Chapter VII (3)

_Construction._--The frame of this building is of strong timber, and stout for its size. The sills should be eight inches square, the corner posts of the same size, and the intermediate posts 8 by 6 inches in diameter. In the centre of these posts, grooves should be made, two inches wide, and deep, to receive the _plank_ sides, which should be two inches thick, and let in from the level of the chamber by a flush cutting for that purpose, out of the grooves inside, thus using no nails or spikes, and holding the planks tight in their place that they may not be rooted out or rubbed off by the hogs, and the inner projection of the main posts left to serve as rubbing posts for them. Above the chamber floor thinner planks may be used. The centre post in the floor plan of the engraving is omitted, by mistake, but it should stand there, like the others. Inside posts at the corners, and in the sides of the partitions, like the outside ones, should be also placed and grooved to receive the planking, four and a half feet high, and their upper ends be secured by tenons into mortices in the beams overhead. The troughs should be made of cast-iron, or the hardest white oak plank, strongly spiked on to the floor and sides.

Poetry.

* * * * *

THE INTERVIEW.

BY T. HEMPSTEAD.

THERE are oracles true in the depths of the mind,
There are prophecies borne on the wings of the wind,
There are omens that dwell in a flower or a leaf,
To unbosom the future, its rapture and grief;
There are voices of night with a language as plain
As the accents of love or the moanings of pain,
And I turn from the glare and the murmur of day,
To the warnings and woes which their whispers betray.

There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye,
There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh,
And thy summer of beauty has faded away,
Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray
Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been,
And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen
As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death,
As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath,
Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow,
As thou standest before me all tremblingly now.
Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm;
Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form,
And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart
Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart.
In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown,
In moments the brightest my bosom hath known,
In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave,
Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave,
In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss,
My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this!
My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride,
Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side,
From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest,
Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast;
Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring,
The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring;
In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams,
I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams;
Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night,
Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight!
Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb,
Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room,
But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,
There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,
And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine
Has died with the lustre that made it divine.
Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows
Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs;
By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,
Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!
Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour--
May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;
They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow,
But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!

Thou wast won by the perishing glitter of gold,
From my heart to the arms of another wast sold,
Who hath cast thee away as a scorn, as a weed,
On the love of a world that hath doomed thee to bleed.
Like a palace whose feasting and music are ended,
Whose lights to the dim gulf of death are descended,
Whose footfalls are silent, whose arches lie strown,
Where the cold wind of night makes a desolate moan,
Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,
To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!
Had thy heart been as true--ah, no! never my tongue
May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;
'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,
On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,
Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore
Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.

As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,
Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,
Dread as death-fires that burn on the fear-smitten eye,
When the far-shaking thunder-tramp reels through the sky.
On a fragment that flew from the van of the blast,
Like a leaf on the stream of the hurricane cast,
Now spurned from their bosom, now hid in the abyss
Of black waves that sparkle, crack, thunder, and hiss,
It was thou on my breast through the war of the storm,
Pale, pale as the shroud that shall compass thy form.
There was death on the gale, there was night on the sea,
Where I sat on that wreck with the tempest and thee;
Through darkness and thunder, flash, shriek, din, and foam,
Now deep-clasped in the vale, and now rocked on the dome
Of the wave, I was borne o'er the windy expanse
Of chill vapor and spray by the terrible glance
Of the lightning; I pressed thy cold cheek unto mine;
From thy locks fast down-trickled the luminous brine;
By thy breath on my brow, by the serpentine path
Of the death-flame that blazed on its journey of wrath,
I knew thee; I knew, my beloved, thou wast there,
In the battle of waves, through my night of despair.
Lips of blood through the gloom, and pale phantoms of fear
Howled the peals of their horrible glee in my ear;
The thin fingers of demons stooped round me to clasp,
To wring thy cold form from the strength of my grasp;
With their dim eyes upturned, newly torn from the grave,
Glared the dead from their weltering shrouds on the wave;
Oh! dark was the struggle and fearful and vain
Thy cold limbs from their place in the deep to restrain;
Dread as Death the black bulk of a surge rumbled o'er,
I clasped thee, I felt thee, I saw thee no more!

That vision of woe, that wild dream of the sea,
Is fulfilled, O pale, desolate weeper, in thee;
No more shall the joy of thy glance on me shine;
While the sun on me beams, I may never be thine;
Yet know in thy sorrow, sad Inez, my love,
Thou art mine in the Eden that blossoms above!
Ah, the pent tears, at last, 'neath thy dark lashes start,
And the words that would heal it have broken thy heart.

* * * * *

SONNET.--CLOUDS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

YE welcome clouds! what praises have ye won!
Host after host ye ever thronging come,
Careering on athwart the ethereal dome,
To tell of tempests past or hastening on.
With magic hues ye often deck the sky,
Enamelling it with red and purple, gold;
Like molten silver oft ye are unrolled,
And oft changed into palaces, ye lie.
The rainbow oft is pictured on your breast,
To tell of peace and plenty ye do bring;
Hail, snow, ye bear oft 'neath your ebon wing,
And tempests in your blackest mantle rest.
The thirsty earth ye wet with freshening showers,
Floods flowing from ye speak your desolating powers.

* * * * *

WILLIE MAYLIE.

BY CORNELIA M. DOWLING.

OH! do you not remember, love,
The sunny morn when we were plighted?
Your eye was bright in loving light,
And dancing like a star benighted.
That eye is dim and sunken now,
But still around it love reposes;
And bright the smile upon your cheek,
Though withered long are all its roses.
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My true, my noble Willie Maylie,
Years have rolled,
And we are old,
But _still together_, Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love,
The baby bright we used to cherish,
Not dreaming that so fair a bud
Might early fade away and perish?
Oh! sad it seemed to lay the form
So bright upon an earthy pillow;
Now, she is softly sleeping, love,
Alone, beneath the drooping willow!
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My loving, earnest Willie Maylie,
Roses bloom
Upon the tomb
Of her we loved, my Willie Maylie!

And do you not remember, love,
That we have journeyed long together,
The heart-light ever gilding o'er
The path of life in wintry weather?
We've almost crossed the ocean now,
Still breasting every billow gayly;
We soon shall reach the heavenly shore,
And rest together, Willie Maylie!
Oh! my Willie Maylie dear,
My own true-hearted Willie Maylie,
Heart to heart,
And ne'er to part,
We'll rest together, Willie Maylie!

* * * * *

ELLIE MAYLIE.

BY JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.

THE light of other days, my love,
Is o'er my vision softly stealing;
The music of thy bridal vows,
Like harp-notes, up the past is pealing.
But lip, nor eye, nor sunny brow,
Nor cheek with witching dimples lighted,
Were half so dear to me as now,
When years have proved the love we plighted.
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My ever-winning Ellie Maylie,
Love like thine
To hearts like mine
Is air and sunlight, Ellie Maylie.

Down Youth's bright tide, our shallop light
Went floating on through banks of flowers;
But riper years brought clouds and night,
For Life must have both _sun_ and _showers_
Well _might_ thy Willie brave the storm,
And "breast the adverse billow gayly;"
For what were Youth and Flowers to Love,
Or all the world to Ellie Maylie
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My artless, clinging Ellie Maylie,
Breath to being,
Eye to seeing,
Wert thou to me, my Ellie Maylie.

Not where above a little grave
The early summer buds are springing,
Where willows in the sunlight wave,
Not there--not there my heart is clinging;
But _there_, amid those deathless flowers,
That up from Heav'n's pure soil are springing,
Where waits that angel-babe of ours,
'Tis there--'tis there my heart is clinging!
Oh! my Ellie Maylie dear,
My gentle, trusting Ellie Maylie,
Lulled to rest
On Jesus' breast,
We'll meet in Heav'n, my Ellie Maylie!

* * * * *

THERE'S MUSIC.

BY HORACE G. BOUGHMAN.

THERE'S solemn music in the billows
Of the mighty, restless sea;
Lively music poured from brooklets,
As they gambol in their glee.

There's stirring music in the gale;
Soft music in the breeze;
Music sweet when winged minstrels
Carol 'mid the verdant trees.

There's awful music in the thunders;
Lulling music in the rains;
Music echoed from the forest,
In a thousand living strains.

There's silent music in the flowers,
And in the planet's genial fires;
Music grandest in the rivers,
Where they tune their cat'ract lyres.

There 's cheering music all around us,
Thrilling music from above;
And those magic tones should teach us
Sweeter, nobler strains of love.

* * * * *

DREAM PICTURE.

AN IMPROMPTU.

BY MRS. A. F. LAW.

BEHOLD, upon Life's swelling tide,
A little boat doth gently glide!
Its freight a Soul; Sin guides the helm,
And steers for Pleasure's baseless realm:
At prow, the gay-robed Tempter stands,
Obscuring, with his jewelled hands,
The Spirit's view; whilst shines afar
Hope's radiant, but _deceiving_ star;
For, see, _it fades_, e'en as we gazing stand,
And leaves that bark a wreck upon the strand!

* * * * *

I WAS ROBBED OF MY SPIRIT'S LOVE.

BY JARONETTE.

ON! give me some strong human will,
To lull this dream of woe;
It binds me with its iron chain,
And will not let me go.
Oh! give me strength to curb this strife,
And make my spirit know
My early days of happy life,
Of days long, long ago.

But now there's darkness on my path,
A shadow on my heart;
I each fond feeling seek to hide,
Trembling in ev'ry part!
They think that I'm forgetting thee;
But ah! they do not see
The coursing tears, when I'm alone,
Flowing so fast and free!

I list my bird's sweet matin song,
Its wild and gladsome chants;
But no, the dead'ning weight is here,
And still my spirit pants
For long-lost dreamy hours of joy,
When thou wert by my side,
And care seemed but a thing of name,
Not to my life allied.

Now, when the smile is on my lip,
It turns that smile to tears,
Stemming the life-blood of my heart
With weary weight of years.
It makes the strong proud limbs refuse
To roam this gladsome earth,
And sends me reeling, mad, within,
From out the sounds of mirth.

I pet each blossom from my shrubs,
And call them by thy name;
I ask them if their spirits tell
That I am still the same.
A pure white rose that bloomed this morn
I went this eve to take;
"The spirit of the flow'r" had fled,
The _cold_ its _heart_ did break!

They tell me that thou carest not
For woman's love or fame;
That thou speak'st _lightly_ of them all
That bear the gentle name.
But oh! I heed them not the while,
_They_ have not read thy heart;
I know you have not chang'd so much
Since we were forced to part.

And though they bid me see thee not,
My spirit meets thee oft
In dream-land, where the flow'rs bloom bright,
The air so calm and soft.
The angels then are by my side,
They kiss me with thy lips,
And clasp hope's rainbow round my heart,
In that dream-hour of bliss.

And sometimes in thy weary hours
Recall the past, and weave
The dream of hallowed love and hope
I'll ever for thee breathe.
Then wander forth amid the throng,
And seek some gentle one,
One that will honor thy dear name,
And take her _to thy home_.

* * * * *

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.

The following lines were suggested by a remark in Washington Irving's "Student of Salamanca," that the old alchymist died just as he was on the point of discovering the philosopher's stone.

THE walls were sweating with a festering damp,
An icy coldness filled the dreary room,
A little solitary flickering lamp
With sickly radiance glimmered through the gloom,
While on a tattered couch an old man lay,
Half-starved with hunger, weary, gaunt, and gray.

His feeble eyes with ardor yet were strained
Upon a yellow parchment dull with age,
As, while one lingering ray of life remained,
That single ray must shine on Learning's page;
And while he lay immersed in study deep,
He murmured thus, as one who speaks in sleep:--

"One little hour more, and all is mine!
Mine the bright prize so long I've sought in vain!
Mine the lost secret, which for countless time
Philosophers have labored to regain!
Mine wealth, and youth, and joy, and nevermore,
O Death! shall I be subject to thy power!

"One hour more, and all these golden dreams
Which still have cheered me on from day to day,
Shall be no more like fleeting radiant beams,
Glancing one moment bright, then snatched away;
But all my visions, howe'er bright their hue,
No more be false, no more be aught but true!

"Ye elementary spirits, who so long
With ready wiles have baffled all my art
One hour more, and I in power strong
Shall see ye all in helpless rage depart!
At last your devilish malice all o'erthrown,
At last the great elixir all my own!"

Thus spoke the alchymist; but ruthless Death,
Who strikes alike the mighty and the low,
And stops the monarch's and plebeian's breath
With equal haste, and with the selfsame blow,
Had laid his icy hand upon his heart,
While bidding him in iron tones "depart!"

The lamp burnt lower, still his eye was fixed
Upon the parchment, while his trembling hand
Within a crucible the compound mixed,
With which completed he would soon command
Unending treasure, boundless glittering wealth,
The priceless draught of endless youth and health.

But from his stiffening band the parchment dropped,
As from his lips broke forth a hollow moan,
The coursing current of his life-blood stopped,
His spirit fled just as its task was done!
Closing his eyes upon the lifelong strife,
He left untouched the sparkling cup of Life.

* * * * *

THE SONG-BIRDS OF SPRING.

BY NORMAN W. BRIDGE.

FROM out the airy balcony
Of many a sylvan cot and dome,
Is poured soul-melting minstrelsy,
That cheers my lonely heart and home.
Around each warbler's chosen haunt
Are heard sweet notes of joy and praise;
From fruit-trees comes the robin's chant,
And from each bush the sparrow's lays.

Amid the poplar's trembling lyre,
That o'er the lawn its shadow throws,
Rich warblings of a linnet-choir
My soul with melody o'erflows;
While from a willow waving near,
And where the vine its trellis girds,
Steals softly o'er the tuneful ear
The symphony of yellow-birds.

Upon the elm-tree's lofty bough
The oriole serenely sings,
While from a puerile branch below
His loved one in her castle swings:
And in the flower-enamelled leas,
Where alders grace the streamlet's brink,
I hear the charming melodies
Of many a sweet-voiced bobolink.

And from yon wildwood's emerald crown
Come oft, in notes of heavenly tone,
The hymns of thrushes, "wood," and "brown,"
And warbling throats to me unknown.
Bird-notes are all so rich and clear,
It seems as though their vocal powers
Were borrowed from some higher sphere
Than this discordant world of ours.

Nor is their magic gift of song
The only charm they o'er me throw;
They ne'er the poor and helpless wrong,
Nor swell the tide of human woe.
Their voice is ne'er with slander fraught,
Or friendships in misfortune change,
Nor speech or deed betrayeth aught
Of av'rice, hatred, and revenge.

They seek not, with malicious tongue,
To stir the bosom with mistrust,
By telling what 's been said and sung,
How all our faults have been discussed;
Till Jealousy within awakes,
And Love with doubt is much annoyed,
The golden clasp of Friendship breaks,
And peace of families destroyed.

No rival's fame they derogate,
A brother falsely charge with sin,
Hoping thereby to elevate
Their name above more worthy kin:
They seem not e'er to envy those
Whose brilliant plumes their own outshine,
Or to rejoice at others' woes
Whose powers of song are more divine.

Nor have their hearts the cruel pride
O'er humbler garbs and gifts to sneer;
The lame, their hapless fate deride,
Or o'er the weak to domineer.
No bitter taunt, unfeeling jest,
The boast of pow'r, wealth, rank, or birth,
E'er flow from soaring warbler's breast,
To wound the heart of lowly worth.

Nor do they play the hypocrite
With faithful, fond, confiding friends,
Looks, manners, language counterfeit,
To gain ignobly selfish ends.
No word or act their aim belies,
Or yield they e'er to sin's control,
And sell, for worldly merchandise,
The jewels of a virtuous soul.

* * * * *

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

BY MARY NEAL.

THY heart is young and light, maiden;
Thy sunny brow is fair;
For Love, and Joy, and Hope now weave
Life's brightest sunbeams there.
Brothers and sisters turn to bless
Thy ever-welcome form,
And a father's arm is near to shield
Thee from life's lightest storm.

But more, still more than this, maiden--
A mother's heart is near,
To watch thy fair cheek, pale or flush--
To note each starting tear--
To gaze upon thy happy face,
And pray that thy young heart
May long be spared the bitter woe
From cherished friends to part.

Oh, Love will make fond hearts, maiden,
To offer at thy shrine;
And Friendship many a blooming wreath
Around thy path entwine:
But the tears that o'er thy restless couch
From a mother's eyes were shed,
Will moist a green spot in thy heart
When _those_ bright flowers are dead!

Then watch those loving eyes, maiden,
That beam upon thee now;
And cherish every silver hair
That stealeth o'er that brow:
For a mother's love's the purest ray,
The brightest day-star given,
To light us o'er Life's darkened way,
And lead us up to Heaven.

* * * * *

TO AN ABSENT DEAR ONE.

BY FANNIE M. C.

OH, where art thou, beloved one, at this hour,
So meet for fond affection's holy power,
For all the tender memories that will
The lonely bosoms of the absent fill?

Far, far away! Yet as my tearful eye
Dwells on yon little watchfire in the sky,
This thought comes stealing on its beam of light,
_Our hearts shall meet at Mercy's throne to-night_!

* * * * *

TO IDA.

BY HORACE PHELPS, M. D.

THE gale is fresh upon my brow,
The evening dew my cheek has wet,
The bark moves merrily, and now
The moonlight and the wave have met;
The mountain heights their shadows throw,
In dark and frowning majesty,
Upon the rolling waters' flow,
As sorrows cross young memory:
What wants this scene to be divine?
Thy gentle heart to beat with mine.

The lover's star her watch doth keep
In the blue vault of yonder sky;
While all around is hushed to sleep,
I deem thy angel spirit nigh;
'Twere rapture never felt before
In this serene and midnight noon,
To hear from yonder lonely shore
The watch-dog bay the full bright moon,
Couldst thou be here to share this hour
My heart's beloved and buried flower.

There is a spirit rides the air;
I hear its murmur on the stream,
I see its form of beauty fair
Disporting in the moonlight beam
It is the spirit of delight
Of young affection's ecstasy,
And in its form and features bright
Thine own fair face and form I see:
It hovers o'er my head, and now
I feel its hand upon my brow.

I see the light of feeling play
And sparkle in its winning smile,
To chase my brooding cares away,
And all my sorrows to beguile;
I hear the voice I loved to hear
Mix with the music of the stream;
The well-known accents strike my ear:
Away! 'tis fancy's wildest dream:
I am alone beneath the star,
And thou art in thy grave afar!

* * * * *

THE _WAS_ AND THE _IS_.

BY O. EVERTS, M. D.

AWAY in the mist of past ages,
The _was-life_ of wondrous renown--
(Which lives but in History's pages,
And the tales which Traditions hand down,
Or in marbles that still o'er us frown)--

Yet looks as if towering away
Far above all the _Is_ or _To-be_
And a power still seemeth to sway,
Though the present convulse to be free,
And the future no prophet-eyes see.

But only it seemeth--not real!
A shadowy monster untruth!
An image of vapors ideal,
That floats in the sky of our youth,
Ere we see with strong visions in sooth!

And thus, while we gaze it departs,
And a better, a nobler appears;
The _Is-life_ more wonderful starts
From its home in the heavenly spheres,
And fills us with hopes and with fears!

And we rise, while our hearts strongly beat,
And say to our fears, all begone!
They vanish, like clouds that retreat
Before the all-conquering sun--
And we nerve for the deeds to be done!

Ah! now does the youth feel his strength!
See his cheeks, how they glow! and his eye,
How it sparkles and gleams! till at length
His soul reaches out to the sky,
And his thoughts through the universe fly!

And his steps are elastic as air,
Yet consciously proud--and his tread
Over ruins of temples that were--
And religion whose priesthoods are dead,
Is as if _there_ no prayer had been said.

The _Is-life_ is now all to him!
With a glance toward the future, inspired
He moves with his might every limb--
His soul with ambition is fired--
And he grows in his task never tired.

He triumphs! The truth is his sword,
And the _shams_ and the _phantoms_ that are,
Shrink back to antiquity's horde,
To be buried with falsehoods that were,
Whilst fame everlasting's his share!

Oh! the _Is_ is the life then for me!
The _Was_ had its tasks and its men;
And others will crowd the _To-be_,
And laugh at all this that hath been--
But to me, what matters it then?

* * * * *

THE LAST MOMENTS.

BY R. GRIFFIN STAPLES.

IT was a beauteous eve! On high,
The moon's bright silver ray,
And stars gleamed softly down, to guide
The traveller's weary way.

Gently the balmy breath of night
Sighed o'er the distant lea,
And birds their cheerful warblings hushed
With eve's serenity.

The shades of death were falling slow
Within a chamber, where
A meek one lay, and, sinking, gazed
Into a world more fair.

Sweet hour for one so pure to die,
To pass from earth away
To that bright land where naught corrupts,
And all is "perfect day."

"Father!" she breathed, "Thy will be done!"
And closed her eyes in death;
"Father!" re-echoed through the sky,
"Thy will be done on earth!"

OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.

LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

THE newest style of mantle is the Scarf Mantelet. Its graceful shape, lightness, and elegance have made it a great favorite. This mantle is made of muslin or silk, and trimmed with lace as fancy dictates.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S SCARF MANTELET.

Fig. 1.--Front.

Fig. 2.--Back. Join _a_ to _a_ and _b_ to _b_.

We also add the diagrams of a very pretty jacket.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS OF LADY'S JACKET.

Fig. 3.--Front.

Fig. 4.--Back.

Fig. 5.--Side-piece. Join _a_, _a_, _a_.

Fig. 6.--Sleeve _in full_. (This shape is very much worn for morning and evening dress.) A Shoulder.

CROCHET TASSEL COVER.

_Material._--Crochet thread, No. 1; Penelope needle, No. 3.

COMMENCE with 12 chain, make it round by working a single stitch in the first chain stitch.

_1st round._--(4 chain and 2 plain in the foundation chain, 7 times.)

_2d._--1 chain (2 treble, 3 chain and 2 treble, all in the 4 chain of the first round), then 1 chain, 1 plain on the 2 plain. Repeat 6 times more.

_3d._--Miss 1, 1 plain in the 1 chain, 3 chain, miss 2 (3 treble, 3 chain and 3 treble, in the 3 chain of the last round), then 3 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the next 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_4th._--5 chain, keep this chain at the back of the last round, and work 1 plain between the 2 plain stitches of the last round. Repeat 6 times more, leaving the points formed in the last round in front.

_5th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, 3 times, in each of the 5 chains of the last round.)

_6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th._--(2 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_10th._--(1 chain and 1 plain, in the 2 chain, 21 times.)

_11th._--42 plain.

_12th._--41 plain, 1 single.

_13th._--(6 chain, miss 4, and 2 plain, on the _lower edge_ of the stitches of the last round, 7 times), the upper edge of the stitches of the 12th round are left at the back to form the foundation of the inner part of the tassel.

_14th._--2 chain (3 treble, 3 chain, and 3 treble, all in the 6 chain); then 2 chain and 1 plain, on the 2 plain of the 13th round. Repeat 6 times more.

_15th._--1 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the 2 chain; then 2 chain, miss 2 (3 treble, 3 chain and 3 treble, in the 3 chain), 2 chain, miss 2, 1 plain in the 2 chain. Repeat 6 times more; then 1 plain in the 1st chain stitch.

_16th._--4 chain, miss 6, 3 treble in the 3 chain; then 5 chain, turn, miss 4, 1 single on the 1st stitch of these 5 chain to form a round loop; turn, and work (5 chain and 1 plain, in the round loop, 5 times), then 3 treble in the same 3 chain of the 15th round as before, 4 chain, miss 6, 1 plain in the 1 chain. Repeat 6 times more, and fasten off, which finishes the outside.

To form the under part of the tassel, return to the 12th round, the upper edge of the stitches having been left on the inside of the tassel, and commencing on the first stitch, work for the

_1st round._--42 plain, 1 single on the 1st stitch of the round.

_2d._--(5 chain, miss 2, and 1 plain, 14 times.)

_3d._--(5 chain, miss 4, and 1 plain, in the 5 chain, 14 times.)

_4th._--1 chain, miss 4, 1 plain in the 5 chain, then 9 chain, 1 plain in the same 5 chain, then 1 chain, 6 treble in the next 5 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_5th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the 9 chain (then 3 chain and 1 treble in the same 9 chain, 3 times); 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d stitch of the 6 treble, then 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_6th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss 3 (2 long, 5 chain and 2 long, all in the next 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the next 3 chain, 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d treble stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_7th._--1 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 2 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 5 chain, then (5 chain and 1 plain, in the same 5 chain, 5 times) 2 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, then 1 chain, miss 5, 3 treble in the 3d treble stitch, and 3 treble in the next stitch. Repeat 6 times more.

_8th._--3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain in the 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, 1 treble in the same 5 chain as before, 3 chain, miss 5, and 1 treble in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 5, 1 plain in the next 5 chain, 3 chain, miss 9, 1 plain on the centre of the 6 treble. Repeat 6 times more; then 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the first 3 chain.

_9th._--3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, then 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble in the next 3 chain, 3 chain, miss 3 (1 long, 3 chain, 1 long, both in the 3 chain), 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1 treble, 3 chain, miss 3, 1 plain in the 3 chain, miss 1, 1 plain in the next 3 chain. Repeat 6 times more.

_10th._--Miss 2, 3 plain in the 3 chain, *, miss 1, 1 plain, 1 treble, 3 chain, 1 treble, and 1 plain, all in the next 3 chain. Repeat from * 4 times more; then miss 1, 3 plain in the 3 chain. Repeat from the commencement of the round, 6 times more, and fasten off.

NETTED CAP, FOR MORNING WEAR.

_Materials._--Crochet thread, No. 4; and, to embroider the pattern,
a skein of pink or blue Shetland wool, or embroidery cotton, No. 16;
steel mesh, No. 14, and a flat ivory mesh, one quarter of an inch
in width--this will make an ordinary cap; but, if any other size is
required, the meshes and thread must be coarser or finer.

COMMENCE with the crochet thread, and No. 14 mesh, on a foundation of 20 stitches; work 40 rows of 20 stitches each. This piece forms the centre of the crown, cut it off the foundation, and run a string along the four sides, about four or five stitches from the edges, so as to work all round the square.

_1st round._--Work down the first side thus: net a stitch plain, then net 2 stitches in one stitch, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, 2 plain, and along the other side, *, net 2 stitches in one, 15 plain, 2 stitches in one, and 2 plain. Repeat from * twice more.

_2d._--Net 3 plain then (2 stitches in one, and 10 plain, 8 times).

_3d._--Plain.

_4th._--(Net 11 plain, and 2 stitches in one, 8 times.)

It will now be advisable to take out the string, and run it into the 1st round to keep the work even. Net 15 rounds plain.

_20th._--Net 2 stitches in one, then 20 plain, 2 stitches in one, 79 plain. Net 4 rounds more the same as last, working 2 stitches more at the end of each round, so that the 20 plain stitches are always over those of the preceding round; when finished, turn back. Net to within 20 stitches of the end of the round, turn back again, and leaving the 20 stitches to form the back of the cap, work for the front, 8 rows plain, netting two stitches in the last stitch of each row. Then 12 rows plain without increasing; and for the foundation of the border double the cotton and work 6 rows plain.

Embroider the cap with the pink wool in darning stitch, passing the needle about 6 times in each square of the netting.

THE BORDER.--With the thread, and No. 14 mesh, net 6 stitches plain, and continue working backwards and forwards for about 9 yards; then to form.

THE EDGE.--Run a string in the loops which form the selvedge, so as to work on the other selvedge.

_1st row._--With flat mesh, net 4 stitches in every other stitch of the selvedge.

_2d._--With 14 mesh, plain netting, working a stitch in every stitch of the first row. Then, with the pink wool, embroider the plain netting.

To make up the cap, sew a row of the border to the last thick row of the cap, fulling it at the ears, plain across the front to the centre, then draw 5 loops close together to make it rather pointed, plain again, and full at the other ear, and across the back, sew on another row of the border the same, attaching it to the first thick row; then sew on a third border, very full, and in a zigzag form on the ears, but the same as before across the front.

THE STRINGS.--With the thread and No. 14 mesh, net 12 stitches, and continue working backwards and forwards for 5 inches, then net 2 stitches in one at the end of every third row, until it is increased to 28 stitches; then net 8 rows, leaving 3 stitches unworked at the end of each row; and for

THE EDGE.--With the flat mesh, commence in the last stitch of the side, and net 4 stitches in every other stitch across the uneven rows; then one row plain, with No. 14 mesh. Work another string the same, and embroider them as the cap.

BORDER AND CORNER FOR POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

CHEMISETTES, UNDERSLEEVES, AND CAPS.

OUR readers can scarcely imagine the difficulty we meet with in presenting _novelties_ in this department. The shades of fashion are so various, and yet so slight, that, in giving new designs from month to month, those not accustomed to scrutinize closely may not notice the peculiarities they are intended to present, or that each month has its peculiar and seasonable adaptation. For instance--

Fig. 1, a wrought lace chemisette and stomacher, is intended for the mild opening season, when cambric embroideries would be too heavy for the style of dress. The prevailing form of the opening of the basque corsage is also denoted by it--low, square, or a broad oval on the bust. The construction of the chemisette of broad scalloped lace, is simple enough, on a foundation of Grecian net or coach blonde.

Fig. 2 is an undersleeve to correspond, made sufficiently loose at the wrist for the hand to pass through. The box plaiting or quilling of satin ribbon, which heads the lace in both Figs. 1 and 2, is fastened in the sleeve by a rosette. This is of course only caught on, and is easily removed when the lace is to be done up; it may be of any shade, and is very stylish in evening dress.

Fig. 3 is a rather close morning cap for a lady of middle age, made of alternate rows of clean muslin puffs and fine Valenciennes insertion. It has a crown, front piece, and frill. The border is a medium Valenciennes edge sewn in the insertion, two rows slightly frilled. Bows and strings of violet-colored satin ribbon.

Fig. 4.--Breakfast cap for a young married lady, consisting of a crown piece, and two rows of edging, of Maltese lace. Bows and ends of rich ribbon, medium width between the rows, a knot of broader ribbon behind, a little to the right. For description of _Maltese_ lace, see fashion article.

APRON IN BRODERIE EN LACET.

(_See Blue Plate in front of Book._)

_Materials._--Seven-eighths of a yard of wide black glace silk,
two knots of cerise Russia silk braid, one knot of pale vert-islay
ditto, and a dozen skeins of sewing-silk to match each braid.

BRODERIE EN LACET signifies a design out-lined as if merely for braiding, but with the flowers and other parts filled in with point lace stitches, so as to make a solid piece of embroidering on the silk. For no article is this novel style of work more suitable than for aprons, which it renders exceedingly ornamental, at a very small expenditure of time and trouble, the very simplest of the point lace stitches only being used in this work. Of course, the size of our page precludes our giving even the half of the apron the full size. The design must be enlarged according to the size required, the pattern procured, and the silk marked in the same way as ordinary braiding or embroidery.

Braiding should always be done with a strand of the silk of which the braid is made. Before beginning, cut off a yard of the braid and draw out the threads for sewing with. Thread the end of the braid on a large darning-needle, and draw it through the silk to the wrong side for the commencement, and do the same at every necessary break, sending the ends down. Run the braid on very smoothly, taking the stitches across it slanting and cut along the centre, as is usually done. The braid should lie perfectly flat, and the edges be smooth and even.

The knots at the side suspending the wreath are done in the green braid, the two parallel lines of which are connected by close herring-bone stitch, or point d'Alençon, as it is called in lace-work. All the fancy stitches are done with the common sewing-silk, not with the strands of the braid. The leaves need have merely the veinings worked in Venetian bars; those, however, who do not mind the trouble, will do well to fill them first with Brussels lace, and work the fibres over that; the improved effect will quite repay the extra work. The roses are filled up closely in the Brussels and Venetian lace, the narrow parts being connected with English bars. The lower part of each bud has a rosette in it, the remainder is filled with Venetian lace.

LADY'S SLIPPER.

Gold braid on velvet or cloth.

JACKET FOR A RIDING-DRESS.

THE material is merino, or very fine lady's cloth; the color a light shade of cinnamon brown. The basque, or skirt, at the waist is rather long, and the jacket is edged all round with a Greek border in soutache. It is made rather open in front, so as to show a waistcoat of plain blue cashmere fastened with gold buttons. The collar to be worn with this jacket is of cambric, and may be either worked or plain. The undersleeves, also of cambric, are full, and the fulness gathered at the wrists on bands of needlework. Necktie of black velvet. Our illustration shows only the jacket of this riding-dress; but we may mention that the skirt of the habit should be of the same material, and that the hat worn with it should be of gray felt, ornamented with a feather of the same color, and the crown encircled by a band of blue ribbon fastened in a rosette on one side.

COTTAGE FURNITURE.

PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERY.

EDITORS' TABLE.

WE put aside, for this month, a number of short articles, in order to give our readers the pleasure of an introduction to the celebrated singing-master, to whose instructions the Swedish Nightingale owes, in a great measure, the restoration of her wonderful voice, and her unequalled power in using it. Very important lessons are contained in this interesting sketch, translated from the German of Elise Polko.

* * * * *

_Rue Chabannais, No._ 6.--In one of the most insignificant streets of splendid Paris, the narrow little Rue Chabannais, there stands a tall, dark-looking house known as No. 6. Ugly, rambling, old-fashioned buildings stand on each side, and have posted themselves opposite to it also, like old duennas mounting guard, squinting down incessantly with their dim eyes, their unwashed windows, upon the gray house with its broad doorway. The inhabitants of the little street, on the contrary, regard it with a certain pride mingled with a tender friendliness of feeling, and rejoice like children over each brilliant equipage that stays its rapid course before No. 6, as well as over every unpretending fiacre that there deposits its light burden.

At all hours of the day, graceful female figures glide over the threshold of the large dark house, and the _modiste_ of the Rue Chabannais, who arranges her fluttering caps, ribbons, and veils so invitingly in the corner window, might make valuable studies for costume from the many and divers figures, great and small, who so heedlessly pass by her well-displayed treasures. One may see rich heavy silks, and simple black woollen robes, superb velvet mantillas and delicate light shawls, the careless and yet striking costume, the carefully-chosen and usually brilliant garb of slender German women, the elegant and coquettish French bonnet, and the great roof-like straw hat which shelters the fair brow of the English lady. One might be tempted to think some skilful gardener must have his abode here, and all the flowers were flocking to him for advice about their tender lives, from the glorious exotic of the greenhouse to the humblest field flower that needs only its drop of dew.

But men too, young and old, whose figures and faces remind us neither of flowers nor spring, enter mysterious No. 6 with rapid steps, and strangely do their countenances differ in expression as they come out again. Sometimes there is a bright smile and a beaming eye, but most of them have a deep and earnest look, and a brow furrowed with anxious thought--traces which vanish soon enough in the Place Louvois or the gay and brilliant Rue Richelieu.

"Perhaps a second Lenormand has fixed her residence in the large house, disclosing strange secrets to the curious, and uttering dark oracles!" Ah, no! such magicians are sought only under cover of twilight and the dark shadows of night--never in bright day.

Now, shall I solve the riddle of the gray house? Will you follow me up the broad stone stairway? Forward, then! Many a light foot has lingered anxiously on these steps, doubtful whether to go further; this iron railing has been touched by many a trembling hand, and these white walls have echoed many a sigh. At last we have mounted the third flight; let us take breath! Many a young heart has beat audibly before this closed door, believe me! for we are standing before the dwelling of

MANUEL GARCIA,

the greatest singing-master of our time.

One of the most charming of fairies (and I tell you for your comfort there are still many of them who, to escape the roar and tumult of our mad world, hide themselves far down in the flower-cups), at my earnest request, has lent me her fragrant veil for an hour or two; we wrap it around us and are invisible, and now we can boldly enter the rooms of the artist. Passing through a small antechamber, we carefully open a folding door on the right, and enter a simple apartment, partially darkened, and tastefully and comfortably furnished. Two beautiful busts arrest our attention; one bears the inscription "Eugenie Garcia," the other the immortal name "Marie Malibran." Two familiar portraits adorn the walls: the pleasant kindly face of the Swedish Nightingale, and the earnest countenance of Pauline Viardot.

Silvery sounds, full and powerful, reach our ear from the adjoining room; they attract us irresistibly; we follow them, gently open a side door and find ourselves in the very sanctum of the master, in the atelier of the artist. The long folds of the red silk curtains are partially drawn, so that a rosy light falls upon every object; a fine piano stands in the middle of the room; arm-chairs by the fireplace; a luxurious divan on one side covered with scattered music; the elegant marble table loaded with books, portfolios, music-books, papers of all kinds; music-stands in every direction, on one of which, beside the singer, we see an open volume of exercises. "L'école de Garcia, l'art du chant." A breath of poetry seems to pervade the apartment. Garcia sits at the piano, his scholar stands at some distance before him.

The maestro is very tall, unusually slender, and of a truly feverish vivacity. His face is small and deadly pale; his dark, slightly curled hair falls over a high forehead. His eyes are dark, restless, flashing, and inspired. Now he listens with fixed attention to the full, swelling notes that flow from the lips of the songstress; the next he throws back his head impatiently; a word of warning or of blame is rapidly addressed to the pupil; sometimes a kindly smile, a slight sarcasm, a pleasant jest, all strangely intermingled with sudden starts, angry stamping of the feet, and stern frowns of displeasure. How rarely a word of praise! But one single warm word of commendation from such a master is a sunbeam that has power to penetrate and unfold every fast closed bud of zeal and earnest effort.

How cautiously Garcia handles the precious possession intrusted to his care, the human voice! How tenderly he protects it! how carefully he watches it! how anxiously he strives to preserve that pure, brilliant freshness of youth which is the greatest charm a voice can possess.

It is really impossible to lose this flower-like bloom under Garcia's guidance; whatever may be said or has already been said to the contrary, such a reproach can never come home to a master whose whole method is so entirely according to nature. And how strenuously does he insist upon resting pauses in his hours of instruction! Hear what he says to that listening pupil who looks up to him with such eager expectation:--

"Freshness and spontaneousness are the most precious qualities of the voice, but they are also the most fragile. The voice which loses them never regains them; its tone is gone, never to return."

"During the first days of practising, the pupils should not devote themselves to their exercises more than five minutes consecutively; but studies thus regulated may be resumed four or five times a day, provided they be separated by long intervals. Afterwards, the time devoted to practice, by increasing it five minutes at a time, may be extended to half an hour, a limit which should never be exceeded. At the end of five or six months, you may increase the number of half hours of exercise to four, but be careful in going beyond it, remembering always that these periods be separated by long rests."

The singer begins again. Her own figure stands before her in the large mirror that hangs behind the master's back; no movement of her face can escape her; every contraction of her eyebrows, every slight wrinkle in her forehead, every ungraceful movement of her mouth is truly reflected there. And no trick passes unreproved, for Garcia's piercing eye watches with fixed attention every feature of the singer. But he does not arrange and prescribe how the cheekbones are to move, or the lips to open; he does not confuse the ideas of his pupils by incomprehensible, wordy descriptions of the position of the mouth and the posture of the head; he simply repeats the teaching of the famous old Italian singing-masters, Tosi and Mancini: "Every singer should hold his mouth as he is in the habit of doing when he smiles naturally, that is, so that the upper teeth may be moderately and perpendicularly separated from the lower ones." Without directing the posture of the body like a drill-sergeant, Garcia says briefly, but decidedly: "Keep the body erect, tranquil, well-balanced on the two limbs, and at a distance from any other point of support." The arms must be held a little back, "so as not to interfere with the play of the chest." The lesson is finished. The maestro kindly dismisses his pupil, again repeats, with condensed brevity, the main point of to-day's instruction, appoints the task for home practice, and encourages the timid departing scholar with heart-cheering words of courage and hope.

But look! scarcely has the door closed when it is again opened. A pale young man, accompanied by some sober-looking, elderly gentlemen, bows in an awkward and yet assuming manner, and, with a smile of conscious self-satisfaction, presents different letters of recommendation, among which such names as Meyerbeer, Auber, Spontini, shine out. It is a singer from one of the provinces; enchanted with the praises of his table-companions, he is about to devote himself to the stage. His rich father and richer uncle have come with him to Paris; Cousin Meyerbeer sends him to Garcia, as he has already sent him from Pontius Auber to Pilate Spontini. With what indifference Garcia throws aside these great letters, but how carefully he begins to test the young man's abilities! The aspiring devotee to art has brought with him his favorite air, his show-piece; Verdi is his idol among composers! The recitation begins; Garcia accompanies him. The voice is weak and yet sharp, already half-cracked; the flow of it unnatural and cramped; the most terrible effort is apparent at every note; false respiration too, and indistinct pronunciation. The master grows more and more impatient; his feet begin to jerk as if seized with sudden cramps; he plays faster and faster; with feverish haste, his slender hands run over the keys, his face changing with every sound; his eyes flash more and more restlessly; his teeth are pressed against his lips; suddenly, he springs from his seat, with the half-smothered exclamation, "Assez, Monsieur, assez, je vous prie!" He sinks exhausted into a chair; an awful pause ensues. At last the master quietly and decidedly explains to the singer the grounds upon which he is obliged to refuse his request, in spite of all the recommendations of Meyerbeer and Spontini. His candor and calmness towards the offended amateur are worthy of admiration. He concludes by kindly advising the astonished aspirant, if he has not implicit faith in his words, to seek another teacher, and dismisses the deluded worshipper of Verdi with the most refined courtesy.

How frequently does he reject lady pupils who, with great assumption and half-ruined voices, come to him that his hand may scatter a few flowers over their remains! How impatient he is of all musical narrowness, want of talent, and laziness! His severity in such cases has given him a bad reputation, his violence has forced tears from many eyes; but his justice remains unimpeachable. He will not for a moment feign for a scholar an interest he does not feel, or that has been forfeited by any of the defects I have mentioned; he is unsparing in making them feel how little he cares for such pupils. Holding a book in one hand, with the other he carelessly strikes an accompaniment, and as he diligently reads on, only the monotonous "encore" at the end of a solfeggia proves that the ear of the master has been attending.