Chapter I: Front Matter

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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rose Koven, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Music by Linda Cantoni

GODEY'S

LADY'S BOOK.

PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1851.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

VOL. XLII.

A Hindoo Belle, by _J. E. P._, 322

A Spring Carol, by _Mrs. A. A. Barnes_, 326

Cottage Furniture, 329

Design for a Lady's Work-Box, 364

Develour, by _Professor Charles E. Blumenthal_,
51, 102, 182, 257, 323, 377

Editors' Table, 65, 134, 201, 266, 330, 391

Editors' Book Table, 66, 135, 202, 267, 332, 392

Etruscan Lace Cuff, 328

Fashions, 70, 140, 205, 270, 336, 396

Flowers, by _G. H. Cranmer_, 284

Garden Decorations, 251, 282, 372

Good For Evil, by _Angele de V. Hull_, 252, 285

Home; or, the Cot and the Tree, by
_Robert Johnson_, 295

Incidents in the Life of Audubon, by _the author
of "Tom Owens, the Bee Hunter,"_ 306

Knitted Flowers, 61, 199, 263, 328, 386

Model Cottages, 4, 126, 283

Moral Courage, by _Alice B. Neal_, 316, 367

Publisher's Department, 269, 334, 394

Sabbath Lyrics, by _W. Gilmore Simms_,
26, 109, 174, 366

Sonnet, by _Mrs. L. S. Goodman_, 281

Sonnets, by _William Alexander_,
42, 75, 169, 215, 277, 390

Spring, by _Fanny Fales_, 292

Spring--a Ballad, by _Mary Spenser Pease_, 278

Susan Clifton; or, the City and the Country,
by _Professor Alden_, 29, 93, 170, 246, 302, 360

Taking Care of Number One, by _T. S. Arthur_, 320

The Judge; a Drama of American Life, by
_Mrs. Sarah J. Hale_, 21, 88, 154, 237, 298

The Language of Flowers, by _Jno. B. Duffey_, 277

The Last of the Tie-Wigs, by _Jared Austin_, 296

The Tiny Glove--a May-Day Story, by _Blanche_, 280

The Young Enthusiasts, by _Frank I. Wilson_, 309, 346

To A. E. B., or Her who Understands it, by
_Adaliza Cutter_, 297

Undersleeves and Caps, 327

Various Useful Receipts, 69, 139, 205, 270, 335, 396

Women of the Revolution, by _Mrs. E. F. Ellet_, 293

Ye Come to me in Dreams, by _Nilla_, 279

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MAY.

May-Day Morning.
The Language of Flowers.
Spring.
"Now be Careful."
Music, &c.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

BY JNO. B. DUFFEY.

(_See Plate._)

AS, wandering forth at rosy dawn,
When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn,
From glen and glade, and river-side,
We bring young flowers--the morning's pride.

And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet,
With flowers our favored ones we greet;
For flowers a silent language own,
That makes our maiden wishes known.

A language that by love was wrought,
And by fond love to mortals taught;
A language, too, that lovers know,
Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow.

A language richer, purer far
Than all the tongue-born dialects are;
And, as the flowers, devoid of art,
It is the language of the heart.

Thoughts that would perish all untold
Live on the tongues that flowers enfold:
Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell
The love of stammering youth unveil.

And happy will that trembler be,
If she, with cheek of modesty,
Shall give his soft avowal room,
And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom.

But, should her heart feel not his glow,
The mottled Pink may answer "No;"
Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath,
A balm upon the wound will breathe.

The Morning-glory's dewy bell
In mystic tones of hope may tell--
Tell of a struggle in the breast,
Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed.

The Heartsease, flower of purple hue,
Seeks an affection ever true;
And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply,
Speaketh a love will never die.

The little Daisy grows for her
Who heedeth not the flatterer;
And spotless Lilies love the breast
Where child-like Innocence is pressed.

Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose
Whose blushing petals half unclose;
And in the snowy Violet
Sweet Modesty her home hath set.

And thus of feeling, every shade
May be through voiceless flowers conveyed;
And all the fond endearments known
To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker

Printed by H. Quig.]

SONNET.--AUDUBON.[A]

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

AH! is he blind, who erst, untiringly,
Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold,
For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold?
When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly
Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song;
For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain,
No more to view your rainbow-tints again--
Love-lays in gratitude to him belong,
From matin Lark, loud herald of the day--
From Philomel, coy chorister of night:
Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight,
In rapture musing on your plumage gay,
Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done,
On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Written previous to his death.

SPRING.--A BALLAD

BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.

(_See Plate._)

SPRING, with its glad influences
Stealing up from bosky dell,
Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse
With its sunny, witching spell.

Each new morn the boughs hang thicker
With the leaves of Nature's book;
Each new eve adds a new chapter
To the life of bird and brook.

Each new morn the world is greener;
Age forgets its shriveled years
In the warmth and life upspringing
Out from Winter's chill and tears.

Each new morn the song grows sweeter--
Song of loving bee and bird;
Each new eve, from youth and maiden,
Softer cadences are heard.

Each new morn her heart beat warmer,
Dreaming o'er his tale of love;
Each new eve, that tale repeated,
Brighter spells around her wove.

At the early, early daybreak,
To caress her as she slept,
Greetingly, the light spring zephyr
Through her open lattice crept.

Roving mid the golden tangles
Of her tresses' braidless flow,
Nestling in the half-veiled dimples
Of her bosom white as snow.

Mingling with her fragrant breathing,
Closely to her ear it came,
Murm'ring to her gentle dreaming,
In sweet music, his dear name.

"Through the valley, o'er the mountain,"
Sang the zephyr in her ear,
"At my own sweet will, I wander
All the loving, livelong year.

"With the lowly, tender grass-blade,
With the solemn, stately trees,
With each swelling bud and blossom
Sport I ever as I please.

"All the humble wayside flowers--
Daisy, king-cup, light harebell;
All the tall and proud ones--Kalmia,
Rose, and orchis--know me well.

"Of the brightest, sweetest flower-buds,
Sheltered by the mountain's brow,
Blooming in the wide, wide valley,
Loveliest of them all art thou.

"That is why he loves thee dearly,
Modest, gentle as thou art,
The proud lord of wood and manor
The proud lord of thy young heart.

"Oh, I heard a song last evening,
Sung to tremulous guitar,
Through the yellow, mellow moonlight,
Floating on the air afar;

"Breathing warmest, truest passion
For one bearing thy sweet name,
Telling of that passion thwarted
Bending unto station's claim:

"Telling how the claim of station
Must at last be overborne,
By a will and faith unyielding,
By a love no time can turn.

"'I must see her at the day-dawn,'
Sighed he, at the ballad's close,
'By the brook in the still copse-wood,
Where the purple violet grows.'"

Rose the maiden from her slumbers,
Fresher than the break of dawn,
Binding up her heavy tresses,
Looked she out upon the lawn.

Like a shower of yellow guineas
Flashing back the morning sun,
Crocuses and dandelions
Half the golden fields had won.

From the green and yellow shining,
Flecking it with flakes of white,
Drooping lilies, palest snow-drops,
Spread their petals to the light.

Looking out upon the copse-wood,
As she clasped her simple dress,
Suddenly the thought came o'er her,
"I will seek its wilderness.

"By the brook down in its thicket,
Where the purple violet grows,
I shall find the wild sweetbriar,
And the wind-flower, and--who knows?

"Who knows but my Edgar Lincoln
May be wandering that way,
Tempted by this fragrant morning--
Brightest morning yet of May.

"Oh, I know he loves me dearly,
And he knows I love him well;
That my love is deep and boundless,
More than tongue of mine can tell."

On she wandered, singing lightly
Snatches of some olden song--
How a lord and lowly maiden
Loved each other well and long:

How the haughty claim of station
Came at last to be o'erborne
By a will and faith unbending,
By a love no time could turn.

Singing lightly, on she wandered
Over hill and meadow lone;
Said she "This broad wood and valley
Soon I'll proudly call my own.

"Not one beggar, not one hungered
Shall there be in all the land;
Not one loathing life from hardship,
When I'm lady proud and grand."

Wandering on, she plucked wild flowers,
Flowers filled with morning dew,
Looking backward ever, ever,
Listening for a step she knew.

Press the flowers to thy soft bosom,
Braid them in thy shining hair,
Love them while their tender petals
Fragrant life and freshness wear;

For too soon they'll droop and wither,
Plucked and worn but one short day,
And too soon thy youth and freshness
May, like them, be flung away.

Light of heart, she nears the copse-wood,
From its depths sweet voices throng;
Voices of the jay and blue-bird,
And the wild wood-robin's song.

By the water-brook she's standing,
Where the purple violets grow,
Where the wind-flower and sweetbriar,
And the starry woodbines blow.

By the water-brook she's standing,
And her heart begins to fail;
Still she watches, still she listens,
Hearing but the night-owl's wail.

Silent shadows flit around her,
Looming darkly, broad, and tall;
But one shadow well remembered
Sees she not among them all.

Ah, perhaps--perhaps he may be
To his vow a traitor base!
Down into the clear brook glancing
There she sees her own sweet face.

Down into the clear brook gazing
There she sees her own sweet face;
Sees she also there reflected
One of noble, manly grace.

"Effie! Effie! late last evening,"
Spake he, circling her soft waist,
"My proud sire--and soon thine, darling--
Read the lines thy hand had traced;

"Breathing of thy sweet self, Effie,
Full of tenderness and truth--
'Such a heart, such wit and wisdom
Must be cherished, by my sooth!'

"Thus my sire--the lines re-reading
Traced by thy beloved hand--
Still he spake, 'Such wit, such wisdom.
Would grace lady of the land!'

"Then it was, my darling Effie,
Pleaded I thy cause and mine--
'Yes, yes, yes, I've watched thee, youngster,
Watched thee sigh, and pale, and pine!'

"More he said, my darling Effie--
For he knew my death he'd mourn
That the haughty claim of station
Is at last by love o'erborne."

Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.B. Neagle.]

YE COME TO ME IN DREAMS.

BY NILLA.

YE come to me in dreams, baby,
In visions of the night;
Thy blue eye, full of blessedness,
Is glancing on my sight:
The music of thy breath, baby,
Is falling on my ear,
In those dear old-accustomed tones
I loved so well to hear.

Again upon my heart, baby,
Thy little hand is prest,
Again thy little nestling head
Is pillowed on my breast;
Again my lips are murmuring
Low words of love and prayer;
I strive to draw thee closer yet,
But clasp the vacant air;

And then I wake to weep, baby,
Rememb'ring thou art dead;
And never more can my poor heart
Pillow thy little head!
Yet I am happy even now--
This thought my grief disarms--
A few short months I fondly clasped
An angel in my arms:

That loftier minds than mine, baby,
Will now instruct thy youth,
And holier hearts will point the path
Of innocence and truth.
Thou wert my blessing here on earth,
And though tears dim my eyes,
I feel that I am richer far
To have thee in the skies!

THE TINY GLOVE.--A MAY-DAY STORY.

BY BLANCHE.