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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, June 07, 1846, Image 1

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Sun an wl’
VOL. I. NO. 27.
At 41 Ann St reet,
Or One Dollar a Year in Advance by Mail.
Will be inserted at the rate of One Dollar per Square
/ (of sixteen lines) the first insertion, and Fifty Cents for
every subsequent insertion. Advertisements for a lon
ger period at the same rate.
[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]
D-oung sljnsk.
GouT.-rWe shall occupy our space to-day, by
copying, in extenso, the rational views of Dr.
Dickson, in reference to this fashionable disease:
“ Gout? What do they mean by it ? You may
ask them that, indeed. Crabbe, who studied phy
sic, but left the profession in early life to take or
ders, when describing some of the doctors of his
day, among other things, tells us,
“‘One to the tbe Gout contracts All human pain,
He viewsit raging on the trantic brain,
Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar,
And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh.’
Gout, then, may be anything you please ; for ac
cording to the received opinion, this offspring of
Nox and Erebus, this vox preterea nihil, takes
shapes as many and Protean as there have been
authors to treat of it. This mnch I may venture
to tell you, that nothing will so soon help a man
to a chariot as to write a book with Gout for its
title —for being supposed to be a disease peculiar
to aristocracy, every upstart is fain to effect it.—
You cannot please a mushroom squire, or a retir
ed shop-keeper better, than by telling him his
disease is “Gout” —“Gout suppressed”—“Gout
retrocedent”—“ Gout” in this place, or “ Gout”
in that I And what is Gout 1
“ ‘ Of all our vanities the motliest—
The merest word that ever fooled the ear,
From out the schoolman’s jargon Byron.
sober seriousness, is there such a disorder
as Gout? Gentlemen, as a “ counter to reckon
by,” you may use the word ; having first so far
made yourselves acquainted with its real mean
ing that nobody shall persuade you that it is in
itself anything but a piece of hypothetical gibbe
rish, invented by men who knew as little of Dis-
Sase and its nature as the tyros they pretended
to illuminate. When a lady or gentleman of a
certain age complains to you of a painful swell
„ ing in some of the small joints of the hand or
* foot, you m ty say, if you please, that such per
son has got the Gout. It the same kind of swel
ling should appear in the knee or/tip joint, or take
the shape of an enlarged gland or a rubicund
nose, you must then change your phrase; and
you may easily exhaust a volume in pointing out
the differences betwixt them. But as neither
this kind of disquisition, nor the baptizing your
patient’s by one name or another, can in the very
least help you to cure it, I may just as well ex
plain to you that this swelling, like every other
malady incident to man, is not only a develop
ment of constitutional disease, but comes on in
Jfts or paroxysms.
Now, Gentlemen, you will find this fit in one
case perfectly periodic and regular in its recur
rence; in another less determinate as to the time
of its approach The result of repeated parox
ysms, as in other diseases where great heat and
swelling take place, must be a tendency to de
composition, and in this instance, the productfor
the most part is a deposit oi chalky or earthy
matter. In that case nobody will dispute the
name you have given to the disorder ; but should
the result of the of the decomposing action be pu
rulent matter or ichor, instead of chalk or earth,
—which neither you nor any body else can know
beforehand.— 1 you must not be astonished if a ri
val practitioner be called in to give the disease
another soubriquet,—to christen it anew by some
other phonic combination full us indefinite as
the first, and which may thus serve you both to
dispute about very prettily from one of the .year
to the other, without either of you becoming a
whit the wiser! You see, then, that the only dif
ference betwixt what is called “Inflammation,”
is, that the result of the morbid action in the for
mer case is earthly instead of purulent deposit, a
solid instead of product Now, this dif
ference may be accounted for. partly by heredi
tary predisposition, and partly by the age of the
x respective subjects of each. Young plan ts con
tain more sap than old ones; the diseases
of both must therefore in some points vary.; for
though in the blood of the old or middle aged
man we find the same elemental principles as that
*■* of infancy and youth, from their being in differ
ent proportions, the results of decomposition
must, muiah's, mutandis, be different. What are
the causes of Gout ? One writer says one thing;
another, another. Dr. Holland, Physician Ex
traordinary to the Queen, is among the latest who
. has written upon the subject, and he says the
cause is “ a morb d ingredient in the blood ; nay
he says, “it cannot be denied.” Still, not only
do I presume to dispute the dictum, but I chal
lenge him to bring forward a title of proof in sup
port of it. His whole doctrine of Gout, I appre
hend, is a fallacy ; for if you enquire, the patient
will tell you that ne took too much Wine the
night before his first fit; or that he had got Wet'.
or had been exposed to the East Wind ; or haa
been Vexed by some domestic matter. From
which you see, the causes of Gout are anything
and everything that may set up any other disease
Small pox and the other Contagious Fevers of
course excepted.
“A paroxysm of Gout has been actually
brought on by loss of blood and also by a purge,
for whicn statement, if you will not believe me,
you may take the authority of Parr and Darwin.
What, then, is the remedy ? If you ask me for a
specific. I must again remind you that there is no
such thing in physic ; and what is more, the man
who understands his profession would never
dream of seeking a specific for any disorder
whatever. No, the remedies for Gout are the
same as cure other diseases; namely, attention
to temperature during the fit. and the exhibition
of the chrono-thermal or ague medicines dur? 7
the remission— for we have seen that, like inc
ague, it is a periodic disorder, and such is the
description given of it by Sydenham, who was
half his life a martyr to it—to say nothing of Dr.
Samuel Johnson’s explanation in his dictionary.
That it comes on like the ague with cold shiver
ings, the experience of almost every case will tell
you ; but as your minds may be too much occu
/ pied with school theories to mark that fact for
yourselves, I will give it to you in black and
white in the words of Darwin. Speaking of
some cases of the disease, he says: “The pa
tients, after a few days, were both of them af
fected with cold fits like ague-fits, and their feet
became affected with Gout.” To meet it in a
proper manner you must treat the disease purely
as an ague. Every day you hear people talk of
the “ principle” of a thing, but really without
knowing what they are talking about. The true
meaning of the word principle is unity— some
thing simple or single to which you may special
ly refer in the midst of an apparently conflicting
variety. That a Perfect unity of type pervades
all the variations of disease is indisputable, and
of the correctness of a unity or principle to guide
your treatment, there is as little doubt. What,
then, are all your school-divisions but ‘flocci,
nauci, nihili, pili ’’ ”
The learned author then proceeds to detail
cases of gout cured by the chrono-thermal prac
tice, which are interesting, but we have no room
for them.
[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]
®l)e JJropljag.
It was a dark and stormy night in the month of
December, off the coast of Wicklow —the wind
was blowing on the land, the air was piercing
cold, and the vivid flashes of lightning that now
and then darted from the clouds,and lit up the hea
vens for a moment served only to shew the foam
ing and angry waves dashing against the black
, and battered cliffs, which rose giant-like from the
bosom of the ocean, to the heighth of some hun
dred feet. It seemed as if the elements were at
war with each other ; while the screams of a
solitary eagle, as it flew to its eyre in the cliffs,
echoed like some troubled spirit of the deep.—
Some distance down the cliff, and partly shelter
ed from the rain by a projecting rock, a couple of
, men were standing, dressed in the garb of fish
ermen, and seemed as if on watch.
“ It’s a dreadful night,Peter,” said the young
er of the two, breaking silence; “and the cap
tain, too, seems more gloomy than he used to
“ So well he may, Andy; he has good reasons
for being so,” rejoined the other.
“How so I But hark! What’s that? Did you
not hear a noise ?”
“ I heard nothing but the howling of the wind.”
“I’m sure I heard a shriek; it was like a wo
“It may be so,” answered Peter, “they say
the ghost of Mary Clare roams about here on
stormy nights, looking for her son, whom the
captain knocked on the head; but I don’t credit
all that’s said.”
“How did it happen?” asked Andy, drawing
closer to his companion, “you know I was on
the French side of the water at the time.”
, “He did it in a drunken fit. It was just such
another night as this. The wind howled ; the
rain fell in torrents, and the lightning flashed,
till it seemed as if the heavens were on fire. I’ll
never forget that dreadful night. We were all in
in the cavern—Mary Clare and her son among
the rest; we had made a capital run of brandy
and lace, and were making merry on it ? ~ The
captain wasjthree sheets in the wind ; and some
how or other, had taken a dislike to Clare, for
something he had done, and he commenced
abusing him. Clare was a flerv youth ; warm
words passed between them ; and the Captain,
in the heat of passion picked up an iron crow
bar, and before any one could interfere, struck
him over the head with it, and he fell a lifeless
corse at his mother’s feet. Mary Clare was stu
pefied. She bent over her son, and for some time
could hardly believe that life had departed. We
raised her from the floor, but an awful change
had taken place ; every feature in her’ face be
trayed the passion that was boiling within. Her
hair fell in dishevelled locks down her shoulders,
and her eyes almost starting from their sockets;
and her terrible denunciations still ring in my
ears, as she prophecied that he would one day
leave himself as childless and destitute as he had
left her!”
“ And what became of her ?”
“ I don’t know. She was supposed to have
fallen off some of the cliffs—for she rushed like
a madwoman from the cavern, and has never
been heard of since. From that time every sort
of ill luck has befel the captain; his lugger was
taken by a revenue cutter after a desperate fight,
in which his son was taken prisoner, and after
wards transported. But listen 1 Didn’t you hear
the report of a gun ?”
A low, booming sound, followed, in rapid suc
cession by others, struck on the ear.
“ It’s her! hand me your glass! Yes, there
she is, rolling in the trough of the sea; she’s a
complete wreck, and coming broadside on,” said
Peter, as he held the glass to his eye. " Come,
let us away; you to the captain, while Igo and
inform some of the rest,” and so saying, he com
menced scaling the cliffs.
About half a mile from where tfie men were
statitnad on the cliffs, was a small hovel or hut,
composed of the timbers of wrecked vessels,
roughly put together. The inside was as wretch
ed as the outside. A few rough boards, nailed
up in one corner served fora bed-room; the chim
ney was built of loose stones, against the wall, and
a small window in the gable end, admitting
the only light they obtained. Beside a fire on
the hearth, a woman was seated, her pinched
up and cadaverous features, made her appear at
least fifty years old ; but the miserable and wo
begone expression of her countenance seemed to
say, that it was owing more to hard treatment
and ill usage, than to the hand of time, that made
her appear so old. She kept moving herself for
ward and backwards on her seat, heedless of the
contending elements without, and to the rain that
fell in torrents,Jand kept oozing through the time
worn rafters of the building, forming puddles
here and there on the floor. Sitting at a table,
on the opposite side, was a stout, rough-looking
man. A bottle and large silver goblet, probably
the property of some unfortunate individual who
had been wrecked on the coast, stood on the ta
ble before him. There was something in his
aspect that was not pleasant. He was powerful
ly made, and few, to judge by his looks, would
wish his company. He was dark complexioned
—his eyes pierced like burning coals from under
his shaggy black eye brows, while a cut across
his right eye and cheek partly concealed by a
slouched hat gave him a desperate and sinister
appearance. Such is the description of the per
son mentioned by the two men on the lookout
as being their captain.
“ Well, is there any news ?’\he asked, as one
of them entered. “Is she in sight?”
“ Yes, she is,” and stooping down he whisper
ed something into the others ear, which at once
made him start to his feet and putting on his
jacket they were about to leave the house to
“And where are ye going, husband, at such
an hour?” inquired the woman who had been
awakened by the talking.
“ Only going down to the cave,” he said, turn
ing away from her piercing gaze.
“ Ye can’t deceive me, husband alanna, its
somethin’ else yer about, I know it well.”
“And what makes ye think it somethin’else,”
he said, getting angry at her holding him fast
before his companion.
“ O Patrick, dear, I had such a drame to-night,
I thought that I seen Morris coming out of the
sea all dripping wet and stand beside me ! Don’t
go! On me knees I beg it of you.”
“ Get up out of that, woman, and let me pass
you,” he said, trying to shake her oft'. “ Let me
pass, I say.”
“ No, no, no. You may kill me if you like,”
answered the woman, bursting into tears ; “but
don't lave me, Patrick, think ov yer son if he
was on the sea to-night, remember the prophecy
and don’t do so.”
“ Let me pass,” he said, raising up a stick
which he had in his hand threateningly.
“Strike or kill me, or do anything you plaze,
but don’t go out. I know what yer about well
enough ; don’t do the wicked deed, Patrick.”
“ Will you let me go,” said the ruffian, getting
exasperated. “ Then take that for yer obstina
cy,” and saying so he struck her a blow over the
head with a stick, which stretched her on the
floor senseless, and stepping over the body he
left the house followed by the other.
Morning was fast approaching, and the gale
still continued increasing, the driving scud seem
ed to rival the lightning in speed as it swept by
in masses and partly obscured as yet the slight
glimmer of daylight. The vessel was yet about
five miles distant. On, on, she came; the sea
making clean breaches over her, and at evety
wave consigning fresh victims to a watery grave.
It was?a shocking sight to see so many people
hurrying into eternity ! One tremendous billow
came thundering and rolling on in the wake of
the ill-fated vessel, dashing the spray about in
clouds as it advanced, and catching her amid
ships it lifted her high on its snowy crest, and
then, sinking away, deposited her with a heavy
surge on the treacherous bank which lines the
coast. Some few attempted to save themselves
by one of the boats which they had launched
under the lee of the vessel, but the waves as if
laughing to scorn their feeble efforts dashed
them back again on the wreck with overwhelm
ing force, shivering their boat into a thousand
A small body of men had gathered on a point
or neck of land forming the boundary of a small
bay and were watching the vessel. Among
those was Gallaher, the name their captain went
by. He seemed to care little about the dreadful
storm that raged round him; the sea had no ter
rors for him and he laughed at the lightning—
that dreadful winged messenger of heaven—
which ever and anon flashed round him threat
ening him with] destruction. An associate o
hardened villians from his boyhood up, he han
braved death in many a form, until he became
familiarized with it. Many of his companions
had been hurried into untimely graves, while he
still escaped and seemed to bare a charmed life,
but this had no effect on the ruffian who still
plunged himself deeper and deeper into crime.
A short half hour had barely passed, and the
wreck had nearly disappeared from view in thi
angry waves. A few miserable beings held 01
to the mizen mast which was drifting toward
the shore, but their efforts became more feeble
at every moment, and one by one they dropped
off from their hold, either numbed by the cold o>
washed away by the breakers, which brok<
over them with terrific violence. One mat
stronger than the rest committed himself to th
waves and struck out for the shore in the hope o
being able to reach it; manfully he buffeted th
billows, but his strength failed him when withii
a few yards of the beach, the under-tow draggei
him away every time he attempted to obtain :
footing, until at last as if tired sporting with his
body it dashed him senseless on the beach.
He had not remained there long when Gallahei
espied him and going up gave the body a kick.
“ I wasn’t mistaken last night when I though
there ’ud be plenty of work before morning,’
said the brutal ruffian, breaking silence, “th
cock will never crow any more, and I may a
well see what he has got about him,” and suitin:
the action to the words he commenced riflin
his pockets. “A watch too,” he resumed wit
a sneer, “ he’s quite a prize, but as he doesn
want to know the time of day now, of course it
no use to him.”
At this moment the man whom he suppose
; dead moved and made him start back with a
fright, but it was only for an instant, for takin
1 up a piece of broken oar he struck the unfortu
nate man across tbe head with it, and then
stooping down he endeavored to pass the chain
and watch over the man’s neck when a heavy
c’ap of thunder accompanied by a flash of light
ning disclosed to his view the features cf the
man whom he had murdered, and with a horrible
cry he fell motionless across the body.
Some of his companions who were near at
hand, attracted by their captains cries, ran for
ward to see what was the matter. Lifting him
up they perceived life had’departed, and on ex
amining the other body they were horrified to
find that it was his convict son. Mary Clare's
prophecy was fulfilled!
“Ha, ha, fia! I knew it’ud come to this!”
shrieked a shrill voice near at hand, that made
the blood curdle in the veins of the men that
were listening.
“It’s her! It’s her !” shouted one of the men
starting up, “ it’s Mary Clare’s ghost! ” and
tumbling over one another they fled from the
spot, without once looking from whence the
cries came.
A party of the Coast Guard next day discover
ed the bodies, as also that of a female. It was
the wrecker’s wife ; recovering from the effects
of the blow she had received, she followed her
husband, and it was her voice that frightened the
rest away.
A small spot of ground marked by a cross is
still pointed out as the place where they are bur
ied, and the fishermen round that coast always
avoid going near the place after nightfall, as they
aver that the wrecker’s ghost still lingers round
the place, and more than one vessel that has been
wrecked there since, has been ascribed to him.
3 will!
“You look sober, Laura. What has thrown
a veil over your happy face V 1 said Mrs. Cleve
land to her neice one morning, on finding her
alone, and with a very thoughtful countenance.
“Do I really look sober?” and Laura smiled
as she spoke.
“You did just now; but the sunshine has al
ready dispelled the transient cloud. lam glad
that a storm was not portending.”
“I felt sober, aunt,” Laura said, after a few
moments—her face again becoming serious.
“ So I suppose from your looks.”
“ And I feel sober still.”
“I am really discouraged, aunt.”
“ About what ?”
The maiden’s cheek deepened its hue, but she
did not reply.
“You and Harry have not fallen out, like a
pair of foolish lovers, I hope.”
“ Oh, no!” was the quiet and emphatic answer.
“ Then what has troubled the quiet waters of
your spirit ? About what are you discouraged ?”
“ I will tell you,” the maiden replied. “It was
only about a week after my engagement with
Harry, that I called upon Alice Stacy and found
her quite unhappy. She had not been married
over a few months. I asked what troubled her,
and she said, ‘ I feel as miserable as I can be.’
‘ But what makes you miserable, Alice ?’ I in
quired. 5 Because, William and I have quarrel
ed ; that’s the reason,’ she said with some levity,
tossing her head and compressing her lips with a
kind of defiance. , I was shocked—so much so,
that I could not speak. ‘ The fact is,’ she resum
ed, before I could reply, ‘ all men are arbitrary
and unreasonable. They think women inferior
to them, and their wives as a higher order of
slaves. But lam not one to be put under any
man’s feet. William has tried that trick with
me, and failed. Of course, to be foiled by a wo
man is no very pleasant thing for one of
your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot
was the consequence. But I did not yield the
point in dispute ; and what is more, have no idea
of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or
later, that I am his equal in every way ; and the
quicker he can be made conscious of this, the
better for us both. Don’t you think so ?’ I made
no answer. I was too much surprised and
shocked. ‘ All men,’ she continued, ‘ have to be
taught this. There never was a husband who
did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife.
And there never was a woman, whose condition
as a wife, was at all above that of a passive
slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose
herself at first with unflinching perseverance.’
“ To all this, and a great deal more, I could say
nothing. It choked me up. Since then, I have
met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, but
she has never looked happy. Several times she
has said to me, in company, when I have taken
a seat beside her, and remarked that she seemed
dull. ‘ Yes, lam dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you
see, enjoys himself. Men always enjoy them
selves in company; apart from their wives, of
course.’ I would sometimes oppose to this, a
sentiment palliative of her husband ; as, that in
company, a man very naturally wished to add his
mite to the general joyousness, or something of
like nature. But it only excited her. and drew
forth remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to
this day they do not appear to be on any bette r
'erms. Then, there is Frances Glenn, married
only three months, and as fond of carping at her
husband for his arbitrary domineering spirit, as
is Mrs. fctacy. I could name two or three others,
who have been married, some a shorter and some
a longer period, that do not seem to be united by
any closer bonds.”
“It is the condition of these young friends,
aunt, that causes me to feel serious. lam to be
married in a few weeks. Can it be possible that
my union with Henry Armour will be no happier
no more perfect than theirs ? This I cannot be
lieve. And yet, the relation that Alice and Fran
ces hold to their husbands, troubles me whenev
er I think of it. Henry, as far as I have been
able to understand him, has strong points in his
character. From a right course of action, or from
a course of action that he thinks right, no consi
deration, I am sure, would turn him. I, too,
have mental characteristics somewhat similar.
There is, likewise, about me a leaven of stub
bornness. I tremble, when the thought of oppo
sition between us, upon any subject, crosses my
mind. I would rather die —so I feel about it—
than ever have a misunderstanding with my hus
Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now
perceived, much agitated, arose and left the room
without speaking. The reason of this, to Laura,
was unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, al
ways so mild so calm, to be thus strongly dis
turbed ! What could it mean? What could
there be in her maidenly fears to excite the feel
ings of one so good, and wise, and gentle ? An
hour afterwards, and while she yet sat, sober and
perplexed in mind, in the same place where Mrs.
Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in, and
said her aunt wished to see her in her own room.
Laura attended her immediately. She found her
calm and self-possessed, but paler than usual.
“ Sit down beside me, dear,” Mrs. Cleaveland
said, smiling faintly, as her neice came in.
“ What you said this morning, Laura,” she be
gan after a few moments, “ recalled my own ear
ly years so vividly, that I could not keep down
emotions I had deemed long since powerless.—
The cause of these emotions, it is now, 1 clearly
see,my duty to reveal—that is, to you. For years
( have carefully avoided permitting my mind to
go back to the past in vain musings over scenes
hat bring no pleasant thoughts no glad feelings.
[ have rather looked into the future with a steady
wpe, a calm reliance. But for your sake, I will
Iraw aside the veil May the relation lam now
ibout to give you, have the effect I desire. Then
[ shall not suffer.in vain. How v ; vidly at this
noment, do I remember the joyful feelings that
•ervaded my bosom, when, like you, a maiden,
[ looked forward to my wedding-day. Mr. Cleve
and was a man, in many respects, like Henry
Irmour. Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable,
vhen not opposed ; a man with whom I might
lave been supremely happy; a man whose faults
might have corrected—not by open opposition
0 them—not by seeming to notice them—but by
eading him to see them himself Butthis course
did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-will
fl ; I was unyielding. Elements like these can
ever come in opposition without a victory on
ither side being as disastrous as the defeats.—
Ye were married. Oh, how sweet was the pio
iiise of my wedding-day ! Of my husband I was
ery fond. Handsome, educated, and with tai
ents of a high order, there was everything about
him to make the heart of a young wife proud.—
Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in
Elysium passed the first few days of our wedded
life. Our thoughts and wishes were one. After
that, gradually a change appeared to come over
my husband. He deferred less readily to my
wishes. His own will was more frequently op
posed to mine, and his contentions for victory,
longer and longer continued. This surprised and
pained me. But it did not occur to me that my
tenaciousness of opinion might seem as strange
to him, as his did to me. It did not occur to me
that there would be a propriety in my deferring
to him—at least so far as to give up opposition.
I never for a moment reflected, that a proud, firm,
spirited man might be driven off from an oppos
sing wife, rather than drawn closer, and united
in more tender bonds. I only perceived my rights
as an equal assailed. And from that point of
view, saw his conduct as dogmatical and over
bearing, whenever he resolutely set himself
against me, as was too frequently the case.
“ One day—we had then been married about
six months—he said to me, a little seriously, yet
smiling as he spoke, ‘ Jane, did I not I see you
in the street this morning?’ ‘You did,’ I replied.
‘And with Mrs. Corbin?’ ‘Yes.’ My answer
to this last question was not given in a very plea
sant tone. The reason was this : Mrs. Corbin, a
recent acquaintance, was no favorite with my
husband ; and he had more than once mildly sug
gested, that she was not in his view, a fit associ
ate for me. This rather touched my pride. It
occurred to me that 1 ought to be the best judge
cf my female associates, and that for my hus
band to make any objection on his part, that, as
wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on
previous occasions, say anything very decidedly,
contenting myself with parrying his objections,
laughingly. This time, however, I was in a less
forbearing mood. ‘I wish you would not make
that woman your friend,’ he said, after I admit
ted he was right in his observation. ‘And why
not, pray ?’ I asked, looking at him quite steadi
ly. ‘ For reasons before given, Jane,’ he replied,
mildly, but firmly. ‘ There are. reports in circu
lation touching her character that I fear are ’
‘They are false!’ I interrupted him; ‘I know
they are false!’ I spoke with sudden excitement-
My voice trembled, my cheek burned, and I was
conscious that my eye shot forth no mild light.
‘ They are true ; I know they are true !’ he said,
sternly, but apparently unruffled. ‘I don’t be
lieve it,” I retorted. ‘ I know her far better.
She is an injured woman.’,
“Jane,” my husband now said, his voice
slightly trembling, ‘ you are my wife. As such,
your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of
my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs Co
rbin, and that suspicion I have good reason for
believing well founded. If you associate with
her —if you are’seen upon the street with her,
your fair fame will receive a taint. This I can
not permit.”
“There was, to my mind, a threat contained
in the last sentence—a threat of authoritative in
tervention. At this my pride took fire.
“ Cannot permit,” I said drawing myself up.—
“ What do you mean, Mr. Cleveland ?”
“The brow of my husband instantly flushed.
He was silent for a moment or two. Then, he
with forced calmness, yet in a resolute, meaning
tone, said,
“Jane I do not wish you to keep company with
Mrs. Corbin.”
“ I wilt.” was my indignant reply
His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his
whole frame trembled as it some fearful struggle
were going on within. Then he quietly arose,
and without looking at me left the room. Oh,
how deeply did I regret uttering those unhappy,
words, the instant they were spoken ! But repen-'
tance came too late. For about the space of ten
minutes,pride struggled with affection and duty.
—At the end of that time, the' latter triumphed,
and I hastened after my husband to ask his for
giveness for what I had said. But he was not in
the parlors. He was not in the house ! I asked
a servant if she had seen him, and received for
reply that he had gone out.
Anxiously passed the hours until night-fall.—
The sad twilight, as it gathered dimly around,
threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My hus
band usually came home before dark. Now he
was away beyond his accustomed hour. Instead
of returning gladly to meet his young wife, he
was staying away, because that young wife had
thrown off the attraction oflove and presented to
him features hard and repulsive. How anxious
ly I longed to hear the sound of his footsteps—to
see his face—to hear his voice. The moment of
his entrance I resolved should be the moment of
my humble confession of wrong—of my faithful
promise never to set up my will in opposition to
his judgement. But minute after minute passed
after nightfall—hours succeeded minutes—and
these rolled on until the whole night wore away,
and he came not back to me. As the grey light
of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear
took hold of me that made my heart grow still in
my bosom—the fear that he would never return,
—that I had driven him off from me. Alas! this
fear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that
day was passed, and the next and the next, with
out any tidings. No one had seen him since he
left me. An anxious excitement spread among
all his friends. The only account I could give
ofhirn was, that he parted from me in goodhealth
and in a sane mind.
A week rolled by, and still no word came, I
was nearly distracted. What I suffered no
tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have often
wondered that I did not become insane. But,
from this sad condition I was saved Through
all, my reason, though often trembling, did not
once forsake me. It was on the tenth day from
that which we had jarred so heavily as to be dri
ven widely asunder, that a letter came to.mepost
marked New York, and endorsed ‘in haste.’ My
hands trembled so that I could with difficulty
break the seal. The contents were to the effect
that my husband had been lying for several days
at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past
the crisis of his disease, and thought by the phy
sicians to be out of danger. The writer urged
me, from my husband, to come on immediately.
In eight hours from the time I received the let
ter, I was in New York. Alas ! it was too late
The disease had returned with double violence,
and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never
saw my husband’s living face again.
The self possession of Mrs. Cleveland, at this
portion of the narrative gave way. Covering
her face with her hands, she sobbed violently
while the tears came trinkling through her fin
‘ My dear Laura, she resumed, after the lapse
of many minutes, looking up as she spoke with a
clear eye, and a sober, but placid countenance,
“ it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze
resolutely back. May the painful history I have
given you make a deep impression on your heart
—Let it warn you of the sunken rock upon which
my heart foundered. Avoid carefully, religious
ly avoid setting yourself in opposition to your
husband. Should he prove unreasonable or ar
bitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing
to be lost by contention. By gentleness, by for
bearance, by even suffering wrong at times, you
will be able to win him over to a better spirit.—
An opposite course will as assuredly put thorns
in your pillow as you adopt it. Look at the un
happy condition of the friends you have named.
Their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, do
mineering tyrants. But this need not be. Let
them act truly the woman’s part. Let them not
oppose but yield, and they will find that theirpre
sent tyrants will become their lovers. Above all,
never, under any circumstances, either jestingly,
or in earnest, say ‘ /will,’ when you are opposed.
That declaration is never made without its rob
bing the wife of a portion of her husbands confi
dence and love. Its utterance has dimmed the
fire upon many a hearthstone.
Laura could not reply. The relation of her
aunt had deeply shocked her feelings. But the
words she had uttered sunk into her heart; and
when the trial came—when she was tempted to
set her will in opposition to her husband’s, and
resolutely contend for what she deemed right, a
thought of Mrs. Cleaveland’s story would put a
seal upon her lips. It was well. The character
of Henry Armour too nearly resembled that of
Mr. Cleaveland. He could illy have brooked a
wifes opposition. But hertendernes, her forbear
ance, her devoted love, bound her to him with
cords that grew closer and closer each revolving
year. She never opposed him further than to
express a difference of opinion when such a dif_ i
ference existed, and its utterance was deemed
useful ; and she carefully avoided, on all occa
sions, the doing of anything that he in the smal
lest degree disapproved. The consequence was,
that her opinion was always weighed by him
carefully, and often referred to. A mutual confi -
dence, and a mutual dependence on each other,
gradually took the place of early reserves, and
now they sweetly draw together—now they
smoothly glide along the stream of life blessed
indeed in all their marriage relations. Who will
say that Laura did not act a wise part? Who
will say, that in sacrificing pride and self will,
she diduot gain beyond all calculation ? Noone
surely. She is not her husband’s slave, but his
companion and equal. She has helped to reform
to remodel his character, and make him less ar
bitrary, less self-willed, less disposed to be ty
rannical In her mild forbearance, he had seen
a beauty more attractive far than hp, or cheek or
beaming eye. Instead of looking upon his wife
as below him, Henry Armouur feels that she is
superiep, and as such, he tenderly regards and
lovingly cheerishes her. He never thinks of obe
dience from her, but rather studies to conform
himself to her most lightly spoken wish. Tobe
thus united, what wife will not for a time sacri
fice her feelings when her young, self willed hus
band so far forgets himself as to become exact
ing. The temporary loss will turn out in the fu
ture to be a great gain.
Capture of a Wljate.
An Interesting Sketch.
[We read a few days since, in one of the East
ern papers, of the pursuit of a whale, which had
imprudently ventured into one of the bays of
Cape Cod, was and captured, after a spirited chase
which lasted for several hours. The incident
brought freshly to our remembrance a stirring de
scription of a similar exploit, in which Yankee
skill and daring were conspicuously exhibited,
to the mortification of English, Dutch and Span
ish whalers, all of whom participated in the
chase only to be beaten by Captain Seth Colman
and his Nantucket boys. We should add that
the sketch, which we subjoin, is from “ Miriam
Coffin, or the Whale-fisherman," a tale published
twelve years ago, and the scene is laid in the
bay of Walwich, on the Western Coast of Africa,
in which lay, at the time of the incident so graphi
cally described, English, Spanish and Dutch
whale ships, and one vessel from Nantucket—the
Grampus, Capt. Seth Colman.]
“ Dull work !” said Seth, slowly pacing the
deck ; -‘ dull work,— by my hopes !—in this ac
cursed climate, where scorching airs blow from
the great Afric desert: —and as for amusement —
we may feast our eyes, if we like, by looking up
on armies of naked Hottentots, “ capering
ashote,” smeared with slush, and surfeiting upon
tainted blubber! —who mock us in our commands
as we coast along the bay, repeating, as they fol
low us, ourvery words like an echo, and mimic
ing our minutest actions, when we attempt to
make ourselves understood by signs. Poor
brutes! The Creator has smitten their continent
and their minds alike, with barrenness; and has
given to the one its arid plains, which defy the
hand of cultivation,—while the souls of the peo
ple are unblessed with the refreshing dews of in
telligence. But what boots it ?—they are hap
pier, in their ignorance, than we who boast of
knowledge, but who are restless in our desires
In one unceasing change of ebb and flow
The reflections of Seth upon the blessings of
■gunrance wsre interrupted!}; s thrilling cry from
the masthead.
“ Flocks—flooks !" was the welcome salutation
from aloft. The half eaten meal was broken off,
and the rush to the boats as tumultuous. It was
like that of an army of practised gladiators, in the
arena of the Coliseum. Tbe alarm was heard by
the crews of other ships ; and the intelligence
spread like wildfire that a whale was enteringthe
bay. Four boats were lowered —manned —and
put off from the Grampus, in less than half a mi
nute after the cry was uttered aloft. A hundred
other boats were immediately in motion, and
bearing down upon the animal. Some, however
took the precaution to separate from the rest, and
thus divided the chances of capture. None could
count with certainty upon striking the prey, for
his course was irregular while in pursuit of his
food. The whale is not a vicious animal, unless
wounded; and, if not frightened, will move off
sluggishly from his pursuers, and appear and dis
appearat regular intervals :—so that, if the direc
tion is well observed when he sinks, (or shows
his flooks, or forked tail as he dives,) a pretty ac
curate calculation may be made as to the place
of his reappearance.
The whalers, in the boats that had scattered,
had their share of excitement in turn; while those
who had headed the whale, when he sunk from
their sight for the first time, saw with mortifica
tion, by the indications of his flooks, that he had
already deviated largely from his first course.—
As a score of others were already near the spot
where he would next rise to blow, the first pur
suers naturally lay upon their oars; but they were
watchful of the event of the chase.
Macy, with his two mates, and an approved
boatsteerer, had each command of a separate
boat. The selection ot the crews for these boats
is in fact a matter of taste or favoritism with the
officers of the ship. The captain has the first pick
of the whole crew, and, if his judgment is good,
he chooses those of the most powerful limb and
muscle, quickness of apprehension, and readi
ness of execution. The next choice falls to the
first mate ; the second officer’ turn comes next;
and the siftings of the crew fall to the boatsteer
ers. It may readily bebelieved that Macy, who
was an experienced whaler, was altogether dis
creet in his choice, and had a crew of oarsmen
who might be pitted against any other crew of
the whole fleet. To say that they were Ameri
cans, aad experienced whale fishermen, is suffi
cient assurance, ofitself, that they were compe
titors for all whaling honors, against the whole
world. It is still, as it was eminently then, alto
gether un-American to admit of superiority in
this business. It was, therefore, with deep cha
grin that Macy saw the game escape him ; for
thus far he had led the van of the attaek ; while
the whalers in some fifty boats in the rear, if not
altogether content that he should be their leader,
were at least satisfied that to be beat by him was
no dishonor.
The Englishman, the Dane, the Dutchman the
Swede, as also representatives of other European
nations, where Macy’s ambitious competitors,
for the honor ofkilling the first whale of the sea
gon ; the long and the strong pull was exerted to
carry off the prize, and fair words of encourage
ment were offered, and enforced in the most
blanded and persuasive manner, by those who
controlled the boats. Some, uselessly enough,
where so many were engaged, pulled after the
animal in his devious course after food ; while
others rested on their oars to watch the result,
and to take advantage of his wanderings. The
scene was most animating and but a few minutes
served to scatter the boats in every direction—to
sprinkle the bay with dark moving spots ; to peo
ple it with life—sinewy life ; in short it was an
exhibition of one of the noblest of God’s creation
both animal and human, waging a war of exter
mination and threatening death and destruction
by collision.
The noble animal, —for it was a right whale of
the largest class, —held on its course up the bay,
scooping its food from time to time, and annihi
lating its thousands of small fish at a dive; lea
ving the boats far in the rear, and darting off in
new directions, until those who were most on the
alert, or rather those who pulled the most con
stantly, were fain to give up the chase and lie on
their oars. The whale approached the anchorage
ground of the ships; and its speed was increased
as it shoaled the water, in proportion to its eager
ness after itsflving victims. The smallfish, dri
ven beforejtheir huge devourer, clubbed together
and. concentrated in schools of such immense
magnitude, that the ships were surrounded, as it
were, with a dense mass of animal matter, hud
dling together for common safety and flying in
swarms, before their common enemy, like the
multitudinous and periodical flowings of the her
rings from the Greenland seas.
Intent upon his prey, the whale appeared un
conscious of the dangerous vicenage of the ships
and played among them with a temerity which
evinced a tameness, or perhaps an ignorance of
- dangers, that plainly showed that he had ne- i
ver been chased by the whaler, nor hurt by the i
harpoon. His eager pursuit after food, may how- i
ever, account for his recklessness ; for generally i
speaking the instinct ofthe whale is sufficientup- •
on ali occasions, to avoid an unusual object floa- 1
ting upon the water; and at such times the nicest i
stratagemof the art of the whaler is required to :
capture him.
The animal, gorged with its fishy meal, at last :
commenced its retreat from the bay ; and the
boats manoeuvred to head off as he retired. Obey
ing the instinct of his nature, he now showed his
flooks and vanished from the sight, before the
boats could get within striking distance. A cal
culation being made where he would appear (for
beneath the water the whale does not deviate
in a direct line in his horizontal progress) a ge
neral race ensued; and each strove as if life were
on the issue, to arrive first upon the spot. Some
fifteen or twenty minutes’ steady and vigorous
pulling found the foremost boats a full mile be
hind the whale, when he rose again to breathe- -
Several boats were unluckily ahead of Seth in
the chase, as their position at starting enabled
them to take the lead, when the animal began to
push for deeper water. But Seth’s men had been
resting on their oars, while nearly all others had
exhausted their strength in following the whale
among the ships; and the captain judged rightly
that in darling after his tiny prey ; he would lead
them all a bootless dance. He had determined
to wait for the retreat, and then to hang upon the
rear of the enemy. There were others, howe
ver, acquainted with the soundings of the bay,
whose tactics were scarce inferior to Seth’s ;
and the advantage gained over him by several
boats was proof of this, or at least of the superior
accuracy of their calculations. It was a long
time since Seth had given chase to an animal of
the right whale breed ;—he had grappled, of late
only with spermaceti;—and, therefore, it was
not to be wondered at, at this time, and under
the circumstances, that some of those around him
should beat him in manoeuvring in the bay. But,
in the steady chase, he knew that he could count
upon the speed and bottom of his boat’s crew
and he was now resolved to contest for the vic
“We have a clear field now, my boys—give
way steadily—we gain upon them—give the long
pull—the strong pull—and the pull altogether:—
keep her to it—heave ahead my hearties Such
were the words of Seth as with eyes steadilyfix
edupona certain point, and with his steering
oar slightly dipping at times, he guided the light
whaleboat unerringly towards the place where he
expected the whale to reappear. One by one he
had dropped his antagonists by the way, until
three only remained manfully struggling between
him and the prize. The whale again breathed
to the surface and the headmost boat and the ani
mal was found to be diminished to half a mile—
while the ships in the bay were run ‘ hull down,’
The pursuers were now out upon the broad
ocean. Those, who had abandoned theehase in
despair, were slowly returning to their ships.—
The rigging of the vessels was manned by anx
ious spectators, watching the motions of the tiny
specs out at sea, with beating hearts. The whale
again cast his flooks into the air, and sank from
the view of his pursuers. Now came the tug of
“ You must beat those foreigners ahead,” said
Seth to his men, “ or crack your oars ; they are
of good American ash, and will bear pulling,”
continued he. “ Give way with a will !—Pull—
pull, my lads; that whale will not sink again
' without a harpoon in his body ; —and ’twill ne
ver do to tell of at home, that we allowed men
of other nations to beat us. Keep your eyes stea
dily on your oars ; mark the stroke of the after
oar men—and give way for the credit of the
Here Seth braced himself in the sternsheets—
the steering oar with his left hand, and placed
his right foot against the after oar, just below the
hand ofthe oarsman.
“ Now pull for your lives!” said he. “ while I
add the strength of my leg to the oar ;—Once
more!—Again, my boys!—Once more—There we
pass the Spaniard !”
“ niabolo !” exclaimed the mortified native
of Spain.
The additional momentum of Seth’s foot, ap
plied to the stroke oar, had done the job ; but two
more boats were to be passed,—and quickly too,
or all the labor would be lost.
“ At it again, my boys!—steady—my God give
way !—give way for the honor of the Grampus-
One pull for old Nantucket!—and—there —we
have shown a clean pair of heels to the Dutch
man !”
“ Hagel!—Dander en blixem said the Hol
“ There is but one boat ahead,” said Seth.—
“It is the Englishman !—We must beat him too,
or we have gained nothing ! Away with her—
down upon him like men ! One pull for the Gram
pus, my boys !—another for old Natuck ”
The American now shot up alongside of the
English boat; but the honor of the nation, too,
was at stake : and they bent to their oars with
fresh vigor. Five athletic Englishman, each
with a bare chest that would have served for the
model of a Hercules,—with arms of brawn and
sinew,—swayed their oars with a precision and
an earnestness, that, for a minute, left the con
quest doubtful. The English commander seeing
how effectually Seth managed the stroke oar with
his foot, braced himself in a similar attitude of
exertion ; —and his boat evidently gained upon
the Nantucketer! Seth saw the increase of speed
of his rival with dismay. The whale, too, was
just rising ahead. The bubbles of his blowing,
and of his efforts at rising, were beginning to
1 ascend ! It was a moment of intense anxiety.—
The rushing train, or vortex of water, told that
!■ he was nearthe surface. Both commanders en
couraged their men anew by a single word; and
then, as if by mutual consent, all was silent, ex-
■ cept the long, measured, and vigorous stroke of
• the oars.
“ For old England, my lads !” shouted the
■ one.
1 “ Remember old Nantucket, my boys I’l was
■ the warcry of the other. Both plied the oars with
apparently equall skill; but the hot Englishman
! lost his temper as the boat of Seth shot up again,
1 head and head with him—and he surged his foot
■ so heavily upon the after oar, that it broke short
1 off in the rowlock! The blade of the broken oar
became entangled with the others on the same
side, while the after oarsman lost his balance,
1 and fell backward upon his leader.
■ “I bid thee good bye!” said Seth, as he shot
' “ Hell and damnation vociferated the En-
■ glishman.
“ Way enough—peak your oars!” said Seth
' to his men. The oars bristled apeak, after the
■ fashion of the whalefishermen. The harpooner
! immediately seized and balanced his weapon
; over his head, and planted himself firmly in the
' bow of the boat. At that instant the huge body
'■ of the whale rose above the surface; and Seth with
1 a single turn ofhis steeling oar, brought the bow
' dead upon the monster a few feet back of the fin.
’ Simultaneously with tfie striking of the boat, the
1 well poised harpoon was launched into the flesh
1 of the animal.
“ Starn all !" shouted Seth.
1 The boat was backed off in an instant; and the
whale, feeling the sting of the barb, darted off
like the wind ! The well coined line flew thro’
the grove of the bowpost with incomparable
’ swiftness and it presently began to smoke, and
then to blaze with the rapidity of the fricton.—
Seth now took the bow with his lance, exchan
ging places with the harpooner, and quietly pour
ed water upon the smoking grove, until it was
cooled. The oars were again peaked, and the
handles inserted in brackets fixed on the ceiling
of the boat beneath the thwarts—the blades pro
jecting over the water like wings ; and the men,
■ immoveable, rested from their long, but success
ful pull: and much need did they have of the re
lief, for a more arduous or better contested chase
they had never experienced.
The line in the tub was no w well nigh run out;
and the boatsteerer, with a thick buckskin mit
ten, or nipper, as it is called, for the protection
of his hand, seized hold of the line, and, in a
twinkling, caught a turn around the loggerhead,
to enable the man at the tub to bend on another
The rapidity of the animal’s flight, the while,
was inconceivable. The boat now ploughed
deeply and laboriously, leaving banks of water
on each side, as she parted the wave, that over
topped the men’s heads, and effectually obscur
ed the sight of every object on the surface. The
swell of the closing water came after them in a
heavy and angry rush. The second line was
now allowed to run slowly from the loggerhead;
and a drag, or plank about eighteen inches square,
with a line proceeding from each come., and
meeting at a point like a pyramid, was fastened
to it, and thrown over to deaden the speed of the
whale. Another and another drag were added,
until the animal, feeling the strong backward
pull, began to relax his efforts; and presently he
suddenly descended, though not to the full ex
tent of the slackened line.
It now became necessary to haul in the slack
of the line, and to coil it away in the tub care
fully ; while the men pulled with their oars, to
come up with the whale when he should rise to
the surface. All things were soon ready again
for the deadly attack.
The ripple of Ute whale he was
carefully marked ; and when he again saw the
light of day, a deep wound, close to the barbed
harpoon, was instantly inflicted by the sharp
lance of Seth. It was the death blow.
“ Starn dll!” was the cry once more; and the
boat was agaiu quickly backed off by the oars
The infuriated animal roared in agony, and
lashed the oceao into foam with his tail. The
blood gushed from his spoutholes, falling in tor
rents upon the men in the boat, and coloring the
sea. The whale, in his last agony, is a fearful
creature. He rose perpendicularly in the water,
head downwards, and again writed and lashed
the sea with such force, that the people in the
retreating boats, though ten miles distant, heard
the thunder of the sound distinctly. The exer
tion was tod violent to last long—it was the sig
nal of his dissolution. His lifeblood ceased to
flow, and he turned his belly to the sun I The
waif of the Grampus floated triumphantly above
the body of the slaughtered Leviathan of the
deep—and the peril of the hardy crew was over.
4fanate -fashions,
Their Origin.
No history can lay claim to remoter antiquity
than the dresses of the fair sex. As to the forms
given to primeval clothing, after the exit of our
first parents from the Garden of Paradise, no
thing certain is known ; all that can be said, is
that the toilette did not at that early period in
clude in its accessories either gowns, stays or
petticoats. Leaves, and perhaps flowers, ar
ranged with the utmost simplicity, constituted
the entire female wardrobe in those early days.
In the course of time, the gentler sex began to
adopt as clothing the skins of animals killed in
the chase by their brothers or husbands, and sub
sequently learned to spin wool and the art of
weaving. However, from the great heat of the
eastern climates, and the discovery of plants af
fording thread ready made, and preference was
given to dresses made of this material, as a
more agreeable clothing and protection from the
ardentjrays of the sun Thus the Jews continued
for a considerable period te wear no other cloth
ing than a robe made of linen. David wore the
dress of this texture when he danced before the
The Greeks wore a woollen dress next the
skin, and a linen tunic as an outer covering.
A contrary fashion prevailed amongst the Ba
bylonians, whose inner dress was composed ol
linen, with a tunic of woolen texture over that.
Even at that early period tissues were manufac
tured as fine as a gauze of the present day; and
were particularly adopted throughout the East
At Rome, only the courtezans dared to adopl
these transparent dresses in the first instance 1
but, subsequently, they came into general use
even among the Roman ladies of the strictest
In France, about the same epoch, the female
costume was nearly similar to that in vogue
among the Romans, with. this addition, that the
French ladies carried iu their hands canes, the
top of which bore the form of a bird’s or othet
animal’s head—a fashion lately revived ; but car
ried to a more grotesque extent. These canes
however, appear not to have been always play
things in the hands of sonse ladies, as it is re
counted of Constance, the second wife ofßober
King of France, that she put out the eyes o
Etienne, her father confessor, with a stroke o
her cane.
The dress first worn by French women, anc
used for a long period, consisted of a large tunic
of considerable length, made so as to hide the
neck, and closed at the wrists—it was namec
cotte hardie. Queens and princesses wore, in ad
dition to this costume, a long mantle of ermine.
Under the reign of St. Louis, and that of sever
al of his successors, ladies of noble rank hac
their dresses embroidered with armorial bear
ings (again coming into vogue at the present da]
as far as cambric handkerchiefs are concerned.
Widows adopted, as an upper dress, a white sea
pnlary, interspersed with black tears, or a corde
Here ; other ladies wearing a splendid belt, orna
mented with gold and precious stones.
At that period, the luxury of dress was carriec
to such an extreme, that Philippe-le-Bel wa:
obliged to frame haws to keep it within proper li
mits. Dukes, counts, and barons, even the rich
est, were c/nly allowed to give their wives /bui
dresses in the year; ladies of minor fortune:
were forced to be content with one. None bu
the wives of great lords were permitted to bu]
stuff's at 15d. (30 sous) the yard; while citizens
wives could not give more than ten sous the
yard—equivalent to about ten pence of the pre
sent English currency. These ordonnances
however, soon became obsolete, or winked at
from the effect of female influence: and thus fa
shion was once more allowed to exercise iti
In the reign of Charles V., a tailor in Pari:
made a robe for a lady of Gatinais, which tool
five yards of Brussels cloth. The train of thi:
dress swept the ground, and the sleeves extender
down to the feet; although at the Council o
Montpellier, held at the close of the 12th century
it was expressly forbidden, under penalty of ex
communication, to wear dresses which trainee
■ along the ground, “ like a serpent’s tail.”
Under Charles VI., linen chemises were onb
used by a few persons of distinction, chemise:
serge being those generally worn. Isabeau o
Bavaria was severely censured for having tw<
linen chemises. This article of dress was a
that time considered so great a luxury, that, t<
display it, a part of the chemise was allowed t<
extend beyond the wrist and above the neck
hence the origin of ruffles and frills.
In the 'fifteenth century, ladies for the firs
■ time, began to appear with the neck and a por
tion of the bosom uncovered. About the sam<
period they adopted the fashion of wearing dia
mond and pearl necklaces and ear-rings com
posed of precious stones. Their sleeves wen
closed at the wrist, and the petticoats made ver]
long so as to train on the ground.
During the reigns of Charles VIII., Louis XII
and Francis 1., the wars in Italy and the al
fiances with the families of Italian princes led t<
the introduction of Italian fashions into France
ladies began to appear bare-armed, and to adopi
short petticoats, so as to allow the lower part o:
the foot to be seen.
Francis I. and Charles IX., having espoused
princesses of the house of Austria, Spanish fa
shions entered the lists with those of Italy.
The virtugadins, or fardingale, or child’s hel
met, similar to our basket-head guard, but stil
more ridiculous, high collars, slashed dresses and
sleeves, were then seen in France for the firsl
time. Ladies of the Court in those days were
called ladies with large necks; their sleeves
were of an enormous size, and each of a different
color. This latter fashion was adopted by men,
and even by the king.
About that period, pins made their appearance
for the first time in France, having been manu
factured in England in 1543. Before their in
vention, ladies made use of wooden skewers, ex
tremely slender and flexible.
It was at nearly the same period that the use
of masks became very general amongst ladies.
They were made of black velvet, and lined with
white satin; they were fastened by a slight steel
nm, having at the end a glass button, which each
lady held in her mouth, and which altered the
sound of her voice. They received the appelation
of wolves— loups.
In the portraits of ladies of the times of Charles
IX., they are represented with dresses open in
front, with petticoats ornamented with a profu
sion of pearls and precious stones; full sleeves,
hanging down, the cuffs trimmed with fur or
puffee out, slashed and with puffs separated one
from the other by a row of pearls or fancy rib
bons. The neck bare, or covered by a net-work
of pearls or precious stones in large squares.
They also wore cuffs fitted to the amadis.
The first specimens of lace seen in France at
I this period came fiom Venice and Genoa; they
became so much the rage, that Louis XIII. is
sued a law, 1629, prohibiting ladies from wear
ing lace which cost more than three francs a
yard. As all foreign lace was sold at a much
higher price, manfactures were got up in France
—and such was the origin of those established at
Alengon and Argentan.
In the reign of Henry IV. the hoops were worn
so enormo'islydartre. tlia t C/innccfh'c-r de.l'.Hopital.
had them suppressed by a sumptuary law which,
however, was not observed.
Lestiole relates in his journal that, at the
baptism of the son of Madame de Sourdis in
1594, Gabrielle d’Estrees made her appearance
attired in a splendid dress ofblack satin, so over
charged with pearls and other ornaments, that
she was unable to stand up straight. On another
occasion shortly after, he was allowed by parti
cular favor to see a handkerchief ordered for the
same Gabrielle d’Estrees, who had fixed the
price of it at about §2OOO, and agreed to pay for
it on delivery.
In the time of Louis XIII. the fardingales,
were laid aside, but the upper garment was
tucked up behind and at the sides, so as to dis
play the one underneath.
It was not until the reign of Louis XIV., that
the art of cutting diamonds became known, and
from that period they became more in request.
Under Louis XV., loups were replaced by a
quantity of black patches, which were put on the
face; each patch had its peculiar name. For in
stance, that placed at the corner of the eye was
called “ amorous;” fixed on the centre of the
forehead, “majestic;” at the dimple, or fold,
formed in the act of laughing, “gay;” in the
middle of the cheek, “ gallant;” at the angle of
of the mouth, “baisseuse;” on the nose, “ bare
faced ;” on the lips, “the coquette;” upon a pim
ple, “concealment,” &c., &c.
At the above period, hoops of an oval form
were worn, and ladies dressed in this manner
were obliged to bring forward one side of the
hoop, iii order to pass through the crowd or a
narrow court. In those days, all females, even
of the lowest classes, wore hoops. Actresses, or
dancers, even when they had to represent Greeks,
Romans, or Scythians, invariably appeared on
the stage with wigs and hoops.
The ladies of the Court of Louis XV. and
Louis XVI. were also obliged to make use of
canes to assist them in walking, rendered diffi
cult by the great weight of their clothes and the
monstrous high heels of their shoes.
During the Republic and under the Empire, the
Grecian fashions were in vogue; but means
were devised to suit them to the climate. It was
at that period that an attempt was made to dis
tort the human shape, by having the waist just
under the bosom and arm-pits. Fortunately this
dangerous and unsightly passion disappeared in
modern times; and the female toilette no longer
includes anything injurious to health, except when
tight lacing is carried to an immoderate and ri
diculous extent.
Formerly the almanac was the sole arbiter of
the fashions. In a particular month, day, and
hour, the dress of winter, spring, summer, and
autumn were regularly put on or put off; the
muff, cane, worsted, cloth, velvet, or silk had
their fixed entrees or exits. The almanack was
infallible, and the dresses set down for four sea
sons must be tolerated, no matter whether the
wearer starved with cold or fainted with heat,
and thanks to the march of reform, people can
now consult the thermometer, and suit their
clothing to the reigning degree of temperature,
or according to their different tastes.
In the early ages, females wore their hair
hanging loosely down; but their natural penchant
for the graces of the toilet soon induced them to
plant their locks in various modes. For a consi
derable period the head was only covered with a
veil, and only out of doors. The Greeks and Ro-
- mans kept their hair adjusted with gold or silver
pins, or knotted with gold chains, or encircled
with white or red bands. The hair was pow-
‘ dered with gold powder. Flaxen and red hair
\ was so much prized, that ladies with brown hair
- who were unable to give a red tint to their locks
condemned them to the scissors, and put on red
or fair-haired wigs. Towards the close of*-the
Roman Republic, this fashion was in general use
I —and hence we find the poets of that day cele
brating the red or flaxen hair of theirmistresses.
, The Roman coquettes changed their wigs sever
! al times a day: some for the morning, others for
the afternoon, and a still greater variety for
grand ceremonies.
This custom was preserved in for a long pe
riod. In 692, the Council of Constantinople ex-
I communicated all those who dared towearwigs.
. Pierre Lombard, who wrote in the 12th eentury,
describes wigs as a “frightful disguise and
damnable impudicity;” and, subsequently, Alex
. ander Hall and Bernardin de Vienne decided
. that to mount a wig was a mortal sin.
J The Guillotine in America.—A cockney who
, came over in the Cambria the last time, has been
taking notes ot Boston peculiarities. He puts a
great many foolish questions, is a great ass, and
is sometimes grossly imposed upon by his tnfor
’ mants.
’ A day or two ago, he got into the cars to go to
Providence. In sight, near, the steam ‘ pile dri
ver’ was in operation, surrounded by a crowd of
idlers, who enjoyed the fall of the heavy mass of
iron as it descended kerwhack 1 every now and
j then upon the post, which it was driving into the
I mud.
C “Vot is that, my friend 1” inquired the Eng
lishman, (note book in hand,) of a Yankee whom
’ he had already bothered a great deal.
I “ Melancholy spectacle, is it not I” replied the
American, gravely.
, “ But vot is it 1” said the Englishman—his ou-
i riosity much excited.
f “ The guillotine!” answered the Yankee,
, with imperturable gravity. “ Another execu
t tion, sir.”
> “ Good gracious 1” exclaimed the cockney,
: “vot now 1 you do n’t mean to say”—and he
■ stretched forward his head to get a look at the
t “ I mean to say, sir,” continued the other,
■ mournfully, “ that capital punishment is not yet
: abolished in this unhappy country.”
“ See 1 vot is that going up so slow I” said the
- tourist, looking at the iron through his glass.—
! “ That is the/tax, I spose 3”
' “ It’s about to fall I” said the American.
“ And I not there !” cried the “victim,” jump
ing up ; I would not loose that note for half my
■ bothers ! shall 1 ’ave time to run there before the
' cars is hoffl”
; “ Oceans!” replied the Yankee.
“ /Time werry much /tobliged to you !” cried
■ the Englishman, and bolted. He had hardly
reached the scaffold, when off went the train,
leaving him to make a new note on American du-
■ plicity.
What wk are !—This country has a frontier
line of more than 10,000 miles. We have aline
of sea coast of nearly 4,000 miles, and a lake
coast of 1,200 miles. One of our rivers is twice
the size in length of the Danube, the largest river
in Europe. The Ohio is 600 miles longer than
the Rhine, and the Hudson has a navigation of
120 miles longer than the Thames. The single
state of Virginia is a third larger than England !
Ohio contains 5,120,000 acres more than Scot
land—from Maine to Ohio is farther than from
London to Constantinople, and so we might go
on and fill pages, enumerating distances, rivers,
lakes, capes and bays, with comparative esti
mates of size, power, and population.
A celebrated artist in Baltimore, is making a
lithographic likeness of Major Ringgold, from an
oil pointing in possession of his family.

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