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 Haslewood, Henry (Haselwood) B.C.L. (sup. May), 1536; one of these names parson of Cuddington, Oxon, 5s. of Edmund, of Maidwell, Northants.  Haselwood, John, of Oxon, pleb. ., matric. 26 Oct., 1621, aged 17; B.A. from. 10 July, 1624; M.A. from, April, 1627, rector of Langton Herring, Dorset, 1628. See Foster's Index Eccl.  Haslewood, John, s. John, of Oxford, "Pharmacopolae." ., matric. 10 Dec., 1660, aged 13; B.A. 26 Jan., 1666-7; M.A. from. 30 June, 1671, B. & D.D. (by diploma) 29 Dec., 1685, then chaplain to the lord lieutenant of Ireland, rector of St. Olave, Southwark, 1693. See Fasti, ii. 398; Rawl. iii. 182, 312; & Foster's Index Eccl.  Haslewood, Robert (Hasselwood), of co. Worcester, pleb. , matric. 28 April, 1615, aged 19; B.A. 17 Jan., 1617-18; M.A. from. 1 July, 1620, rector of Witton in Droitwich, co. Worcester, 1621-2, and vicar of Sutton at Hone, Kent, 1623. See Foster's Index Eccl.; & ''Add. MS. 15,669.  Haslewood, Robert, of London, pleb. , matric. 8 Dec., 1615, aged 19; (kept 16 terms at Cambridge), B.A. 12 Dec., 1615, M.A. 18 June, 1618, perhaps incorporated at Cambridge 1623, and rector of Fleet and Kirkby Underwood, co. Lincoln, 1622, buried in Christ Church cathedral 20 April, 1658. See  Gutch, i. 511.  [5]

Haslewood, Thomas (Haselwood), of co. Worcester, gent. ., matric. 9 Feb., 1593-4, aged 14; of Wickwarren, co. Worcester (s. Foulke, of Wick near Pershore), died 27 Oct., 1624; grandfather of Thomas 1669.  Haslewood, Thomas, pleb. ., matric. 8 Dec., 1658; B.A. from 16 April, 1662, buried 23 Sept. following, in the outward chapel of Merton college. See Gutch, i.  App. 209.  Haslewood, Thomas (Haselwood), s. "Tr.," of Offenham Hall, co. Worcester, gent. ., matric. 20 July, 1669, aged 14; of Wickwarren, co. Worcester, high sheriff 1683, knighted at Windsor 18 Aug. 1681, baptized at Offenham 17 Dec., 1652; died 24 Sept., 1720; father of Thomas 1701.

Haslewood, Thomas, s. John of Oxford, gent. , matric. 18 June, 1675, aged 17; died 14 June, 1680, buried in Christ Church cathedral. See Gutch, i. 513; Alumni West. 176.

Haslewood, Thomas (Haselwood) 1s. Tho., of Wick, co. Worcester, equitis. ., matric. 1 Feb., 1700-1, aged 18; student of Middle Temple 1700, baptised at Pershore 23 Feb., 1682; died 10 Jan., 1732, buried at Offenham. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.
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Haslewood, William, 1s. William of Maidwell, Northants, eq. aur. , matric. 15 June, 1680, aged 16; born 27 Oct., 1663, died 3 Nov., 1683.

Haslocke, John, born in co. Worcester, s. William, of London, pleb. ., matric. 27 April, 1638, aged 16; B.A. 1 Feb. 1641-2.

Haslocke, William (Haselocke), of co. Worcester, pleb. , matric. 8 May, 1601, aged 18.

Haslop, Thomas, incorporated 1607.*

Hassell, Henry, s. Henry of Exbourne, Devon, sacerd. , matric. 7 May, 1632, aged 22; B.A. 7 June following, his father rector of Exbourne 1598-1621, as Hazell. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.

Hassall, James, s. Tho. of Powick, co. Worcester, cler. , matric. 3 April, 1696, aged 18; B.A. 1701; vicar of Weston-under Weatherley, co. Warwick, 1711, brother of John 1701, and of Samuel 1708. See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.
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Hassall, John, of London, gent. ., matric. 10 Feb., 1592-3, aged 20; fellow 1594-1603, and B.C.L. 8 April, 1600 (as Halsall), created D.D. 26 Jan., 1625-6, canon of Lichfield 1602, rector of Brancaster 1603, and of Great Bircham, 1608, canon of Norwich 1615, and dean 1628, rector of North Creake (all Norfolk), 1640, until his death, 27 Dec., 1654; buried at North Creak. See Lansdowne MS. 985. f. 206; Fasti, i. 424; St. Paul's S.R. 30; & Foster's  Index Eccl.

Hassall, John, s. Tho. of Powick, co. Worcester, cler. ., matric. 27 Feb., 1700-1, aged 17; B.A. from  1704, rector of Billingsley, Salop, 1716; brother of James 1696, and of Samuel 1708. See Foster's  Index Eccl.

Hassall, Samuel, s. Tho. of "Powick," co. Worcester. cler. , matric. 18 March, 1707-8, aged 22; his father vicar of Powick 1698; brother of James and of John last-named.

Hassall, Thomas, of. 1578. See.

Hassall, Thomas (Hasell) s. Thomas of Cricksea, Essex, pleb. ., matric. 3 June, 1636, aged 16; scholar 1636-9.
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Hassall, William, of Cheshire, arm. ., matric. June, 1597, aged 17.

Hassard, John, of Devon, gent. , matric. 12 Dec., 1600, aged 17; B.A. 14 June, 1604, M.A. 10 July, 1607, vicar of Awliscombe, Devon, 1617. See Foster's  Index Ecclesiasticus.

Hassard, Matthew, of Dorset, pleb. ., matric. 15 Oct., 1619, aged 17; B.A. 5 Feb., 1623-4, M.A. 5 July, 1627, rector of St. Andrew's, Bristol, 1639, minister of Ratcliff and St. Ewen's, Bristol, ejected for nonconformity 1662. See  Ath. iii. 878;  Calamy, iii. 177; & Foster's Index Eccl.

Hassard, Nathaniel; B.A. from ., Cambridge, 1619, incorporated as M.A. 10 July, 1627.

Has(s)ard, William, of ., proctor 1495; will at Oxford proved 31 Aug., 1509. See Griffiths.
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Hassard, William, of. 1615. See.

Hassoulde, Thomas, of Salop, pleb. , matric. 9 Nov., 1621, aged 17; B.A. 26 Feb., 1624-5, M.A. 8 July, 1628.

Hastings, Charles, of co. Worcester. cler. fil. ., matric. 9 Nov., 1621, aged 15; B.A. 2 June, 1624, M.A. 17 April, 1627; rector of Yelford, Oxon, 1625; probably son of Simon Hastings by his second wife. See Foster's  Index Eccl.; Visitation of Oxford; &  Worcester Visitation 1682-3, p. 54.

Hastings, (Sir) Francis, 5s. Francis Earl of Huntingdon; educated in  .,; M.P. co. Leicester 1571, 1584-7, Somerset 1588-9, 1604, cos. Leicester and Somerset 1593, co. Leicester 1597-8, Bridgwater 1601; died 26 Sept., 1610. See Ath. ii. 82; Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary; & D.N.B.

Hastings, Gabriel, s. William of Winfrith, Dorset, gent. ., matric. 20 May, 1679, aged 17; B.A. from  1683, M.A. 1687, vicar of Belton, co. Leicester, 1684; died unmarried in 1689. See Foster's Index Eccl.
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Hastings, George, "Comitis fil." ., matric. 8 April, 1693; 8th Earl of Huntington (on the death of his father, Theophilus, 1701), captain and lieut.-colonel 1st regiment of foot guards 1697-1702; served under the Duke of Marlborough in Flanders 1702; died 22 Feb., 1704-5, aged 26; half-brother of Theophilus 1712. See Foster's Peerage & Gardiner, 380.
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. not punish me so cruelly, for having preferred your peace of mind to your wishes. Doctor, do not attempt to approach him. I do not wish it-do not believe him."

The violence of the emotions that agitated her did not permit her to proceed further ; for she fainted at the very instant that she saw the Doctor about to bring the instrument close to the eyes of Sir Richard.

Poor, heart-broken Sarah was carried out of the room in a state of insensibility, and the Doctor who, by a wink from his patient, found he had been tricked, put back his instruments, threw away the bandages he had prepared, and took up his hat.

"My good friend," said Sir Richard, " you have, with out intending it, done me very considerable service, and, forwarded my schemes completely. You will, I am sure, pardon me my ruse when you know the motive for it. Miss Sarah King wished to part from me. She has a very exaggerated idea of her own ugliness. She believes she cannot be seen without being disliked ; and it was therefore necessary that I should not see her. I candidly own to you that I should have regretted my cure if I were to purchase it with the loss of Sarah. Her love is more necessary to my existence than my sight." As he uttered these words, he extended his hand to the Doctor ; but the latter, taking up a bandage, made a sign for him to seat himself. "Is peace made between us ?" was the question of the patient to the physician. " Ihave never been in love," drily answered the Doctor ; "but then I have, in my time, met with a great many fools." For eight days he was in constant attendance on Sir Richard, and on the ninth he entered the apartment at an early hour. " Now," said he, " that you are in a state of health, that you cannot destroy it by imprudence, I leave you. You may say, if you please, that you are blind ; but I shall have nothing to do with it, when the fact is that you see a great deal better than I can." "Farewell, then, Doctor, I hope you have no bad feeling toward me." " There is one thing, Sir Richard, that I can never pardon you, and that is your having deceived for one moment, an experience that, up to your time, I believed to be infallible." "The great man falls seven times a day, Doctor." "Yes, but if I had persisted in my error- if I had operated upon you ?" "What then? when I have already said that I had much rather lose my sight than be deprived of the society of Sarah." 66 But my reputation, Sir Richard." "Ay, but my love, Doctor." "The deuce take all love !" exclaimed the Doctor, really

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vexed ; "for that I find is with you a malady that is really incurable." The worthy Baronet was still laughing at this saying of the Doctor, when Sarah, greatly agitated, ran into the room. 66 The Doctor," she remarked, " has gone away in a furious passion. What can have happened between you ?" " He says he will have nothing more to do with my case." "Ah ! then he abandons you, and gives up all hope of restoring you to your sight." "He says he will have nothing more to do with my eyes." "Then you are to remain blind." 66 Yes, for ever blind to your defects." " Oh ! then Richard, I must see for both." A month after this conversation, Miss Sarah King guided within the walls of the church Sir Richard Elrington, who permitted himself to be led there with all the care and caution that is generally taken of a blind man. Every one was astonished, as they looked at his large, bright blue eyes, so clear in appearance, and so intelligent, that they should be deprived of sight. This, however, must be remarked, that the constant love that Sir Richard showed for his wife for two years after their marriage, prevented her from suspecting the truth. It was about the termination of the second year of their marriage that they were taking a walk in some fields adjoining the splendid demesne of Sir Richard, that he had never quitted from the time of his being united to the object of his love, when they found that they had incautiously placed themselves near to a furious bull. The wicked animal, attracted by the scarlet scarf of the lady, began to bellow, and tear up the earth with his horns. The danger was imminent, and retreat impossible. Already was the bull making a dash at the lady, when her husband tearing from her her scarf, attracted the animal by waving it toward himself. The bull made a furious and desperate rush upon him, but he adroitly bounded on one side, and having luckily a sharp gardening knife in his pocket, he unclasped it while the bull was coming on, and with the skill of a stretched it dead at his feet. The wife of the Baronet, Lady Elrington, regarded the struggle made by her husband with equal fear and astonishment. In an instant all the secret of the past was revealed to her, and she flung herself into his arms, exclaiming"Oh ! Richard, Richard, you have deceived me." "No, my dearest, I have not deceived you," was his answer ; 66 for I said I would love you- I do love you, and will for ever love you."
 * Spanish toreador, he struck the animal in the spine, and


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she exclaimed, closping her hands, and reising her eyes to heaven, “if he is still alive protect him, aa well as us; and guide us, oh! thou intercessor for our sins, in this fearful strait !”

«No, it cannot be,” said the nurse, perceiving too late the agony she had inflicted hy her remark “tho Signor yet lives, believe me, and has only been prevented by some accident from joining us. He will be here yet.”

«Let us then await bim here,” said Beatrice, glad to catch at any words of encouragement, “it cannot be long that he will delay us.".

“Would that we could await hit here, dear tay, but T fear that we should soon he noticed, and perhaps by some one wlio would detect our disguise.”

“Yot where can we go?” naid Beatrice enquiringly.

“Our Lady of Loretto only knows,” answered the nurse, “but stay, here comes a goncola—see it makes for this spot—there, there, heaven be praised it stops!”

In the excitement of the moment the nurse rushed forward, fully expecting to seo the Signor leap from the gondola. Tho same hope made tho heart of Beatrice eat faster, although her maiden delicacy kept her from advancing. Both were destined to be sadly disappointed. Instead of the Signor a gondolicr sprang from the light boat, and advanced toward the ladies. Beatrice shrank back in terror; but the nurse maintained her ground, wondering in despite of her anxiety, where the strange adventures of the night would terminate. With « low how the gondolier approached, and said,

“T look on the Lady Beatrice and her attendant.”

He paused, as if awaiting an answer, while Beatrice clung in alarm to the arm of the nurse.

“You seem to know us,” said the nurse, recognizing, at a glance, the serving man of Beatrice’s lover, and taming to her young lady, sho whispered “cheer up, dear mistress, this is the Signor'e attendant—he brings us good newa I know,” and then, again addressing the gondolier, she asked, “what message does your master send 1” ‘

«My master appointed to meet me at the Rialto a fulf hour since, there to proceed with him here to take up the Lady Beatrice and her attendant, I waited until midnight, but the Signor dil not come. Thinking, perhaps, that he had altered his mind and come here alone, I proceeded hither. You have not, as I begin to fear, seen him.”

“No—no—mother of Gol! befilten him 1?

“Alas! I fear be has been assossinated,” answered the gondolier, “nothing but death would have made him breek his promise to you~”

“Help! help!” said the nurse, interrupting him, “ my mistrers is fainting. Oh! you have killed her.”

The gondolier had but just time to spring forward and eateh the falling form of Beatrice to prevent it

what evil can have

from sinking on the pavement, when lights were seen flashing in the distance, and shouts were heard as of parties approaching. The nune and the serving man fooked at each other in dismay, What was to be done? The torches and the group they lighted were rapidly approaching. It would never do for tho Lady Beatrice to be detected at this hour in the street and fainting. Such a discovery would entait on her the soverest tyranny of the wncle to whom it would again consign her. In this emergoncy the nurse was the most quick- witted.

“To the gondola with her,” she exclaimed hurriedly, “bear her to the gondola—there, that will do,” and taking a place beside her inanimate mistress, she con- tinued, “I will close the blinds, only you ply the oar quick and bear us from the city—to what place we care not now, There is no safety longer for us in Venico— our danger cannot be increased no matter whither we fy.”

"The gondolier sprang to his place, aud with a few dexterous tums of his car, sent the light boat skimming down the eanal, never relaxing the efforts of hi brawny arm until they had emerged on the open lagoon, and were leaving ‘he city behind them. At length the nurse lvoked out and enqnired in what direction he was proceeding, saying that her mistress had recovered from her swoon, and wos anxious to know. The gon- doliet hastened to allay the fears of the trembling girl hy informing her that be was carrying them to the place where his master had secured horses, and that his plan was, if the Signor was not there to meet thom, to see the ladies mfew farlonga on their way to Rome, or untit he could procure them an escort, when he would retum in order to seck out his master, With thix account the nurse, in 2 measure, soothed the alurmed delicacy of the Lady Beatrice.

‘We will not desctihe the renewed agony of all parties when, on arriving at the depot for the horses, they learned that the Signor bad not been there. Nothing, however, was left except to mount and provs on, Their way ‘waa pursued in silence, for each was full of their own thoughts. The serving man was mourning over the master he had fost-—the nurse was appailed by the perils of their way and the consciousness that she had urged this sep on her young lady—while Beatrice was at once agitated by her fears for her lover, by her sensi- tive delicacy at being without protector, and by her dread of the insults she would have to undergo in this precarious method of travelling. But, althoagh her maidenly scruples forbade her to mourn for her lover as openly as the serving man, her most poiguant an- guish arose from the conviction that she should never ace hin more.

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of Venice," said the gondolier, "when, fearing that her uncle might track her progress and overtake her before she could reach Rome, the Lady Beatrice resolved to take refuge in the convent of our mother, on the road to the eternal city. She came to this determination the sooner because she would not proceed without a protector. There I left her and her nurse and returned to Venice. For two days I wandered up and down the city secking you, but without success. At length I obtained a clue to your retreat, and finally gained admittance to you at this house, the residence of the leech who bore you home after your wound. More than a week has elapsed, and during that time you have lain insensible or raving in a delirium. But now you have past the crisis- God be praised !

"I have heard but this morning from the convent where the Lady Beatrice has taken refuge. The nurse and her mistress are still there, but the Duke has discovered their residence. So long, however, as they continue under the shelter of the consecrated walls he dare not make any attempt on their liberty, but the moment they should attempt to resume their journey he would, in defiance of everything, seize on them and bear them back to Venice. If once here no power could save the Lady Beatrice from becoming the bride of his nephew ."

You are right," interposed the lover, " oh ! would that I were well, that to -morrow I might set forth to their rescue !"

"But while they continue in the convent they are safe, therefore why need you chafe at your illness ? Stay here, dear master," said the honest follower, “ until you have fully recovered your strength, and then you can act all the better in your attempt to rescue the sweet Lady Beatrice."

The arguments of the gondolier finally prevailed over the impatience of the lover, and it was arranged that the servant should set forth, on the morrow, to the convent, to acquaint the Lady Beatrice with the convalescence of her lover, and tell her that, as soon as his recovered strength would permit, he would join her and be her escort to Rome.

A few weeks later and a gallant cavalcade was drawn | up at the gate of the convent of "Our Mother," whose ruins may be seen on the great road leading from Venice to Rome. The cavalcade consisted, for the most part, of armed horsemen, but among steeds of stouter form might be seen one or two palfreys such as, in that day, were used by monks and ladies. At the door of the convent stood a knight, with the lady abbess at his side and a fair form which, even shrouded as it was in a long veil, | the reader would have recognized as that of the Lady Beatrice. One or two female attendants and an elderly gentleman attired as the servant of a noble family completed the group.

"And now, my dear charge," said the abbess, addressing Lady Beatrice, " farewell ! May the blessing of God go with you, my child. Since you sought the refuge of these walls I have learned to love you as I have loved none save my poor niece who has, I trust, been a saint in heaven these many years. I commit you to the charge of the worthy steward whom your aunt, in answer to your letter, has sent to conduct you to Rome- not forgetting to recommend you, though that I need not do, to the care of the good knight, the Lord Adanta. And now, farewell again- God and the saints be with you."

The two ladies embraced, the abbess once more gave them her benediction, and then the cavalcade set forward. They proceeded sometime in silence. At length the knight, who had been hitherto engaged in marshalling his forces, rode up to the side of the Lady Beatrice. The nurse, with whom she was conversing, fell back, and was soon engaged in recounting for the hundredth time to the steward their escape from Venice, while the lover spoke in those low tones, which love ever assumes, to his mistress. "But tell me," said the Lady Beatrice at length, 66 why come you here with this title and array ; for since your hasty arrival this morning you have done nothing but persuade the abbess and my aunt's steward that we should set forth to-day- and so I have had no chance to hear you unravel this mystery." "It is soon done, sweet one," said the knight, with the gay laugh of happiness, "for, on arising from my bed of illness I found that my cousin, whose heir you know I was, had died. So I came into possession of his estates at once, and well was it that I did ; for it put me in possession of a good body of retainers with whom to guard you to Rome." 66 Why is there any peril, think you ?” said Beatrice anxiously, " Surely my uncle would not think of seizing me by force, and from what other person can we expect danger ?" "Ah ! dearest, you know him not, much as you have been persecuted by him. Think you that the man who would set an assassin on me to take my life, would hesitate to scize you by main force especially when he is, by the will of your father, your personal guardian." "But my father never dreamed that the Duke, my own mother's brother, would treat me thus-he never intended me to be the ward of so bad a man.” "True, true, but think you the Duke would split hairs about right and wrong if he had you once more in Venice with the law on his side. Trust it not, sweet one,—he would then take right, law, and everything in his own hands. Ah !" he exclaimed, suddenly rising in his stirrups to look over the brow of a hill a short distance in advancce, "by St. Mark ! what do I see ? Ho! there," he continued, shouting rapidly and violently, " a


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 Among the Benga I saw a witch-doctor going round a village ringing a small bell which was to stop ringing outside the hut of the guilty. Among the Cabindas (Fjort) I saw, at different times, two witch-doctors trying to find witches, one by means of taking on and off the lid of a small basket while he repeated the names of all the people in the village. When the lid refused to come off at the name of a person, that person was doomed. The other Cabinda doctor first tried throwing nuts upon the ground, also repeating names. That method apparently failed. Then he resorted to another, rubbing the flattened palms of his hands against each other. When the palms refused to meet at a name, and his hands flew about wildly, he had got his man.

The accused person, if he denies the guilt, and does not claim the ordeal, is tortured until he not only acknowledges his guilt but names his accomplices in the murder, for remember this witchcraft is murder in the African eyes. It is not just producing the parlour tricks of modern spiritualists.

If he claims the ordeal, as he usually does, he usually has to take a poison drink. Among all the Bantu tribes I know this is made from Sass wood (sass=bad; sass water=rough water; sass surf=bad surf, &c.), and is a decoction of the freshly pulled bark of a great hard wood forest tree, which has a tall unbranched stem, terminating in a crown of branches bearing small leaves. Among the Calabar tribes the ordeal drink is of two kinds: one made from the Calabar bean, the other, the great ju-ju drink Mbiam, which is used also in taking oaths.

In both the sass-wood and Calabar bean drink the only chance for the accused lies in squaring the witch-doctor, so that in the case of the sass-wood drink it is allowed to settle before administration, and in the bean that you get a very heavy dose, both arrangements tending to produce the immediate emetic effect indicative of innocence. If this effect does not come on quickly you die a miserable death from the effects of the poison interrupted by the means taken to kill you as soon as it is decided from the absence of violent sickness that you are guilty.

The Mbiam is not poisonous, nor is its use confined, as the


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THE WIFE'S COUNSEL.

BY ELLEN ASHTON.

"WHY are you so gloomy, Edmund ?" said a happy wife and mother to her husband, as they sat together one evening after the tea things had been removed, "Why are you so gloomy ? I have noticed it growing on you for some time past. Tell me," she continued, looking fondly up into his face, " for if trouble causes it, I can share, even if I cannot alleviate, your sorrow."

The husband looked at her a minute with changing emotions of countenance, and replied.

"I will tell you, Ellen, although I am almost ashamed to do so. I have been speculating again, and-and I fear it will turn out to my loss."

There might have been seen, for a moment, by a close observer, an expression of reproach on the countenance of the wife ; but the look was involuntary ; and perhaps unperceived by the husband, for it faded like a sun cloud, almost as quickly as it came. She replied with a smile.

"And why should that make you gloomy ? Are we not still comfortable ? Shall the loss of a few dollars make you unhappy ?"

" Alas ! it is not the loss of a few dollars," said the husband deeply affected, " but of thousands, which I deplore. And all this might have been prevented if I had only taken your advice. Again and again have you besought me not to engage in these gambling roads to riches, but I have blindly," and he spoke with the deepest agitation, " gone on, disregarding all you have said, until now I have ruined you and our sweet babe. God forgive me for it," he said, bursting into tears, "but I have, by my folly, reduced you to poverty. Would that I had never been born !"

The wife's cheek paled, for she had not dreamed that her husband's fortune had been impaired to such an extent, but although she saw herself and her darling infant reduced to beggary, no words of condemnation rose to her lips, not even a look of reproach was turned on her husband. Even had she wished to censure him as the cause of their ruin she could not have done so, when the lover of her youth was sobbing before her. It is not often that a man weeps, and deep indeed must be that agony which can wring tears from his eyes. Ellen gazed on her husband, and as she saw the violence of his emotions she felt that he was sufficiently punished, that the torture of his spirit was teaching him a lesson, by which she hoped he would profit. We said she felt this, but we mistake-it was not until afterward that she thought on the subject ; for at the sight of her husband's tears, at the sound of his penitential words every other emotion but that of sympathy was chased from her bosom and throwing her arms around his neck, she soothed him by kind words and bright hopes for the future. VOL. I.- 12

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" And what if we are beggars, dear Edmund ?" she said, "have we not our little Henry still left to us ?-are we not yet all in all to each other ? Our heavenly father will not suffer us to want, and we can easily part with these luxuries that surround us. Believe me, we shall still be happy-perhaps happier than we have been here." " No- no," said the husband with emotion, " I can never forgive myself for what I have done. For a week I have known this dreadful truth, and yet dared not tell you. But you are an angel. Oh ! why did you not reproach me ? I could have borne that better than this meck, this forgiving, this more than mortal kindness. God forgive me for having made you a beggar !" "Oh ! talk not thus wildly, dear, dear Edmund," said the wife, " for you cut me to the heart. Let what has past be forgotten . Willingly, aye ! gladly will I surrender these useless luxuries if it will only restore your peace of mind. We will-I know we will be happier in poverty than we have been in opulence, for the cares that have constantly harrassed you will then trouble you no longer. Sweet little Henry," she continued, turning to the infant in its cradle, " see he has awoke and smiles on you. Let him not see a cloud of sorrow on his father's brow." By such words did that sweet wife soothe her husband's troubled mind, and endeavor to reconcile him to the fate that was now inevitable. Ellen Massey had been the only daughter of a widow. Her mother had brought her up with unusual care, early instilling into her mind correct principles, and teaching her that in religion alone would she find a guide in prosperity and a comforter in adversity. Ellen grew up accordingly with devout but unpretending piety. At the age of eighteen she saw her mother descend to the tomb, leaving her an orphan and almost friendless. Before her death Mrs. Massey had been induced, by the advice of some friends, to invest her little fortune in a stock company that promised enormous profits, and, at the time Ellen was left an orphan, the stock of this company had risen to such a height as to command double its original value. Mrs. Massey died, therefore, with the belief that her daughter would have a fortune sufficiently large to afford not only the elegancies but the luxuries of life. Alas ! for the delusions of the times. A crisis came, and the company was suddenly reduced to insolvency. Ellen now became penniless. But, in this strait, her religion supported her, and instead of sitting down in useless repinings, she determined to earn her livelihood by becoming a governess. She soon found a situation, and here met Edmund Warren, a young gentleman of fortune and worth. Her modest demeanor attracted his notice, and he sought the acquaintance of the retiring governess. His friends laughed at him for his intimacy with one whom they


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And to this admonition the silver voice of the mother was never wanting.

This is no tale of a disordered fancy. It is a sad story of life as it is. It presents, too, the bright side of the picture ; for alas ! how many, who have heen ruined by this demon speculation, have never been able to struggle up from poverty, but have seen their wives and little ones, perish piece-meal before their eyes, when forced to suffer hardships for which neither their habits nor constitutions had adapted them.

SONG.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

WHAT reck I of the stars, when I May gaze into thine eyes, O'er which the brown hair flowingly Is parted maiden-wise From thy pale forehead, calm and bright, Over thy cheeks so rosy-white ?

What care I for the red moon-rise ? Far liefer would I sit And watch the joy within thine eyes Gush up at sight of it ; Thyself my queenly moon shall be, Ruling my heart's deep tides for me?

What heed I if the sky be blue ? So are thy holy eyes, And bright with shadows ever new Of changeful sympathies, Which in thy soul's unruffled deep Rest evermore, but never sleep.

A REMEMBERED FORM.

BY E. J. PORTER. SHE comes before me like a dream of Eld, Her blue eyes peering through a sunny host Of waving ringlets to the light breeze tost, That swept our native hills at evening, swell'd With many a gentle breath that harpstrings boast, When in love's trelliced bower the heart hath lost All traces of each earthly care, and held Communion with sweet dreams, forever quell'd !She was my boyhood's love, her gentle soul, Poured into those blue eyes, would softly roll, And beaming with a sweetness so intense, I deemed her some light visitant from heaven, The guardian of my early day-dreams given ; Oh, for one hour of that blest innocence !

IDA ILDERTON. BY H. J. BOWLES. A WARM and delightful evening in the middle of July was fast closing, the deep clouds of night were rolling majestically over the horizon, bearing darkness and silence onward, and telling that nature was hastening to repose. The inhabitants of a fashionable square had risen from their dinner-tables, and in all the drawingrooms might be seen the light of numerous chandeliers, and groups of lovely women seeking amusement : some with the latest novels, others with lively conversation, and some (and they were not a few) sat inhaling the delightful breeze, loaded with the perfume of the flowers which were placed around the rooms and on the balconies. In one of the principal houses of the square, and in a magnificent drawing-room sat Ida Ilderton, the loveliest belle of the season, surrounded by all those little luxuries which are so indispensably necessary to highly-refined women ; where a consciousness of high birth and large possessions are augmented by mental culture and intellectual attainments. On a low ottoman at the feet of Ida lay a beautiful greyhound decked with roses, and a small, delicate love-bird rested on one of her richly-jewelled hands, while a handkerchief of lace was held carelessly in the other. She sat apparently unconscious ofthe admiration she excited, and talked in a low voice to the bird, who picked anxiously at the snowy hand which supported it. Ida's beauty was captivating ; it was so delicate, so pure. Her face was cast in the Grecian mould, with sleeping orbs, veiled with dark lashes, resting on her delicately-tinged cheek ; her mouth was small, and at each corner of her coral lips sat a light curve, displaying her pearly teeth. Her smile had a charm perfectly irresistible. On this night she wore white Mechlin lace over rich white satin, and a girdle of silver confined her sylph-like waist ; her sleeve fell over her arm to the elbow, and then displayed a beauty of contour, a classical perfection, which Praxitiles vainly had attempted to surpass ; her hand was equally faultless, and the long taper fingers were whiter than the handkerchief they held. Around her were bouquets of flowers, and vases filled with oriental perfume stood beside her ; the rich plumage of far-famed birds gleamed from cages of golden wire ; pedestals of marble and scagliola supported pale cold statues, or bijouterie and articles of vertu ; thus the room was one delicious temple, dedicated to Luxury and Art. Ida had sat playing with the bird for some time without noticing her guests, who had sought different occupations till the gentlemen arose from dinner, and most of them had gone with Mrs. Ilderton to walk in the conservatory, leaving Ida and her favorites together. At length the gentlemen ascended to coffee,


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. heart, and she sank her head on the soft satin pillow to dream ; they were dreams of bliss, of love, and of Ferdinand Beresford. The voice of her maid aroused her with the intelligence that the Harpiste had returned according to her orders, and waited any commands Miss Ilderton wished to give.

"Bring her hither," said Ida ; "I will converse with her, it will amuse me ; and let her harp be brought also ; I wish to hear her sing : " and with a ready alacrity the waiting woman obeyed, and in a moment the Harpiste stood in the luxurious boudoir of Ida. There was a great difference between the beauty of the young noblesse, and the striking face of the wandering child of song ; it was not a beauty to be painted and hung in a print-shop, to attract the notice of passers-by, nor to be sculptured for its fine regularity. No ; it was a beauty in which shone mind, and feeling, and firmness, combined with easy good nature and vigorous thought. Her face was shaded by a white cap, with large borders falling on her dark cheeks, and her hair, of glossy chesnut, was braided beneath ; her forehead was high, and her eyes of dark blue. They had once been merry, laughing eyes ; but their look of joy was gone ; and save when she smiled with a strange, brilliant smile, her face wore no joyous expression. Her dress was of coarse blue merino, and a large shawl of red and black plaid completed her attire. Yet she stood before Ida, not boldly but easily, and seemed to look without any feelings of admiration or wonder on the luxury which surrounded the heiress, while Ida addressed her in pure Parisian as follows :

" You are a native of la belle France ; is it not so ?" "Yes, my lady," was the timid reply. " Have you been long away from home-long in England ?" "I have no home, my lady ; I have been three weeks in this land," was the answer. " I have not had a home for years ; this is the only relic now remaining (and she placed her hand on her harp ,) and it gains me my bread." " You are not self-taught," asked Ida ; " you play too well for that. How long have you practised the harp ?" " I learnt my art from one ofthe finest masters France possessed, and it is years since I commenced. I do not play so well as I used ; my fingers seem stiff and less pliant than formerly. So many things are recalled to my mind by the tones of my harp, that sometimes I would rather weep than sing." " Have you a father or mother with you ?" asked Ida feelingly ; for she felt interested in the girl. "I have neither now, my lady. A mother I never knew ; a father I had, but his love is forfeited, and I am quite alone." 66 Why did you leave your home, poor exile ? was your father's displeasure the cause ? Have you no friends

93

here ; are you quite alone ?" asked Miss Ilderton, with tears glistening in her eyes. " Oh, it is a long story, my lady, and you will condemn me I know. I have not met with such kindness for years, as I now meet with from you. No one has manifested kindness for me ; I am an outcast, wretched and alone." "Sit down there," said Ida, pointing to a velvet ottoman beside her ; " and if it grieves you cease to speak of your home. It is sufficient to know you are happy. I feel for you ; I pity you much." "Oh, no, dearest lady, I will tell you all," said the Harpiste, " lest thoughts of my unworthiness to receive your kindness steal into your bosom, and thus once more I become friendless, even as before I heard your voice. My father was tutor in the family of an Italian nobleman, and alternately resided in Italy and France, till, having completed the education of his pupils, he left them, married, and retired to the environs of Paris. I was his only child. My mother died shortly after my birth, and I grew up till the age of ten years with him alone. It was then he sent me to Paris to school, and there I learnt the harp, which now gains me my livelihood, and became the favorite pupil of a too-indulgent master. Could he see me here, the abject creature I am, would he recognize in the homeless wanderer the once happy Lucille Beranger ? No, he could not, would it were but a dream. I remained five years in Paris, and then my father recalled me, and I returned home. Oh ! how well I remember that evening, when the diligence entered my native village, and I saw my father's cottage peeping out among the trees, the summer sun setting behind the hills, and the roses twining round the casements of my long-remembered home. Beneath the porch stood my father, and beside him a person I had never seen. I thought at first it was one of his old pupils, come to visit their kind tutor ; but the face was not Italian, and the smile was too sweet to be ought but English. As soon as the diligence stopped, my father rushed forward and embraced me, and led me into the house, followed by his strange companion. This is Mademoiselle Beranger,' said the stranger, stepping forward ; 6 we wanted only the presence of a lady here to complete our happiness. We shall be too happy with Mademoiselle Lucille.' I saw my father's eyes glisten, and he smiled upon him ; then, turning to me, introduced him as his pupil, and passed a high eulogium on his kindness and talent. It seemed that my father felt lonely after I left him, and had become melancholy and desponding, when one of his former pupils came to him, and introduced an English lady of good connections but limited fortune, and asked him to educate her youngest son. My father willingly complied, and the young Englishman was to remain till his education was completed. All the morning did my father devote to study,


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. resemblance to that of the young French girl ; it was mournful and sad ; that of Mademoiselle Beranger was glad and joyous ; while in her disguising attire, under the clouds of night, he could not suppose for one instant the lovely face and sylph-like form of Lucille were concealed ; but still the tones of the harp recalled her to his mind ; and it was the knowledge of the anguish he himself had endured, which prompted him to wish happiness to Ida. Little did he dream he was the being on whom her happiness depended ; he loved her as a brother loves, but nothing more.

It was night, dark, gloomy, desolate night to such hearts as Ida's ; but it was day-bright joyous sunshine -to the expectant Lucille. The lamp shone brightly, the jewels sparkled gaily, and, harp in hand, she stood beneath the centre chandelier of the magnificent drawing-room, where Ida sat in desolation, to meet for the last time Ferdinand, her idolized Ferdinand. It was late when he entered, with a smile on his lip and a sparkle in his eye, as elegant, as polished as a monarch need be ; and as the first tone of his voice fell on the ear of Lucille, she sprung forward, and in a moment the parted lovers were closely wrapped in each other's embrace. I pass over the scene so painful to Ida ; to feel she loved, but in vain ; and in despair to hear the words of love ; to hear the tale of long-remembered days gone by, was more than Ida's heart could bear, and she could only bless them and bid them farewell. Three weeks after this a marriage appeared in the 66 Morning Post," celebrated first at St. James's, Piccadilly, and afterward at the Catholic Chapel, Warwick Street, Golden Square : it was the marriage of Ferdinand Beresford and Lucille Beranger ; and immediately below that were these words ::-" Died of a rapid decline, Ida, the beloved and only child of Horace Ilderton, in the nineteenth year of her age." She was dead ; her heart was broken ; and in the long white fingers, cold and stiff, lay the faded rose-bud, given by one who was that day wedded.

GOD'S TEMPLE. BY WILLIAM WALLACE. "Tis not the great Cathedral richly dight With jewell'd altar, paintings grand and old— Where dusty banners, in the doubtful light, Wave mournfully around the tattered fold-Like a weird shadow of the Past unrolled,I hail God's Temple--though the soul may there With Christian fitness thrill in contrite prayer-Humbly imploring, passionately bold, As kindling Faith illumes the swelling theme Of warm adorer, whose enraptured eye Sees angel-forms on shining pinions gleam As if in answer, from the opening sky : There is a Fane far holier- not of art,The Temple of a pure, and trusting heart.

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THE MEETING. BY S. H. ANDERSON. HARRY MORTON was the accepted suitor of Mary Wilson. Young, ardent and enthusiastic, he had bent the knee in adoration to her superior charms, he had worshipped at the shrine of beauty in all its pristine splendor, and now he was happy. And Mary was all that the most fastidious in female beauty could wish. She was one of those quiet and retiring spirits that we sometimes meet with in our journey through life that captivate us not so much by their beauty as by a certain undefinable spell. Harry Morton had first met her at the house of a mutual friend, and at once was struck with the ease and elegance of her manners, as well as by the rich stores of thought that sparkled in her conversation. Casual visits soon gave way to others of a more formal nature, and as he had no direct intimation that his calls were intrusive, he continued them. Some times he fancied that the cheek of Mary was suffused with a deeper blush when he pressed her hand, but a second thought would check the illusion. Hope still , however, bid him not despair, and showed him the future bright and cheering. It was a beautiful evening in the first month of summer ; the moon was shining clear and silvery from out the blue expanse. The stars were one by one becoming visible to the eye, as they took their places in the heavens. Scarce a breath disturbed the stillness that reigned around. All nature was clad in smiles as fair as a bridal. Allured by the beauty of the evening, to enjoy the pleasures of a stroll, I called at the residence of Harry, and in answer to my summons was told that Mr. Morton had just gone out. As I was of opinion that the extent of his visit would be the residence of Mr. Wilson, I bent my way thither. Before I reached the house I was surprised to meet Harry returning. If I was surprised at the extreme shortness of the visit, I was still more so at the answers that Harry returned to my various enquiries. As I was on the most familiar terms with him, no invitation was necessary as an excuse for me to enter with him ; and it was there that I heard from his own lips, the narrative of the occurrences that made so deep an impression on his feelings, on the evening in question. He had called at the house of Mr. Wilson, and was told that Miss Wilson had gone out. The mere annunciation of that fact was the means of arousing his feelings, as he was aware that this was the evening that he usually visited her. This circumstance made the events doubly suspicious ; but the matter was made more so as he perceived lying on the sofa a gentleman's glove. This was enough -there was a rival, and that without his knowledge. Mary had concealed the fact, and with a motive—and that motive in his mind was the fact that she loved another.


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. The Parisians furnish the following styles :

CHAPEAUX ET CAPOTES.-The latter, composed of crape, are much in favor ; they are indeed remarkably pretty, and the light style of their trimmings, always flowers or marabouts, harmonizes admirably with the fragility of the material. White rose and jonquil are the colors generally adopted for these capotes ; where the trimming consists of flowers and ribbons, they are disposed in the interior in small sprigs of the lightest possible kind, drooping on the front hair, or mingling with it, if it is in tinglets. The flowers may be disposed on the exterior either in a gerbe or a bouquet. If the exterior is adorned with marabouts, then the flowers are placed in the interior in small tufts, instead of sprigs, at the sides. Chapeaux of paille à jour, of the capote form, are much in vogue in morning dress ; they are ornamented only with knots of ribbons, and lined with tulle bouillonnée. Some of the prettiest capotes for demi négligé, are those of paille d'Italie ornamented with a bouquet formed of three petites tetês de plumes. Nothing is more elegant in demi toilette than chapeaux of paille de riz, ornamented with a large point lace lappet, retained by a demi couronne of roses. There is a very pretty capote of white satin, the form of the brim rather close and long at the ears ; on the right of the crown is a joli cocarde of white ribbon, and on each side of the interior of the brim is placed a nœud of ribbon, from which hangs one long streamer of the same.

A RETROSPECT.

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. WHERE are those hours of love, O'er which the beam Of brilliant Hope brightly glowed, Gilding the stream Of joy that glanced gladly on, Gleaming in lightWhere are those hours of love, Beaming and bright ? Where are the looks that broke, Breathing the spell O'er the soft yielding heart, Therein to dwell ; Spite of the dark storms, Around that way rollWhere are the looks that broke Bright o'er the soul ? Gone ;-never to returnDarken'd and pastFled are the hours that beam'd Too bright to last :If in oblivion's shade Thought could find rest, Then might remembrance be Tranquil and blest.

THE INDIAN BRIDE.

BY MRS. FORD. CHAPTER I. THE Rajah Doulah was famed throughout all the East for the magnificence of his court and the extent of his domains. But he possessed one treasure which made him even more celebrated-an only daughter, whose beauty was the theme of applause from Ispahan to Pekin. She was said to be purer than the blossoms of the Agla, and sweeter than the fairest roses of Sheeraz ; while her voice rivalled in harmony the song of the bulbul. Many had been the suitors for the Rajah's daughter, but none of them were deemed sufficiently powerful by the divan to be worthy of her hand. At length the eldest son of the Rajah of Auranzal appeared as a suitor for her hand. He was rich, brave, and wealthy, the heir of a mighty prince, and himself a soldier of renown. The Arab steed which he rode was said to be fleeter than the fleetest in the stables of the Lord of Stamboul ; and the scymetar which he carried at his side was studded with jewels which would have ransomed a Sultan. The divan listened to his proposals favorably ; and the fair Haidai heard of him, in the seclusion of her harem, with a smile of approval. The Rajah gave his word to the suitor, that when another year should have elapsed and Haidai grown into womanhood, for as yet she was but a girl, she should become his bride. With a glad heart the young prince left the capital, followed by his gorgeous train of spahis, and returned to his father's court to await the expiration of the year. The young Haidai was only a child when all this had been arranged, but she was at that age when a few months work a great change in the character, and ere the year was up she had grown into a woman. She had never seen her future lord, and as the period of her nuptials approached, she began to be curious to behold him ; but the seclusion in which she had been brought up, and the implicit obedience which the daughters of her house were taught to yield to their parent and monarch, prevented this curiosity from attaining much strength. Still there were indefinite yearnings in the heart of the young princess-yearnings such as all feel, in the morning of life, for sympathy and love. The preparations for the nuptials now began, and both capitals resounded with the fame of the unrivalled magnificence of the approaching ceremony. Rich shawls from Cashmere, the rarest birds of Persia, the finest muslins of the Deccan, diamonds from Golconda, and pearls from the Indian sea, were said to form part of the gifts for the bride ; while the citizens of her father's capital talked of the superb white elephants,


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.

‘And O? the thundering presse of knightes — ~ Whenas their war eryes swell,

‘May tole from heaven an angel bright, "And rouse a fiend from hell.

‘Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallante, all, ‘And don your helmes amaine:

Deathe’s couriers, Fame aud Honor, call Us to the field againe,

‘Na shrewish teares shall fill our eye ‘When the sword-hilt’s in our band,—

Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaiue, and craven wight, "Phus weape and puling crye,

i like men to Aight, ‘And hero-like to die!

My heart ia in their voyaging "ho reals where spirits be, But its mate, in such wandering,

Ts ever thee!

Rut 0, the murmur of the brook, ‘The music of the wees

‘The rose with ils sweet shamefast look, "Phe booming of the bee j

The caurse of each bright voyager Tn heaven's unmeasured sea,

Would not one heart-puise of me stir, Loved I not thee!

Not perfect, but yet beautiful. Had the poet amended one or two of the verses where tho rythm halts, these lines would have been ranked among the sweetest he

‘Verses like theve would seem to imply that the poet | ever wrote. Let us give another of his effusions on had little aympathy for tho gentler sex, and that he de- | nearly the rame theine. ‘The poet ealls it “the voice of lighted rather in the neighing of the war-horse, and the | love.” sound of the trumpets afar off in battle, than in the ahaa ahadowaieree ens andbenpe creeps music of the lute, the smiles of woman, or the low witch- ‘And twinkling stars pale vigils keep;

ing language of love. But we would form a wrong

‘When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam, And moonshine foweth like a stream;

judgment if such should be our conclusion. That he ‘Then isthe hour ;

ingen is That hearts which love uo longer dream,— ‘was not insensible to the gentler passion, this volume ine which Jove vel Dears many evidences, Let us give a few stanzas, "That the voice of love ix a spell of power! breathing the most delicate imagory,—stanzas which ‘When shamefuced mooubeams kiss the lake, he has quaintly styled “Certain pleasaut verses to the And amorous loaves sweet music wakes lady of his heart." ‘They are musical as the song of a ‘When slumnber stoals o'er every exe,

And Dian's welf chimes drowsily §

tavrock, the singing of a woodland brook, or the harmony "Then is the hour

of unseen angels ou the midnight air,

«The murmur of the merty brook, Aa qushingly and free It wimples with ity sun-bright look, Far down yon sheltered tea, ‘Humming to every drowsy flower ‘A Jow, quaint tallaby, ' Speaks to tay spirit, at this hour, ‘OF Lovo and thee...

‘Phe music of the gay green wood, ‘When every leaf and tree

Yu coaxed by winds of gentlest mood, Po utter harinony

‘And the siaull birds that answer make ‘To tho wind's fitfal glee,

In me most blissful visions wake,

‘Of Love and thee.

The rose perks up its blushing cheek, So sonn as it can sco Along the eastern hills, one streak Of the sun's majest Laden with dewy gems, it gleams ‘A precious freight to me, For each pure drop thereon me seema A type of thee,

‘And when abroad in summer mora, 1 heat the blythe bold bee

‘Winding aloft his tiny horn, (An errant knight perdy,)

‘That winged hunter of rare sweets O'er many a fur country,

‘To me a lay of love repeaia, Ita subject—thee.

‘Aud when, in midnight hour, I note ‘The stare so pensively,

tn their wild beauty, onward float "Throagh heaven's own silunt xea:

‘That hearta which love with rapture sigh — "Phen is the hour ‘That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When surly mastiffs atint their howl, And ewatled in moonshine node the owls ‘When cottage-hearths are glimmering low, And warden cocks forget to crow 5 ‘Then ia the hour ‘That hearts fee! passion’s overflow, — ‘Then is the hour ‘That the voice of love ia

spell of power!

‘When stilly night seems earth's vast grave, Nor murinur comes from wood or wave; ‘When land and sea, in wedlock bound By silence, sleep in biivs profound ; ‘Then ia the hour ‘That hearts like living well-springs sound,— ‘Then is the hone ‘That the voice of love ia spell of power!”

And now for a “May morning Song.”

“Phe grass ia wet with shining dewe, ‘Their silver bells hang on each ee, ‘While opening flewer and bursting bud Breathe incense forth uncessin The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw, ‘The throstle glads the spreading thorn, And cheerily the blythesome lark Salutes the rosy face of morn. "Tis early prime; And hark! hark! bark! Hie mesry chime Chicrups the lark: Shirrap! urrap! be heralds in* ‘The jolly aun with matin hyran.

Come, come, iny love! and May-dewa shake Tn pailfule from each droopinig bough; ‘They'll give fresh Inatze to tie blnow, ‘Phat breaks npon thy young cheek now,

�


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No. 4.

FASHIONS FOR APRIL.

THE Fashions for April are varied and elegant. Among the numerous costumes which have appeared, or been projected, we are almost at a loss to select those which are the most becoming. We have had engravings made of three of the most fashionable dresses of the season, but we shall transcend our usual bounds and give descriptions of other costumes, besides those represented in our plate. The engraving comprises a dinner dress and two morning dresses.

Fig. 1. A MORNING DRESS.- Spring green gros d'été robe; corsage en amazone, half high, and finished with a broad lappel, bordered with fancy silk trimming. Tight sleeve, the upper part ornamented with a very broad bouillonnée, and the wrist with a double band of the same trimming that decorates the corsage ; a band of it is continued en tablier, from the point of the corsage down each side of the skirt. Capote of pink pou de soie, a round open shape ; the brim and crown closely drawn ; the trimming consists of a twisted rouleau of ribbon to correspond, ornamented on one side by a bouquet of white marabouts, and terminated on the other by a rosette.

Fig. 2. A MORNING DRESS.-Diseau pou de soie pelisse ; the corsage made high, and trimmed with a heart peterine of the falls, each edged with fringe. Tight sleeve, with a cleft mancheron, bordered as is the cuff with fringe ; the front of the skirt is decorated en tablier, with rouleaus, bordered with fringe. White satin bonnet, a moderately open shape ; the exterior trimmed with white ribbon, and a wreath of roses ; sprigs of these flowers decorate the sides of the interior. Fig. 3. A DINNER DRESS .-Robe amazone of shaded silk, peach color shot with black ; the corsage is made quite up to the throat, and trimmed with a lappel, which forms at once a lappel, and a cleft mancheron ; it is bordered with a new kind of fancy silk trimming. Tight sleeve, the lower part ornamented with buttons ; three tucks, each edged with fancy silk VOL. I.- -13 ་

VOL. I.

trimming decorate the skirt : the head-dress is a demicoiffure, composed of lace lappets, and green velvet ribbon. There is a very pretty style for an EVENING DRESS, composed of a tulle robe à trois jupons, the openings of the three skirts are ornamented with roses, and the round of the dress trimmed with tucks and rouleaus ; the corsage is very low, and square at the top, and pointed at the bottom ; it is drape à la Tyrolienne ; the drapery ornamented with a rose in the centre. Short, full sleeve, trimmed with ribbon. Coiffure à la ville Ferronière ; the hair is dressed in a profusion of loose ringlets, and ornamented with a gold ferronière, and white feathers. This costume, however, is even surpassed by a later one, composed of a pale blue satin d ' Ispahan, elegantly trimmed round the bottom of the skirt with a broad facing of English point lace ; the body low and d point ; sleeves very short and entirely covered with the splendid point lace berthe, which decorates the body, and which is fastened in front with a white roscat ; coiffure Isabel, composed of violet velvet, ornamented with two long saule white plumes negligée gold. A very beautiful MORNING DRESS has just appeared in Paris, composed of a skirt of lavender striped satin, made extremely full and à traine, low body of a deep violet color, in velvet, trimmed with a stomacher berthe ; jockeys and manchettes of rich point lace ; a chemisette of fine muslin is worn underneath, covering nearly the whole of the bust. Cap à la Dubarry, composed of rich white lace interspersed with nœuds and loops of pale pink narrow ribbon, the lace forming a kind of fan at the back of the cap, from the centre of which depends a small knot of ribbon with three long ends floating over the back of the neck. A BALL DRESS of great beauty has come in vogue since our March number. The dress is composed of pale pink satin ; from the point of the waist depends a double splendid facing of blonde, put on in the form of au A, and ornamented with pink roses ; the body à


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two or three other trinkets, small in themselves, but of great regard, which poor Tom, the corporal's unfortunate brother, had sent him over, with the account of his marriage with the Jew's widow—there was

A Montero-cap and two Turkish tobacco pipes.

The Montero-cap I shall describe by and bye.—The Turkish tobacco pipes had nothing particular in them, they were fitted up and ornamented as usual with flexible tubes of Morocco leather and gold wire, and mounted at their ends, the one of them with ivory,—the other with black ebony, tipp'd with silver.


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 I shall adhere to the rationale set forth in Nikon and conclude that “unless the junior’s product is inferior, the quality factor does not weigh in favor of the senior user.” Id. Moreover, I find that the “minor differences” in the defendant’s product do not render it inferior.

The evidence shows that the recipients of the computer disks were no more likely to exercise a high degree of care in retaining the defendant’s product than they were a low degree of care. The factor is therefore neutral.

The plaintiff claims that “Maaherra’s admission that she used exact copies of the Foundation’s marks with knowledge of the Foundation’s use and registration creates a presumption of intentional infringement.” (Pl.’s Br. at 4.) The plaintiff’s claim, however, is an overstatement. More accurately stated, a presumption of intentional infringement arises when one party deliberately adopts another’s trademark “to obtain advantage from the other’s good will.” ''Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sci. v. Creative House Promotions, Inc., 944 F.2d 1446, 1456 (9th Cir.1991) (citing Fleischmann Distilling Corp. v. Maier Brewing Co., 314 F.2d 149, 157–58 (9th Cir.), cert. denied, 374 U.S. 830, 83 S.Ct. 1870, 10 L.Ed.2d 1053 (1963)); accord Toho Co. v. Sears, Roebuck & Co., 645 F.2d 788, 791 n. 2 (9th Cir.1981) (explaining it would be error to recognize presumption absent a showing of defendant’s intent to “profit by confusing consumers”); Kelley Blue Book'', 802 F.Supp. at 287 (raising presumption upon the showing of defendant’s intent to capitalize on plaintiff’s reputation); Pacific Telesis, 795 F.Supp. at 982 (finding defendant selected “TELESIS with the intent to benefit from the [plaintiff’s] goodwill and reputation”).

There is no evidence to suggest that the defendant reproduced the plaintiff’s marks with an intent to capitalize on the Foundation’s reputation. In the absence of showing such an intent, I find this factor to weigh heavily in the defendant’s favor.

“[A] ‘strong possibility’ that either party may expand [its] business to compete with the other will weigh in favor of finding that the present use is infringing.” AMF, 599 F.2d at 354 (citation omitted). The defendant does not refute the plaintiff’s contention that it “has devoted substantial money and effort to the preparation of an electronic text and concordance of The URANTIA Book.” (Second Aff. of Wharton Ex. A at 2, ¶4.) Moreover, the plaintiff admits she knew of the plaintiff’s plans. (Maaherra Dep. (3-10-91) at 77–78.) Therefore, I find this factor to weigh in favor of the plaintiff.

The first three factors weigh in the plaintiff’s favor, as does the last. The defendant, however, has three factors that weigh in her favor. More important, the plaintiff does not prove a likelihood of confusion simply by garnering the benefit of a majority of the factors evaluated. "A trademark is, of course, a form of business property. But the ‘property right’ or protection accorded a trademark owner can only be understood in the context of trademark law and its purposes. A trademark owner has a property right only insofar as is necessary to prevent consumer confusion as to who produced the goods and to facilitate differentiation of the trademark owner’s goods."

International Order of Job’s Daughters v. Lindeburg & Co., 633 F.2d 912, 919 (9th Cir.1980), ''cert. denied'', 452 U.S. 941, 101 S.Ct. 3086, 69 L.Ed.2d 956 (1981). Ultimately, I am not convinced that a reasonable jury could not return a verdict in favor of the defendant based upon a finding of “no likelihood of confusion.”

IT IS THEREFORE ORDERED that the plaintiff’s motion for summary judgment, filing 197, is granted as to Count IV of the defendant’s counterclaim and as to the defense of genericness and otherwise is denied.


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No. 6.

FASHIONS FOR JUNE. THE summer costumes have now superseded those of winter and spring ; and instead of heavy velvets, our belles now patronize the airy fabrics peculiar to the season. We give, from a great variety of costumes, on our table, two ball dresses and an evening dress. Fig. 1. BALL DRESS.-Dress à doublejupe of white crêpe, open at the sides, and showing the pink satin under jupe ; the latter being ornamented with a pink | fancy silk trimming, running round the bottom part, the upper dress decorated en suite, and attached down the sides with nœuds and tassels of pink silk cord, placed at distances. The corsage tight, and trimmed with three folds over the bust, and forming a point in the front ; short tight sleeves, trimmed with fancy ornaments to match those on the skirt. Coiffure à la Swiss, composed of a small round caul of white lace, lined with pink gauze, and surrounded with a double row of splendid white English lace, falling on the left side in the form of a broad lappet. Fig. 2. BALL DRESS.-Dress à double jupe, composed of white crêpe, the whole surrounded with an ourlet or hem of the same, lined with a cherry-colored satin ribbon ; the sides of the upper skirt attached with chou or roseates of cherry-colored satin, placed at regular distances, and gradually lessening upward toward the waist. Tight body à point, the berthe and sleeves formed of folds of the same, descending à cœur in the front of the corsage ; the folds on the sleeves caught up in the centre with a rose. The hair simply adorned with a small branch of roses. Fig. 3. EVENING Dress.—A dress of white satin, the front of the jupe made to turn back, so as to show the breadth of green satin underneath. A splendid row of lama blonde decorates each side of the front, bows of gold and white ribbon being placed at distances on the green satin ; les poches or pockets on each side of the front are also edged round with splendid lama blonde ; VOL. I.- 21

VOL. I.

corsage à point; the top of the bust trimmed with a berthe composed of two broad folds edged with lama blonde, and finished with a nœud in the centre. Very short tight sleeves, decorated with sabots of lama blonde, finished with a nœud in the front of the arm. Turban àl ' Oriental, composed of white and gold tissue. All these costumes are very beautiful, and decidedly the most favorite ones. BONNETS. Of bonnets there are several varieties ; while each variety is varied according to the taste of the artiste or wearer. The dress bonnets of violet crêpe are decidedly fashionable, especially when trimmed with a bunch of rare exotic flowers. Drooping flowers are not much worn, most of the florists preferring to make them in tufts or bouquets ; they are mostly composed of violets de Parme, shaded roses, or moss roses half closed. There is a very pretty bonnet of pink watered gros de Naples, the crown decorated with a pretty trimming of white lace, interspersed on the left with three shaded roses, coming low down on the front of the bonnet, the edge of the brim having two narrow folds of the same material, placed at a little distance from each other tout autour. A pattern of this bonnet we give in the plate. Most of our fair readers we presume, however, have already made choice of their summer capotes. WALKING DRESSES.-The style of these dresses is but little varied from last month. Capes still continue in vogue. The lighter fabrics will be generally worn. But there is a very pretty style of morning dress in Pekin satin. Dresses in this style are mostly ornamented in the front of the skirt with two large folds, united with roseats of different sizes ; the body high and in a point. The sleeves plain and rather short, trimmed at the bottom with a broad lace falling coquettishly over the hands. This toilette is rendered complete by a Cardinale pelerine of the same material as the dress, and by an Amazonian collar in guipure. Walking and morning dresses are still being made very simple. The corsage Amazone is preferred, owing to the beautiful embroidery, which can only be seen to advantage on this style of


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 My father, who saw all things in lights different from the rest of the world, would say to the corporal, that he ought to look upon these two presents more as tokens of his brother's nicety, than his affection.—Tom did not care, Trim, he would say, to put on the cap, or to smoak in the tobacco-pipe of a Jew.—God bless your honour, the corporal would say, (giving a strong reason to the contrary)—how can that be.

The Montero-cap was scarlet, of a superfine Spanish cloth, died in grain, and mounted all round with furr, except about four inches in the front, which was faced with a light blue, slightly embroidered,—and seemed to have been the property of a Portuguese quarter-


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 master, not of foot, but of horse, as the word denotes.

The corporal was not a little proud of it, as well for its own sake, as the sake of the giver, so seldom or never put it on but upon -days; and yet never was a Montero-cap put to so many uses; for in all controverted points, whether military or culinary, provided the corporal was sure he was in the right,—it was either his oath,—his wager,—of his gift.

—'Twas his gift in the present case.

I'll be bound, said the corporal, speaking to himself, to give away my Montero-cap to the first beggar who comes to the door, if I do not manage this matter to his honour's satisfaction.


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Vol. II.

FASHIONS FOR AUGUST. THIS is the month when most of our belles are absent at the springs, the sca-shore, or other places of resort. Few will begin their summer trip without having consulted their milliner and mantua-maker. We shall give our fair readers several admirable costumes which we have no doubt will assist their counsels. Our engraving represents three very choice styles of dress.

Fig. 1. A CARRIAGE DRESS of striped Pekin silk, vert de mer and white ; the skirt immensely long and full, and trimmed en tablier, with broad bias continuing down each side of the fronts, and round the bottom of the skirt, each bias headed with a fancy trimming of gympe ; corsage ornamented à la militaire, with trimmings to match those on the skirt, made quite high to the throat, and waist rounded ; the sleeves are made perfectly plain, and reach only to the elbow, where they are bordered with two folds, headed with a fancy gympe ; an under-sleeve of muslin bouillonnée is worn underneath , attached round the wrists with a fall of narrow lace. Bonnet of white fancy straw, decorated with a magnificent feather, nuée pink and white, the inside ornamented with small roses covered with tulle.

Fig. 2. A PROMENADE DRESS of white organdie worn over a lilac slip ; the skirt very full, and trimmed round with two broad hems edged with a narrow lilac fringe, the body perfectly plain ; cardinal cape of the same material as the dress, edged all round with a narrow fringe, confined at the neck and waist with a small nœud of ribbon ; sleeves bouillonnée, and edged with lace. Capote of straw-colored areophane on a white foundation, the guagings on the exterior confined with small plaits of the same, the inside of the brim having a fulling of gauze running round the edge, the ribbon with which the capote is trimmed being shaded a deeper color than the outside of the bonnet.

Fig. 3. A CARRIAGE DRESS of green moire worn over a pale pink skirt of silk, the upper jupe being turned back on each side of the front, and bordered with a volant of the same, headed with a pretty fancy trimming; the corsage à Medicis point, ornamented with a small round cape, trimmed to match the facings of the skirt, and fitting tight to the figure ; the sleeves perfectly plain, and finished round the wrists with a narrow fulling of the same ; scarf of striped barêge, pink and white. Transparent bonnet of pale pink gauze, the brim ornamented with folds of the same, the crown decorated with a nœud of ribbon, from which depends a long sweeping feather ; brides of pale roses. BALL DRESSES .- The style for ball dresses will also be a subject for the curiosity of our fair readers. These dresses are now being made of satin, blue, white, and black ; also of taffetas d' Italie, of tulle illusion, &c.; the upper skirts opening in the front, and shewing thejupe of satin of a soft shade ; the facings of the dress plaited , or gathered at distances, and caught with pretty trimmings in ribbon of the same shade as the satin jupe. The body and sleeves ornamented with fullings of tulle ; others are made in point lace in the tunique form, and trimmed with volants, attached with velvet leaves, or a broad flounce of the same material as the dress, put on the skirt nearly plain ; the corsage décolleté, lightly draped, and very short sleeves ; then, again, those à double jupe, the upper one raised, and caught with two agraffes of flowers, the body plain and very low, surmounted with an elegant rûche in point lace. Sleeves à la veille ; the second jupe trimmed with volants of lace ; and lastly those made à triple jupe, each one raised, and attached with bunches of ribbon or bouquets of small flowers. IN PARIS, BALL DRESSES are mostly worn in the tunique form ; the body à la Grecque and les niobes. Our fashions speak of a very pretty dress made for one of the young nobility ; it was a robe tunique à deux jupes, of different lengths in batiste de Chine upon the left side ; the upper skirt was raised to the height of the knee, by a breadth of the same material, twisted in the form of a scarf, and representing three broad folds ; this batiste de chine has a most admirable effect, having the transparency and fineness


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xx.


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 The completion was no further off, than the very next morning; which was that of the storm of the counterscarp betwixt the Lower Deule, to the right, and the gate St. Andrew,—and on the left, between St. Magdalen's and the river.

As this was the most memorable attack in the whole war,—the most gallant and obstinate on both sides,—and I must add the most bloody too, for it cost the allies themselves that morning above eleven hundred men,—my uncle Toby prepared himself for it with a more than ordinary solemnity.

The eve which preceded, as my uncle Toby went to bed, he ordered his ramallie wig, which had laid inside out for many years in the corner of an old campaigning trunk, which stood by his


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Vol. II.

FASHIONS FOR SEPTEMBER. THE fashions this month begin to subside into the autumn costumes, though as yet we have few decidedly new styles. We give, however, representations of three very elegant dresses. Fig. 1. A MORNING DRESS.—A peignior robe of white organdie, open in the front, and ornamented on each side with double volants of rich English lace ; the body high to the throat and full, slightly guaged half way up the centre of the corsage, which is also ornamented with a double fall of lace, continued round the neck ; the sleeves perfectly tight and decorated round the top of the arm with three folds of the same ; manchettes of lace to match, the whole worn over a slip of rich amber gros des Naples ; scarf of barêge in stripes of blue and amber ; chapeau of paille de riz, decorated with pale blue ribbon, and a splendid marabout feather nuée blue. Fig. 2. BALL DRESS .-This dress is composed of an under slip of mauve satin, over which is worn a dress of white crepe à la Bergere, looped half way up on the right side, the jupe being shorter than the under dress, and surrounded by a wreath of petit rose de Motts, reach- | ing on the right side up to the waist ; the corsage low and tight, sleeves the same ; the whole trimmed with wreaths en suite ; the waist à point, trimmed round the edge with a very small wreath ; coiffure composed of a wreath of variegated flowers, falling low on each side ; the front hair plaited. Fig. 3. EVENING DRESS. Of plain barege of a beautiful fawn color ; the skirt trimmed with a narrow ribbon, forming vandykes, each point being finished with roseattes of areophane ; corsage low and pointed ; the sleeves and body sitting close to the figure ; a splendid Cardinal pelerine, formed of rich inlet and lace, attached in front with a pale pink gauze roseatte, from which depends two rather long ends, and a rich blue scarf edged at the ends with a broad fringe, finishes this elegant costume. Cap à la Duchesse, composed of blond and VOL. II.-9

No. 3.

flowers, the blond falling very low on each side of the ears, the flowers forming a perfect garland over the front of the head. CAPS are now lighter and prettier than ever, the more simple, the more elegant ; they are still made plain on the top of the head, and deep at the ears, where they are ornamented with beautiful light branches of flowers of every description ; sometimes, indeed, they are trimmed with a light style of wreath passing over the head, and attached on one side with four beautiful roses of different shades or colors ; others are merely formed with lappels, caught here and there with very small light flowers ; those which are made with an open caul are generally of lace or tulle, a Josephine comb being worn at the back of the head. Morning caps are mostly made in India muslin, the form round, and without brides, trimmed with Mechlin lace and Fontagnes ribbons, of mixed colors. WALKING DRESSES .-Pointed bodies are still much in fashion ; they are, however, mostly reserved for full dress costume. We have also remarked that the rounded bodies are worn for promenade dresses ; and, for the morning toillette, nothing is so becoming as the ceinture, with long floating ends. Walking dresses are mostly composed of satins princesses, pekins, and of poults de soie; the lighter materials being India muslin and the Persian barèges, raies ; sleeves named à la jardinière; the corsagefroncé, and skirt ornamented with three folds. We must also cite one in tarlatan, lined with pale pink gros de Naples, the body gathered in the shoulder and waist ; sleeves demi-larges, with manchettes of lace falling upon the hand. This toilette is rendered complete by a cardinal pelerine in tarlatane, lined to match the dress, and attached in the front by a bow of ribbon of pink taffetas with long ends. The most effective dresses are certainly those of embroidered muslin over colored gros de Naples, blue or green. We have seen at a late fashionable meeting, some of our fair élégantes in pelisses of white moire, trimmed with lace and biais, white and pink ; also those ofgros de Naples glacè ècru, trimmed with lace and rûches.


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 beside, to be taken out and laid upon the lid of it, ready for the morning;—and the very first thing he did in his shirt, when he had stepped out of bed, my uncle Toby, after he had turned the rough side outwards,—put it on:—This done, he proceeded next to his breeches, and having buttoned the waistband, he forthwith buckled on his sword belt, and had got his sword half way in,—when he considered he should want shaving, and that it would be very inconvenient doing it with his sword on,—so took it off:—In assaying to put on his regimental coat and waistcoat, my uncle Toby found the same objection in his wig,—so that went off too:—So that what with one thing, and what with another, as always falls out when a man is in the most haste,—'twas ten o’clock, which was half an hour later than his


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Vol. II. FASHIONS FOR OCTOBER.

THE fashions for this month foreshadow the approaching winter. Some of the styles reported are exceedingly beautiful, though their novelty is not as great as might be expected. We have selected the three following full-length costumes for our plate this month.

Fig. 1. A PROMENADE DRESS, composed of a beautiful iris-colored moire, the jupe is remarkably full; a bias of the same surrounds the edge of the skirt, headed with a splendid embroidery continued up the center of the front à colonnes; high corsage, forming a deep point in the center of the bust, and edged with a narrow white lace, sitting close to the figure; waist slightly à point, the whole front of the corsage beautifully embroidered; tight long sleeves à l'Amazone, ornamented with jockeys, surrounded with a narrow embroidery; manchettes of richly worked muslin. Bonnet of paille d'Italie, the crown literally covered with a splendid saule white plume, and the interior decorated with two small roses, blue and yellow.

Fig. 2.-A CARRIAGE DRESS, of pale green gros de Indes, the front of the skirt ornamented with a fulling of the same, edged on each side with a narrow fulling of a deeper shade; this fulling forms a kind of robing on each side, turning, however, suddenly round, and attached at the top with a roseatte or chou, three of which also are placed at distances in the interior of the curve; tight, half-high body; waist slightly à point, and plain. Sleeves reach a little below the elbow, where they are ornamented with narrow trimming to match that on the skirt and finished with manchettes à la Puritan. Cardinal pelerine, bordered with a fulled trimming and showing the entire front of the corsage; half-length primrose gloves; Capote ofpaille de riz, decorated on the top of the crown with half branches of roses, meeting in the center; the back of the capote ornamented with a nœud of green and white striped organdi ribbon; brides of pale pink, edged with a narrow blond.

Fig. 3.-A BALL DRESS, of white crepe à double jupe, elegantly ornamented with a soutache trimming of pale pink, forming a kind of tunic on the upper jupe; short, tight sleeves, bordered to match, and edged with a narrow lace; corsage low and à point, draped around the bust with deep folds, and finished with a pink roscatte in the center. The hair was arranged perfectly simply and merely ornamented on the left side with a graceful, drooping fancy flower. Of the half-length figures, the second and third are the most elegant and new. The second is a beret très petit of white tulle illusion, the ends falling low on the left side and edged with a light, deep fringe. The right side is decorated with small twisted white feathers, half ostrich and half marabout. The third figure has the front hair in full bands, the back arranged in a moderately high plait, and a demi wreath of roses ornamenting the side of the head. A white veil falls gracefully from the back. There is a style of Promenade Dress that is very much sought after and fitted for this season peculiarly—as follows: A dress of rich violet moire, the skirt made very long and ample; a tight high body and sleeves; a rounded waist. An immense pelerine of the same material as the dress is worn so as to cover the entire body; round the edge of the cape; arm-holes; rounded small collar; and down the center of the front is a fulling or plaiting of the same, edged on each side with a narrow fold, the end of the arm-holes being finished with anœud noud of ribbon either taffetas or satin. Bonnet of paille d'Italie, prettily trimmed with a rich white ribbon, variegated with green; no curtain is worn, but a nœud of ribbon with two long ends ornaments the back; the left side being decorated with a demi wreath of roses, with green velvet leaves, the interior trimmed to match. We also have a pattern of an Amazonian riding dress: a skirt of royal blue; a jacket of fine white cachemire, attached as far as the waist with gold buttons, and continued down each side of the flaps; small side pockets, ornamented to match. The sleeves are plain


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Vol. II.

FASHIONS FOR NOVEMBER.

WE present our readers with three very beautiful styles for dress suited to the season, and which have been universally admired. In our next number we shall present full winter costumes.

Fig. 1.-A PROMENADE DRESS of shaded Pekin satin, the jupe full and handsome, made perfectly plain ; half high body setting close to the figure ; tight, long sleeves ; manchettes à la Puritan ; camail in white cachemire, ornamented with a fancy gympe work round the border ; a splendid deep fringe decorates the edge. The small pointed collar finished with a narrow fringe to match. A small nœud of silk cord and tassels is placed on the point of the back of the collar, as well as down the fronts. A fall of rich white lace ornaments the top of this splendid camail. Bonnet of straw, the interior decorated with a shaded rûche of tulle running round the edge of the front. A large chou, with two ends of shaded orange-colored ribbon is placed on the right of the crown. Curtain and brides of the same. This dress is a very appropriate one for the season of the year-usually appearing at this time- and called, from its bright skies and balmy airs, the Indian summer.

Fig. 2.-A PROMENADE DRESS of striped barége of two shades of Pomona green, the body and sleeves perfectly plain ; manchettes of Mechlin lace ; Crispin of taffetas of a rich deep lilac, trimmed all round with a deep white lace, headed with a rûche of lilac ribbon of a moderate width ; the square collar ornamented to match. A nœud of silk cord, from which depends two long tassels is placed at the bottom of each arm hole, which are also beautifully embroidered all round, as well as the Crispin, the whole doublee'd with white silk. Bonnet of the capote form the brim ornamented with three narrow folds ; the crown and interior decorated with wreaths of purple convolvulus.

Fig. 3.-A WALKING DRESS of great beauty. It is needless to remark that the materials of all these dresses may be altered, at the taste of the wearer. And in passing we must call attention to the very elegant cap represented in No. 6. The cap is à la Hollandaise, formed of white tulle, surrounded with a light broad white lace, double at the ears ; a twist of ribbon striped green and white, is placed round the caul, attached on the outside with a roseatte and two ends of the same, the left side decorated with a splendid rose nude pink and white. Our late advices from London and Paris contain patterns of two very distingué looking costumes, one of them composed of poult de soie, the color tourterelle ; the jupe ornamented with two pinked rûches, placed at a great distance one from the other ; the corsage tight and very low, à pointe arrondie ; the sleeves perfectly plain. Camail of black lace, ornamented all around with a double row of bouillonnées trimming in black satin. The other dress of a beautitul sea green, trimmed en tablier, with an embroidery in soutache, the corsage half high, and fitting tight to the figure ; the waist d pointe, and rather lengthened plain sleeves ; the camail formed of four rows of English lace, each row separated with a small rûche of pink taffetas ribbon. Nothing can equal the rage for les robes soutachées, particularly since this pretty style of work has been so much improved upon and simplified. We now see it upon all sorts of materials, such as mousselines laine bazinées, worked in alternate colors of white and orange thread ; also cloths of the Gange color of the aloes, and a hundred other descriptions of stuffs. This style of trimming is, however, only used for the ornamenting of morning costumes. An evening dress of great beauty is of blue Pekin silk, the jupe very full, and trimmed down the left side with three broad folds of either the same or arcophane, the third fold being decorated with six choux or roscattes of the same material as the dress ; low corsage, the upper part formed of folds caught in the centre of the back, and on the shoulders with a narrow band, the folds being brought down into the waist in front and crossed ; the centre of the bust ornamented with a roseatte ; short tight sleeves, having a double frilling of


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 usual time, before my uncle Toby sallied out.

uncle Toby had scarce turned the corner of his yew hedge, which separated his kitchen garden from his bowling green, when he perceived the corporal had began the attack without him.

Let me stop and give you a picture of the corporal's apparatus; and of the corporal himself in the height of this attack just as it struck my uncle Toby, as he turned towards the sentry box, where the corporal was at work,—for in nature there is not such another,—nor can any combination of all that this grotesque and whimsical in her works produce its equal.

The corporal


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. a few minutes she heard distinctly the clash of steel, and all the tumult of a fight. Instantaneously two or three horsemen dashed back toward the litter, and ordered it to retreat at an accelerated pace, by a byeroad apparently hidden from general observation, so much did it look like a mere indentation in the hill. The bearers plunged into the dark narrow lane on the word, and directly were completely hidden from observation, while the shouts of the combatants, and the clashing of their sabres grew fainter on the ear. The sudden hope which had been aroused in Haidai's bosom by the appearance of succor now gave way ; her despair became uncontrollable ; and for the first time since her capture she gave way to a flood of tears.

She was recalled to her recollection at length by the sound as of some one dashing through a neighboring jungle, and on the instant she beheld a horsemen emerge at full speed into the narrow lane, followed by three or four spahis. She saw at once they had come to her rescue, for they charged instantly on the bearers, one or two of whom they cut down in a twinkling, the rest only saving themselves by flight. In less time than we have taken to describe it the field had been cleared, and Haidai remained alone with her rescuers. The scene had passed so quick that it seemed like a dream. Their leader instantly advanced toward her. With the instinctive modesty of her sex she drew her veil still closer around her, yet not so close but she could notice the manly form and gallant bearing of the officer who now approached her. "Will your highness," said he, " entrust yourself to us-my spahis shall bear you to the main body, which has, I trust, driven your captors from the field. Luckily I saw you borne down this narrow bye-lane, and came to your rescue." There was something so musical in the deep rich tone of the speaker- something so deferential in his demeanor that the princess was taken by surprise, and remained silent for a moment. At length she spoke. "You have won the thanks of the Rajah, and of," and she hesitated, she knew not why, and then continued, " myself for your gallantry. Be assured we shall not forget it ask any boon-promotion, wealth, anything -and I will ensure it to you." "It is enough to have saved you," said the officer, with a devotion the princess could not fail to perceive, and yet a devotion tempered with such humility that she could not find offence at it. She blushed deeply at his words, but made no reply, only motioning her hand to signify that she was willing to submit herself to his care. The spahis at once assumed the place of bearers, and the little cavalcade moved briskly back toward the road they had left. As they approached it they heard the clattering of horses' hoofs, and soon found themselves

surrounded by a troop of cavalry which Haidai recognized as belonging to her father. Immediately the troops parted, and an officer approached, whom she knew as one in high rank at her father's court. In measured and stately terms he assured her of her safety. But when he had finished his pompous harangue, and she looked around for her real deliverer, she found that he was no longer to be seen. CHAPTER III. WHо can fathom the thousand shapes which LOVE assumes, or the ten thousand avenues through which he finds his way to the heart ? Haidai hitherto had never loved, her heart had been as free as her own mountain air, and she had yielded passively to her father's wish for her marriage, as much because she knew nothing of the passion as because such was the custom of her nation. Now, however, she regarded her approaching union in a different light. Even since the night when the unknown young soldier had rescued her from the hands of her captors, she had dwelt upon his image with an interest which was a puzzle even to herself. And yet, though she made many efforts, she could not drive him from her heart. His manly figure was always before her. His low deep musical voice was ever ringing in her ears. She saw him constantly in her memory, as he appeared when he approached her, after having saved her from the hands of her captor. That look of lofty courage tempered with deferential awe recurred to her when sitting among her slaves, or idling the afternoon away on her divan. Was she not in love ? It may seem strange, but Haidai had never since seen or heard of her deliverer. Yet when we call to mind the seclusion in which an oriental princess spends her days our wonder diminishes. Haidai had ventured indeed once or twice a hint respecting him, but she found that her father's high officer had taken all the credit to himself, and that the merit of her deliverer was in fact unknown. Thus discouraged in her enquiries, the princess hesitated to ask further; especially since the emotions of love which already had possession of her bosom, made her shrink with instinctive delicacy from questions which might betray her feelings. Love nursed in secret has no cure, since it lives on the ideal perfection of its object, and that ideal perfection is never destroyed by the reality. Thus the love of Haidai increased until it had attained an intensity which threatened to consume her being. Her usual amusements failed to yield her pleasure ; she no longer smiled when her slaves danced around her ; but she would sit for hours on her cushions, wrapped in a reverie which nothing seemed sufficiently powerful to dissipate. And daily she pined away. Her melancholy was increased by the approach of her union, since she no longer had a heart to bestow on her future husband. Oh ! what