[THIRD AND CONCLUDING ARTICLE.]
BASKET IN RICE SHELL-WORK.
BASKET IN RICE SHELL-WORK.
BASKET IN RICE SHELL-WORK.
We have hitherto only described those rice-shell ornaments which are adapted for wear. It is time we proceed to describe some of those ornamental articles for the drawing-room which can be manufactured, and which, from their delicacy, lightness, and rarity, are admirably adapted for presents.
Baskets of various kinds and forms may be made, either of the shells only, or of shells and card-board. Perforated card-board is the best when that material is used, as it saves trouble, and forms the pattern more evenly.
If we would make a card-basket or tray, for the reception of visitors' cards, the requisite number of pieces to form the article must be shaped out from the colored perforated card-board, and the pattern or arabesque, which is to be worked on it with the shells, pencilled. Colored card-board should be used, because that throws up the pure white of the shells. Having joined the different pieces together which form the basket, by sewing them with fine chenil, or silk twist, we take about half a yard of the finest silver wire and attach it to the basket at the place we purpose commencing the pattern, and bring it through one of the holes or perforations just there. We then thread a shell on it, and pass the wire through another hole so situated as, when the wire is drawn tight, to cause the shell to lie in that direction which will make it fall into its right position in the pattern. The wire must then be returned to the right side again, and another shell threaded on it, and the same manœuvre gone through; or, if it be intended towork a shell pattern inside and outside the basket, a second shell must be threaded on the wire before it is returned to the right side, and that adjusted into its place by a proceeding similar to the one just described. It is, however, difficult to manage the two patterns at once; one is sure to mar the other to a greater or less extent; therefore, it will always be best either to make the basket very open and tray-shaped, and to work the pattern on the inside, which will then be the only one much seen; or else to make it rather close and upright, so as to show chiefly the outside, and to work the pattern there.
Baskets may be made of unperforated card-board by gumming the pattern with a very thick solution of gum-dragon, and then sticking the shells on in their proper places.
In all kinds of baskets made with rice-shells, the back of the shell is to form the surface, and the opening to be turned inwards.
The basket, of which we have given a cut, is composed of shells, and the coarsest of the three sizes of silver wire. It is made in lattice-work, or squares, and requires some art to mould or shape it into form.
We commence at the bottom, and with the central square. A length of wire, measuring twelve or fourteen inches, must be taken, and the small shells used. Thread four shells on the wire, arranging them so that the point of the first meets the point of the second, and the end of the second meets the end of the third; while the point of the third meets the point of the fourth. Push them along the wire to within about an inch of the end, then bend them into a square, and twist the short end of the wire firmly and neatly with the other, and cut off the superfluous bit. Now thread three shells on the wire, so arranged that the end of the first and the point of the third shall meet the corresponding end and point of that shell of the square already formed, which, when these three are bent into their positions, will constitute the fourth side of this second square. Loop the wire through the corner of the foundation square, and we have the second completed.
A certain firmness, divested, however, of tightness, is requisite in performing these manipulations; for, if the shells are jammed too closely together, the work will have an uneven, stiff appearance, whereas, if they are left too loose, the fabric will never set in form, and will look slovenly. The drawing the wire through the corners of the preceding squares, in order to complete the one which is being worked, too, is a nice operation, which must be gently done, or we may crack the work; and securely and neatly managed, or the squares will not be firm and compact.
Three shells are now again to be symmetrically threaded, and formed into a square, and fastened down to the central one. Two other squares are then to be formed in like manner, and we now have five, or one on each of the four sides of the foundation square. All the sixteen shells used for this should be small, and as nearly as possible of a size.
The wire is now passed up through the inside of the shell nearest to it, and it will be found that the next round of squares will be formed, first, by threading two shells, and bending them into position, and fastening them down at the corner, over the place where the preceding round has left us two sides of a square, and then by threading three shells, and bringing them into shape, where we have only one side ready for us. The two shells, and the three shells, used alternately, will produce another round, consisting of eight squares. Care must be taken to use shells of equal size for a round, although in each fresh round the size of the shells should be in a slight degree increased. The backs of the shells must all lie one way, and the openings the other; the latter constitutes the inside of the basket, as they do not look so uniform and handsome.
The following engraving will give an idea of the appearance of the fabric in an early stage.
When it is necessary to take a fresh length of wire, it must be joined on close to the corner of a completed square, by twisting it firmly and neatly with the end of the length just used up, and cutting up the superfluous point.
The third round is formed as the second, by using alternately the two and the three shells as required to complete the squares.
The number of rounds which are to be worked for the bottom depends entirely upon the size which we design to make the basket. In general,these three, or at any rate four rounds, will be sufficient to make a very pretty sized one.
The next round is to be worked exactly in the same way and with exactly the same sized shells as the last one of the bottom, and, after it is worked, it is to be turned up like a rim all round. This commences the basket itself.
These rounds are now to be added with the small shells, and shaped into form; and then the middle-sized shells, in rounds of gradually increasing size, are to be used for about six rounds; and then the large shells, in gradually increasing size, are to be brought in use and continued until the basket is finished.
It will soon be perceived, while working, that it will occasionally be necessary to miss a square, or to add one or more here and there in order to preserve the raised, and opened, and rounded form requisite for the oval of a basket. The symmetrical arrangement of the points and ends must be carefully attended to, or else the star-like combinations, which add so materially to the appearance of the fabric, will be marred or lost.
A pair of tweezers, or very small nippers, may be used for twisting the wire when fastening on a fresh length, as the fingers will thus be saved, and additional firmness obtained.
Having raised the basket-work to the required height, which, when the bottom consists of four rounds, should be about six inches, a piece of round silk wire, either white or colored, and exactly the size, but not larger than the circle of the top of the basket, must be taken, and firmly attached to the edge of the basket with middle-sized wire; this is to give shape and firmness to the work, and to this another piece of wire is attached, to form the handle.
The basket must now be trimmed, and for this purpose we make two light and graceful wreaths, one long enough to go round the top of the basket, and the other as long as the handle. The single flower, the bud, the spiral group, and leaves of seven or nine shells each, are what will be required for an ordinary-sized basket. When the wreath is made in simple rice shell-work, the stems must be twisted, and the wreath bound together with fine silver wire, and attached to the handle and to the circular wire with the same; the silk wire used must be white.
If, however, the wreath is to be made in the "composite" style, light flower-seeds or small glass beads may be introduced into the centre of the flowers, and the stems may be wound, and the wreaths put together with floss silk, and then they are to be attached to the handle and circular wire with fine chenil. The following combinations are pretty and effective: beads or seeds of pink, or yellow, or coral, or blue, and the stems of the flowers and buds wound with silk to match, the stems of the leaves wound with green, and the wreaths attached in their places with green chenil. There should not be more than two colors, the green and one other, used at a time, and these should be delicate shades; for the shells have so pure and light an appearance, that anything in the least degree showy or gaudy spoils the effect of the whole.
Pendent from below each end of the handle, should be a grape-like bunch of shells, not set on so closely together as in the wheat-ear, or so far apart as in a leaf, and reaching about half way down the basket.
When completed, the article should be placed under a glass case to preserve it from dust and injury, and a few wax or artificial flowers may be tastefully arranged in it with advantage.
A square basket, or a long, straight-sided one, or one in almost any given shape, may be made in this lattice-work, by manufacturing each piece separately, and in the required shape, and then lacing them together with silver wire, chenil, or twist. There is, however, no trimming more graceful, or better adapted for them, than the wreath.
If thought fit, the wreath, however, need only be put round the top of the basket, and the handle made of a succession of squares of the kind we have described.
Light wreaths, either of "simple" or "composite" rice shell-work, may, with very pretty effect, be entwined around alabaster vases or baskets.
For wedding-cakes, rice-shell wreaths and bouquets, with silver bullion in the flowers, are both tasteful and appropriate.
Intermingled with groups of the wax, or artificial, or feather, or paper flowers, the shell-leaves and double and daisy flowers look very pretty.
As the shells never wear out, when any ornament is crushed, or soiled, or tarnished, it can be cut up, the wires picked out, and the shells, when washed and dried, will be ready to be used again and again.
But we are sure that we have suggested quite enough to our readers to enable them to devise for themselves many other pretty and fanciful uses for this work, and we feel convinced that, when once they have overcome the first difficulties of learning it, they will find pleasure in seeing the graceful articles that will, as it were, develop themselves under their busy fingers.
And so we now take our leave of this subject for the present, commending it to the favorable attention of those who may have taken the trouble to peruse what we have written.
BY H. P. HAYNES.
The condition of woman constitutes an important part of the complete history of any age or country. In her own appropriate sphere, she exerts an influence, powerful and enduring, for the political greatness, the moral grandeur, and general prosperity of a state, as well as for its social peace and harmony. In her heart dwell, for the most part, the charity, the virtue, the moral soundness of communities, and, it almost might be said, the patriotism of a people. Her character and condition are the character and condition of the society of which she is a component part. In those countries and climes where the female is made a slave, or treated with unmerited severity, the males are not men, but the most brutal of savages. Where civilization, Christianity, and refinement allow woman her proper level, man is the exponent of real humanity and intelligence. The annals of ages are but an accumulation of evidence establishing these truths.
The graver of the Athenians, in the age of Pericles, attributed the decline of those virtues which, in all ages, have been considered the brightest ornaments of the sex, and the consequent increase of vice in the republic, to the pernicious influence of the beautiful and fascinating Aspasia. To her they imputed the crime of seducing the first orator and statesman of his time. On the other hand, the stern virtue, the heroism, the self-denying patriotism of the sons of Sparta, were legacies from their mothers. They shunned no dangers, feared no enemy, shrank from no hardship, and, when they met an honorable death in combat with the invaders of Grecian soil, the brave-hearted matrons consoled themselves with the idea that for this purpose they had given birth to children.
When Carthage was for the last time besieged by the Romans, the patriotic women of that devoted city imparted to her warrior defenders a portion of their heroism and love of country, and cut off their tresses for bowstrings for the archers.
Roman history has described with great minuteness the extraordinary virtue and the excellent domestic habits of Lucretia, her sad fate, and the sympathy it awakened, and the indignation it aroused in the hearts of all good citizens. Her sacred regard for her own honor—that honor insulted by a corrupt nobleman, an unprincipled monarch—proved a death-blow to kingly power for a season in Rome. Whether the story of Lucretia be a cunningly-devised fable, or veritable, sober history, is not material, since it illustrates a principle well substantiated by all history and observation, that insults to female virtue and honor do not escape unavenged. Cleopatra, the beautiful and accomplished Egyptian queen, subdued successively the hearts of two stern Romans—heroes who had met the wildest shocks of battle undismayed, and who had never quailed with fear, nor scarce melted with pity. In her magic fingers hung, at an important crisis, the fate of the Roman empire. Her influence was as destructive as her presence was potential and commanding. These are marked instances of woman's influence, and of her characteristics.
The reign of Octavius Cæsar was the golden age of Rome. At that period, the almost unlimited control of the civilized world was hers. Her colonies were planted on every shore of the known world—the Roman eagles triumphed in every clime. Three continents paid her tribute. One intervening sea washed their shores and wafted her fleets. Extensive sway and the contributions of wealthy nations had not only rendered her proud and insolent, but corrupt, and, in a measure, cruel. The principal distinctions in her society were those of wealth and power, rather than of talents, sobriety, and virtue. The corrupt and the vile were, for the most part, the esteemed and highly favored.
There were numerous instances, it is true, of patriotism, virtue, and highmindedness among Roman citizens of this period, well worthy of imitation and remembrance. There was a sort of refinement of which the earlier Romans did not boast, and which they openly condemned. Grecian art and learning, combined with the wealth and vices introduced from the East, had wrought a great change in the national character and habits. Republican simplicity had given place to excessive extravagance and prodigality. In this, as in every age, woman acted no indifferent part in the everyday drama of Roman life. She was herself extravagant, and, if thehistory of that period be truly narrated, not always a discourager of vice and dissipation. Cicero, the greatest intellect Rome ever produced, with the exception, it may be, of Julius Cæsar, lived at this age in Rome, and contributed, in no small degree, to give it the title golden. He was, we are told, not only of the highest order of human intelligences, but a man of wisdom and purity of character. While he united in his own person all the noble qualifications of an able statesman, a brilliant scholar and orator, a learned and ingenious lawyer, and a good citizen, as well as a devoted father and husband, his first wife, Teruntia, was nearly the opposite. That he did not lack in kindness towards her, his known characteristics and disposition, as well as his letters to her when at a distance, fully prove. His social qualities eminently fitted him to discharge the duties of a husband in the most amiable manner. Teruntia, though of a rich and noble family, was of a turbulent and impetuous spirit, negligent, intriguing, and finally became so uncongenial a companion to the illustrious orator that he became divorced from her. He afterwards connected himself by marriage with another Roman lady of great wealth; but from her likewise he separated himself, finding her destitute of social kindness, domestic affection, and humanity.
Tullia, Cicero's daughter, is awarded a high rank among Roman ladies of her time; but she was thrice married, and as many times divorced. The cause may not have been hers so much as her husband's, or it may have been more attributable to the loose morals of the age than to either party in particular. If, however, Tullia was wanting in those domestic qualities so necessary to the permanent calm of married life, she was not destitute of learning and the polite accomplishments of her time. She is said, by Roman historians, to have been an "admirable woman"—affectionate and piously observant of her father—one of the most learned of Roman women.
In the earlier days of Rome, the noblest matrons were noted for nothing more than their excellent domestic habits—industry, frugality, and devotion to and affection for their families. The greatness of that vast empire was founded not more in the devoted patriotism and persevering energy of the Roman citizens, than in the incorruptible virtue, the sacrificing spirits, and noble hearts of Roman matrons. Not so in the declining days of the republic. Not so when the robust and vigorous youth of the nation began to tremble with advancing years, and to wreath its brow with gray hairs—a result not of age and toil and serious care, but of dissipation and inglorious ease, of wealth, and wine, and extravagant feasts. Not so when the humble cottage, the home wherein dwelt domestic peace and content, was exchanged for a marble palace, decorated with statues and paintings, lined with Tyrian couches, bespangled with gold and silver ornaments, and thronged with slaves. Not so when the Cæsars and Mark Antony ruled the imperial city with hordes of mercenary soldiers; nor when the republic was metamorphosed into an empire, and all regard to life, property, and private right had, in a measure, ceased. The social and domestic character of Roman society were so sadly changed, and foreign vice and corruption became naturalized to such an extent, that the decay of the empire is no marvel.
The simplicity and integrity of earlier times were the base on which was reared a magnificent national superstructure. Thereon was based the sure growth, the gradual, healthy expansion of Roman power, till all the tribes and nations of the earth respected and feared it. Therein consisted the peculiar glory of Rome's first estate—of her earlier conquests—that force of character and energy of action that wearied Pyrrhus, conquered Mithridates, and overwhelmed Carthage. No coward dared return from a field which he had dishonored to the bosom of his wife, his sister, or his family; for they scorned and detested cowardice and unmanly and unsoldierly behavior, while they honored bravery and patriotism, whether manifested against the invaded or in an offensive war against a foreign foe. They applauded whatever was noble, generous, and manly; though, to gratify this spirit, husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons were sacrificed on war's grim altar. The inflexible mandates of the immortal gods were to be observed at whatever cost.
The citizens were instruments in the hands of the deities to avenge wrongs, to enforce right, and to glorify the city of their birth. The great dramatic bard, in "Coriolanus," makes Volumnia, the mother of Marcius Coriolanus, say: "Hear me profess sincerely. Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for his country than one voluptously surfeit out of action." She but spoke the spirit of her time; and her language is but the language of Roman matrons of her age. Thus grew and flourished, as by magic forces and divine ordination, the city of Romulus, the world's hope and dread, at once the saviour and destroyer of civilization, whose porous social system absorbed and quickly dissolved the mysteries of Egypt, the classic beauties of Greece, andthe wealth of the "exhaustless East."
But the great distinguishing trait in the Roman woman, in the days of the republic and under the earlier kings, was her attention to household employments. This the Roman expected of his wife—it was enjoined upon her by the marriage rite. Thus, indeed, it was among most of the more enlightened nations of antiquity. The noble born of both sexes did not disdain to toil in their appropriate spheres; the prince of royal blood was proud of holding the plough and of acting the husbandman, and daughters of princes were not ashamed to ply the needle or tend the distaff.
"So it was of oldThat woman's hand, amid the elementsOf patient industry and household good,Reproachless wrought, twining the slender threadFrom the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tintsOf rich embroidery, pleased to decorateThe mantle of her lord. And it was well;For in such sheltered and congenial sphereContent with duty dwells."
"So it was of oldThat woman's hand, amid the elementsOf patient industry and household good,Reproachless wrought, twining the slender threadFrom the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tintsOf rich embroidery, pleased to decorateThe mantle of her lord. And it was well;For in such sheltered and congenial sphereContent with duty dwells."
"So it was of oldThat woman's hand, amid the elementsOf patient industry and household good,Reproachless wrought, twining the slender threadFrom the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tintsOf rich embroidery, pleased to decorateThe mantle of her lord. And it was well;For in such sheltered and congenial sphereContent with duty dwells."
"So it was of old
That woman's hand, amid the elements
Of patient industry and household good,
Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread
From the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,
Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tints
Of rich embroidery, pleased to decorate
The mantle of her lord. And it was well;
For in such sheltered and congenial sphere
Content with duty dwells."
The great veneration for home, and love for its pursuits and associations, grew weaker and weaker as the state exchanged a popular government for the reign of military dictators and kings. In the Augustan age, though instances of female virtue, nobility, and culture are not few, we find from the scanty records of female history of those times extant, which, indeed, are merely incidental, that woman is less often the ideal of self-sacrificing worth and of retiring modesty, less noted for her attachment to her family, her home, and her domestic pursuits, less careful in the training of her children, than formerly. In earlier times, no Roman matron coveted the infamous character of a masculine conspirator; no Roman woman left her quiet hearth disgracefully to insult the remains of a murdered citizen; no Roman woman had instigated a civil war, or proscribed her victims for assassination.
Fulvia, the ambitious wife of Mark Antony, did all this. After the assassination of Clodius, she raised a sedition. Imitating, or rather out-rivalling the cruelty of her husband, she joined in his proscriptions, that Roman blood might flow by Roman hands still more freely. After the great Cicero had been slain in a spirit of the most relentless and vindictive cruelty, and his head brought to Antony, Fulvia took it on her knees, broke out in a torrent of cowardly and abusive epithets on the character of the deceased, and then, with the most fiendish inhumanity, pierced his tongue with her golden bodkin. During the absence of her husband in the East, she not only endeavored to stir up insurrections, but sold the government of provinces and decreed unmerited triumphs. What an eternity of infamy should be hers for such deeds as these! What an example in the wife of a ruler for the imitation of an empire! When such a spirit actuates the female mind, when coupled with ambition, recommended by beauty and intelligence, and supported by power, it is sadly to be deplored. That ambition which at any time induces woman to step beyond her sphere, to take upon her shoulders masculine responsibilities, to take part in political struggles and sectional wrangles, to usurp the places and duties of those who were created and destined to cherish and protect her, it is, for her own sake, to be regretted. Such attempts are not only pernicious in their influence, but they tend to render those unhappy who make them. Such are the results of our reflection and observation, and such is the lesson taught by impartial history.
In the life of Fulvia, however, we do not get a fair representation of the female character of her time, but merely some of its tendencies. A spirit of insubordination to the laws of place and the rules of decorum; an overweening ambition that steps without household limits; assumption of power far beyond the reach of female duties; arrogance and haughtiness from the high official station of the husband; vindictive cruelty to avenge a fancied or a real wrong; prodigality and masculine pride, oftener perceptible in this age than formerly—were unmistakable indications of its character and tendencies. Yet the picture was not altogether sad, though at various points dark shadows were visible. Here and there the heaviness of the prospect was relieved by the most delightful views and cheering lights. The wife of the second Brutus is portrayed by the great limner of human character, in "Julius Cæsar," as worthy the beautiful tribute bestowed by her husband.
In this play, Portia is made to act the part and display the genuine qualities of a "true wife," understanding her duties as such, and manifesting all due sympathy and affection for her husband, as is shown where she beseeches Brutus to reveal to her why he is heavy in heart, the secrets of his bosom, and what designs he cherishes:—
PORTIA.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,Is it excepted I should know no secretsBut, as it were, in sort or limitation;To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbsOf your good pleasure? If it be no more,Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,Is it excepted I should know no secretsBut, as it were, in sort or limitation;To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbsOf your good pleasure? If it be no more,Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,Is it excepted I should know no secretsBut, as it were, in sort or limitation;To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbsOf your good pleasure? If it be no more,Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets
But, as it were, in sort or limitation;
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.
BRUTUS.
You are my true and honorable wife!As dear to me as are the ruddy dropsThat visit my sick heart!
You are my true and honorable wife!As dear to me as are the ruddy dropsThat visit my sick heart!
You are my true and honorable wife!As dear to me as are the ruddy dropsThat visit my sick heart!
You are my true and honorable wife!
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sick heart!
PORTIA.
Then should I know this secret.I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman well reputed—Cato's daughter.Think you I am no stronger than my sex,Being so fathered, and so husbanded?Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.I have given strong proof of my constancy,Giving myself a voluntary wound.————— Can I bear that with patience,And not my husband's secrets?
Then should I know this secret.I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman well reputed—Cato's daughter.Think you I am no stronger than my sex,Being so fathered, and so husbanded?Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.I have given strong proof of my constancy,Giving myself a voluntary wound.————— Can I bear that with patience,And not my husband's secrets?
Then should I know this secret.I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:I grant I am a woman; but, withal,A woman well reputed—Cato's daughter.Think you I am no stronger than my sex,Being so fathered, and so husbanded?Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.I have given strong proof of my constancy,Giving myself a voluntary wound.————— Can I bear that with patience,And not my husband's secrets?
Then should I know this secret.
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well reputed—Cato's daughter.
Think you I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so fathered, and so husbanded?
Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.
I have given strong proof of my constancy,
Giving myself a voluntary wound.
————— Can I bear that with patience,
And not my husband's secrets?
BRUTUS.
Oh, ye gods,Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Oh, ye gods,Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Oh, ye gods,Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Oh, ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
In the same play, Shakspeare would have us believe that Calpurnia, wife of Cæsar, had quite persuaded her husband not to go to the senate house on the fatal ides of March, though then and there he was to be crowned and clothed with regal power. The apprehensions she had raised in his mind were, however, dispelled by Oceius Brutus.
Antony's second wife, Octavia, was quite the reverse of Fulvia in character and disposition. She was of a gentle and peaceable spirit, doing her strict duty to her husband long after he had ceased to deserve her confidence or respect. The marriage, on the whole, was an unhappy one, being suggested by policy and public expediency, and effected for the purpose of uniting two powerful factions. Octavia was, for a considerable period, instrumental in preventing a rupture between her brother and husband, though that event finally occurred, with the most disastrous consequences to Antony. Though Antony was an able general, a man of capacity and great personal courage, yet he had so involved himself in the dissipations and luxuries of the Egyptian court, whose crowning star was Cleopatra, that he was no match for the graver and more calculating Augustus. The charms of Cleopatra had completely unmanned him, and smothered, in a measure, his ambition.
Time did not serve to rally him from the lethargy, hopeless and fatal, into which her spell had thrown him. The chains which bound him grew stronger and stronger, and his desire to break them weaker and weaker. This he attributed to her unrivalled beauty and the extent and variety of her accomplishment, to depict which requires a poet's pen and limner's art.
"Age cannot wither, nor custom staleHer infinite variety. Other women clogThe appetites they feed; but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies."
"Age cannot wither, nor custom staleHer infinite variety. Other women clogThe appetites they feed; but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies."
"Age cannot wither, nor custom staleHer infinite variety. Other women clogThe appetites they feed; but she makes hungryWhere most she satisfies."
"Age cannot wither, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women clog
The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies."
Happy picture! yet how inadequate to convey a correct impression of her entire character or history! But that portion intended to be depicted, the winning graces, the charming exterior, her manifold accomplishments, and queenly airs, how delicately, perhaps faithfully, touched off! The gifted and happy artist was not at fault here. The usually faithful limner, we have reason to believe, was not here unfaithful. He has portrayed the Egyptian queen, as she walked along the stage with Antony, truly and well.
But Cleopatra completed the ruin of Antony. He had wellnigh ruined himself; but it was hers to give the final stroke. How little he heeded his vow to Octavia at Rome, after he had spent part of his dissolute career in Egypt!
"My Octavia,Read not my blemishes in the world's report.I have not kept my square; but that to comeShall all be done by the rule."
"My Octavia,Read not my blemishes in the world's report.I have not kept my square; but that to comeShall all be done by the rule."
"My Octavia,Read not my blemishes in the world's report.I have not kept my square; but that to comeShall all be done by the rule."
"My Octavia,
Read not my blemishes in the world's report.
I have not kept my square; but that to come
Shall all be done by the rule."
Poor Antony! the sequel of his life, the consummation of his destiny, how just, yet how painful to be observed! Fit retribution to one forsaking a true and faithful wife, to one choosing the paths of vice and dissipation and enervating pleasures. The stern warrior, the experienced general, the able statesman and orator found, at last, in the hand of the Venus he adored, the sword of a Nemesis.
Among the many noticeable women of this age, we would not pass by with seeming indifference the three Cornelias, wives of distinguished men, themselves, "withal, well reputed." Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, was a very estimable woman, and the wife of Julius Cæsar. The best eulogy that has been pronounced upon her character and worth is the fact related by Plutarch concerning her. It appears that, though it was at that time contrary to custom at Rome to have funeral orations on young women deceased—only on the aged—yet Cæsar, from his high appreciation of the virtues of his wife, himself pronounced hers without regard to the practice of the times. This was her highest praise—the most worthy commendation of her merit. To recommend herself to her husband thus is one of the rarest excellences of a wife.
Pompey's wife, Cornelia, was Metellus Scipio's daughter. Considering the time in which she lived, the condition of society in which she moved, and the many examples of corruptiondaily exhibited in and about Rome, she certainly must be regarded as a woman of remarkable character and stability of virtue. Her accomplishments were many and various, and she was equally noted for the excellency of her private character, her domestic habits, and the extent and variety of her information.
Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, so celebrated in Roman history, was the daughter of Scipio Africanus Major. She also occupied a high rank among the worthy women of her day. She had a masculine turn of mind, but an irreproachable character. She is said, after the death of her husband, to have trained and educated her children in the most exemplary manner. In illustration of her regard for them, is the anecdote of Valerius Maximus concerning Cornelia, wherein she is represented, after having had displayed to her by a Campanian lady very many beautiful ornaments, and having been requested in turn to display her own, as having said, pointing to her children, "Here are my ornaments."
From the days of the Cæsars, Rome's glory began to depart. The stars that sparkled in her imperial diadem one by one faded, and at last were extinguished, leaving nations long accustomed to bondage and tribute free to grope about in the night of northern barbarism. Her conquerors and destroyers, though stigmatized as cowardly barbarians, without taste, learning, or genius, and destitute of any appreciation of the uses or beauty of art, could at least boast of a higher respect for woman. Ignorant and uncultivated, they yet looked upon the gentler sex with a kindly eye, and in her presence felt a generous sentiment, noble in itself and worthy of men. They looked upon woman as on the face of the calm heavens, to draw thence a kind of holy inspiration. They regarded her as mother, sister, wife, daughter—not as slave, servant, or a temporary toy. A worthy characteristic, though manifest in Goth and Vandal, the destroyers of statues, paintings, and magnificent cities, the dismantlers of queenly Rome, or the ravagers of Tuscany.
One of the disorders of which old Rome died—she had many preying on her vitals—was the rottenness of her social system. The Roman, in the days of Augustus, could not justify himself to his family on any rules of ancient or modern propriety; and too often it happened that his family, his wife, sister, and daughter, could not vindicate their own conduct, much less atone for that of the Roman man.
The history of that age, with what afterwards befel that proud empire, teaches with a plainness that is unmistakable that, when a nation or state loses its self-respect, and the people cease to pay a proper regard to social proprieties, and due respect and deference to female character—when woman is denied the charity she merits, or when she herself is encouraged to step beyond her generously accorded limits, its heart is unsound and its path is descending.
BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.
EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.
THE THIRD LETTER LEFT.
(Dated March3d.)
SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER SCHOOL-FELLOWS.
I do begin, Nelly, to like this wretched place a little better. All the girls are not Nobles and Peacocks; and it's lucky they ain't, for I never met with such a couple of disagreeable things. They set themselves up for great judges and wits, ridiculing everything they do not like, and trying to make the rest feel humbled and worthless, because our mas have never been to court, or our pas do not drive a pair of horses!
Meggy Sharpe and I both think Annie Flower much prettier than Rosa Peacock, although she is not a fine lady, and her father is only a farmer. They call her "Dairymaid;" but, for all that, Miss Rosa Peacock is jealous of her beautiful complexion, and is always imitating Annie's merry laugh.
That little impudent thing with the turn-up nose is a Miss St. Ledger. Her pa is a city alderman, and a great patron of Mrs. Rodwell. Meggy calls her "Piggy," because she is always stuffing—hiding in the closets and the box-room, to eatby herself, the things she smuggles into the college. Whenever you meet her in thepassages, she cannot speak—her cheeks are crammed so full of goodies. They tell a story against her about the drawing-room piano. It was terribly out of tune, and upon examination was found to be full of orange-peel and peach-stones. The supposition is that Miss St. Ledger had taken the peaches and oranges up with her to be able to eat themon the slywhen she was practising, and, being suddenly disturbed, had thrown them inside the lid of the grand piano, so as not to be detected. This greedy girl is extremely rich, and she is always boasting that her papa could buy up a whole street of such poor creatures as Noble and Peacock, who she says, havenothing but debts for a fortune, and a title to pay them of with. At the same time, she flatters them, and tries all she can to get friendly with them; but they onlysnubher the more. But, Nelly, she dresses so beautifully, always in silks, and her pocket-handkerchiefs are as fine as muslin, and, I'm speaking the truth, trimmed with realValenciennes! They give you a fever to finger them. Then she has boxes upon boxes full of the most lovely ribbons and belts; whilst Madame La Vautrien makes her bonnets, and charges three guineas apiece for them! But, in spite of all her finery, she is the meanest girl in the school—so stingy and greedy, always borrowing, and never lending—never sharing, never helping any one. I do not like her a bit—nasty, disagreeable thing! if she did not go and pry into my boxes; and I heard her telling the girls "all was cheap and common—only one silk dress, and that a turned one of mamma's." The lady principal is very fond of her (her money, more likely), and is always sending her into the drawing-room to practise (though she can't play a bit), because she is so fat and fine, and has hot-house grapes sent to her.
Miss Plodder is another favorite. She is the "Good Girl." Her nickname is "Preterpluperfect." Poor girl, her face makes you sad to look at it! It seems full of tasks and forfeits. Her fingers are always inky, and her hand is so cold that touching it is as unpleasant as the tearing of silk. My blood runs cold merely to think of it. She never plays or laughs, but is always thumbing her lessons, though what she does with her learning no one can tell, for she is never "up" in class, and is always sent "down" at examinations.
How different is dear Lucy Wilde! She seems to know everything without looking at a book. It comes as naturally to her as eating. Ah! she is clever. The professors pay her such compliments before all the school, and the governesses are afraid of her. The lady principal, however, cannot bear Lucy, because she is idle, and up to fun. She tries to keep her down; but Lucy is like a cork in a pail, she is sure to come to the top again. The more she is pushed under, the more she rises. With all her mad-cap tricks, she is always at the head of the class. How she learns no one can tell, for she is never seen with a book. Meggy says it comes to her in her sleep. Professor Drudge told us last week that if Lucy could only be tamed into studying she could do anything, and I believe it. She writes verses, too—little satirical poems on the mistresses, and Peacock and Noble; and sent off on Tuesday the most beautiful Valentine I think I ever read.
But, Nelly, it is Amy Darling you would love best—a bright, pleasant girl, all sunshine, except when she cries, and she cries immediately any one is hurt. We all run to Amy directly we are in trouble. She is like a young mother to us, and treats us with such tenderness that it is almost a pleasure to be in trouble to be comforted by Amy. She consoles one so beautifully; and I'm sure, if our puddings were taken away, we should miss them far less than the absence of dearest Amy. You should see how the little girls crowd round her in the play hours, and pull her about. She romps with them with the greatest good-humor, and never tires in teaching the little things some new game. She was in bed for three days once, and one would have imagined there was a death in the house; but when she recovered, we made so much noise that the lady principal came down from her boudoir to inquire what was the matter. It's strange! She is not clever, nor altogether pretty, nor even professional (her papa's a coachmaker), and yet, somehow, notwithstanding these tremendous drawbacks, she is the favorite of all the school. Even the masters and schoolmistresses cannot help giving the preference to Amy. Professor Drudge himself, who seems to love nothing in the world but his snuff-box, pats her occasionally on the head, bestowing on her at the same timea grim snuffy smile, that he accords to no one else. She is such a dear, dear love! so sweet—so full of joy and sympathy—that I really believe, Nelly, she was intended for an angel, and was only made a school-girl by mistake. Her sweetness is best shown by the fact that Peacock and Noble never give themselves airs to her, though her father is but a coachmaker. She would shame them out of their vulgarity without retorting a harsh word, and make them blush (if that was possible) by merely reproaching them kindly. It is a wonder for a school, where there are so many girls, that not one ofthem is jealous of Amy. Such a thing would appear unnatural. It would be like being jealous of your mother, or of a nurse who had tended you through a long illness. We are too grateful to be jealous; for there is not a girl in the school, big or little, but who has some cause to be grateful to her. The little girls she protects, and saves them from being bullied; and the big ones she advises when they are in a mess, besides helping them through their tasks. She is the protectress that all fly to—the peacemaker that all abide by (even those in the wrong); and the generalconfidanteof us all, the poor mistresses included. Meggy calls her our "Sister Confessor;" and really it is terrible to think of the heap of secrets that must be piled up, as high as the boxes on a Margate steamer, upon her honor. When you think, Nelly, it is as much as we can do to keeponesecret, I wonder how Amy can breathe with such a load upon her breast! Yet she carries it all as lightly as a fairy does her wand.
Meggy says, "poor Mary Owen is in pawn to Mrs. Rodwell," which means that she has been left as security for a debt, as hopeless as any national one.
Years ago (so Meggy tells me) Mary's father—a captain in the army—left her at school, with directions that she was to learn everything, and no expense spared in her education. With the exception of one or two small remittances, nothing has been heard of her father since. Year after year, Mary grows paler and more sad, with not a friend in the world to cling to, but dearest Amy, who treats her more like a sister than anything else, being always by her side, as something told her that if the poor girl hadn't a crutch of some sort to lean upon she would assuredly fall to the ground. The lady principal has lost all hope of Mary being ever claimed, or (worse still) of her bill being ever paid. This makes Mary's position all the more melancholy, for she is pointed to as a kind of living monument to the cardinal virtues of the schoolmistress who keeps her. If there is a little sermon on charity or benevolence, Mary is always chosen as its text. Whenever there is a lecture read about ingratitude, poor Mary is always brought forward as the disgraceful illustration of it. It is the same with dishonesty,taradiddles, fibbing, and the entire category of school vices—Mary serves as the example of them all. It would seem as if the poor girl was kept as a "terrible warning" to the college; and I'm sure in this capacity alone, that her bill has been paid more than twenty times over. It is sad to watch the poor girl while she's being thus publicly pointed at before her school-fellows. She never says a word, nor attempts to defend herself. She sits quietly in her seat, her face growing paler, and her head falling lower with each blow of her accuser; and if you saw her heavy, tearless eye, Nelly, and her lips quite colorless, as I have seen them, you would pity her with all your heart, and long to go up and kiss her, and tell her not to mind it. Often and often have I felt inclined to call out and beg of Mrs. Rodwell to stop such cruelty; but fear has pinched my lips, and I have caught myself crying, and I defy any one to help it. But I don't mean to say that Mrs. Rodwell ill-treats Mary, or is positively unkind, or lifts her hand against her; but she is always taunting her with her misfortune in so sharp a manner, that I would sooner by far be beat outright, or be sent away at once. It is one unceasing tyranny of little petty trifles all day long (a tyranny of pins and needles, Meggy calls it), which I call most cowardly for a woman like Mrs. Rodwell (though she has lost her money) to use against a poor girl who cannot defend herself: just as if Mary wouldn't pay if she could! On such occasions, Amy is kinder to her than ever, and struggles, by dint of affection, and by trying to lead her into play, to make her forget the harshness she has experienced during school hours. I'm not certain that she succeeds very well. Mary tries, in grateful return for so much kindness, to smile and to play; but it isn't smiling nor playing, Nelly; it's working, andhard workingat it.
Her dress is the funniest thing you ever saw. When I, say funny, I do not mean it makes you laugh—far from it—but that it is extremely odd and peculiar. At first, Mary used to wear the cast-off things of two Indian girls, who are here and never go home; but since she has grown tall she is packed up in Mrs. R.'s old trumpery finery, and flits about like a thin shadow of what the lady principal was six months previously. No one, however, is cruel enough to quiz Mary. Her sorrow throws a sacred protection over her that is better than any shield, and even Miss St. Ledger (with her pert turn-up nose) forgets the sharpness of her tongue in her presence. Amy, besides, wouldn't allow any one to slight her. They tell me, Nelly, that when "breaking-up day" comes round, and all are skipping about in the wild joy of being fetched home, poor Mary sits silently apart, shunning everybody—avoiding the windows where all the girls are heaped together, watching the arrival of the carriages; and that she almost runs away from dear Amy's caresses, rejecting her loving endeavors to cheer her, asif they were a source of pain to her. Dear Amy always stops the last with her; but, when it comes to her turn to go away, then poor Mary flings herself round her devoted friend's neck, and bursts into one long flood of tears, as if her heart was breaking. May we never know such grief as that, Nelly! Only think, dearest, how cheerless must the holidays be to the poor homeless girl! The reassembling of school, which school-girls dread so much, must come back to her with all the delight of holidays to us.
Once Amy asked for Mary to go home with her, but the lady principal objected to it. It would take too much money and trouble to "get her up." Amy said she should wear her things; but Mrs. Rodwell still objected. She was afraid (Meggy says) to "trust the security of her debt out of sight!" Poor Mary has never left the Princesses' College now for four years, except at such times when she has been out walking with the school!
This is very sad and terrible, Nelly, and we ought to think ourselves very fortunate, that we have such good papas and mammas, and that our positions in life are very different from that of poor Mary Owen! But I have written myself quite miserable, and you too, I am afraid, Nelly; so no more at present, dear, from
Your little stupidKITTYCLOVER.
P. S. Excuse haste.
P. S. Why don't you write?