Newspaper Page Text
She then sat down, took the pen, and
affixed her signature to the deed which
sundered the dearest hopes and the
fondest ties which human hearts can
feel. Poor Eugene could endure this
language no longer. His brain reeled,
his heart ceased to beat,and he fell life
less upon the floor. Josephine and
Hortense retired with the attendants,
who bore out the insensible form of the
affectionate son and brother. It was a
fitting termination of this mournful but
sublime tragedy.
But the anguish of the day was not
yet over. Josephine, half delirious
with grief, had another scene still more
painful to pass through, in taking a
final adieu of him who had been her
husband. Josephine remained in her
chamber in heart-rending, speechless
grief, until the hour in which Napoleon
usually retired for the night. The em
peror, restless and wretched, had just
placed himself in the bed from which
he had ejected his most faithful and de
voted wife, and the attendant was on
the point of leaving the room, when
the private door of his apartment was
slowly opened, and Josephine trem
blingly entered. Her eyes were swol
len with grief; her hair dishevelled,
and she appeared in all the dishabille of
unutterable anguish. She tottered into
the middle of the room, and approach
ed the bed—then irresolutely stopping,
she burst into a flood of tears. A feel
ing of delicacy seemed for a moment
to have arrested hersteps—a, conscious
ness that now she had no right to enter
the chamber of Napoleon—but in
another moment all the pent up love of
her heart burst forth, and, forgetting
everything, she threw herself upon the
bed, clasped her arms around Napole
on’s neck, and exclaiming, “ My hus
band ! my husband !” sobbed as though
her heart were breaking. The imperi
al spirit of Napoleon was for the mo
ment entirely vanquished, and he also
wept almost convulsively. He as
sured Josephine of his love, of ardent
and undying love. In every way he
tried to soothe and comfort her, and
for sometime they remained locked in
each other’s embrace. The attendant
was dismissed, and for an hour they
continued in this last private interview.
Josephine, then, in the experience of an
anguish which few hearts have ever
known, parted forever from the husband
whom she had so long, so fondly, and
so faithfully loved.
The beautiful palace of Malmaison,
which Napoleon had embellished with
every possible attraction, and where
the emperor and empress had passed
many of their happiest hours, was as
signed to Josephine for her future resi
dence. Napoleon also settled upon her
a jointure of about six hundred thou
sand dollars a year. She was also still
to retain the title and rank of Empress
Queen.
r lhe ensuing day, at eleven o’clock,
all the household of the Tuileries were
assembled upon the grand staircase,
and in the vestibule, to witness the de
parture of their beloved mistress from
scenes where she had so long been the
brightest ornament. Josephine de
scended, veiled from head to foot. Her
emotions were too deep for utterance,
and she waived an adieu to the affec
tionate and weeping friends who sur
rounded her. A close carriage, with
six horses, was before the door. She
entered it,sank back upon the cushions,
1 I>K „ Ko?’ -J i---- - 1- • /* 1
(T'ljf feflijist.
HOW TO MAKE HOME UNHEALTHY.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
X.
EXERCISE.
There is a little tell-tale muscle in
the inner corner of the eye, which, if
}ou question it, will deliver a report
into your looking-glass touching the
state of the whole muscular system
which lies elsewhere hidden in your
boay. \\ hen it is pale, it praises you.
Muscular development is, by all means
to be kept down. Some means of
holding it in check we have already
dvvelt upon. Muscular power, like ail
other power, will increase with exercise.
\V e desire to hold the flesh in strict
subjection to the spirit. Bodily exer
cise, therefore, must be added to the
number of those forces which by
strengthening the animal, do damage
to the spiritual man.
W e must take great pains to choke
the energy of children. Their active
little limbs must be tied down by a
well-woven system of politeness.—
ihey run, they jump, turn heels over
head, they climb up trees; if they at
tempt stillness they are ever on the
move, because nature demands that
while the body grows, it shall! befree
} worked in all its parts, in order that
it may develop into a frame-work vig-
orous and well-proportioned. Nature
really is more obstinate than usual on
this point. So restless a delight in
bodily exertion is implanted in the
child, that our patience is considerablv
rocM When WG atlem P t to keep it still.
Children, however, can be tamed and
c vilized. By sending them unhealthy
ftom the nursery, we can deliver many
of them spiritless at school, there to be
properly subdued. The most unwhole
some plan is to send boys to one
school, girls to another; both physi
cally and morally, this method gives
good hope of sickliness. Nature, who
never is on our side, will allow chil
dren ol each sex to be born into one
family, to play together, and be educa
ted at one mother’s knee. There ought
to be it nature had the slightest sense
of decency girls only born in one
house, boys only in another. Ilowev-
er, we can sort the children at an early
age, and send them off to school—girls
east, boys west.
A girl should be allowed, on no ac
count, to climb a tree, or be unlady
like. She shall regard a boy as a
strange, curious monster ; be forced in
to flirtation ; and prefer the solace of a
darling friend to anything that verges
on a scamper. She shall learn English
grammer: that is to mean, Lindley
urray’s notion of it; geography, or
the names of capital towns, rivers, and
—* ranges; French enough for
’ ornamental needlework,
of the globes.” By-the
by what a marvel it is that every lady
X Xl” “ X girlhood the L o's
dy tShig them 4 * *
shall study fromaZ^otWvtew
treexercse. Now aod then. she S
have an iron down her back, and put
her feet in stocks. The young lady
shall return from school, able to cover
ottomans with worsted birds ; and to
stitch a purse for the expected lover
about whom she has been thinking for
the last five years. She is quite aware
that St. Petersburg is the capital of Ire
land, and that a noun is a verb-sub
stantive, which signifies to be, to do,
to suffer.
The boy children shall be sent to
school, where they may sit during three
hours consecutively, and during eight
or nine hours in the day, forcing their
bodies to be tranquil. They shall enter
tain their minds by stuttering the elo
quence of Cicero, which would be dull
work to them in English, and is not en
livened by the Latin. They shall get
much into their mouths of what they
can not and little or noth
ing into their hearts, out of the wide
stores of information for which children
really thirst. They shall be taught lit
tie or nothing of the world they live
in, and shall know its Maker only as
an answer to some question in a cate
chism. They shall talk of girls as be
ings of another nature ; and shall come
home from their school-life, pale, sub
dued having unwholesome thoughts,
awkward in using limbs, which they
have not been suffered freely to de
velop ; and shamefaced in the society
from which, during the school-boy life,
they have been banished.
The older girl shall ape the lady, and
the older boy shall ape the gentleman;
so we may speak next of adults.
No lady ought to walk when she can
ride. The carriages of many kinds
which throng our streets, all prove us
civilized ; prove us, and make us weak.
The lady should be tired after a four
mile walk; her walk ought to be, in
the utmost possible degree, weeded of
energy. It should be slow ; and when
her legs are moved, her arms must be
restrained from that synchronous move
ment which perverse Nature calls upon
them to perform. Ladies do well to
walk out with their arms quite still,
and with their hands folded before
them. Thus they prevent their delica
cy from being preyed upon by a too
wholesome exercise, and, what is to us
more pleasant, they betray their great
humility. . They dare only to walk
among us lords of the creation with
their arms folded before them, that by
such humble guise they may acknow
ledge the inferiority of their position.
An Australian native, visiting London,
might almost be tempted in sheer pride
of heart, to knock some of our ladies
two or three times about the head with
that small instrument which he em
ploys for such correction of his women,
that so he might derive the more en
joyment from their manifest submis
siveness.
The well bred gentleman ought to be
, weary after six miles of walking, and
■ haughtily stare down the man who
, talks about sixteen. The saddle, the
• gig, the carriage, or the cab, and omni
bus, must protect at once his delicacy
■ and his shoes. The student should con
• fine himself to study, grudging time ;
believing nobody who tells him that
the time he gives to wholesome exer
cise, he may receive back in the shape
of increased value for his hours of
i thought—that even his life of study
may be lengthened by it. Let the
tradesman be well-rooted in his shop if
on Sundays let him sit at church, or
else stop decently at home. Let us
have no Sunday recreations. It is quite
shocking to hear sanitary people lec
ture on this topic. Profanely they pro
fess to wonder why the weary, toiling
family of Christians should not be car
ried from the town, and from that hum
of society which is not to them very
refreshing on the day of rest. Why
they should not go out and wander in
the woods, and ask their hearts who
taught the dragon-fly his dancing ; who
made the blue-bells cluster lovingly to
gether, looking so modest; and ask
fiom whose Opera the birds are sing
ing their delicious music? Why should
not the rugged man’s face soften, and
the care-worn woman’s face be melted
into tenderness, and man and wife and
children cluster as closely as the blue
bells in the peaceful wood? What if
they there become so very conscious of
their mutual love, and of the love of
God, as to feel glad that they are not
in any other “place of worship,” where
they may hear Roman Catholics de-
nounced, or churchmen scorned, or the
Dissenters pounded? What if they
then come home refreshed in mind and
body, and begin the week with larger,
gentler thoughts of God and man ? By
such means may they not easily be led,
if they were at any time unwilling to
give praise to God, and learn to join—
not as a superstitious rite, but as a hum
ble duty—in Ilis public worship? So
talk the sanitary men—here, as in all
their doctrines, showing themselves lit
tle better than materialists. r l he negro
notion of a Sabbath is, that nobody
may fish : our notion is, that nobody
may stay away from church.
In these remarks on exercise among
adults, I have confined myself to the
plain exercise of walking. It may be
taken for granted that nogrowm-up per
son will be so childish as to leap, to
row, to swim. A few young England
ers may put on, now and then, their
white kid gloves to patronize a cricket
match ; but we can laugh at them.—
In a gentleman it is undignified to run;
and even walking, at the best, is vulgar.
Indeed there is an obvious vulgarity
in the whole doctrine which would call
upon us to assist our brute develop
ment by the mere exercising of our
selves as animals. Such counsel offers
to degrade us to the low position of the
race-horse who is trotted to and fro,
the poodle who is sent out for an air
ing. As spiritual people, we look
down with much contempt upon the
man who would in any thing compare
us with the lowmr animals. His mind
is mean, and must be quite beneath our
indignation. I will say no more.—
hy thrash a pickpocket with thunder?
(.Concluded in onr next.)
The french (says Lavater) have no
traits so bold as the English, nor so
minute as the Germans. 1 know them
chiefly by their teeth and their laugh,
lhe itaban I discover by the nose,
small eyes, and projecting chin. The
English by their forehead and the weak
ness of their hair. The Germans by the
angles and wrinkles round the eyes and
the cheeks. The Russians by the snub
nose and their light coloured or black
hair.
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
€\}t llruiftttrr.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
ANASTASIS*.
This volume is the production of an
English clergyman now a resident of
South Carolina—a man of large and
varied attainments, especially in the
Literature of the Bible. The history
of the principal poem we had from his
own lips some years ago. It is now
given in the preface of this volume,
and may be not without interest to our
readers. Our author states that his
plan was suggested by Bishop Sher
lock’s tract, entitled, “The Trial of the
Witnesses of the Resurrection of Je
sus Christ,” in which the evidence was
sifted by supposititious counsel on both
sides. Dr. Curtis, while in charge of a
parish in one of the Northern States,
was in familiar intercourse with the
Chief Justice of that State, to whom
he suggested the plan—kindred to that
of Bishop Sherlock—of having a regu
lar legal examination of the evidences
in favour of, and against the Resurrec
tion. The plan involved the selection
of witnesses, male and female, with
counsel on both sides of the question;
and the cause was to be tried before
the Chief Justice. The plan, though
fully matured, was never carried into
execution; but at the suggestion of the
Chief Justice, our author was induced
to make a supposed report of the trial;
and, as he tells us, “ his prose, with
the addition of some poetical circum
stances, soon became blank verse.”
There is certainly a good deal of in
terest in this brief history, and we are
favourably disposed by it towards the
poetical report of this remarkable trial.
It w ill not be a matter of question,
moreover, that the subject is eminently
dramatic in its character and finely
adapted to poetical treatment. We
must, however, be candid, and confess
that we think the learned author has
not altogether succeeded in developing
his subject in the true poetic form.—
The philosophy and the logic of his
argument are both unimpeachable; not
so with the poetry of it. Os the lat
ter, the shape alone is exhibited—the
soul, the divine afflatus, is wanting.
Our author is a man of profound and
comprehensive learning, but among his
great gifts we do not discover that of
Poetry. We shall, however, allow’ our
readers to decide for themselves, by
presenting a brief extract or two from
the text.
We quote first from the narrative of
Joanna, (wife of Chuza, Herod’s stew
ard,) who, with St. John and the Ari
mathean Joseph, are in the audience of
Pilate:
“ The Magdalene’s, then, of all eyes on earth,
Were honoured first with that transporting
vision
Os the risen Lord! The brethren whom she
found
first,
Or rather peering in, for Peter first
Saw, what escaped us, the long burial vestment,
And cap of linen separate; while the angels
They saw not: When came up the Magda
lene,
(The brethren gone) that vision was renewed.
Gently they probe her griefs—for ’tis her wont
T o see things darkly. E’en angelic forms
No courage inspire. ’Tis they inquire, not she,
Woman, why wecpest thou ? Whom, weep
ing, seekest ?)
Gloomily would she think, the Lord not there,
No friendly hands detain him. Nearer He
Than hope. She only needs step back to greet
Him!
Rather, by tears still blinded, should I say,
She hails him as the gardener. Twice or thrice
He speaks before she was assured. But tones,
As truths, He had too much His own for doubt.
And when He called her name, the ‘ Mary ’
trembled,
(Accents and person) to her inmost heart;
And woke up a ‘ Rabboni,’ all her own.”
We need not point out. in detail the
numerous defects in the structure of
the passage we have given above. An
instance or two will suffice. It would
be difficult to scan two-thirds of the
verses, and as for the following, we
defy any one to the task:
“ Saw what escaped us, the long burial vest
ment ”
And again:
“No courage inspire. ’Tis they inquire, not
she.”
St. I aul, in speaking to the other
disciples of his previous persecution of
the church, thus expresses himself:
“ My mind was a fast spending volcano,
O’erhung with the black incubus of doubt,
And death itself had gendered. Wonder ap
pals me,
How human bosom bore the hostile blasts
Os agony destructive there at work !”
The first clause of this passage bids
utter defiance to all the rules of pro
sody, if we do not entirely misunder
stand them.
If we have chosen some of the most
palpable defects in the structure of this
poem, they are not isolated ones; and
moreover, w’e are making good the ac
cusation we have laid against the man
ner of the author’s performance and
could scarcely be expected to overlook
its weakest points, it is a pity, we
think honestly, that the author’s ‘prose’
ever ‘ became blank verse’ though we
would not here recal to the reader’s
mind the double meaning of the phrase!
Our apprehension is, that a valuable,
comprehensive and satisfactory exhibi
tion ot the legal evidences for the Re
surrection has been, if not spoiled, yet
certainly marred, in the transformation.
Os the briefer and rhythmical pieces
which are embraced in the volume, we
may barely remark,that they afford only
additional proof of the unpoetical vein
Anastasis, (Sacred Dromatic Dialogues on
the Resurrection of our Saviour,) and other
Poems. By Thomas Curtis, D. D. New York-
Leavitt St Cos.
of their author. They are ‘well-rhym
ed’, it is true, but the versification lacks
ease and grace., and the diction is not
always poetical. In a Sonnet entitled
‘Rain,’ we find the following opening
verse:
“ I love the pattering tongue of mighty rain.”
The two epithets which we have itali
cized are dissonant. The tongue of
mighty rain would certainly not patter.
It would rather boom, or roar! Our
author, however, prefaces his Sonnets
with the anecdote, that Dr. Johnson,
being asked why Milton had not ex
celled in Sonnets as in blank verse, re
plied that ‘Milton could cut a Colossus
from a rock, but could not carve ducks’
heads upon cherry stones,’ and our au
thor modestly adds, that ‘upon such
authority he felt lie might, without pre
sumption, attempt ducks’ heads.’ We
will do him the credit to say, that if
his Sonnets are not Praxitilean models
of carving, neither are they, on the
other hand, ‘ ducks’heads wrought on
cherry stones,’ They are of a nobler
material and have a nobler develop
ment.
We are more free in our criticism
upon this poetical adventure of our dis
tinguished and learned friend, because
he does not need the reputation of a
poet. It would scarcely add a laurel
leaf to his well-earned honours as a
scholar and a divine. If he will dally
with the Muses, we object not at all,
but would fain hope that the indulgence
will be hereafter strictly social, not
public.
€\)t t?orrrii iltnr.
FAITH.
FROM POEMS BY FRITZ AND LEOLETT.
Ye who think the truth ye sow,
Lost beneath the winter snow,
Doubt not, Time's unerring law
Yet shall bring the genial thaw.
God in Nature ye can trust.
Is the God of Mind less just?
Read we not the mighty thought.
Once by ancient sages taught ?
Though it withered in the blight
Os the media:val night,
Now the harvest we behold ;
See.it bears a thousand fold.
Workers on the barren soil,
Yours may seem a thankless toil;
Sick at heart, with hope deferred,
Listen to the cheering word ;
Now the faithful sower grieves—
Soon he’ll find the golden sheaves.
If Great Wisdom has decreed
Man may labour., yet the seed
Never in this life may grow,
Shall the sower cease to sow ?
The fairest fruit may yet be born
On the resurrection morn.
Lesson for Sunday, December 29.
SUCCESS OF THE GOSPEL.
“And the band of the Lord was witbtbem ; and a great
number believed, ar.d turned unto the Lord.”—Acts,
xi. 21.
That is, with the men of Cyprus and
Cyrene, who preached at Antioch to
the Grecians, the Lord Jesus. Let us
observe
The support they received. “The
hand of the Lord was with them.”—
Bodily members, as well as human
passions, are ascribed to the Deity, in
ins Countenance denotes his favour ; his
eyes, his wisdom and omnisicence ; so
his hand and arm signify his power.
In what respects was God with them ?
1 o give them suitable rjualijiculions
for their work. The most splendid nat
ural gifts and acquirements, a mind
richly furnished with all the stores of
human learning, will not qualify a min
ister for his arduous work, without the
Spirit s teaching ; hut let the heart be
divinely impressed and endued from
on high, and the heralds of the cross go
forth with all the earnestness of feel
ing, with the forcible appeal, “ We
speak that we do know, and testify that
we have seen, 1 and we may confident
ly expect the Divine blessing.
To bestow his gracious presence on
their work. Ihey needed encourage
ment in the midst ot so much persecu
tion; and the consciousness that though
the hand of their enemies was against
them, the hand of the Lord was with
them, animated and emboldened them
in their work.
To impart his Divine blessing on
their work. 1 hey had had a large mea
sure of success. As they planted and
watered, God gave the increase.
Ihe SHCCESS THEY OBTAINED. “A
great number believed, and turned un
to the Lord.”
Its nature. “ They believed.” This
is a true sign of genuine faith ; its ten
dency is practical.
Its extent. “A great number.” Thus
there was a considerable addition to
the church. Ihe whole gives us a fine
display of the wisdom ot God in over
ruling events, winch appeared to mili
tate against his cause, for the extension
and glory of it.
QUAINT SAYINGS OF FULLER.
\\ hen, in my writing, 1 have occa
sion to insert these passages, God wil
ling, God lending me life, dr., I ob
serve, Lord, that I can scarce hold my
hand from encircling these words in a
parenthesis, as if they w’ere not essen
tial to the sentence, but may as well be
left out as put in. Whereas, indeed,
they are not only of the commission at
large, but so of the quorum, that with
out them all the rest is nothing.—
\\ herefore, hereafter, I w ill write those
words fully and fairly, without any in
closure about them. Let critics cen
sure it for bad grammar : I am sure it
is good divinity.
I find David making a syllogism, in
mood and figure—two propositions he
perfected.
IH. 7/ 1 regard wickedness in my
heart, the Lord will not hear me.
19. But verily God hath heard me;
he hath attended to the voice of my prayer.
Now, I expected that David should
have concluded thus:
‘2O. Therefore I regard not icickedness
in my heart.
Rut far otherwise he concludes ;
21. Blessed be God , that hath not
turned away my prayer , nor his mercy
from me.
Ihus David hath deceived, but not
wronged me. I looked that he should
have clapped the crow n on his own,
and he puts it on God’s head. I will
learn this excellent logic; for I like
David’s better than Aristotle’s syllo
gisms, that whatsoever the premises
be, I make God’s glory the conclusion. J
Hniijitr Tfiurn.
ECHO VERSES.
A respectable place upon the lower
plateau ol Parnassus used to be occu
pied by the writers of echo verses—
that is to say, verses at the end of
which there were one or more sylla
bles capable of being echoed in sylla
bles of the same sound, but a different
meaning, that meaning being such as
to suggest a droll idea. The custom
was practised in France as far back as
the days of Clement Marot, early in
the sixteenth century, when such trifles
as the following would serve to amuse
the learned and the gay:
Pour nous plaire, un plumet
Met.
Tout en usage:
Mais on trouve sou vent
Vent.
Dans son langage.
1 hey became common in England in
the reign of Charles 1., when they were
adopted by the royalist wits as an ex
cellent weapon against their round-head
antagonists. The following is a speci
men :
Now, Echo, on what’s religion grounded 1
Round-head.
Whose its professor most considerable )
Rabble.
As for the temples they with zeal embrace them.
Rase them !
Are crosses, images, ornaments their scandal?
AH !
Nor will they leave us many ceremonies.
Monies !
How stand they affected to the government civil?
Evil.
But to the king they say they are most loyal.
Lye all!
Then God keep king and state from these same
men. Amen.
Butler alludes sarcastically to this
kind of composition in his Iludibras,
accusing the writers of making Echo
most unconscionably depose
To things of which she nothing knows ;
and then proceeding to burlesque them
by a series of replies to the wailings of
Orsin for the loss of his bear—
Quoth he, O whither, wicked Bruin,
Art thou fled 1 to my—Echo, Ruin.
I thought th’ hadst scorned to budge a step
for fear. Quoth Echo,Marry guep.
Am I not here to take thy part ?
Then what bad quailed thy stubborn heart?
Have these bones rattled, and this head
So often in thy quarrel bled ?
Nor did I ever winch or grudge it
For thy dear sake. Quoth she, Mum budget.
And much more to the like purpose.
Against Butler,however, may be placed
D’lsraeli, w ho contends that echo verses
are capable of showing the ingenuity of
their makers, and that nothing ought
to be contemned which, in the hands of
a man of genius is converted into a
medium of his talents.
The following specimen of this kind
of verse appeared in the London Ma
gazine (1824), under the title of An
Address to Echo:
If I address the Echo yonder,
What will its answer be, I wonder ?
Echo —l wonder!
O wond’rous Echo, tell me, bless’e,
Am I for marriage, or for celibacy?
Echo —Silly Bessy!
If then to win the maid I try,
Shall I find her a property ?
Echo —A proper tie!
If neither being grave nor funny
Will win the maid to matrimony ?
Echo —Try money !
If I should try to gain her heart,
Shall I go plain, or rather smart ?
Echo —Smart!
he mayn’t love dress, and I again then
May come too smart, and she’ll complain then?
iiC/iO L-Omc pinm .
i nun ii 10 marry me 1 tease her,
What will she say it that should please her ?
Echo —Please, sir!
When cross and good words can’t appease her,
W hat if such naughty whims should seize her ?
Echo —You’d see, sir !
When wed, she’ll change, for love’s no sticker,
And love her husband less than liquor ?
Echo —Then lick her!
To leave me then I can’t compel her,
Though every woman else excel her \
Echo —Sell her !
I he doubting youth to Echo turned again, sir,
To ask advice but found it did not answer.
I his called forth, front ti correspond
ent of the Liverpool Mercury, a similar,
but superior composition, which, with
the letter accompanying it, may be also
given :
1 presume to offer it as my humble
opinion,” says this gentleman, “that
the aforesaid address to Echo is not ab
solutely perfect. The nymph, who has
condescended to reply to the interroga
tories of the rhyming lover, must have
been that identical Irish echo, who
when asked, ‘How do you do?’ re
plied ‘ Very well, thank you !’ To my •
ear, at least, such a response is fully as
legitimate as the following, selected
from the dialogue under consideration:
Celibacy, silly Bessy !—Property, pro
per tie?—Seize her, you’d see, sir! &c.
It may be the fault of my ear, but I
cannot, for the life of me, reconcile
those accommodating responses; as all
the echoes 1 have conversed with are
most scrupulously faithful in replica
tion.
Well, gentlemen, after reading, or, 1
believe, in the very act of reading, the
jeu d'esprit in question, I fell asleep,
and had a strange dream, which I shall
brifly relate.
!Methought 1 was sauntering by
moonlight in a romantic wood, in w hich
there w as a remarkably fine echo, when
perceived a female pass into the most
shady part of the grove. She entered
into a dialogue with Echo, which, as it
was very brief, I was enabled to trans
cribe after I awoke. The damsel, al
though rcould not very clearly distin
guish her form, must have been of low
degree by her provincial accent, and the
rustic names of her admirers. With
this preamble I shall proceed to narrate
the dialogue, which was as follows :
Sweet Echo, no longer I single will tarry,
Os all my admirers, pray which shall I marry?
Echo —Harry.
No, rather than that I’ll remain single still •
How shall I succeed if I marry my Will ? ‘
Echo —lll.
Strange ! Echo, that thus you shouid still thwart
my whim,
Pray, would you advise me to marry young Tim?
Echo —Him?
And why not? for Tim has the good ready penny
Os my lovers, who’s better, pray, out of the
many ? Echo —Any.
What say you to John ? An estate he has got,
And none in profession of love is as hot,
Echo —He’s a sot.
I hen, there s Hodge, and there’s Roger, and
Lubin, and Joe,
Shall I turn a deaf ear to them all, and say, no?
Echo —Say, ‘ No.’
Cruel Echo, to one further question reply,
Tell me, truly, if lan old maiden shall'die ?
Echo —Ay!
Ah ! Echo, my feelings so sorely you mangle
On yon weeping willow I’ll forthwith go dangle!
Echo —Go dangle.
Methought that the desponding dam
sel, upon uttering these words, rushed
forward in frantic despair towards the
aforesaid weeping willow. I attempted
to pursue her, to prevent the fatal
catastrophe; when I fell into a quag
mire, and awoke well nigh suffocated
with mud and sympathy.”
Jtjlf iburlil nf jtojjiun.
LATEST PARIS AND LONDON
FASHIONS.
Livening Costume for a Bride. The
head-dress is a superb wreath of white
roses, intermingled with orange-blos
som. r l he back hair is arranged in
twists in the style called the noeud
d’Apollon. Across the forehead may
be worn a very narrow bandeau of
pearls or diamonds. Dress of white
crape over white satin ; the front of
the skirt ornamented with boquets of
the same flowers as those in the wreath.
The corsage has a birthe composed of
white tulle. r lhe sleeves are slightly
lull and confined on bands at the lower
part, and ornamented on the shoulder
with epaulettes of tulle, edged with a
froncm Necklace a single row of large
pearls.
Costume for an Evening Party. —
Dress of brocade, the ground a dark
violet colour, and the pattern large bou
quets offiowers in a variety of brilliant
hues. A sortie de bal of cerulean blue
satin, edged with a broad band of vel
vet of the same colour. On the velvet
a braid is dispo ed in a zigzag pattern.
r lhe front hair is arranged in ringlets,
and the black hair in plats or twists.
I he head-dress is composed of loops of
narrow blue velvet ribbon fixed on each
side of ihe head.
Bride's dress suited to the Nuptial
Ceremony. Robe of’ very rich white
satin ; the skirt ornamented with side
trimming consisting each of a row of
lace, headed by a fronce of w hite satin
ribbon. This trimming is set on spiral
ly up each side of the skirt, and is at
tached at intervals by small bows of
white satin ribbon. The corsage is half
high at the back, and is sloped some
what lower in front. Over the corsage
there is a small lace pelerine, which
shades the back of the neck, and is
brought down in front of the waist in
points like a half-handkerchief. This
pelerine is trimmed at the lower edge
with two rows of lace, and at the up
per edge with a fronce of white satin
ribbon. Ihe front of the corsage is
trimmed with rows of lace set on hori
zontally. On the neck is worn a chem
isette of lace. The sleeves of the
dress, which are demi-long and not
very wide, are finished at the ends w ith
a full trimming of white satin ribbon,
dhe under-sleeves are loose at the
ends, and are edged with two rows of
lace. On each arm a bracelet of gold,
one of the serpent pattern, and the oth
er fastened by a cameo snap. Bridal
wreath of orange blossoms and jasmine.
Avery large veil of tulle illusion is
fixed under the wreath instead of being
thrown over if, as is sometimes cus
tomary.
Bonnet of pink satin, covered with
cut black velvet. A trimming of
black lace encircles the crown. The
bonnet may be lined either with pink
satin or w ith black velvet; and the un
der-trimming consists of small pink
flowers. Strings of pink satin ribbon.
Bonnet suited to Half-Mourning. —
Ihis bonnet is covered, first, with white
satin, and then with black cut velvet.
It has on one side a small Blank ostrich
~—..v., v „„ nc u spirally; and the un
der trimming consists of four tips of
black feathers, two on each side. The
lining is plain white satin. Strings of
white satin ribbon.
Oeneral Observations on Fashion
and Dress. In the assortments of
Parisian milinary received in London
are many bonnets composed of drab
coloured terry velvet. One of them
was rendered very elegant by being
trimmed on each side with a plume of
small feathers, drab Streaked with pink,
the bonnet being lined with pink.—
Another very pretty bonnet w as of rich
brown velvet, trimmed with a spray of
velvet foliage and flowers; the foliage
was of the same colour as the bonnet,
and the flower of various shades of
blue intermingled. The inside trim
ming was formed of the same flowers
and foliage as those which ornament
the outside of the bonnet, excepting
that the flowers were smaller. We
have noticed several bonnets of dark
blue velvet trimmed on the outside
with twists of satin and velvet, and
small dark blue feathers spotted with
black ; some have the inside ornament
ed with fancy black feather trimmings
in the form of leaves, intermingled with
loops of ribbon. Feathers in every
variety are much employed in trim
ming bonnets ; and it may be mention
ed as a manifest improvement, that
bonnet strings are of more moderate
widths than those worn last summer.
A vast variety of new lame ribbons
have been introduced for head dresses.
Some of these coiffures are formed of
two or three torsades of lame ribbon,
which are united on one side of the
head by a bow with two ends the latter
edged with gold or silver fringe. We
have seen a very pretty head dress
composed of Isly-green velvet. The
form is that called the pettiboard, and
the velvet is beautifully embroidered
with gold, silver, and green silk, in a
rich but light arabesque design. The
head dress is ornamented with a single
white ostrich feather. We mav men
tion a cap which is remarkable for
novelty. It is composed of white
blonde, trimmed on each side with
bows of lilac satin ribbon in shades
graduating from bright lilac to violet,
fiver the cap is fixed a half-handkerchief
ot black tulle, trimmed with black lace.
r lhe handkerchief is so disposed as to
leave the bows of ribbon entirely un
covered, the ends hanging down behind
the bows in the form of lappets. Black
lace is now frequently employed in
trimming white caps.
The corsages of walking and indoor
neglige dresses are very frequently
made with basques. When the dress
is of merino, or any plain material, the
basques are usually longer than when
the dress is composed of silk. Some
times the silk dresses have the basques
embroidered, and occasionally they are
trimmed with lace or ribbon, or scal
loped at the edge.
Opera Costime.— Ladies’ Opera
Cloaks—(we speak by the “ Book”)
are nothing more in Philadelphia than
sacques of bright cashmere velvet, lined
with quilted silk or satin, with loose,
flowing sleeves. One of the richest
and prettiest cloaks of the present sea
son, in this city, was made of black
satin, with a hood lined with Ponpa
dour pink. But cashmere is less ex-
pensive, and may be trimmed with
pointed silk or satin, and lined with the
same coloured silk. Lightness is the
greatest requisite of the dress ; but the
under-sleeves must be very nice, and
white kid gloves are indispensable. A
lady wears a scarf or hood to the door
of the box, where she doffs the more
useful than ornamental article, ant
gracefully suspends it over her arm. —
Fhe hair is dressed wdth very little or
nament. Dress hats are permissible,
but (as they obstruct the view) are not
desirable. Nearly the same dress is
proper for a fashionable Concert; but
for a not very fashionable ballad en
tertainment a pretty hat, with an opera
cloak and light shawl, is sufficient. For
panoramas, sable concerts, evening lec
tures, an ordinary walking costume is
sufficient. To go with the head uncov
ered would not be considered very dis
tingue. We are thus minute and par
ticular for the benefit of those “country
cousins” who may purpose coming to
town during the Opera Season.
[Drawing Room Journal.
Howr to Weak a Shawl.— Listen,
ladies, to the oracular teachings of the
Quarterly Review, on this important
subject, and govern yourselves accord
ing! v :
If a lady sports a shawl at all, and
only very falling shoulders should ven
ture to do so, w e should recommend it
to be always either falling off or put
ting on, which pioduces pretty action.
Or she should wear it up one shoulder
and down the other, or in some way
drawn irregularly, so as to break the
uniformity. One of the faults of the
present costume, as every real artist
knows, is that it offers too few diagonal
lines. Nothing is more picturesque
than a line across the bust, like a broad
ribbon of the garter across our grace
ful queen, or the loose girdle sloping
across the hips, in the costume of the
early Plantagenets. On this very ac
count, the long-scarf shawl is as pictur
esque a thing as a lady can wear. With
the broad pattern sweeping over one
shoulder, and a narrow one, or none at
all on the other, it supplies the eye
with that irregularity which drapery
requires, w hile the slanting form and
colours of the border lying carelessly
round the figure gives that eastern idea
which every shawl more or less implies.
What oriental would ever wear one
straight up and down, and uniform on
both sides, as our ladies often do ?
dntnrrnl (Erkrtir.
A MARRIAGE SCENE.
Judge Charlton, in a recent address
before the Young Men’s Literary As
sociation, at Augusta, Ga, thus happi
ly sketched a marriage scene :
I have drawn for you many pictures
of death ; let me sketch you now a
brief, but bright scene of beautiful life.
It is the marriage altar, a lovely female,
clothed in all the freshness of youth
and surpassing beauty, leans upon the
arm of him to whom she has just
pledged her faith, to whom she has
given up herself, forever. Look in her
eyes, ye gloomy Philosophers, and tell
me, if you dare, that there is no hap
piness on earth. See the trusting, the
heroic devotion, which compels her to
leave her country and parents for a
cqmnaratiyp trngr. She has launch
ed hei fiail bark cm a wide and stormy
sea; she has handed over her happi
iiess in this world to another’s keeping;
but she did it fearlessly, for love whis-
pers to her that her chosen guardian
and protector has a noble and manly
heat t. Oh ! woe to him that deceives
her! Oh, woe to him that forgets his
oath and his manhood.
We have all read the story of the
husband, who, in a moment of hasty
wrath said to her who had but a few
moments before united her fate to his—
“lt you are not satisfied with my con
duct, go—return to your friends and to
your happiness.”
And will you give me back tha
which 1 brought to you?” asked the
weeping wife.
“Yes,” he replied, “all your wealth
shall go with you, I covet it not.”
“Alas! ’ she answered, “ I thought
not of my wealth—l of maiden
affections—of my buoyant hope—of
my devoted love—can you give these
back to me ?”
Ao ! said the man, throwing him
self at her feet. “No! I cannot re
store these ; but I can do more—l will
keep them unsullied and unstained. I
will cherish them through my life and
in my death ; never again will I forget
that 1 have sworn to protect and cheer
her who gave up to me all that she held
most dear.”
Did 1 not tell you there was poetrv
in woman s word. See it here the mild
gentle reproof of love, winning back,
from its harshness and rudeness, the
stern unyielding temper of an angry
man. Ah, if creation’s fairer sex only
knew their strongest weapons, how
many of wedlock’s fierce battles would
be unsought—how much of unhappi
ness and coolness would be avoided.
SUNSET ON MOUNT BLANC.
Soon after 1 had thus “ set up my
rest,” the grand process of sunsetting
began ; and solemn as have been many
sunsets to me, 1 never saw one—l wii
not say merely equal to this—but one
icsembling it; for s he difference was
not in degree, but in kind. Above and
around, there was not a cloud, not a
speck to dim the deepening azure of
the sky, nor a fleecy breath of mist
watted or lingered about the towers or
dome of the mountain. These glowed
for a few minutes in deeper rose color
than that vvhich appeared to clothe
them at this hour from below ; the
summit as usual retained it last, and
w hen it faded, left them in the cold
whiteness of the dawn. Thus far—
yvith the grandeur above us—all passed
in its usual procession of glory ; but
“bile 1 watched those receding tints,
flocks of clouds arose below', and filled
up the valley of Chamouni to the brim,
with tissues waving gaily, like floating
shrouds. They were then seen creep
ing up within the folds of the valley
beyond, until that also assumed, as far
as it was rev’ealed, the same spectral
veil ; while the top of the Breven, the
Aiguille Varens, and the head of the
Buet stood out like islands in that sol
emn sea. But beyond—in the expanse
to the right of the Breven top—what
glory was disclosed !—a heaven-tinged
cloud-land not to be gazed at from be
low by a subject mortal, but to be look
ed down into as from a purer seat—a
subjected enchantment spead beneath
us—as from some pinnacwß
the eyes were permitted n
its lower glories, the habit?!
the array of angels. The ; ‘“l
ance of this vision was that/*
tial city, all of sapphire cirri i
of azure, while far away j n
distance, legions of
shapeless as those ofß e *w|
scendmg on Jacob’s slumber F
mg, like them, the sense O fJ, B ■.
nes, were ranged, while tents*’
vilions of violet and gold behiral
seemed to bespeak a mart!*] M
1 resently, these splendours b,l
confused ; and then a sterner
reigned; a scene of hu Ce ../“’l
verns and golden roeks/b u [ t l
a sapphire sea studded with j ; T
deeper gold, and then the colon/: ■
ed, and faded, and nothing //■
heap of purple clouds filled th I
of the gorgeous vision; and iJ
with the rock, the snow, and tb]
— T i , [
“ ALL ABOUT A KISS’
The following capital definition
kiss were translated from the (p
for the New Englander. Ij (IVi /
ways there are of viewing th “
thing! ° 1
The Naturalist. — A kiss is th,..,
mg into juxtaposition two eons
charged poles, by which it. lib /
trie spark, is elicited.
, The Moralist. —A kiss is the p
of the most intimate communion 0 !)
aid is therefore only to be p ( . rnu
in the married state.
The Physician. —A kiss is the,
so moving the labial muscles tfo
lips are first brought suddenly tu I
er, and then explosively separate]
that after all a kiss is only an art] I
spasm.
The Philologist —“ Kiss” is at: I
niatopoetic word, in which then- I
of the thing is represented by tb
sound of the word.
The Antiquarian. — Kissi;i j s „
tom handed down to us from their
and Romans, as to the true signify
of which we are not perfectly cleat
Probably it is symbolic of the sa
rays greeting the earth; and. if
doubtless was received with all |
other lore of the sun-worship f rw |
Orientals.
_ Theologians (a host of thorn..
kiss is an emblematic action bv v,j
the bending of the heavens to the ea
is designed to be symbolized.
The Philosopher. —A kiss is that j
trading the circle of the lips, wlj
the quantitative difference of tb,
of one is placed in such relation:,
quantitative difference of the sine
another, that thereby the identity
the subject-object with the ideal-rq
proved.
The Punster. —A kiss (hiss) i
gush ( guss ) of one soul to anotha
The pressing of the lips is the prea
of the lemon into the insipidbeves
of life. This pressure is the exp
pressiori of the impression which
presses the heart. It is the only p
with which no censorship can innni
Here we still have “freedom of
:>ress.”
The Lawyer. —The kiss is a mill
in law, being neither a right in p
nor a right in esse. Some, howei
lave considered it as a family ri
and would treat jt after the analog
the dos. But “L 74 D. de dote court
The Lover. —A kiss is heavi
The Translator. —To he sure
with a difference!
THE SCIENCE OF LOVE. I
This is an age of philosophy. I
original theories are. broached on I
sorts of subjects with a boldness I
speculation which would have astoufl
ed the Aristotles and Platos of andfl
times. Here, for instance, is a scientm
secret of love , which some modern pi
siological, phrenological, or elect™
biological Solomon has hit upon. wlfl
promises to be one of incaleulafl
value to those who are affected bv fl
tender passion. If ten thousand j.fl
of scissors do not cut out and presefl
it, we shall never guess again.—Z'fl
“It is well known that those wl. fl
highly susceptible to electro-nervfl
disturbances, may be influenced, fl
often controlled by the will ofam’B
person, even when there is no difl
physical contact. These effects fl
sometimes produced when the parß
are at a distance from each othr-B
\\ hen you chance to occupy the >:fl
apartment with the person thussu'.B
tible, a vigorous effort of mind fl
enable you to command theirattentß
without seeming to regard them, fl
ter a room where a person of this fl
scription is in a profound slumber— *
your eyes steadily on the face of th
sleeper— exert the will powerful!y.am
you will produce such an electricaldis
tuibailee as will cause him to awake.
We are often suddenly reminded ol
some absent friend, whose image all at
once rises before us, when, the nexl
moment, the impression is rendered ‘
I actuality by the absolute presence-
It not unfrequently occurs that perse'’
are singularly anticipated in what th .
are about to say—some other perse*
giving utterance to the same thouc
in the same words. Lovers, all [ L
sons of intuitive and receptive nature
especially when united by a stroiis a
tachment, readily divine each other
thoughts, and read, in silent langmi.
the most secret impulses of the heart.
Anecdote of Balzac. — Balzac. &
i reneh novelist, who recently died i®
Paris, exhibited an example us ec^ 15 ’
tricity in matrimonial affairs.
According to a Parisian corresp ot
dent, the arrival of this celebrated au
thor from Germany caused an
sensation in certain circles, ow ing to the
romantic circumstances connected 1
his marriage.
It appears that some fifteen ye**
ago, when Balzac was at the zenith *■ ■
his fame, he was traveling threus I
Switzerland, and had arrived at the inn
just at the very moment when t- H
Prince and Princess Hanski were h’* 1 ’ I
ing it.
Balzac was ushered into the toe|
they had just vacated, and was leain’r I
from the window to observe their 1 I
parture, when his attention was am I
ed by a soft voice at his elbow, ask in * I
for a book which had been left behm u
upon the w’indow-seat.
The lady was certainly fair, but r
peared doubly so in the eyes of t
poor author, when she intimated >
the book she was in quest of,
pocket edition of his owl work, ad'--- -
that she never travelled without it. B
without it she could not exist!
She drew the volumeJhy^ji|filG|