; or a permanent stage can be built for a few dollars. Sometimes ingenious boys build their own stage with old boxes; but this is apt to be dangerous. Very few families are without an old carpet, which will serve for a stage-covering; and, if this is lacking, green baize is very cheap. A whole stage-fitting—curtains and all—can be made of green cambric; but it is better to have all the stuffs of woolen, for the danger from fire is otherwise great. Footlights may be made of tin, with pieces of candle put in; or a row of old bottles of equal height, with candles stuck in the mouth, make a most admirable and very cheap set of footlights. The mother, an elder brother, or some one with judgment, should see to all these things, or the play may be spoiled by an accident.

The curtain is always a trouble. A light wooden frame should be made by the carpenter; firm at the joints, and as high as the stage, to the front part of which it should be attached. This frame forms three sides of a square, and the curtain must be firmly nailed to the top-piece. A stiff wire should be run along the lower edge of the curtain, and a number of rings be attached to the back of it in squares—three rows of four rings each, extending from top to bottom. Three cords are now fastened to the wire, and, passing through the rings, are run over three pulleys on the upper piece of the frame. It is well for all young managers of garret theatres to get up one of these curtains, even if they have to hire an upholsterer to help them. The draw-curtain never works surely, and often hurts the dénoûment of the play. In the case of the drop-curtain which we have described, one person holds all the ends of the cords, tied together; and, on pulling this, the curtain goes up and down as if by magic, and rarely gets out of order, which is a great gain.

Now as for stage properties. Almost any household, or any self-respecting garret, will hold enough of “things.” If it does not, let the young actors exercise their ingenuity in making up, with tinsel-paper and other cheap material, all that they will want. Turnips, properly treated with a jackknife, have heretofore served for Yorick’s skull in the great play of “Hamlet.” A boy who knows how to paint can, on a white cotton background, with a pot of common black paint, indicate a scene. If he be so fortunate as to know a kindly theatrical manager who will let him for once go behind the scenes, he will find that the most splendid effects are gained by a very small outlay.

As for the theatrical wardrobe, that is a very easy matter, if the children have an indulgent and tasteful mother, who will help a little and lend her old finery.

A brigand’s costume (and brigands are very convenient theatrical friends) is easily arranged. Procure a black felt hat, fastened up with a shoe-buckle; a bow and a long feather; a jacket, on which Fanny will sew some brass buttons; one of mamma’s or sister’s gay scarfs, tied round the waist several times; an old pair of pantaloons, cut off at the knee, and long stockings, tied up with scarlet ribbons; a pair of pumps, with another pair of buckles, and any old pair of pistols, dirks, or even carving-knives, stuck in the belt, and you have, at very small expense, a fierce brigand of the Abruzzi.

Girls’ dresses are still easier of attainment. But the great trouble in the dressing of girls for their characters is the frequent inattention to the time and style of the character. A young lady who plays the part of Marie Antoinette must remember the enormous hoops which were a part of the costume of the unlucky queen. She must not be content to merely powder her hair. She must remember time, place, circumstance, and dress herself accurately, if she wishes to produce a proper dress. A lady once wore in the part of Helen of Troy, for private theatricals in New York, a pair of high-heeled French slippers, with the classic peplum. A gentleman of archæological tastes declared that he could not stay in a house where such crimes were committed against historical accuracy! She should have worn the classic sandal, of course—not modern black slippers.

The “make-up” of a character requires study and observation. In the painting and shading of faces, adaptation of wigs, application of mustaches and whiskers, there is much to be done. A box of water-colors, a little chalk, camel’s-hair pencils, a saucer of rouge, a burnt cork, and some India ink, all are useful. If these can not be got, one burnt cork, aided by a little flour, will do it all. Mustaches can be made by borrowing mamma’s old discarded artificial curls, cutting them off to a proper length, and gumming them on the upper lip. The hair of a good old Newfoundland dog has served this purpose. A very pretty little mustache can be painted with India ink. However, if near a barber or a hair-dresser—or, still better, a costumer—it is well to get ready-made mustaches, which come of all colors, already gummed. If the make-up of an old man is required, study a picture of an old face, and trace on your own face with a camel’s-hair pencil and India ink the wrinkles, the lines of an aged countenance. Make a wig of white cotton if you can not hire one of gray hair.

If a comic face is needed, stand before a glass and grin, watch the lines which the grin leaves, and trace them up with a reddish-brown water-color. Put on rouge particularly about the nose and eyes. A frown, a smile, a sneer, a simper, or a sad expression, can always be painted by this process. The gayest face can be made sad by dropping a line or two from the corners of the mouth and of the eyes.

For a ferocious brigand, cork the eyebrows heavily, and bring them together over the eyes. If you wish to produce emaciation or leanness, cork under the eyes, and in the hollow of the cheek (or make a hollow), and under the lower lip. To make up a pretty girl, even out of a young man’s face, requires only some rouge and chalk and a blonde wig. There should be also a powdering about the eyebrows, ears, and roots of the hair. There should be a heavy coat of powder on the nose, and after the rouge is put on, a shower of powder over that. All will wash off without hurting the complexion. For a drunkard or a villain, purple spots are painted on chin, cheek, forehead, and nose.

The theatrical wardrobe, to be complete, should have several different wigs, and as these can not be made well except by an artist in hair, we recommend the actors to lay out all their spare cash on these adjuncts. Having dressed for the part, the acting comes much more easily. No one knows the effect of dress better than the real actor, who calls it “the skin of the part.”

The lines to be spoken should be committed most thoroughly to memory. Without this no play can be a success. Each performer should write out his own part, with the “cues,” or the words which come directly before his own speeches, and commit the whole to memory. When the performer hears the words of the cue, the words of his own part come to his lips immediately.

The exits and entrances, and what is known as “stage business,” are always difficult to beginners. The necessity of closets, etc., in a small stage, places to retire to, and the like, can be managed, however, by screens, and these are so useful in all private theatricals that one should be made, six feet high by three feet wide, hinged, and covered with wall-paper, before any plays are attempted.

We are describing the very cheapest and most unsophisticated private theatricals—such as those which school-boys and girls could get up in the country, or in a city basement or garret, with very little money or help from their parents. And these are the ones which give the most pleasure. Expensive and adroitly-conducted theatricals, in a city where experts can be hired to do these things, have no lasting charm. It is, as in all other things, the amount of ourselves which we put into anything which makes us enjoy private theatricals. And in a city, grown people have the privilege of the best theatricals, beside which all amateur efforts are lamentably tame. But a party of fresh young people, full of the ichor of youth, can with the slightest help produce the most delightful effects with very simple means.

Young girls are too apt, in playing private theatricals, to sacrifice character to prettiness. Now this is a fatal mistake. To dress a part with finikin fineness, which is to be a representation of quite different sorts of qualities, is poor art. Let them rather imitate Miss Cushman’s rags in Meg Merrilies, or Bastian Le Page’s homely peasant simplicity in Joan of Arc. Remember, the drama is the mirror of nature, and should produce its strong outlines and its deep shadows. It is in this realism that men surpass women. The college theatricals, in which all parts are played by men, are by far the best.

In selecting a play, amateurs should try and find one, as we have said, which “plays itself.” They should not attempt those delicate and very difficult plays which only great artists can make amusing. They should select the play which is full of action and situation, like “The Follies of a Night,” or “Everybody’s Friend.” The most commonplace actors fail to spoil such plays as these; and there are for younger performers hundreds of good plays, farces, and musical burlesques to be found at every book-store. “Naval Engagements,” “A Cure for the Fidgets,” “The Two Buzzards,” “Betsey Baker,” “Box and Cox,” “A Regular Fix,” “Incompatibility of Temper,” “Ici l’on parle Français,” “To oblige Benson,” are among the many which really help the amateur, instead of crushing him.

But no one who is not a first-rate actor should attempt “Two can play at that Game,” “A Morning Call,” “A Happy Pair,” or any of those beautiful French trifles which look so easy, and in the hands of good actors are so charming, for they depend upon the most delicate shades of acting to make them even passable.

For those players of a larger growth, who attempt the very interesting business of amateur theatricals on a more ambitious plane, we can illustrate our meaning as to plays which “play themselves” by two instances:

“Ici l’on parle Français” gives the two amusing situations of a man who is trying to speak French with the aid of a phrase-book, and the counterpoise of a Frenchman who is trying to speak English in the same fragmentary manner. Their mutual mistakes keep the house in a roar; and almost any clever pair of young men can assume these two characters to great advantage. They each have an eccentric character mapped out for them, and very little shading is necessary.

Again, for a very much more poetical and entirely different range of part, but yet one which “plays itself,” we would suggest “Pygmalion and Galatea,” Gilbert’s beautiful and poetical play. Here we have the great novelty of a young lady disguised as a marble statue. She can be “made up” with white powder and white merino drapery to look very like a marble statue, and a powerful white lime-light should be thrown on her from above. There is a tableau within a play to begin with, and something novel and interesting. The marble statue, however, at the very start becomes endowed with life, steps down from her pedestal, walks forward to the footlights, talks, and receives the homage of a lover. Now, almost any pretty and intelligent maiden can make this part very interesting. She needs nothing but grace and a good memory to do this Galatea well. The part plays itself.

The same young actress could not do Lady Teazle—that delightful and intricate bit of acting, so dependent upon stage tradition and stage training that old theatre-goers say that in fifty years only five actresses have done it well. Still less could she approach the heroine in the “Morning Call” or the young wife in “Caste.” These parts demand the long, severe stage training of an accomplished artist. The Galatea is assisted by the novelty of the position, by the fact that every young maid is a marble statue, in one sense, until Love makes her a woman, so that each person may give a strikingly individual portrait; and, above all, it is a play which is a new creation, and therefore capable of a new interpretation.

We do not advise amateurs to undertake Shakespeare, unless it be “Katherine and Petruchio,” which is so gay and scolding that it almost plays itself.

The very beautiful comedies of Robertson seem very easy when one sees Mr. Wallack’s company play them; but they are very difficult for amateurs. They depend upon the most delicate shading, the highest art, and the neatest finish.

The sterling old comedies—all excepting “The Rivals”—are almost impossible, even those which are full of incident and full of costume. Their quick movement seems to evade the player; and what is so terrible to the listener as to endure even a second’s suspension in the “give and take” of a comedy? “The Rivals,” strange to say, is a very good play for amateurs.

Boucicault’s farces and society plays run very well on the amateur stage. Lady Gay Spanker is not a difficult part. Bulwer’s “Lady of Lyons” should never be attempted by amateurs. It becomes mawkishly sentimental in their hands. But Charles Reade’s “Still Waters run Deep” is excellent for amateurs; and “Money” runs off rather more easily than one would suppose.

Amateurs are very fond of “A Wonderful Woman,” but we can not see much in it. “The Wonder” is very picturesque. It is one of the plays which plays itself; and the Spanish costumes are beautiful. The famous comedies, “My Awful Dad,” “Woodcock’s Little Game,” and “The Liar,” should be studied very thoroughly by observation and by book before being attempted by amateurs. The “Little Game” has two very hard parts to fill, Mrs. Colonel Carver and Woodcock; still it has been done moderately well. For a parlor comedy, “The Happy Pair” is a great favorite; and “Box and Cox” can be done by anybody, and is always funny. Music helps along wonderfully, as witness the immortal “Pinafore,” which has been played by amateurs to admiration for hundreds of admiring audiences.

A stage manager is indispensable. In getting up ambitious plays in a city, which the courageous amateur sometimes attempts, an actor from the theatre is generally hired to “coach” the neophytes. In the country, some intelligent friend should do this, and he can properly be arbitrary. It is a case for an absolute monarchy. The stage manager must hear his company read the play over first, and tell John faithfully if he is better fitted for the part of the lackey rather than that of the lover. He must disabuse Seraphina of the belief that she either looks or can play the ingenu, and relegate her to the part of the housekeeper. We all have our natural and acquired capabilities for various parts, and can do no other.

Then, after reading the part, comes the rehearsal; and this is the crucial test. The players must study, rehearse, rehearse, study, and not be discouraged if they grow worse rather than better. There is always a part lagging, and the dress rehearsal is invariably a discouraging thing. But that is a most excellent and advantageous discouragement if it inspire the actors to new efforts. Nothing can spoil a private theatrical attempt like conceit and self-satisfaction. The art is as difficult a one as playing on the violin; and, although an amateur may learn to play pretty well, the distance between him and a professional is as great as that between an amateur violinist and Vieuxtemps. The amateur must remember this fact.

“Acting proverbs” is an ingenious way of suggesting an idea by its component parts rather than stating it outright. The parts are not written, but merely talked over, and are often done by clever young people on the spur of the moment. It is well, however, to consult beforehand as to the argument of the play. The books are full of little plays written upon such proverbs as “All is not Gold that Glitters,” “Honor among Thieves,” “All is Fair in Love and War,” etc. But we advise young people to take up less well-known proverbs, and to write their own plays. They might learn one or two as a sort of exercise, but the fresh outcrop of their own originality will be much better. The same may be said with the acting of charades.

A dramatic charade is a very ingenious thing, and a very neat little play in four acts can be made from the word Ab-di-cate. A B, of course, presents a school scene. And at a watering place, if some witty man or woman will represent the schoolmaster or schoolmistress, all the pupils can be the grown men and women who are well known. The entrance of a fashionable mamma, her instantaneous effect on the severity of the teacher, the taking off the fool’s-cap from the head of Master Tommy, who has been in disgrace—all will cause laughter and an opportunity for local jokes. This is Act I. Di can be represented by the dyeing process of a barber who has to please many customers; or “The die is cast”; or an apposite allusion to Walter Scott’s “Die Vernon”; or some comico-tragico scene of “I can but die.” This is Act II. Cate, to “cater,” “Kate”—for bad spelling is permitted—all these are in order. This is Act III. The last act can be the splendid pageant of a Turkish Abdication, in which a sultan abdicates in favor of his son. All the camel’s-hair shawls, brilliant turbans, and jewelry of the house and neighborhood can here be introduced with effect.

Charades in which negroes, Irish or German people, or anybody with a dialect, enter in and form a part, are very amusing if the boys of the family have a genius for mimicry. Amateur minstrels are very funny. The getting up of a party of white men as black men is, however, attended with expense. The gift of singing a comic song is highly appreciated in the family circle of amateur dramatists, and a little piece with songs is very sure to be acceptable.

If every member of the party will do what he can, without any false shame, or any egotistical desire to outdo the others, if the ready-witted will do what they can to help the slow-going, and if the older members of the family will help along, these amusements will cheer many a winter’s evening, many a long rainy week, and will improve all who are connected with them; for memory and elocution, good manners and a graceful bearing, are all included in the playing of charades, proverbs, and the little dramas.

[IV.]
TABLEAUX VIVANTS.

We now come to one of the most artistic of all Home Amusements—the Tableau vivant.

Lady Hamilton amused the people of her age, all over Europe, by playing in a parlor very striking living pictures. All she asked was a corner of the room, a heavy curtain behind her, and a few shawls and turbans. Being a beautiful and graceful woman, with the dramatic instinct, she gave imitations of celebrated statues and pictures, and was no doubt aided by some very ingenious painting, which she knew how to apply to her own fair face. The art she discovered is certainly worth trying in the present age as an amusement.

The preparations for good tableaux should be somewhat elaborate. A vista should be built and lined with dark-colored cloth; lights should fall from the top, sides, and front, so as to avoid shadows. The groups should be striking, the colors clear, and the attitudes simple. Sometimes there are such wonderful and unpremeditated effects from these living pictures that artists hold up their hands in despair; more often they are ruined by shadows; the lights are not well arranged, and the whole effect lacks elevation and meaning. It is difficult to arrange a crowded tableau, but it can be done.

The principle of a picture—a pyramidal form—should be observed closely in tableau. To secure this desirable object the persons in the background must stand on elevations. Boxes covered with dark cloth, so as to be unnoticeable, are the best of all devices, and the effect of any object held up in the hand, as a scepter, a bird, a distaff, or a wreath, must be carefully noted, as it may throw a shadow on the picture in the background. There never was, or could be, a tableau which did not have some weak spot, and these shadows are the faults which most easily beguile; but they can be avoided.

A group of Puritans make into many very striking pictures. The costume is beautiful and becoming; red cloth can be laid on the table or floor to set off the grays; and the many picturesque incidents in our early history form very pleasing subjects. It is a beautiful dress for women and a dignified one for men—that gray dress and high ruff, that broad hat, and plain, long gown. A group of young people might take a winter’s amusement out of reading up the Puritan annals, and giving at the Academy or in their own homes a series of Puritan tableaux.

A tableau can be given in parlors separated by folding-doors; but they are not by any means as good as those for which a stage, vista and footlights, flies and side-lights, are arranged. If there is a large unused room, where these properties can stand, the result is very much better. There should be a gauze curtain or one of black tarlatan, which should have no seams in it, and this curtain should hang in front of the stage all the time. The drop-curtain must be outside of this. The gauze curtain serves as a sort of varnish to the picture, and adds to the illusion.

Although the pure white light of candles, gas, kerosene, or lime-light is the best for tableaux, very pretty effects are produced by the introduction of colored lights, such as can be produced by the use of nitrate of strontia, chlorate of potash, sulphuret of antimony, sulphur, oxymuriate of potassa, metallic arsenic, and pulverized charcoal. Muriate of copper makes a bluish-green fire, and many other colors can be obtained by a little study of chemistry. Here are some simple recipes:

To make a red fire.—Five ounces nitrate of strontia, dry, one and a half ounces finely-powdered sulphur. Take five drachms chlorate of potash and four drachms sulphuret of antimony and powder them separately in a mortar; then mix them on paper, and, having mixed the other ingredients, previously powdered, add these last, and rub the whole together on paper. In use, mix a little spirits of wine with the powder, and burn in a flat iron plate or pan.

A green fire may be made by powdering finely and mixing well thirteen parts flour of sulphur, five parts oxymuriate of potassa, two parts metallic arsenic, three parts pulverized charcoal, seventy-seven parts nitrate of baryta; dry it carefully, powder, and mix the whole thoroughly. A polished reflector fitted on one side of the pan in which this is burned will concentrate the light and cast a brilliant green luster on the figures. A bluish-green fire may be produced by burning muriate of copper finely powdered and mixed with spirits of wine. These fires smell unpleasantly in the drawing-room; and equally good effects may almost always be produced by colored globes, if the light is not needed too quickly.

Sulphate of copper, when dissolved in water, will give a beautiful blue color. The common red cabbage gives three colors. Slice the cabbage and pour boiling water on it; when cold, add a small quantity of alum, and you have purple. Potash dissolved in the water will give a brilliant green. A few drops of muriatic acid will turn the cabbage-water into a crimson.

Then, again, if a ghostly look be required, mix common salt with spirits of wine in a metal cup and set it upon a wire frame over a spirit-lamp. When the cup becomes heated, and the spirits of wine ignite, the other lights in the room should be extinguished, and that of the spirit-lamp shaded in some way. The result will be that the whole group will become like the witches in Macbeth,

“That look not like the inhabitants of the earth,

But yet are of it.”

This burning of common salt produces a very weird effect. It seems that salt has some other properties than the conservative, preserving, hospitable kind of quality which legend and the daily needs of mankind have ascribed to it.

A very fine and artistic set of tableaux can be gotten up by reference to such a great work as “Boydell’s Shakespeare,” if it happens to be at hand. Also a study of fine engravings, such as one finds in the “National Academy.” If these books are not attainable, almost any pictorial magazine will furnish subjects. Or, if imagination is consulted, construct a series out of Waverley, or from the but too well known scenes of the French Revolution, or from George Eliot’s delightful “Romola”—a book full of remarkable pictures, with the additional charm of the old Florentine dress. Sometimes a very impressive poem is given in tableaux, like Tennyson’s “Princess,” or, the “Dream of Fair Women.” Then there are many artistic but rather horrible surprises, as “The Head of John the Baptist,” which can be “cut off” admirably by an intervening table, and so on; but nothing is so good as a study of the fine groups of the best painters.

Venetian scenes, from Titian’s and Tintoretto’s pictures, can be admirably represented in tableaux. The Italian wealth of color is always impressive; and as engravings of these pictures are attainable, it is well to represent them. Roman scenes are very effective, and especially as Alma Tadema arranges them for us, with his fine feeling for the antique.

The humor of Hogarth, aided as it is by the picturesque dress of his day, can be represented in a tableau. But without some such aids humor is generally lost in a tableau. There is not time for it. Some of Darley’s groups, as, for instance, the illustrations of “Rip Van Winkle,” are admirable, and would seem to contradict this statement, for they are full of fun; but then—they are wonderfully well dressed. That early Revolutionary dress, borrowed in part from the days of Queen Anne, is very picturesque.

If there is some one in the group whose fine sense of the proprieties of art can be trusted, the allegorical can be attempted. But the danger is that the allegorical in art is generally ridiculous. Faith, Hope, and Charity, Mercy and Peace, are better anywhere than in pictures.

The grotesque is always lost in a tableau, where there seems to be a sort of æsthetic demand for the heroic, the refined, and the delicate. A double action may be presented with very good effect; as in some of those fancies of Retzsch and Ary Scheffer, where an angel bends over a sleeping child, or a group, unknown to the actors in front, is representing another picture behind. But the best effects are the simplest. One should not attempt too much. The old example, called “The Dull Lecture,” painted by Gilbert Stuart Newton, where a prosy old philosopher is reading aloud to a pretty girl who is fast asleep, is a case in point. That has been a favorite tableau for forty years, nor are its charms yet done away with. Tableaux from Dickens have only a moderate success, excepting, perhaps, the rather overdone “Christmas Carol.” The dress is wanting in color and character.

Tableaux in which animals are introduced are sometimes very effective, if stuffed bears and lions and tigers can be hired from a museum. A fine tableau was once composed, from a French print, of the Queen of Sheba’s visit to Solomon; but the camel on which that lofty lady arrived was a piece of scene-painting done by a very clever artist, and it would be difficult to improvise one.

[V.]
BRAIN GAMES.

We now come to the winter evening, and the pencil and paper.

It is a delightful feature of our modern civilization that books are very cheap, and that the poets are read by everybody. That would be a very barren house where one did not find Scott, Byron, Goldsmith, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Bret Harte, and Jean Ingelow. Very few boys and girls can reach the age of sixteen without having committed to memory some immortal poem of one of these most popular poets.

Therefore there would be no embarrassment if we asked the members of any evening circle to write down three or four lines in the measure of “Evangeline,” “Lady Clara Vere de Vere,” “The Corsair,” “The Traveler,” “Marmion,” or “Hervé Riel,” “The Heathen Chinee,” or the pretty “Bird Song” of Jean Ingelow. Not a parody only, however, but a parody involving a certain idea or word.

In the great year of Coggia’s comet this game was thus played, and a young man was requested to speak of the comet in the style of “Mother Goose.” The result was as follows:

“Sing a song of Coggia—

Comet in the sky!

Wonder if he’ll trouble us,

Whip up you or I!

When his tail is over,

Then begin to crow;

Four-and-twenty doctors,

Tell us all you know!”

Another of the circle was directed to treat of the Wood Fire in the measure of Tennyson’s “May Queen.” The result was the following:

“If you’re snapping, snap out wisely, snap out wisely, burning wood!

You would not snap so wildly if your drying had been good.

Nor had I, sitting near you with the hearth-brush in my hand,

Have found no peace in sitting, for fear of burning brand.”

This was declared to be too easy a game for such a wild and superfluous supply of brains, and, therefore, the word Poker was pronounced to be an essential element of every future poem. Poor Browning and Longfellow, Bret Harte and Walter Scott, were mercilessly spitted on that poker. Much foolscap was spoiled, but much fun gained. Here is one of the poker successes:

“AFTER BYRON, WITH A POKER; ALSO AFTER DRINKING FLIP.

“Here, too, the Poker stands in brass! and fills

The air around with safety! We inhale

The ambrosial aspect which its heat instills

(Part of its immortality) to Flip

(That beer which is half drawn), within the cup

We breathe, and its deep secrets dip.

Who Flip can make—who cares where he may fail!

Before its wide success let Heliogabalus turn pale.

“We drink, and turn away—we care not where!

Fuzzled, and drunk with porter, till the head

Reels with its fullness. There, for ever there,

Stand thou in triumph, Poker, strong and red!

We are thy captives, and thine ardor share.

Away! there need no words, no terms precise,

To say in loving accents, Flip-cup, thou art nice!”

To this class of Home Amusements belongs also the famous game of “Twenty Questions,” which was played so much at one time by the Cambridge professors that they declared that any subject should be reached in ten questions. The proper formula for this very intellectual game is this: Two parties are formed, the questioners and the answerers, the first having the privilege, after the word has been chosen, to inquire—

“Is your subject animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

“What is its size?”

“To what age does it belong?”

“Is it historical or natural?”

“Is it ancient or modern?”

“Is it a manufactured article?” etc.

The number of subjects which are none of these, or which are all three, or which can not be defined in some way, is of course small. Thus, a Blush, a Smile, a Tear, an Echo, an Avalanche, a Drought, are all indescribable by the exact definitions of the above questions. But the questioner soon arrives at this negative, and begins a new series.

Perhaps one of the most puzzling of subjects is a “mummy.” It fulfills certain conditions, but not others; and the final question, “What is its use?” and the answer, “It is used for fuel,” though true—for the Arabs cook their dinners by them—does not at all cover the ground of the supposed use of a mummy. The shield of Achilles, the Hole in the Wall through which Pyramus and Thisbe kissed, have been asked and guessed! A Bat baffled even the most ingenious twenty questioners, while the Parlor into which the Spider invited the Fly was guessed.

It is a very intellectual and very amusing game, and those who play it should be as honest as possible in their answers. If puns and wordy equivoque are allowed, the game ceases to be legitimate.

Among games requiring memory and attention we may mention “Cross Purposes,” “The Horned Ambassador,” “I love my Love with an A,” “The Game of the Ring” (arithmetical), “The Deaf Man,” “The Goose’s History.” “Story Play” consists in putting a chosen word into a narrative so cleverly that it will not be readily guessed, although several people tell different stories with the chosen word several times repeated. The best way to play this is to have some odd word which is not the word—like Banana—and use it several times; yet one’s own consciousness of the right word will often betray the story-teller. “The Dutch Conceit,” “My Lady’s Toilet,” “What is my Thought like?” “Scheherazade’s Ransom” are very pretty, and may be found in many Manuals of Games. This last deserves a description.

Three of the company sustain the parts of the Sultan, the Vizier, and the Princess Scheherazade. The Sultan takes his seat at the end of the room, and the Vizier then leads the Princess before him, with her hands bound behind her. The Vizier then makes a burlesque proclamation that the Princess, having exhausted all her stories, is about to be punished unless a sufficient ransom be offered. All the rest of the company then advance in turn and propose enigmas, which must be solved by the Sultan or Vizier; sing the first verse of a song, to which the Vizier must answer with the second verse; or recite any well-known piece of poetry in alternate lines with the Vizier. Forfeits must be paid either by the company when successfully encountered by the Sultan or Vizier, or by the Vizier when unable to respond to his opponents; and the game goes on till the forfeits amount to any specified number on either side. Should the company be victorious and obtain the greatest number of forfeits, the Princess is released, and the Vizier has to execute all the penalties that may be imposed upon him. If otherwise, the Princess is led to execution. For this purpose she is blindfolded, and seated on a low stool. The penalties for the forfeits, which should be previously prepared, are written on slips of paper and put in a basket, which she holds in her hands tied behind her. The owners of the forfeits advance and draw each a slip of paper. As each person comes forward, the Princess guesses who it is, and, if right, the person must pay an additional forfeit, the penalty for which is to be exacted by the Princess herself. When all the penalties have been distributed, the hands and eyes of the Princess are released, and she then superintends the execution of the various punishments that have been allotted to the company.

Another very good game is to send one of the company out, and as he comes in again to address him as the supposed character of Napoleon, a Russian emperor, Gustavus Adolphus, or some well-known character in history or fiction. For instance, a young lady leaves the room, and as she enters some one says:

“Charming and noble heroine, most generous and most faithful! we are glad to see you. How well you look, after all that has happened to you! Burned alive? Yes, I should say so; and all that you suffered before! How did you like wearing armor? and what do you think of ungrateful kings? How was it at home before you left——? Did you really see those visions? and how did St. —— look? And, now that you are come back, will you ever be so generous and noble as to fight for any cause except yourself?”

Of course, the young lady knows that she is Joan of Arc. But it is not necessary that character should be so plainly indicated, however, as in this example.

“The Echo” is another very pretty game. It is played by reciting some little story, which Echo is supposed to interrupt whenever the narrator pronounces certain words which recur frequently in his narrative. These words relate to the profession or trade of him who is the subject of the story. If, for example, the story is about a soldier, the words which would recur the most frequently would naturally be “Uniform,” “Gaiters,” “Chapeau bras,” “Musket,” “Plume,” “Pouch,” “Sword,” “Saber,” “Gun,” “Knapsack,” “Belt,” “Sash,” “Cap,” “Powder-flask,” “Accouterments,” and so on. Each one of the company, with the exception of the person who tells the story, takes the name of Soldier, Powder-flask, etc., except the name “Accouterments.” When the speaker pronounces one of these words, he who has taken it for his name ought, if the word has been said only once, to pronounce it twice; if it has been said twice, to pronounce it once. When the word “Accouterments” is uttered, the players—all except the soldier—ought to repeat again the word “Accouterments” either once or twice.

These games are amusing, as showing how defective a thing is memory, and how apt, when under fire, to desert us. It is also very queer to mark the difference of character exhibited by the players. The most unexpected revelations are made.

Another very funny game is “Confession by a Die,” played with cards and dice. It would look at first like a parody on “Mother Church,” but it is not so guilty. A person takes some blank cards, and, counting the company, writes down a sin for each. The unlucky sinner when called upon must not only confess, but, by throwing the dice also, confess as many sins as they indicate, and do penance for them all. These can, with a witty leader, be made very funny.

“The Secretary” is another good game. The persons sit at a table with square pieces of paper, and pencils, and each one writes his own name, handing the paper, carefully folded down, to the Secretary, who distributes them, saying “Character!” Then each one writes out an imaginary character, hands it again to the Secretary, who says “Future!” The papers are again distributed, and the writers forecast the future. Of course, the Secretary throws in all sorts of other questions, and, when the game is through, the papers are read. They form a curious and heterogeneous piece of reading. Sometimes such curious bits of character-reading crop out that one suspects and dreads complicity. But, if it is honestly played, the game is amusing.

Of Ruses and Catch-games, Practical Jokes, and all plays involving mystification and mortification, we have a great abhorrence. They do not belong to the class of Home Amusements. Let them be relegated to that bad limbo of “college hazing,” and other ignoble tricks which some people call fun. Far better the games which call for wit, originality, and inspiration; which show knowledge, reading, and a full repertoire; and a familiarity with all the three homely studies—geography, arithmetic, and history, including natural history. One of these games is called “The Traveler’s Tour,” and may be made very interesting, if the leader is ingenious. It is played in this way: One of the party announces himself the “Traveler.” He is given an empty bag, and counters with numbers on are distributed among the players. Thus, if twelve persons are playing, the numbers must count up to twelve—a set of ones to be given to one, twos to two, and so on. Then the Traveler asks for information about the places to which he is going. The first person gives it, if he can; if not, the second, and so on. If the Traveler considers it correct information, or worthy of notice, he takes from the person one of his counters, as a pledge of the obligation he is under to him. The next person in order takes up the next question, and so on. After the Traveler reaches his destination, he empties his bag, and sees to whom he has been indebted for the greatest amount of information. He then makes him the next Traveler. Of course, this opens the door for all sorts of witty rejoinders, as the players choose to exaggerate the claims of certain hotels, the geographical position of places, and the hits at such a place as Long Branch, for instance, by describing it as an “inland spot, very retired, where nobody goes,” etc., etc. Or it can be played seriously, with the map of Europe or America in one’s memory. The absurd way is, however, the favorite style with most, as in this wise:

Traveler. “I am going to Newport this summer. Which is the best route?”

Answer. “Well, start by the Erie Railroad and try to form a junction with the Pittsburg and Ohio.”

Trav. “When shall I get there?”

An. “If you take the Southern Pacific you may reach Newport before the Fall River boat gets in” (sarcasm on the slowness of the boat).

Trav. “How if I go by the Northern Pacific?”

An. “Well, that is better than the Wickford route.”

Or Trav. says: “I want to go to San Francisco; how shall I start?”

An. “Well, at the rate the Cunarders are going to Europe now, your quickest way is to take the Gallia, and on reaching Liverpool to go to India by the Overland Route, and so round the world.”

The rhyming game is also very amusing. It is done in this way:

Speaker. “I have a word that rhymes with Game.”

Interlocutor. “Is it something statesmen crave?”

Sp. “No, it is not Fame.”

In. “Is it something that goes halt?”

Sp. “No, it is not Lame.”

In. “Is it something tigers need?”

Sp. “No, it is not to Tame.”

In. “Is it what we all would like?”

Sp. “No, it is not Good Name.”

In. “Is it to shoot at Duck?”

Sp. “Yes, and that Duck to maim.”

Such words as Nun, Thing, Fall, etc., which admit of many rhymes, are very good ones to choose. The two who play it must be quick-witted and read each other’s thoughts.

The end rhymes, which the French like, are very ingenious.[A] Try making a poem to fit these words, for instance, and you catch the idea:

The game of “Crambo,” in which each player has to write a noun on one piece of paper and a question on another, is curious. As, for instance, the drawer may get the noun “Mountain,” and the question, “Do you love me?” he must write a sonnet or poem in which he answers the one and brings in the other.

The game of “Preferences” has had a long and a successful career. It is a very good addition to Home Amusements to possess a blank-book lying on the parlor-table, in which each guest should be asked to write out answers to the following questions:

Who is your favorite hero in history?

Who is your favorite heroine in history?

Who is your favorite king in history?

Who is your favorite queen in history?

What is your favorite male Christian name?

What is your favorite female Christian name?

What is your favorite flower?

What is your favorite color?

What is your favorite style of music?

What is your favorite style of climate?

What is your favorite amusement?

What is your favorite study?

What is your favorite exercise?

What is your favorite book?

What is your favorite game? etc., etc.

These questions may be amplified according to the taste of the owner of the book.

These books are very common in English country houses, and the statistics of favoritism have been taken. Napoleon Bonaparte, even in the land of the Duke of Wellington, had the greatest number of admirers as a hero; Mary, Queen of Scots, was the favorite queen in a majority of instances; Lord Byron led off as a poet, and the names Edward and Alice had the greatest number of votes as admired Christian names. Joan of Arc is always ahead as a heroine. In America, after a five years’ experience, a number of books were compared, and resulted in a close tie between Washington and Napoleon as hero; between Charles X, of Sweden, and Francis I as king; with Mary, Queen of Scots, far ahead as queen; with Theodore and Mary as Christian names in advance. Yet an occasional originality crops out in these “preferences,” and the examination of the different opinions is always interesting.

The game of Authors, especially when created by the persons who wish to play it, is very interesting. The game can be bought, and is a very common one, as, perhaps, everybody knows; but it can be rendered uncommon by the preparation of the cards among the members of the family. There are sixty-four cards to be prepared, with each the name of a popular author, and any three of his works. The entire set is numbered from one to sixty-four. Any four cards containing the name and works of the same author form a book. Thus, “Henry W. Longfellow, ‘Hyperion,’ ‘Evangeline,’ ‘New England Tragedies,’” would form one set. As the shuffling and distribution of these cards, and the plan of also drawing from a pile in the middle of the table, creates the greatest uncertainty as to the whereabouts of a certain card, much amusement can be derived in the effort to make a book. The cards must be equally distributed one at a time, beginning at the left of the dealer. The players then arrange their cards in the hand. If one finds four of a kind, he immediately declares a book, and lays it face downward on the table; and then, if holding one of the “Longfellow’s,” he will say “Evangeline.” He can ask any other player for “Hyperion.” After receiving either the card or a negative answer, the next player to the left goes on with his play. Players can only call for such cards as belong to books of which they hold a portion. Should a player call for a card which he already holds, that card is forfeited to the person of whom it was called. The caller always finds the name of the card he wants among those printed in small type; the person of whom it is called finds it in large type at the top.

This game may be made very useful by using the names of kings and queens, and the learned men of their reigns, instead of authors. It is a very good way to study history. The popes can be utilized, with their attendant great men, and by playing the game for a season the dates and the events of some obscure period of history will be effectually fixed in the memory.

As the numbers affixed to the cards may be purely arbitrary, the count at the end will fluctuate with remarkable impartiality; thus, the Dickens cards may count but one, while Tupper will be named sixteen; Carlyle can be two, while Artemus Ward shall be sixty. This is made very amusing sometimes. King Henry VIII, who set no small store by himself, can be made to count very little in the kingly game, while the poor Edward IV may have a higher numeral than he was allowed in life.

[VI.]
FORTUNE-TELLING.

We now come to that game which interests old and young. None are so apathetic but that they relish a look behind the dark curtain. The apple-paring in the fire, the roasted chestnut and the raisin, the fire-back and the stars, have been interrogated since time began. The pack of cards, the tea-cup, the dream-book, the board with the mystic numbers, and the Bible and Key, have been consulted from time immemorial. The makers of games have given in their statistics, and they declare that there are no cards or games so sure of selling well as those which foretell the Future.

Now a very pretty Home Amusement is to cultivate, without believing much in them, the innocent sciences of palmistry and of fortune-telling. Several years ago this led to the making of a very pretty book by Mrs. Gilman, of South Carolina—a poetical and very harmless fortune-teller—made up of lines from the poets. The young ladies of the period used to draw as future husbands: “A professor, and a log cabin in the West”; “a lord, and a castle”; “a merchant prince”; “an irresolute and an obstinate fool”; “a well-favored gentleman,” and so on, the good fortunes being in great advance of the bad ones. It was a popular work, and amused many a tea-party.

Many people, since the advent of Spiritualism, have amused themselves with that wonderful toy, “Planchette,” and other curious caprices of mind-reading, clairvoyance, table-tipping, and knocks. The Key, which seems to possess strong magnetic powers, and all the performances which the unbeliever calls “nonsense,” or worse, and which the believing call “manifestations,” are also interesting; but we can not recommend this sort of tampering with nervous and exciting pleasure, as it has undoubtedly sometimes unhinged the most truly innocent minds. Such investigations should be left to strong and sober men, and should be approached in a very philosophical spirit, or not at all.

There can be no harm, however, in a playful consultation of the leaves of the daisy, the four-leaved clover, the fortunate black cat who brings us luck, the moon over the right shoulder, the oracular “You shall travel over land and sea”—believing in all the good fortune, but in none of the bad. The salt should be carefully thrown over the left shoulder, if spilled, and all the Fates and Fairies should be propitiated. It gives delightful variety to life to know all the superstitions and the lore of old nurses and grandmothers. Did we follow them back, we should find that they each had a poetical origin. We all like to believe that we can enumerate on our fingers the false friends, the enemies; but we may hope that the world could not hold the admirers and the friends whom one four-leaved clover or one black cat had given us—or promised us. To be sure, “we had dreamed of snakes, and that meant enemies.” But, after all, are not enemies next best to friends? They give us consequences, and who that is worth anything was ever without them? That would be a very colorless individual who should go through life without an enemy.

The riches which are hidden in a fortune-telling set of cards (although like Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure) are very real and comforting while they last. They are endless, they have few really trying responsibilities attached, they can not be taxed, they are absolutely where thieves can not break through and steal. They are so satisfactory, which real wealth never is; they buy everything we want; they go farther than any real fortune could go; they are our real and personal estate, and our poetical dreams; our Lamp of Aladdin, and our Chemical Bank. They are gained without hurting anybody; they are dug out of the ground without painful backache or bloodshed; they are inherited without stain, and can be spent without fear of profligacy. Of what other fortune can we say as much?

It would be an unending theme to try to make a catalogue of the superstitions of all nations. The Irish, with their wild belief in fairies, that Leprechaun—the little man in red, who, if you can catch him, will make you happy and prosperous for ever after; who has such a strange relationship to humanity that at birth and death the Leprechaun must be tended by a mortal! to read, as they do—these imaginative people—a sermon in every stone; to see luck beneath the four-leaved clover, and to hang a legend on every bush; to follow the more spiritually-minded Scotchman in his second sight, who holds that

“Coming events cast their shadows before.”

A very learned book has been written on the “Superstitions of Wales” alone. Eloquent and poetic are the people who have invented the Banshee, the Brownie (or domestic fairy who does all the work). The more tragic and less loving superstitions of Italy teach that the “evil eye” is always to be dreaded. The Breton superstitions are as wild as the sea-gust which sweeps from their coast. All these are subjects of profound interest to those who read the great subject of race, from ethnology, folk-lore, and ballads. The superstitions of a people tell their innermost characteristics, and are thus profoundly interesting.

The French have, however, tabularized fortune-telling for us. Their peculiar ability in arranging ceremonials and fêtes, and their undoubted genius for tactics and strategy, show that they are able to foresee events with unusual clearness. Their ingenuity in all technical contrivances is an additional testimony in the same direction, and we are not surprised that they have here, as is their wont, given us the practical help which we need in fortune-telling. Mlle. Lenormand, the sorceress who prophesied to Napoleon his greatness, and to many of the princes and great men of France their downfall and their misfortunes, has left us thirty-six cards (to be bought at any book-store), wherein we can read the decrees of fate. Her preface says, “Thousands of noblemen did then acknowledge her great talent already during her lifetime, and did often confess that her method was full of truth and exactness.” Lenormand was a very clever sibyl; she had great ingenuity; she throws in enough of the inevitable bad, and finds enough of the possible good, to at least amuse those who consult her oracles. Whether we have confidence or faith in the divination, we can not but look for the lucky cards. In this game “The Cavalier” is a messenger of good fortune, and, if not surrounded by unlucky cards, brings good news, which the person may expect either from his own house or from abroad. This will, however, not take place immediately, but some time after.

“The Clover Leaf” is a harbinger of good news, but if surrounded by clouds it indicates great pain; but if No. 2 lies near No. 26 or 28, the pain will be of short duration, and will soon change to a happy issue.

“The Ship,” the symbol of commerce, signifies great wealth, which will be acquired by trade or inheritance. If near to the person, it means an early journey.

“The House” is a certain sign of success and prosperity, and although the present position of the person may be disagreeable, yet the future will be bright and happy. If this card lies in the center of the cards under the person, this is a hint to beware of those who surround him.

“A Tree,” if distant from the person, signifies good health. Nine trees, of different cards together, leave no doubt about the realization of all reasonable wishes.

“Clouds”: if their clear side is turned toward the person, it is a lucky sign; with the dark side turned toward the person, something disagreeable will soon happen.

“A Serpent” is a sign of misfortune, the extent of which depends upon the greater or smaller distance from the person; it is followed invariably by deceit, infidelity, and sorrow.

“A Coffin,” very near to the person, means, without any doubt, dangerous diseases, death, or total loss of fortune; more distant from the person, the card is less dangerous.

“The Nosegay” means much happiness in every respect.

“The Scythe” indicates great danger, which will only be avoided if lucky cards surround him.

“The Rod” means quarrels in the family, domestic afflictions, want of peace among married persons, fever, and protracted illness.

“The Birds” mean hardship to be overcome, but of short duration; distant from the person, they mean the accomplishment of a pleasant journey.

These are descriptions of a few of the picture-cards with which Mlle. Lenormand tells fortunes still, although she has gone to the land of certainty, and has herself found out if her symbols and emblems, and her combinations, really did draw aside the curtain of the future with invisible strings. We advise all our readers to possess themselves of her “Fortune-telling Cards” if they wish to become amateur sibyls.

The cup of tea, and the mysterious wanderings of the grounds around the cup, so long the favorite medium of the sibyl, seems to be an English superstition. It fits itself to the old crone domesticity of the Anglo-Saxon humble home, rather than to the more out-of-door romance of the Spaniards and the Italians; and yet the most out-of-door people in the world—the gypsies—use it as a means of discerning the future.

The cup should be filled with a weak infusion of tea—grounds and all—and then carefully turning the cup toward one, the tea should be carefully turned out, waving the cup so skillfully that the tea-leaves are dispersed over the surface of the cup. Happy the maid who can turn out the tea without spilling the leaves. If one drop of tea is left in the cup it will mean—a tear.

These grounds, or tea-leaves, have been used from the earliest days as the alphabet of the Parcæ. Before Chinese tea was brought to England the old fortune-tellers made some sort of a brew out of powdered herbs, which left their mark on the cup. We can understand how that sinuous serpent who has had so much to do with our destiny, as a synonym of evil, can be pictured or “visualized” by such a process; but where the sibyl finds the light-haired young man crossing a river, where she finds gold and where trouble, we must leave to the interpreters.

That most interesting of sibyls, “Norna of the Fitful Head,” used molten lead as a means of interpreting the unseen, and that can be done by our modern soothsayers.

Cards from early antiquity have been used to tell fortunes. The Queen of Hearts is the heroine, and as about her group the propitious reds, or the gloomy blacks, so may we hope for good or dread bad luck. The Ace of Spades is a bearer of evil tidings; the King of Hearts, at the right of the Queen, is the very Fortunatus himself. And now, who is this goddess so often invoked? Fortuna, courted by all nations, was, in Greek, Tyche, or the goddess of chance. She differed from Destiny or Fate in so far that she worked without law, giving or taking at her own good pleasure, and dispensing joy or sorrow indefinitely; her symbols were those of mutability—a ball, a wheel, a pair of wings, a rudder. The Romans affirmed that, when she entered their city, she threw off her wings and shoes, and determined to live with them for ever; she seems to have thought better of it, however. She was a sister of the Parcæ, or Fates, those three who spin the thread of life, measure it, and cut it off. Fortunatus, he of the inexhaustible purse of gold and the wishing-cap, is too familiar a figure to the readers of fairy tales to be mentioned here.

And yet, although all nations have desired to propitiate Fortuna, her high-priests and interpreters have ever been in disrepute. In Scotland, that land of demonology and witchcraft, of second-sight, of dreamy superstition, fortune-tellers were denounced as vagabonds, and their punishment, by statute, was scourging and burning of the ears. We all know how the knowledge of the “black art” was denounced in Germany; and the witches of Salem, while they were approached at dead of night by a pale magistrate who desired to have his fortune told, were, at his high behest, tortured, pilloried, and hanged the next week, if the fortune was a bad one, or, if being well foretold, was slow of accomplishment. That half-belief which superstitious persons repose in their oracles, shown in the case of the Indian, who breaks or maims his God if he does not respond to his prayer, and in the remarkable story of Louis XI, of France, who used to alternately pray to and abuse his leaden images of saints, is repeated often in the history of fortune-telling.

Mother Redcap, “a very witch,” was resorted to by hundreds of persons in England as a fortune-teller; her image remains on a coin dated 1667. The well-known prophecies of her neighbor, Mother Shipton, have come down to us. Poor Redcap had all the duckings and the batings of the populace. She and her black cat were the favorite horrors of the superstitious inhabitants of Kentish Town, and hundreds of men, women, and children saw the devil come in state to carry her off. But Mother Shipton (who was born at Knaresborough in the reign of Henry VII) became the most popular of British prophets, and, although she was supposed to have sold her soul to the Old Gentleman, she yet died in her bed decently and in order at an extreme old age. So Fortuna is capricious, even in her treatment of her votaries. It is not strange that “Palmistry” should have taken higher ground than mere fortune-telling, and indeed the lines of the hand will seem to map out character, and perhaps destiny, with some accuracy. The books say that the lines running through the palm indicate will or indecision, force or weakness, quickness or slowness; indeed, all which makes character and fate. We are the arbiters of at least a part of our fortune.

The power to tell fortunes by the hand can be learned from any of the French books on palmistry, and there are one or two little English translations. It can be sufficiently curious and varied to amuse the home circle, and so long as it is done for that purpose, fortune-telling can do no harm.

But the moment we rise above the idea that the beans, the tea-grounds, the black cat, the cards, or the lines in the palm, are but blind guides, making the most palpable mistakes, then the tampering with the curtain becomes dangerous, and we had better leave the future alone.

[VII.]
AMUSEMENTS FOR A RAINY DAY.

It may seem an impeachment of the taste of our readers to have lingered so long on the lesser lights of games and fortune-telling as “Home Amusements,” when we have before us the great world of decorative art: æsthetic embroidery, dinner-card designing, china painting, the making of screens, and the thousand and one devices by which the modern family can amuse itself.

The making of screens is an amusement which occupies the whole family most profitably for a rainy day, even if it is to be only the cutting out of pictures from the illustrated newspapers, and the subsequent arrangement of them in curious conjunction on a white cotton or muslin background. The use of screens has dawned upon the American mind within a few years. They are delightful in a dining-room to keep off a draught or to hide a closet-door. They break up a too long room admirably. They are very useful in a bedroom to shut off the washstand and bath; and they are very comforting to the invalid, as a protection to his easy-chair against insidious breezes.

Of course, those of satin or linen, embroidered by a skillful hand; those painted on canvas by the best painters of to-day; those from China and Japan—are the screens of the opulent. Very pretty paper screens may be bought at the shops for three or four dollars. But those on which a group of pictures are to be pasted are the cheapest and most amusing of any. And do not go and buy highly-glazed pictures for the purpose. If you do, the screen looks like a valentine. But cut out the pictures from old copies of the “London Illustrated News,” “Punch,” “Harper’s Weekly,” “Harper’s Bazaar,” and the English “Graphic,” paste them thickly one upon another, and you have a curious and most interesting mosaic. A lady in 1876, the Centennial year, made a very beautiful screen of fashion plates from the ordinary magazines of the period. Already (1881) these fashions look very antiquated, and the screen is becoming historically valuable. The effect of these delicately-colored pictures, put on as thickly as possible over the white muslin, has an effect like a festal procession, and is very pretty.

The medium used for adhering the pictures is common flour paste, the pictures being also washed over the outside with the same, and all the edges effectually fastened down, the cotton cloth to which they are applied being tightly stretched over a wooden frame. When domestic paste is made, the material is frequently injured by scorching, or by the addition of too much water. Good paste, when spread on paper, will not strike through it like water, but will remain on the surface, like butter on a piece of bread. To make paste of a superior quality, that will not spoil when kept in a cool place for several months, it is necessary to add dissolved alum as a preservative. When a few quarts are required, dissolve a dessert-spoonful of alum in two quarts of tepid water. Put the water in a tin pail that will hold six or eight quarts, as the flour of which the paste is made will expand greatly while it is boiling. As soon as the tepid water has cooled, stir in good rye or wheat flour, until the liquid has the consistency of cream. See that every lump of flour is crushed before placing the vessel over the fire. To prevent scorching the paste, place over the fire a dish-kettle or wash-boiler, partly filled with water, and set the tin pail containing the material for paste in the water, permitting the bottom to rest on a few large nails or pebbles, to prevent excessive heat. Now add a teaspoonful of powdered resin, a few cloves to flavor the paste, and let it cook until the paste has become as thick as “Graham mush,” when it will be ready for use. Keep it in a tight jar, and it will last for a long time. If too thick, add cold water, and stir it thoroughly. Such paste will hold almost as well as glue.

The famous picture-books of Walter Crane make a very pretty frieze for screens; the artists of the family sometimes paint a frieze. In these days of dadoes the screens are often made with dado, wainscot, and frieze in three different colored papers, so that there are three tiers of background for the pictures, if the maker desires to leave spaces between them. The cutting out of the pictures is an amusing occupation for all the family on a rainy day.

This making of screens sometimes leads to another very attractive work for a rainy day—the preparation for a fancy dress ball. This, in a lonely country house, far away from the chance of any outward amusement, has often cheated a fortnight’s bad weather of its heart-depressing qualities.

As we have not the stores of old armor, old brocade and satin, powdered wigs, and costumes of the different reigns, which may be supposed from modern English novels to be the property of every English mansion, we must call upon taste and upon our national faculty of invention to help us in this dilemma. The country store will give us black and white tarlatan, chintz, cotton flannel (a most excellent medium), and, indeed, flannels of all sorts. Black lace, jewelry, and flowers are in every lady’s trunk, and, with some stiff linings and appliqué chintz flowers, an old silk can be made into a priceless brocade.

Let us take a Venetian dress first. We will have King Pantelon, the Lord of Misrule, in black with scarlet shirt and three-cornered hat, and attended by his gay and dissolute crew. We will have the Illustrissimi, wearing the dress of the ancient Venetian nobility, scarlet cloaks, and long bag wigs, mightily disdainful; the Chiozotti in black velvet, wide lace collars, and high cloth caps, adorned with artificial flowers—they shall shower confetti and make jokes; we shall have dominoes and masks, Egyptians and Neapolitans in velvet, with scarlet caps and stockings, clapping castanets; we shall have Armenians, Levant merchants and sailors, Turks in caftans, Greeks and Dalmatians, regular-featured Mussulmans, Hindoos with jet-black hair, and Malay Lascars in many-colored turbans, fez, and scarf; grinning soot-black negroes, Polish Jews in furred caps and long coats, Magyars in Hessians and pelisses; Bohemian nurses in Czechen costume, a colored handkerchief in the hair; dark-eyed young bourgeoises in coquettish black veils; elegant ladies in velvet and point lace; the gondolier, in his picturesque sailor costume and broad sash; the Finland peasant, with short skirts, long-dangling ear-rings, and silver pins; the Maltese with her fazzoletto; an old Contadino, with short velveteen knee-breeches, gaiters, and colored cotton umbrella; priests all in black gown, shovel hat, and black silk stockings; dashing naval officers; the Guardia Nazionale, and weather-beaten fishermen with bronzed faces and red Phrygian cap. We shall have Lord Byron, pale and melancholy, and picturesque Masaniello; the patriarchs of the Greek Church; the Spanish beauties, the Swiss peasant, the German Mädchen; the madcap Harlequin dress of a Spanish princess. Then there will be all the seasons—winter, for instance, in tulle, swansdown, and spun glass; the Marie Antoinettes, in pink brocade with long, square trains and trimmings of Marabout feathers; the lovely Georgian costume, a Seville gypsy, a Russian peasant; a flower-girl, a Nymph; Night and Day; Spanish students and Flemish boors; Pages of Queen Blanche of Castile; the beautiful white uniform of the Dragon de Villars; a gothic costume; Charlemagne and his Paladins. In short—“the Carnival of Venice.” All this was done, and well done, at a country house and the adjacent village (a village of not more than fifteen hundred inhabitants), and for very little money, only a few years ago.

The business is done if one only thinks he can do it; and there are numbers enough to work at it. A boarding-school holiday, a watering-place, a large town bent on “getting up something” for charity, should have one such home behind it, where a natural-born leader will set the whole thing going, and the picturesque shores of Italy will give up their delights to some western town, some inland village, some quiet and decorous hamlet of New England, where all the inhabitants are dying of ennui.

But here, from the pictures of our screen, which have suggested all this, we have been led off from Decorative Art into the business of giving a ball! We have been entertaining a motley crowd indeed!

“The day was dull, and dark, and dreary,

It rained, and the rain was never weary.”

But see! how we have cheated the clouds! The rainy fortnight has been the most dissipated season possible—all owing to our happy device of getting up a fancy ball—one of the very many pleasant thoughts which have grown out of screens and screen-making.

[VIII.]
EMBROIDERY AND OTHER DECORATIVE ARTS.

Let us return to our three legitimate decorations—our fan-painting, our screen-painting, and our embroideries.

Of Embroidery the world is full, and at its best estate. The foolish old German wool-worsted work has gone out, and in its place we have the very elaborate church needle-work of the Middle Ages, and, better still, its tapestry.

Some ingenious lady discovered that a plain piece of carpet made a very good background for a rich curtain, after a few stitches of embroidery were added; and it took but one step farther for another lady to find in cotton velvet a good background for tapestry. The figures are sketched on, and then the embroidery is artistically added, in the style of the thirteenth century, when the characters were outlined by a single line, which also designates the shape and folds of the garments. These outlines are filled in with masses of stitches in two or three shades of color. It is best, in making tapestry, to adhere to this simplicity, as in attempting the later richness of the Gobelins the work degenerates into a vulgar imitation.

And in stitching away at the tapestry frame, the well-read mamma might give her daughters a little sketch of the history of tapestry. How once these artistic draperies were the adornments of those stone castles which knew no plastered walls. How they caught the story of the “Iliad” and “Odyssey,” the scenes from the Bible, the whole story of mythology, the history of great wars. There hangs to-day, at Blenheim, a perfect set of pictures of the victories of the great Duke of Marlborough, done for him by the pious Belgian nuns.

But those works anterior to the sixteenth century have the greatest interest for the student of tapestry. Gold thread and silk were freely used in their embellishment, and the effect is rather that of a mosaic than of a picture. The greens are a study. They are produced with a dark blue for the dark, and a yellow for the light tints. The wonderful work of Matilda, called the Bayeux tapestry, wrought on brown linen; the many historical pieces found in Italy, done in wools; and the collections all over Europe, show a mastery over the needle which we have lost.

But it was left for Francis I, of France, to establish the most renowned factory for these beautiful things, when at Fontainebleau he founded what is now the Gobelins. The Gobelins were two Dutch dyers of wool, celebrated for their brilliant scarlets, who eventually gave their name to the art, and a “Gobelin” got to mean a tapestry. Under Louis XIV the Luxurious this manufactory attained to highest importance. They became the Herters and Marcottes of France. Colbert, the Prime Minister, united under one head all the different bands of workmen who were employed on furniture and decorations for the royal palaces of France. To the weavers of carpets and tapestry were added embroiderers, goldsmiths, wood-carvers, dyers, etc. Charles Lebrun and his pupils were charged with furnishing designs. Lebrun himself furnished over twenty-four hundred designs. In 1667 Louis himself paid a visit of state to the manufactory, accompanied by Colbert, and examined the magnificent carpets, tapestries, silver plate, and carvings which formed the splendid “Manufactory of Furniture to the Crown.” This great establishment, however, went down, as Louis lost money; and after the death of Lebrun (he was father to the wretched husband of pretty Madame Le Brun) it returned to its original function of producing tapestry. These Gobelin tapestries grew to be the most wonderful reproduction of pictures ever seen.

But why, one pauses to ask, try to reproduce a picture “done in oils” by the laborious process of needle-work or weaving? Why by process of mosaic? It is one of the useless fancies of the human race. The old tapestry, done by hand when there were no Gobelins, had a meaning and a use. So has the modern tapestry done by hand. It is cheap, it is individual, it is original; but for the Gobelins, that favorite luxury of kings, we fail to see an excuse. However, it is very beautiful, expensive, and rare.

The process of tapestry weaving is called the “haute lisse,” the warp being placed vertically, in contradistinction to the “basse lisse,” a work with a horizontal warp, as is usual. The weaver stands with the model which he is to copy behind him. As the surface of the tapestry must present a perfectly smooth and even surface, all cuttings must be made on the wrong side, for the workman never sees the beautiful work he is doing. This has been made use of in poetry in the following simile:

“We work but blindly at the loom,

Nor see the pattern, save in parts;

Not ours to mark the gleam or bloom,

But labor on, with patient hearts.

“But when the angels overhead

The soul-wrought tapestry unfurls,

Perhaps the tears we vainly shed

May glow amid the threads—like pearls.

“The sorrow which has crushed the heart

A lily blooms, on azure field;

The strife in which we bore our part

In bud and flower may stand revealed.”

The Gobelins used gold, silver, pearls, and everything decorative in their work, at times, to produce effect. The first Revolution brought destruction to the Gobelins, as it did to everything else, and many choice pieces were burned. But it rose again under the first Napoleon, David furnishing designs. In 1871 the Communists again set fire to the manufactory, burning up the exhibition-room. Four hundred thousand dollars was the estimated loss. But when we remember that there perished tapestries of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, including the “Acts of the Apostles” by Raphael, and the now valuable, graceful, although affected, charming designs of Boucher, which were wrought for Pompadour, besides historical portraits and scenes, this seems a low estimate. The embroidery of the cartoons of Raphael, copies of which may be seen at Hampton Court, were among the greatest of the Gobelin triumphs.

However, to those who have walked the galleries of Florence, who have seen there the grand and beautiful specimens of embroidered tapestry of the sixteenth century, there will ever be a charm about old tapestry in the crude perspective and the sudden shading. It is this, perhaps, which can be copied. It is this to which the modern tapestry worker should address herself, if among the amusements of home she counts the making of curtains, and wall-coverings, and portières, which shall almost suggest the possibility that they once hung in a Florentine or a Venetian palace. A dark background of some cheap woolen stuff, a knowledge of drawing, the silk and woolen and cotton and linen threads now brought to our hand so cheaply—will all furnish forth the appliances for the making of tapestry hangings, such as a castellan of the Middle Ages would not have despised.

Painting on fans has become a very common Home Amusement, and it is a very elegant one. The white silk fan is usually selected, although linen, satin, and wood fans are all easy and pleasant mediums. For painting on silk, some technical knowledge is necessary, some gum-water, or sizing, to prevent the paint from spreading. For painting on wood, one needs only the common water-color box, and a simple knowledge of drawing and painting. Flowers, birds, and butterflies are the favorite devices, monograms having gone out of fashion. It is better, if possible, to have the silk stretched on a frame before it is mounted on sticks, as one still sees the masterpieces of Boucher, Watteau, and Greuze, not yet mounted, but framed, in galleries—far too precious to mount, the Marchioness who ordered them having, perhaps, fortunately forgotten her caprice that we may admire it.

And what pretty and pleasing and altogether historical memories come in with the fan! It was created in primeval ages. The Egyptian ladies had them of lotus-leaves; the Greek and Roman ladies followed. The word flabellum occurs often in the Roman literature. They also had fans of peacock-feathers, and of some expansive material painted in brilliant colors. They were not made to open and shut like ours; that is a modern invention. They were stiff, with long handles, for ladies were fanned by their slaves. The flabellifer, or fan-bearer, was some young attendant, generally male, whose common business it was to carry his mistress’s fan. Would that were the fashion now! There is a Pompeian painting of Cupid as the fan-bearer of Ariadne, and lamenting her desertion by Theseus. In Queen Elizabeth’s day the fan was usually made of feathers, like the fan still used in the East. The handle was richly ornamented, and set with stones. A fashionable lady was never without her fan, which was chained to her girdle by a jeweled chain. A satirist of the day, Stephen Gosson, approves of the fan if used to drive away flies and for cooling the skin. He, however, continues scornfully:

“But seeing they were still in hand,