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SONNET.-EARLY AUTUMN.

BY M. B. W. HOUGH.

SHE stands, a gentle maiden, by me now,
With robe of beaming gold, and on her brow

A garland of the bright, yet faded leaves,

Which from the spoil of summer's wealth she weaves.
Her smile is bland; her breath is on my cheek
Inspiring, grateful; but her murmurs speak
Of long hours wasted in my summer past,
And of my autumn, that approaches fast.

She cheers me then, with words of peace and hope;
Through spirit-darkness bids me onwards grope;
With truth's opposers fires my soul to cope.
Oft 'mid her tresses gleams the frozen dew,
Yet will I love her life's long journey through,
So mild and gentle, yet so sternly true.

THREE SONGS FOR THREE BELLES.

BY MRS. P. P. LOMPAYRAE.

TO MISS C. S.

LOVE not too well, O maiden fairFor those who love must weep; And pity 'tis that tears should dim Thy bright eyes' lucid deep:

Love not too well, love not too wellFor those who love must weep.

The dew which sparkles on the rose,
Exhaled, ascends on high,

To fall, perchance, e'er day be done,
In anger from the sky:
Love not too well, O gentle one-

For those who love must weep.

And clouds which in the sunlight glow
With purple and with gold,
Within their azure depths full oft
The lightning dire enfold:
Thou of the gentle voice and soft,
"Tis they who love must weep.

No flower which opens to the day
But has its hour to fade,
And 'tis the fair sun's brightest ray
Which makes the deepest shade:
Love not too well, O maiden gay-
For those who love must weep.

Just like that rosy cloud is love,
Or like the sparkling dew,

It lures us on with witching mien,
But hides its danger too:

The memory, e'en, of joy is pain, And those who love must weep.

TO MISS A. L.

LOVELY lady, gentle lady,
Lady with the eyes of jet,
Upon the day when thou wast born,
Mirth and music surely met.
There's such a glory in thine eyes,
Such sweet music in thy tone,

That the very singing birds

Well might claim it for their own.

Lovely lady, gentle lady,

Lady with the beaming eye, Will the hours of all thy life Ever thus go laughing by? Will no sorrow cloud thy soul,

Will no care disturb thy breast? Or will gentle dreams or fancies Ever lull thee to thy rest?

Lovely lady, gentle lady,

Lady with the joyous air,

Softly may Time's withering hand Touch a brow so loved and fair. Smile to-day, and smile to-morrow, Smile the hours away,

Every smile is stol'n from sorrowOh! be happy while you may!

TO MISS C. B.

I KNOW a maid of fairy mouldHer hair is like the shining gold; Her cheek is like a rosy shell; Her lip, a flower-cup's crimson cell: Oh! not a lovelier maid is seen Than she, the maid of fairy mien. Yet 'tis not that her starry eyes Are bright as evening's humid skies, That softly through each clinging curl Looks out a brow of snowy pearlIt is not this that hath arrayed With such a charm that lovely maid.

It is, that in those soft bright eyes

A soul enshrined in beauty lies;
It is, that gentle tones and words,
Like melodies of singing birds,
And loving deed, and loving thought,
A deeper spell than these have wrought.

AN ALPINE EVENING.*

BY EARLE J. GOODRICH.

THE sun's golden tints gild the Alps' topmost height,
And gleam through the darkness that chases the light
From vale up to mount, and the textureless pall
Of Silence is flung o'er cottage and hall;
When, soft floating down, tones of sweetest accord
Load the air with an anthem of praise to the Lord.

From cottage to cottage, thy bleak hills among,
The tribute is sounded by every glad tongue;
The homage of man, at the still evening hour,
Is paid to the Being of mercy and power:
And, floating all round, tones of sweetest accord
Swell the air with an anthem of praise to the Lord.

Man's homage hath ceased; but Nature prolongs
His burden of praises, and echoes his songs;

The grottoes and caves, where thy heroes have trod,
Join man in his tribute of glory to God;
From valley and height, tones of holy accord
Bear nightly to heaven earth's praise to the Lord.

I have somewhere read that, as the last rays of the setting sun rest upon the highest peak of the Alps, it is customary for the shepherds to sound upon their horns "Praise to the Lord!" The phrase is repeated by the head of each family; and the caves resound the echo long after man's voice has ceased.

ANNA'S COTTAGE.

BY LELIA MORTIMER.

I AM thinking of the cottage

Where my gentle Anna dwells;

Of the wind that through the forest
In its lulling music swells;
Of the little rill that murmurs

At the garden's grassy foot, And the thousand meek-eyed flowers 'Mid the velvet moss that shoot,

I am thinking of the maple,

With its thick and trembling leaves; Of the light wreath 'neath its branches That the golden sunlight weaves' And of lowly whispered music

At the quiet hour of even,
When the stars with holy glances
Look from out the azure heaven.

I am thinking of the arbor

Down amid the drooping flowersAnd among the bending willows

Of the vine-clad, shady bowers; Of the footpath gently winding

Round each low and mossy bed, And the moon-beams that at evening O'er the dewy buds are shed.

I am thinking of the rose-tree Climbing up the snow-white walls, And among the green leaves peeping Swelling buds and crimson balls; Of the ivy o'er the trellis,

With its tendrils soft and clinging, And amid the leafy curtain

Golden birds their low notes singing.

I am thinking, I am thinking

Of a slight and fairy formOf a cheek now pale, now blushing, And of lips all red and warmOf a brow of pearly whiteness, And of eyes of deepest blue, Meek and gentle as a dovelet's, Starry bright, and soft and true:

And of tresses brown and golden,
Floating out upon the air,
Like a pile of brilliant sunbeams,
Bright and gloriously fair!
Of a voice whose softest murmur
Is like waters creeping o'er
Clustering flowers, whose waxen leaflets
Bend below the grassy shore!

I am thinking of a window,

'Neath whose curtain pure and whiteJust where peeps the earliest day-dawn, Shedding soft and rosy lightStands a chair with pale, soft cushions, Sits a slight form, weary, worn, From whose path the buds and blossoms By rude fingers have been torn.

On the soft brow faintly linger

Touches of life's early bloom,

Though Time's pencil there hath painted Shadows breathing of the tomb.

Snowy white the long, thin tresses Back from that pale forehead lie While the sunlight, dim but gentle Glimmers from the sunken eye.

'Tis a mother's brow that lightens

'Neath a daughter's loving face; "Tis a mother's eye that brightens

At her fond and warm embrace.
And those pale and weary fingers
Nightly clasp above the head,
Bound in beauty like a flow'ret,
On its green and dewy bed.

I am thinking of the maple
Bending o'er the cottage door;
Of the streamlet, and the rose-tree
The low window climbing o'er;
Of the pale one in its shadow,
And the fairy ever by,

With her tones of lulling music,
And her hopeful, heaven-blue eye.

ELSIBARDO.

BY JESSE BLONE.

WHERE the Rhine enlaps the vineyards,
And hills with columns towered:
Where the vales wear summer vestments,
Like bride with beauty dowered-
Dwells the lord of Elsibardo,
In his castle on the steeps,
Where the eagle builds his eyrie-
Where the vulture proudly sweeps.

When the moon down in the river
Finds a mirror clear and cold,
And the countless stars in heaven
Have unveiled their eyes of gold,
Does the lord of Elsibardo

Range the crags and valleys deep,
Where the fountains in the moonlight
Their unceasing murmur keep.

With his mantle wrapped around him,
And his unshorn hair in flow,
Does he gaze from off the highland
On the vale and streams below;
And the simple peasant, turning
From the vintage to his cot,
Shuns the hill of Elsibardo
As a wizard-haunted spot.

Wherefore frowns Lord Elsibardo
Whene'er shrilly at the gate
Calls the horse of weary horseman
As the day is waning late?
Ah! his soul is steeped in venom,
And his heart o'erflows with gall,
For his memory holds before him
The dark day of Wendefall:
Which beclouded o'er his boyhood
Like a heavy pall of years,
For it left him lone and lonely,
Yet a heritage of tears;
And 'tis hid within his bosom,
Like a serpent 'mid the flowers—
But it dawns upon his vision
In the nightly watchful hours.

Morning shines on Elsibardo,

And a gay and laughing train, That is circling up the highland From the smiling flow'ry plain; And the sun lights up the shimmer And the sheen of peaceful spears, With the proudly prancing horses Bearing gallant cavaliers.

"Tis the bride of Elsibardo,

With the lilies in her hair, That was visioned in the valley

To her pallid lover there; And who now is sadly gazing

To discern beyond the hill

But one glance of her whose presence Ever made his bosom thrill.

But alas for Elsibardo,

And the maiden bending low, Who is wedded to his life-grief, To his agony and woe!

And her youthful cheek is pallid
As the lilies in her hair:
Ay, the heart of Elsibardo
Has a partner in despair

THE LITTLE GIRL'S INQUIRIES.

BY LILLIAN.

"OH, mother," said a laughing girl,

With rosy cheeks and mild blue eye, Upon whose forehead many a curl Was nestling, tinged with auburn dye"Oh, mother, see the azure sky,

Arching itself so sweet above,
As if it, from some danger nigh,
Would shield me with its look of love.
On towering hills it seems to rest;
But, if I go to yonder hill,

I'm by the same sweet smiles caressed;
It arches thus above me still!

You told me the Almighty One

Spread out this glorious canopy, And blessed the work when it was done; But was it made alone for me?

"And, mother, see-oh, see the sun!
And oh, 'tis such a glorious thing
I fain, when radiant day is done,
Would follow on some borrowed wing!
For, when it sinks behind yon hill,

How soothing seems its farewell ray!
As if 'twould gladly have me still
Behold it on its long, long way!
And when, as comes the blushing morn,
It sheds abroad its golden light,
And glories everywhere are born,
As recompense for weary night,
It peeps my little window through,
And softly opes my long-closed eyes,

As if it had its loveliest hue

Put on to make me glad to rise;

And ever, ever through the day
How bright it seems to smile on me!

Or, if dark clouds obstruct its ray,

Brighter it shines when from them free.

You say the same Almighty hand,

Dear mother, caused the sun to be, And now it shines at his command; But does it shine alone for me?

"And then the silver moon-the stars,

Those ever sparkling gems of heaven,
Whose rays, when night their way unbars
To cheer its dreariness are given!
And whensoe'er I 've looked on them,

So beautiful and bright they 've shone,
Gilding night's sable diadem,

They seemed to beam for me alone!
Mother, they say they 're angels' eyes,

That slumber not when we 're asleep;
That they're the watchmen of the skies,
And their appointed vigils keep;
And never weary at their post,

Beaming so bright and lovingly.
But, mother, does that shining host
Watch all the night alone for me?
"And, mother, whereso'er I go,

So gayly all things seem to smile, There is no joy I need to know

To gladden every hour the while.
The breeze so gently fans my brow,
So gently waves my flowing hair,
So low the forest branches bow,

As in obeisance, everywhere!
So beauteous are the blushing flowers,
Robed in their gayest summer bloom,
To cheer so many weary hours,

And breathe around such sweet perfume;

I wonder, mother, if they know

I love their cheerful smile to see,
And therefore strive they thus to show
How lovely ever they can be?
Others I hear complaining, day

By day, of gloomy hours they see;
But, mother, I'm so happy, say,
Are all those sights of joy for me?"
"No, not alone, my child, for thee

Did God spread out the azure sky,
And cause the radiant sun to be
A sweet revealer to the eye
Of beauties mortals should not see

Without a grateful heart's employ
In praise and bending of the knee

To Him who gives such scenes of joy!
And not, my child, for thee alone,

The moon beams forth with silver light;
Nor that the twinkling stars are known
To gild the gloominess of night;
Nor yet that flowerets shed perfume,

And cool, refreshing breezes blow-
That pleasures round life's pathway bloom
Wherever thou may'st chance to go.
No, no, my child. For thee, for me,
For all these joyous scenes were made:
In all a Father's love we see;

For man all were by Him arrayed;
And, therefore, when we look on them,
To Him should grateful praise be given,
That, in our Saviour's diadem,

We may, as suns and stars of heaven,
At last shine on eternally!

Wouldst thou, my child, such honors share? Then ever bend a suppliant knee,

And raise to Heaven a thankful prayer

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THE word "lingerie," which heads our article, will doubtless be unfamiliar to many of our readers, even though conversant with the French language. It is a term expressly used for the departments of fashion, and occurring constantly in the " Moniteur," "Les Modes Parisienne," and the other leading journals of the same nature. Nor can its introduction into the "Book" be censured, since "Maison de Lingerie" is a sign one meets with in the principal thoroughfares of our Atlantic cities, and our countrywomen are not supposed to be in ignorance of their object. We adopt the term, as many other French phrases have been incorporated into the vocabulary of fashion, because it best expresses what we wish to describe; for under this head comes every species of garment that we here denominate "plain sewing." Unfortunately, however, for the veracity of the last phrase," white work" is now so much ornamented, that patterns at least must come from a shop expressly devoted to this branch of industry, whence comes the Maison de Lingerie of Paris, where everything of an under wardrobe that can be named is to be procured.

While upon the subject, it is as well to remark that we now and then receive remonstrances, not only against the introduction of French words, but of French fashions, to our readers. The very persons who pen them are probably wearing cravats or coats whose origin, if traced, would be found to date from over the water. It is in vain to deny the fact, that Paris leads the world in point of taste and fancy, and so it will be until the industrial arts are more cultivated and better paid among us. ladies and gentlemen, too-will have new fashions, why not give them the most graceful that are produced?

Since

For instance, we have seen such an outcry, and such a strife of tongues, over a new pattern of a night-cap, in a remote country village! It is discussed by all the pretty maidens who thriftily keep some too good for daily use for the sick-room, or, more frequently still, those whose bright eyes have already a trousseau in prospect. If ugly, it is nevertheless new, and to be copied. And think of the pretty faces disfigured by it for the next two years! How much better, then, to choose really

No. 4.

[graphic]

pretty patterns, even if they have had the misfortune to be invented in Paris, and come from thence under the name of lingerie!

At any rate, we have had the temerity to choose such for our lady readers; and, placing them in order, Nos. 1 and 2 will be found, perhaps, the most difficult to copy.

The first is composed of linen cambric, or sheer jaconet muslin, insertion, and edging. The crown piece is cut very large, to receive the whole of the hair, plain at the top, but gathered into a band, with some fulness, at the sides. The front has a piece composed of alternate rows of insertion, from which three ruffles, headed with corresponding edging, extend; a similar one extends across the whole front. The strings are very broad, and encircled with corresponding edging. These broad strings, or tabs, it will be noticed, form the principal novelty in caps at the present time; they may be fastened across, under the chin, with a small gold cuffpin; or narrower strings, of white Mantua or cotton gauze ribbon, will allow them to be only an orna

ment.

No. 2 has a crown of tucked muslin or cambric,

the same effect, is open, produced by rows of narrow insertion. Three frills of wide embroidery form the front. These, as in Nos. 1 and 3, are to be fluted.

No. 3 has a shallower crown piece, and a front composed of alternate puffs and insertion bands, with one frill of embroidered cambric. Intended for an invalid, it has a few knots of pale rosecolored ribbon at the side, with broad ends and strings of the same. This and the following will be found very neat and becoming shapes.

No. 4, as will easily be seen, is made entirely in a close shape, from the broiderie Anglaise, or thick cambric edging, so fashionablo for undersleeves when first introduced. Cape and strings of the same; the last formed by simply uniting the embroidery in the centre, so that the scollops form a surrounding edge.

We would commend the illustrations of this article especially to the consideration of our readers, as cut by the young lady pupils of the "Philadelphia School of Design." As the work of our own sex, they have an especial interest, and challenge comparison with any other of the wood-cuts in the present number.

CARRYL'S WINDOW AND BED DRAPERIES.
(See Plate.)

SINCE our last notice of Mr. Carryl's beautiful establishment, a greater change in his stock of goods than even he could have anticipated has been wrought. A fire in the upper stories of the large new freestone building in which it is situated spared the exquisite fabrics, it is true, but the descending floods of water were as ruinous as the flames could have been.

When we next entered the rooms, a far different sight from the usual grace and elegance presented itself. The floor was strewn with torn and damp stained laces, gimps, or even heavier and more costly fabrics-piles of rich but tarnished cornices -boxes of half-ruined brocatelles-bales of soiled velvets, no longer regal in coloring. The draperies about the windows and on the walls hung in drooping, disordered folds, stained and torn away here and there as if in the hurry of some grand commotion. The very ceiling had grown shabby with the strips of wall paper peeling from the plaster, much of which strewed the floor and rustled beneath our feet.

But now, order and grace are again triumphant. Not a vestige of the conflagration or its effects remains. No cheap damaged goods; no "cornices a little bruised and stained, at a very low price." Mr. Carryl has had the good taste and energy to clear away all the wreck, and supply the place of a

stock that had been accumulating from spring to fall, from fall to spring again, by entirely new orders, of the very latest design, finish, and execution. The new patterns are worth a minute examination, beauty of design and coloring being noticeable, as every year increases the demand, and consequently the outlay, upon these expensive fabrics.

Some of our readers will scarcely believe that large and superbly illustrated volumes are every year devoted exclusively to new designs for drapery. Not for the material, that is the work of the pattern designer, and never exhibited to the world except in the completion of what his drawing has suggested. But when they are manufactured, and ordered, and lying upon the shelves, there is still artistic taste needed in combining and arranging the different fabrics, and the folds and cross-folds and flutings into which they are to fall.

Now as all our fashions come from over the sea, and will, until taste and art are more cultivated at home, we have before us a large and beautiful volume furnished by Mr. Carryl, containing fifteen finely engraved and colored plates devoted to draperies alone. For windows, casements, mirrors, and their appropriate cornices, and ornaments; in some, the arrangement of an entire saloon is given, and a single bed fills another plate. The devices of some of the cornices are extremely graceful, the

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