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In the present age, when education is within the reach
of all, both rich and poor, every lady will endeavor to
become, not only well educated, but accomplished. It is
not, as some will assert, a waste of time or money. Not
only the fingers, voice, and figure are improved, but the
heart and intellect will become refined, and the happiness
greatly increased.
Take the young lady after a solid basis has been laid
in her mind of the more important branches of education,
and rear upon that basis the structure of lighter education—the
accomplishments. To cultivate these, disregarding
the more solid information, is to build your castle
without any foundation, and make it, not only absurd,
but unsteady. The pleasure of hearing from a lady a
cavatina executed in the most finished manner, will be
entirely destroyed, if her first spoken words after the
performance are vulgar, or her sentence ungrammatical.
A lady without her piano, or her pencil, her library
of French, German, or Italian authors, her fancy work
and tasteful embroideries, is now rarely met with, and it
is right that such arts should be universal. No woman
is fitted for society until she dances well; for home,
unless she is perfect mistress of needlework; for
her own enjoyment, unless she has at least one accomplishment
to occupy thoughts and fingers in her hours of
leisure.
First upon the list of accomplishments, comes the art
of conversing well. It is always ready. Circumstances
in society will constantly throw you into positions where
you can use no other accomplishment. You will not
have a musical instrument within reach, singing would be
out of place, your fancy work at home, on many occasions,
and then you can exert your most fascinating as
well as useful accomplishment, the art of conversing
well.
Little culture, unfortunately, is bestowed upon this
accomplishment, which, beyond all others, promotes the
happiness of home, enlivens society, and improves the
minds of both speaker and listener. How many excellent
women are deficient in the power of expressing
themselves well, or, indeed, of expressing themselves at
all! How many minds "cream and mantle" from the
want of energy to pour themselves out in words! On
the other hand, how some, equally well-intentioned,
drown the very senses in their torrent of remarks, which
dashes, like a water-fall, into a sombre pool of ennui
below!
One lady will enter society, well-dressed, well-looking,
polite; she does not intend to chill it by her presence;
yet her absence is found a relief. She takes her place
as if she considered it sufficient to dress and look well.
She brings no stock to the community of ideas. Her
eyes return no response to the discourse which is going
on. When you have once glanced at her, she becomes
a mere expletive in the company.
Another one will be found a talker. She is like a canary
bird; when others begin to speak, she hurries in
her remarks, in an accompaniment. Her voice must be
uppermost; conversation becomes a contest who can
speak the most rapidly. The timid and modest retire
from the encounter—she has the field to herself. She
goes on, without mercy; the voice of a syren would fatigue,
if heard continually. Others revolt at the injustice
of the monopoly, and the words fall on ears that would
be deaf if they could.
These are extreme cases; there are many other minor
errors. The higher qualities of conversation must undoubtedly
be based upon the higher qualities of the
mind; then it is, indeed, a privilege to commune with
others.
To acquire the power of thus imparting the highest
pleasure by conversational powers, attention must be paid
to literature. I am supposing the solid foundation of a
good education already laid, but by literature, I do not
mean only that class of it which is taught at school.
Reading, at the present day, is too much confined to
light literature. I would not speak against this. The
modern novels, and the poets of all ages, are good reading,
but let them be taken in moderation, and varied by
something more solid. Let them be the dessert to the
more substantial dinner of history, travels, and works of
a like nature.
Independent of the strength and polish given to the
mind by a thorough course of reading, there is another
reason why a lady should devote some portion of her
time to it; she cannot do without it. She may, lacking
this, pass through life respectably, even elegantly; but
she cannot take her part in a communing with superior
minds; she may enjoy, in wondering, the radiance of
their intelligence; but the wondering must be composed,
in part, of amazement at her own folly, in not having
herself sought out the treasure concealed in the fathomless
depths of books. She cannot truly enjoy society,
with this art neglected. She may, for a few brief years,
be the ornament of the drawing-room; but it must be,
like many other ornaments there, in still life; she can
never be the companion of the intellectual; and the time
is gone by, when women, with all their energies excited,
will be contented to be the mere plaything of brother,
husband, or father.
Still it is not to the erudite, nor to the imaginative
only, that it is given to please in conversation.
The art of imparting our ideas easily and elegantly to
others, may be improved by ourselves, if there are opportunities
of mingling in good society, with little study.
The mind must first be cultivated; but it should not
abash those who are conscious of moderate talents, or
imperfect cultivation, from taking a due part in conversation,
on account of their inferiority. It is a very different
thing to shine and to please; to shine in society
is more frequently attempted than compassed: to please
is in the power of all. The effort to shine, when fruitless,
brings a certain disgrace, and engenders mortification;
all good people are inclined to take the will for the
deed, when they see a desire to please. A gentle, deferential,
kind manner, will disarm even the most discerning
from criticising too severely the deficiencies of the inexperienced;
confidence, disrespect of others, volubility,
eagerness to dispute, must irritate the self-love of others,
and produce an averseness to acknowledge talent or information,
where they may even happen to exist.
It is wiser and safer for a young lady, in general, to
observe the good, old-fashioned rule of being addressed
first; but then she must receive the address readily,
meeting it half way, repaying it by enlarging a little
upon the topic thus selected, and not sinking into a dull
silence, the moment after a reply is given. Some young
ladies start, as if thunderstruck, when spoken to, and
stare as if the person who pays them that attention, had
no right to awaken them from their reverie. Others
look affronted, possibly from shyness, and begin a derogatory
attack upon the beauty of their dress by twitching
the front breadth—or move from side to side, in evident
distress and consternation. Time remedies these
defects; but there is one less curable and less endurable—that
of pertness and flippancy—the loud remarks and
exclamations—the look of self-sufficiency and confidence.
But these offensive manifestations spring from some previous
and deep-seated defects of character, and are only
to be repelled by what, I fear, they will frequently encounter—the
mortification of inspiring disgust.
Neither is the lengthy, prosy, didactic reply, consistent
with the submission and simplicity of youth; egotism,
and egotism once removed, that is, the bringing
into the topic one's own family and relations, are also
antidotes to the true spirit of conversation. In general,
it is wiser, more in good taste, safer, more becoming,
certainly more in accordance with good breeding, to
avoid talking of persons. There are many snares in
such topics; not merely the danger of calumniating, but
that of engendering a slippery conscience in matters of
fact. A young girl, shy and inexpert, states a circumstance;
she feels her deficiency as a narrator, for the
power of telling a story, is a power to be acquired only
by practice. She is sometimes tempted to heighten a
little the incidents, in order to get on a little better, and
to make more impression. She must of course defend
her positions, and then she perils the sanctity of truth.
Besides, few things narrow the intellect more than
dwelling on the peculiarities, natural or incidental, of
that small coterie of persons who constitute our world.
It is, in general, a wise rule, and one which will tend
much to insure your comfort through life, to avoid disclosures
to others of family affairs. I do not mean to
recommend reserve, or art; to friends and relations, too
great frankness can hardly be practised; but, with acquaintance,
the less our own circumstances are discussed,
the happier, and the more dignified will our commerce
with them continue. On the same principle, let the concerns
of others be touched upon with delicacy, or, if possible,
passed over in silence; more especially those
details which relate to strictly personal or family affairs.
Public deeds are, of course, public property. But personal
affairs are private; and there is a want of true
good breeding, a want of consideration and deference, in
speaking freely of them, even if your friend is unconscious
of the liberty taken.
It seems paradoxical to observe that the art of listening
well forms a part of the duty of conversation. To
give up the whole of your attention to the person who
addresses himself to you, is sometimes a heavy tax, but
it is one which we must pay for the privileges of social
life, and an early practice will render it an almost involuntary
act of good breeding; whilst consideration for
others will give this little sacrifice a merit and a charm.
To listen well is to make an unconscious advance in
the power of conversing. In listening we perceive in
what the interest, in what the failure of others consists;
we become, too, aware of our own deficiencies, without
having them taught through the medium of humiliation.
We find ourselves often more ignorant than we could
have supposed possible. We learn, by a very moderate
attention to the sort of topics which please, to form a
style of our own. The "art of conversation" is an unpleasant
phrase. The power of conversing well is least
agreeable when it assumes the character of an art.
In listening, a well-bred lady will gently sympathize
with the speaker; or, if needs must be, differ, as gently.
Much character is shown in the act of listening. Some
people appear to be in a violent hurry whilst another
speaks; they hasten on the person who addresses them,
as one would urge on a horse—with incessant "Yes, yes,
very good—indeed—proceed!" Others sit, on the full
stare, eyes fixed as those of an owl, upon the speaker.
Others will receive every observation with a little hysterical
giggle.
But all these vices of manner may be avoided by a
gentle attention and a certain calm dignity of manner,
based upon a reflective, cultivated mind.
Observation, reading, and study, will form the groundwork
for good powers of conversation, and the more you
read, study, and see, the more varied and interesting
will be your topics.
A young lady should consider music as one branch of
her education, inferior, in importance, to most of those
studies which are pointed out to her, but attainable in a
sufficient degree by the aid of time, perseverance, and a
moderate degree of instruction. Begun early, and pursued
steadily, there is ample leisure in youth for the attainment
of a science, which confers more cheerfulness,
and brings more pleasure than can readily be conceived.
A young lady should be able to play with taste, correctness,
and readiness, upon the general principle that
a well educated woman should do all things well. This,
I should suppose, is in the power of most persons; and
it may be attained without loss of health, of time, or
any sacrifice of an important nature. She should consider
it as an advantage, a power to be employed for the
gratification of others, and to be indulged with moderation
and good sense for her own resource, as a change
of occupation.
Consider in this light, music is what Providence intended
it to be—a social blessing. The whole creation
is replete with music,—a benignant Power has made the
language of the feathered tribe harmony; let us not suppose
that He condemns his other creatures to silence in
the song.
Music has an influence peculiar to itself. It can allay
the irritation of the mind; it cements families, and
makes a home, which might sometimes be monotonous, a
scene of pleasant excitement. Pursued as a recreation,
it is gentle, rational, lady-like. Followed as a sole object,
it loses its charm, because we perceive it is then
over-rated. The young lady who comes modestly forward,
when called upon as a performer, would cease to
please, were she, for an instant, to assume the air and
confidence of a professional musician. There is a certain
style and manner—confined now to second-rate performers,
for the highest and most esteemed dispense with
it—there is an effort and a dash, which disgust in the
lady who has bad taste enough to assume them.
And, whilst I am on this topic, let me remark that
there is a great deal in the choice of music, in the selection
of its character, its suitability to your feelings,
style, and taste, and this especially with respect to vocal
music.
There is no doubt that a good Italian style is the best
for instruction, and that it produces the most careful and
accomplished singers. Suppose a case. Your parents,
most fair reader, have paid a high price to some excellent
professor, to instruct you—and, with a fair ear, and a
sufficient voice, you have been taught some of those
elaborate songs which are most popular at the opera. A
party is assembled—music is one of the diversions.
Forth you step, and, with a just apprehension of the
difficulties of your task, select one of those immortal
compositions which the most eminent have made their
study; you execute it wonderfully, only just falling a
little short of all the song should be; only just provoking
a comparison, in every mind, with a high standard,
present in the memory of every cultivated musician near
you. A cold approval, or a good-natured "bravo!"
with, believe me, though you do not hear it, a thorough,
and, often, expressed conviction that you had better have
left the thing alone, follows the effort which has merely
proclaimed the fact that, spite of time and money spent
upon the cultivation of your voice, you are but a second-rate
singer.
But, choose a wiser, a less pretending, a less conspicuous
path. Throw your knowledge into compositions of a
less startling, less aspiring character. Try only what
you can compass. Be wise enough not to proclaim your
deficiencies, and the critics will go away disarmed, even
if they are not charmed. But if there be any voice,
any feeling, any science, the touching melody, made vocal
by youth and taste, will obtain even a far higher degree
of encomium than, perhaps, it actually merits.
You will please—you will be asked to renew your efforts.
People will not be afraid of cadenzas five minutes long,
or of bravuras, every note of which makes one hope it
may be the last.
It is true that, to a person who loves music, the performance
of one of the incomparable songs of Bellini,
Rosini, Flotow, or Mozart, is an actual delight—but;
when attempted by a young amateur, it should be, like
many other delights, confined to the private circle, and
not visited upon society in general.
Do not suppose that I mean to recommend poor music,
or feeble, ephemeral compositions. What is good need
not, of necessity, be always difficult. Ballad music is
rich in songs adapted for the private performer—and
there are many, in Italian, of great beauty, which,
though they would not be selected for a concert-room, or
for brilliant display, are adapted for ladies.
Music is the greatest, best substitute for conversation.
It has many merits, in this light. It can never provoke
angry retort; it can never make enemies; it can injure no
one's character by slander; and in playing and singing
one can commit no indiscretion.
Music is a most excellent amusement, and, in society,
an indispensable one. It aids conversation by
occasionally interrupting it for a short period, to be
renewed with a new impetus. It makes the most delightful
recreation for the home circle, varying the toil
and trouble of the father's or husband's working day,
by the pleasures of the evening made by music's power
to glide smoothly and swiftly.
There are but few persons who are entirely without a
love for music, even if they do not understand it. They
will be borne along upon the waves of a sweet melody
to high, pure thoughts, often to delicious memories.
The piano is, at the present day, the most popular instrument
in society. The harp has ceased to be fashionable,
though it is sometimes heard. The latter is a
most beautiful accompaniment for the voice, but requires
a large room, as, in a small one, it will sound
stringy and harsh.
The guitar, while it makes a very pleasant accompaniment
for the voice, has also the advantage of being easily
carried from place to place.
It requires as much judgment to select proper instrumental
pieces for a parlor performance, as you would
display in a choice of songs. Page after page of black,
closely printed notes, will drive those who see them from
the piano. They may be executed in the most finished
style, but they are not suited to general society. In
their place, for practice, or for a musical soirée, where
every one puts forth her best musical powers, they are
appropriate, and will give pleasure, but they are not
suited for a mixed party. When asked to play, choose,
if you will, a brilliant, showy piece, but let it be short.
It is better still to make no attempt at display, but
simply try to please, selecting the music your own judgment
tells you is best suited to your audience.
Avoid the loud, thumping style, and also the over-solemn
style.
Be sure, before you accept any invitation to play, that
you know perfectly the piece you undertake. It is better
to play the simplest airs in a finished, faultless manner,
than to play imperfectly the most brilliant variations.
Avoid movement at the piano. Swinging the body
to and fro, moving the head, rolling the eyes, raising the
hands too much, are all bad tricks, and should be carefully
abstained from.
With respect to drawing, modeling, or any pursuits
of the same nature, so much depends on taste and opportunity,
and they are so little the accomplishments of
society that they require but few of those restrictions
which music, in its use and abuse, demands. Drawing,
like music, should be cultivated early. Its advantages
are the habits of perseverance and occupation, which it
induces; and the additional delight which it gives to the
works, both of nature and of art. Like music, it gives
independence—independence of society. The true lover
of the arts has a superiority over the indifferent, and, if
she be not better prepared for society, is much better
fitted for retirement than those who are not so happily
endowed with tastes, when in moderation, so innocent
and beneficial.
There is no accomplishment more graceful, pleasing,
healthy, and lady-like, than that of riding well. Avoiding,
at the same time, timidity and the "fast" style,
keeping within the bounds of elegant propriety, gracefully
yielding to the guidance of your escort, and keeping
your seat easily, yet steadily, are all points to be
acquired.
To ride well is undoubtedly an admirable qualification
for a lady, as she may be as feminine in the saddle as
in the ball room or home circle. It is a mistaken idea
to suppose that to become an accomplished horse-woman
a lady must unsex herself. But she must have a reserve
in her manner, that will prevent contamination from the
intercourse which too much riding may lead to. To
hunt, or follow the field sports, in a pursuit which is the
track of blood, disgusts the true admirer of gentle breeding.
And such diversions will certainly result in a
coarseness of manner and expression, growing upon the
fair equestrian slowly but surely. A harsh voice, loud
tone, expressions suited only to manly lips, but unconsciously
copied, will follow her devotion to the unfeminine
pursuit.
Nothing is more revolting than a woman who catches the
tone and expressions of men. To hear the slang of jockeyism
from female lips, is very offensive, yet ladies who mix
in field sports are liable, nay, almost certain, to fall into a
style of conversation which is ten times worse than the
coarsest terms from the lips of a man. Instances there
are, of the fairest of our sex, from a fondness for such
diversions, and a habitual participation in such society,
becoming hard, bold, and disgusting, even whilst retaining
all their female loveliness of person.
A lady, unless she lives in the most retired parts of
the country, should never ride alone, and even then she
will be awkwardly placed, in case of accident, without an
escort. In the cities, not only is it unfeminine, but
positively dangerous, for a lady to ride unaccompanied
by a gentleman, or a man servant.
Although it is impossible, within the limits of this
little volume, to give many hints upon riding, a few may
not be amiss. Like many other accomplishments, a
teacher is necessary, if you wish to attain perfection,
and no written directions can make you a finished horse-woman,
unless you have had tuition and practice.
1. In mounting you are desired, gentle Amazon, to
spring gracefully into your saddle, with the slight assistance
of a hand placed beneath the sole of the shoe, instead
of scrambling uncouthly to your "wandering
throne," as Miss Fanshawe wittily calls it, from a high
chair, as is frequently done by those who have not been
properly instructed. To mount in the orthodox manner,
you should stand nearly close to the horse, level with the
front of the saddle, and taking the reins slackly in your
right hand, you should place that hand on the nearest
pommel, to secure your balance in rising, and with your
left hand gather up the front of the habit, so as to leave
the feet clear. The gentleman should place himself
firmly, near, but not so near to you as to impede your
rising, and with the same view must hold his head well
back, as should he lose his hat from a whisk of your
habit the effect produced is not good. You should then
present your left foot, and the gentleman placing one
hand beneath its sole, and the other above, so as to possess
a safe hold, should, with nice judgment, give just
such assistance as will enable you easily, with a spring,
to vault gracefully into the saddle. You will then arrange
your right leg comfortably over the pommel, your
cavalier will then place your left foot in the stirrup and
arrange the flow of the habit-skirt, and all is complete.
All this, though so seemingly simple and easy, requires
some little practice to effect neatly and gracefully.
2. Secondly, when riding with a gentleman, remember
that you are best placed on the left side; because in that
position the graceful flow of your habit is seen to the
greatest advantage, while it does not inconvenience the
gentleman by getting entangled with his stirrup, nor
does it receive the splashes of his horse.
3. But when you have a double attendance of cavaliers,
if you be at all a timid rider, it may become discreet to
"pack" you (forgive the homely phrase) between the
two, since, in this position, you are the most thoroughly
protected from your own horse's shying, or from other
horses or vehicles approaching you too closely, being thus
forced to take that part of the road to which the better
judgment of your companions inevitably guides you. If
you be an accomplished equestrian, you will prefer being
outside, and (as has been said) to the left.
Sit erect in the middle of your saddle, turning your
face full towards the head of your horse. Cling as
closely as possible to the saddle, but avoid stooping forward,
or using your hands to keep you in your seat.
Nervous motions on horseback are not only ungraceful,
but dangerous, as your horse will not make any allowance
for the delicacy of your nerves, and may prove his
objections to a jerking hand, or a twitching rein, in a
most decided and disagreeable manner.
The riding-dress, or habit, is best made to fit the figure
tightly, with tight sleeves. It may be open in the front,
over a neatly fitting chemisette, or buttoned close to the
throat, with a neat linen collar and cuffs. The loose
sacque is ungraceful, but a basque is most becoming on
horseback. Gauntlet gloves, of leather, are the most
suitable, and must be loose enough to give your hand
perfect freedom, yet not so loose as to interfere with its
motions. Do not wear the skirt too long; it will be
dangerous in case of accident, and it may prove annoying
to your horse. Your habit must be made of a material
sufficiently heavy to hang gracefully, and not move
too much with the wind. For a winter habit, a warmly-lined
basque, trimmed at the throat and hands with fur,
is an elegant and appropriate dress, and a round cap of
the same cloth as the habit, with a band, and pieces to
cover the ears, of fur to match the dress trimmings,
makes a handsome and appropriate dress.
In summer, your hat should be of fine straw, and
slouched to shade the face; in winter, of felt, or, if you
prefer, a close cap of cloth. The hat may be trimmed
with feathers or knots of ribbon, and the shape should be
one to protect the complexion, at the same time graceful
and becoming.
Avoid any display in a riding dress. Choose a material
of some dark or neutral tint, and never use showy trimmings.
Curls, or any flowing loose style of wearing the hair,
will be found exceedingly troublesome on horseback.
Arrange it neatly and compactly under your hat, for if
a stray curl or lock annoys you, or is blown across your
eyes by the wind, your hands will be too fully occupied
to remedy the difficulty.
Your whip should be light and small, tasteful if you
will, but not showy.
At the period for which these hints are intended, the
Modern Languages should form a portion of acquirement.
As in music, an intelligent and assiduous girl
may, I believe, acquire an adequate degree of proficiency
in French, German, and Italian, without having been
abroad, though a foreign tour will be of the greatest use
in the acquisition of the accent and niceties of each
tongue. With respect to French, it is no doubt essential
to comfort to understand it; it is one of the attributes
of a lady to speak it well; still, it is not indispensable to
speak it so well that the American lady is mistaken for
a Parisian. This, which but seldom happens, can only
be acquired, in most cases, by a residence abroad. But
French is thoroughly and grammatically taught in
America. It is only the habit of speaking, the idioms
and niceties, which cannot be acquired except by converse
with a native.
There are hundreds of competent instructors in this
country, French ladies and gentlemen amongst the number,
who form classes for conversation and familiarizing
their pupils with these very idioms. After availing herself
of such advantages, a young lady will find that a
very short residence abroad will improve and facilitate
her French conversation.
Much, however, will depend upon how you use the opportunities
within your reach. There are many opportunities
of practice in large towns; and foreigners give
all facilities, by their readiness to converse, their good-nature
in listening, and in helping the beginner by kind
hints. If a young lady, with simplicity, good breeding,
and good taste, endeavors to speak whenever she has an
opportunity, words will come as if by intuition. Do not
think of by-standers and lookers-on; think only of the
individual to whom you are addressing yourself. If possible,
be not abashed by one or two errors at the first
plunge—swim on till you have confidence. The effort, I
grant, is great, and it may be obviated by a foreign education;
but where this is impossible, the freedom acquired
will more than repay the exertion.
In foreign literature, walk carefully, and if you have
an older, wiser head than your own to point out the best
paths, improve the advantage.
One cannot help deeming it a great era in education
that German is cultivated as well as Italian and French,
and that stores of literature are opened, to vary the delights
of intellect, and to give freshness and interest to
the studies of youth.
The rapture with which the works of Schiller are perused
in the original, seems to repay the hours devoted
to German; and I am sure the perusal of Tasso, or of
the Aristodemo of Monti, would reward the study of
Italian, were not the acquisition of that exquisite language
of itself a source of poetic pleasure.
The modern French writers have increased an everlasting
responsibility in corrupting the sources of amusement,
open to the young readers, and it is remarkable
that most of the distinguished French authors seem to
have felt that they had erred, and to have retrieved in
some of their works the tendencies of their other productions.
Take for instance, Madame de Stael; her
books cannot be judged altogether; the effect of some
of her eloquent and almost incomparable writings varies
in an extraordinary degree. Whilst "Delphine" is unfit
for the perusal of a modest woman, her "L'Allemagne"
is finely written throughout, and her criticisms and
analyses of German writers are full of instruction as well
as interest.
Still the works open to readers of French are numerous.
The tragedies of Corneille and Racine are forcible
and finished, and should be read because classical. The
"Alzire" of Voltaire and his "Zaire" with the dramas of
Casimir de la Vigne are also worthy of perusal. It is
not an inspiriting kind of reading, but it is rich in sentiment,
and perfectly unexceptionable in moral tone.
Although the scepticism of most German writers renders
this literature dangerous to a young mind, there are
fields of pure, noble writing open in that language. The
works of Schiller, for example. His mind was originally
noble, his heart good, his love to mankind, and his enquiry
after truth were sincere. In early life, he wavered;
and the besetting scepticism of the Germans dimmed,
for a time, his perceptions of all that is most sublime, as
well as true, in our finite knowledge. He was chastened—he
suffered—he believed. He died an early but a
bright instance that great genius may exist with true and
humble piety, and that the mind is never so powerful as
when illumined by divine light. His works are a magnificent
library in themselves—and I could almost say,
be contented to learn German and to read Schiller.
Some of his works are open to objection, his "Bride of
Messina," portions of "The Robbers," are better omitted
from your collection, but "Wallenstein" and "Maria
Stuart" are noble and admirable productions. On this
subject, and, indeed, on the whole of German literature,
Madame de Stael is an excellent guide in her "L'Allemagne,"
to which I refer the young German student,
who is sincerely desirous of gleaning the good, and
avoiding the evil in German compositions.
Italian literature furnishes a delightful theme for comment.
It is singular that an enslaved, and, during many
ages, a depraved and degraded people, should have possessed
the purest poetry, the least exceptionable drama,
in Europe. There is little to exclude, and much to recommend,
in this beautiful language. The works of
Tasso abound with high sentiment; the "Inferno" of
Dante is a sublime picture of eternal retribution, softened
with most touching pictures of human woe. Happy are
those who have leisure to pursue extensively the acquisition
of Italian literature, they may read and commit to
memory without fear of an insidious meaning beneath
the polished verse, or the prose which has all the charm
of poetry.
Spanish literature will require the same judicious
pruning which is necessary in French and German, but
of all languages, it is the most musical for speech, and
singing.
A lady in society must, if she would not grow utterly
weary in company, know how to dance. It has been the
practice among many excellent people to represent the
ball room as a "pitfall covered with flowers;" a sheet of
breaking ice; above, all gayety and motion; below, all
darkness and danger. It may be that to some minds
the ball room may be replete with temptations; but there
are minds which find temptations everywhere. The innocent
may be innocent, nay, the pious may feel devout,
even in a ball room. There is nothing immoral or wrong
in dancing; it is the tendency of youth to dance—it is
the first effort of a child—the first natural recreation.
It seems so natural that I confess I am always doubtful
of the sincerity of those young ladies who profess to dislike
the ball room.
In the present day, you must understand how to move
gracefully through quadrilles, to dance polka, Schottische,
Varsovienne, and waltz. To these you may add
great variety of dances, each season, probably, bringing
a new one.
"Dancing," says Mr. Sheldrake, "is one of the most
healthy, as well as one of the most pleasing amusements
that can be practised by the young. If it is learned
from those who are well qualified to teach it, and practised,
as it ought to be, consistently with the instructions
given, it will contribute more to improve the health, as
well as the form of the human frame, than any other
exercise. For the discovery and promulgation of the
true and correct principles according to which dancing
should be taught, the world is indebted to France, a
country which has long taken the lead in the elegant
arts. In France, dancing was first raised to the dignity
of a science, a royal academy being founded for the purpose
of teaching and perfecting it, in the reign of Louis
Quatorze. In this academy were trained many of the
most distinguished dancers of both sexes." One of the
most celebrated, Madame Simonet, gave the following
account to Mr. Sheldrake of the mode of instruction
pursued in the academy:—"All the pupils, before they
were permitted to attempt to dance, were completely instructed
in what were called the preparatory exercises;
that is, a system of exercises, which endued all their
limbs with strength, firmness, elasticity, and activity;
when they had acquired these properties, they began to
dance.
"In these preparatory exercises, the motions were
of the most simple kind, the object being to teach the
pupil, gradually and separately, all those movements
which, when combined, and rapidly executed, constitute
dancing." Madame Simonet thus described those elementary
instructions, as gone through by herself:—"She
successively learned to stand flat and firm upon
both her feet, with her limbs quite straight, and the
whole person perfectly upright, but not stiff; then to
lift one foot from the ground, and to keep it so for some
time without moving any part of her body; she then replaced
that foot on the ground, and raised the other in
the same manner. These simple actions were repeated
till the pupils were quite familiar with them; they were
then directed to keep the body quite erect, but not stiff,
and bearing firmly upon one leg, to raise the other from
the ground, gradually and slowly, by bending the upper
joint of the limb, at the same time making the knee
straight, and putting the toe to its proper extent, but no
more. The foot, after it had been kept in this state for
some time, was returned to the ground from whence it
was taken, and the other foot treated in the same manner;
when quite familiarized to these actions, they were
directed to walk (march, as some people will call it)
slowly, performing the same motions with the feet alternately."
The exercises which followed these, were
upon the turning out of the feet, the balancing of the
body, and other attitudes, which need not be particularized.
Mr. Sheldrake gives several examples of persons
trained upon these initiatory principles to the profession
of dancing, who have lived in health to a great age.
"This," says he, "is not the chance lot of a few; for
I have, through life, been accustomed to see many persons
of the same profession; I have communicated my
own observations to many others, and all have agreed
in remarking, that those who follow this profession have,
very generally, excellent health, which very many of
them carry into extreme old age. This indisputable fact
can only be accounted for by supposing that the preparatory
exercises which these persons go through, are a
modification of what I have called regulated muscular
tension, or action, and the early and constant practice
of which lays a firm foundation for that high health
which accompanies them through life. It is upon the
same principle that a soldier is never seen with spinal
curvature, or other personal deformity, or a stage dancer
of either sex with a deformed person; it is, perhaps, impossible
that such things should exist, for the plain reason,
that the exercises which they begin to practice early
in life, and continue regularly through its whole course,
render it impossible for them to become so.
"The inference to be drawn from these incontrovertible
facts is, that if we, in very early life, teach young
children to practice similar exercises, and follow them
steadily afterwards, we shall confirm them in excellent
health, and prevent the accession of those evils which so
often cause deformity to the figure, and destruction to
the constitution, at later periods of life. I do not propose
to make every boy a soldier, or every girl a dancer
upon the stage, but to adopt the principles, by the application
of which those persons are trained to the successful
practices of their several occupations, and so to
modify them, that they may qualify other classes of society
to follow their different pursuits with equal success;
and I am not without hopes that this undertaking will
contribute something towards producing this desirable
effect."
Dancing is an exercise which has been practiced by
mankind from the most remote ages. With the Egyptians,
Assyrians, and Persians, the founders of the
three great empires of the ancient world, dancing was
the favorite exercise or accomplishment, and the practice
was not less prevalent among their successors in power
and importance, the Greeks and Romans. The Jews,
also, we learn from Scripture, were strongly attached to
the exercise at all periods of their history.
At the present day, almost every people that exist,
whether barbarous or civilized, has its own form of dancing.
It is this universality of the exercise that makes
dancing a subject of importance. Being so extensively
practiced, it must be the instrument either of good or
evil to the human race.
It is one of the most healthful and elegant amusements,
and cannot be too highly recommended. Among
a rude and dissolute people it may degenerate into something
worthy of condemnation; but all the blessings we
have are similarly liable to abuse, and it would be most
unjust to condemn a cheerful domestic amusement, merely
because it has, at times, been degraded by people of low,
vulgar, immoral tastes. By all physicians, dancing,
when pursued in moderation, is recommended as highly
conducive to bodily health; and it may be truly said,
that, allied with music, nothing is more conducive to
mental health, more calculated to drive away melancholy,
and put the whole temper into good humor.
Dancing is the poetry of motion. It must be performed
with ease and grace, and always with a perfect
regard for propriety of movement.
As an art it is taught by professed masters; and one
of the leading rules given to the learner is to raise and
lower herself gracefully on the elastic part of her feet,
and to keep perfect time to the music. Dancing is
really a simple and elegant gliding on the toes, which
bend more or less to accommodate the steps, and prevent
harsh, ungraceful motion.
The most popular dances of the present day, are, first,
the quadrille.
These are of French origin, comparatively tranquil in
their character, and generally danced once or more in
every party. They are danced by four couples, one
standing on each side of a square. There are many sets
of quadrilles, the figures in each varying from the others.
But there are five figures in each set. The plain, fancy,
Lancers, Polka, Mazourka, and German, are among the
most popular.
In plain quadrilles, a lady takes no steps, merely
walking gracefully through the figures, but her feet must
keep perfect time to the music, and she must know the
changes of position perfectly.
A quadrille may be very properly described as a conversation
dance, as there are long pauses between the
figures, when the dancers must have a fund of small talk
ready for their partners.
When moving in the figures, hold out your skirt a
little with the right hand, merely to clear the ground,
and prevent the possibility of treading upon it.
Next come the round dances, the Valse, Polka, Schottische,
Varsovienne, and Redowa.
The Waltz is danced both à troistemps and deuxtemps.
In the waltz, the position is a most important point.
You may so lean upon your partner's arm, and so carry
your figure, that the prudish can find but little fault, but
you can also make the dance a most immodest one. I
cannot, within the limits of my book, go into a long argument
as to the propriety of these round dances.
Opinions differ, and I am not writing a sermon, but
giving, as far as is in my power, hints to ladies in society.
It is, therefore, enough for me to know that these dances
are tolerated, and that, even were I so inclined, I could
not exclude them.
To return to the position. Stand a little to the right
of your partner, that, in clasping your waist, he may
draw you upon his arm to his shoulder, not his breast;
the last position is awkward. By observing the first,
you have your head free; turn it a little towards the left
shoulder; need I say, never lay it upon your partner's
shoulder? Throw the head and shoulders a little back,
not too much to be consistent with easy grace, place one
hand upon your partner's shoulder, and the other in his
disengaged hand. So, you are ready to start.
The waltz may be danced to very fast time, or to slow
music. The last is the most graceful, and there is not so
much danger of giddiness. Grace can only be gained
by a perfect timing of the steps to the music, and also
evenness of step. It is, when properly timed with perfect
step, and easy, gliding motion, the most graceful of dances.
The Germans, who dance for the sake of dancing, will
only allow a certain number of waltzers on the floor at
one time, and these waltz in streams, all going down one
side of the room and up the other, thus rendering collisions
impossible.
An English writer, in a recent work published on etiquette,
speaks of waltzing thus:—
"It is perhaps useless to recommend flat-foot waltzing
in this country, where ladies allow themselves to be
almost hugged by their partners, and where men think it
necessary to lift a lady almost off the ground, but I am
persuaded that if it were introduced, the outcry against
the impropriety of waltzing would soon cease. Nothing
can be more delicate than the way in which a German
holds his partner. It is impossible to dance on the flat
foot unless the lady and gentleman are quite free of one
another. His hand, therefore, goes no further round her
waist than to the hooks and eyes of her dress, hers, no
higher than to his elbow. Thus danced, the waltz is
smooth, graceful, and delicate, and we could never in
Germany complain of our daughter's languishing on a
young man's shoulder. On the other hand, nothing is
more graceless and absurd, than to see a man waltzing
on the tips of his toes, lifting his partner off the ground,
or twirling round and round with her like the figures on
a street organ. The test of waltzing in time, is to be
able to stamp the time with the left foot. The waltz is
of German origin, but where it is still danced in Germany
in the original manner, (as, for instance, among
the peasants of the Tyrol,) it is a very different dance.
It is there very slow and graceful; the feet are thrown
out in a single long step, which Turveydrop, I presume,
would call a jeté. After a few turns, the partners
waltz alone in the same step, the man keeping the time
by striking together his iron-shod heels, until with a
shout and clapping of hands he again clasps his partner
and continues in the same slow measure with her."
The position for the polka, redowa, and other round
dances, should be the same as that for the waltz, and for
the steps, they can only be acquired from a dancing
teacher, and are impossible to describe properly.
One of the most delightful accomplishments which a
lady can possess, and one which is unfortunately but
little cultivated, is the art of reading aloud well; reading
with expression, taste, animation, and correctness; and
this art once acquired, let her also be able to recite well.
Long lectures may be given upon elocution, but the
advice can be condensed into two directions. First, be
sure you pronounce, accent, and enunciate every word
correctly; then, throw your whole soul into the words.
Study your author carefully, that you may know precisely
what he means by each expression, and then try
to bury your personal identity, to become, for the time,
the character you represent.
One of the most delightful ways to spend a social
evening, is to devote it to dramatic literature. Invite
only guests who read well, or who are really interested
listeners, and select a play, or scenes from several plays,
and cast the parts among your guests. All jealousy
must be put aside, and to-night's Hamlet must condescend
to direct Richard to
"Stand by, my lord, and let the coffin pass,"
to-morrow.
After a few meetings, the peculiar talent of each reader
will be recognized, and you can select your tragedy hero,
comedy hero, queen, chambermaid, and other members
of the force, with a view to the display of each one's best
powers. Vary the entertainment by reciting monologues
and dialogues. A whole play will often be found tiresome;
it is best to select several scenes, keeping up the
thread of the plot, and introducing the best characters,
and leave out what is mere interlude, and dispense with
some of the subordinate characters.
Leave one end of the room entirely vacant for the
readers. You will find it more interesting to have the
readers stand, and use some little motion; the words
will flow more easily, the expressions come more forcibly
if the appropriate gesture is made. Love scenes will, of
course, require delicate handling, and embracing can be
easily omitted; neither would I recommend the action
of a dueling scene, or a murder, but merely to add
gesture enough to give interest to both readers and
audience.
You will find some little difficulty from bashfulness,
and the "don't like to" people at first, but soon you
will discover with delight how many of your friends possess
the talent for reading well, and never knew it themselves.
You will do well to take a few lessons in elocution, but
you need not fear to read if you have never made the
accomplishment a study. With a correct knowledge of
your own language, and a love for fine writing, you will
soon read well.
Give to every part you undertake, the full effect intended
by the writer. Do not throw all your energy,
your whole soul, into a leading part at one time, and
slight a subordinate character at another. If you have
but five words to read, read them as they would be
spoken were you the character you represent for the
time. To hear a splendidly written, tragic burst of passion
read in a weak, whining voice, is no worse than to
have a few simple words from a servant's lips delivered
with the gesture and emphasis suited to a Medea or Lady
Macbeth.
I shall be condemned by many serious and well-judging
persons, if I say one word in favor of private theatricals;
yet, as it appears to me, there are in these diversions
some advantages which are not to be found to excuse the
waltz, or the polka, or the ballet, or the hunting field.
In private theatricals there is the possibility of some
benefit. The study of the finest dramatists, especially
of Shakespeare, is not likely to demoralize the mind, or
to cool the enthusiasm for what is good. We can scarcely
know too well those works which have tended more
to form character than any collection of any kind
whatsoever.
Shakespeare, Sheridan, Bulwer,—but I cannot go
through the list of fine dramatic writers whose works
elevate the mind and taste. The plays of Sheridan,
Knowles, and Bulwer, are, in most instances, well
adapted for private representations—the most exquisite
delineations of female character may be found in the
dramatic library, and high, pure, manly thoughts, may
be traced, line after line, to the same source.
Private theatricals should, however, be regulated with
much judgment. I see no reason to restrict too severely
talent of this kind where it exists, any more than
to crush a dawning taste for the other fine arts. What
we have to do is to raise and direct it; never to let it
occupy too much time, nor to become the business of
life; never to let it infringe upon duties; never to allow
it to lead us into an unreasonable, and, therefore, criminal
expense. Our ancestors were content to strew their
stage at the end of their halls with rushes, and to hang
up the name of the scene, instead of a scene, before each
act. The best preparations, which generally render private
theatricals both laborious and expensive, add but
little to the pleasure of the beholders, whose attention
is fixed upon the actors, and who can always see far finer
scenes at a minor theatre than at any private theatricals.
Were we content with greater simplicity in our amusements,
how much vain ostentation, heart-sickening expense,
self-recrimination, and trouble, might be avoided!
As a valid objection to private theatricals, it has been
urged that they are apt to encourage a taste for the
green-room of the public theatre in young men and boys;
in women the risk is less, for few women are ever known
to go on the stage except from necessity. I own this
objection to theatricals is the greatest that can be urged.
It can only be answered in mitigation that, where there
exists a taste of the kind, it is better that it should be
indulged at home, instead of at the theatre, with the
modest inmates of a well-governed house, instead of with
professional actors. Like all other amusements, the
abuse is probable, but the power of restraint rests within
ourselves.
Under the same head as private theatricals may come
dramatized charades and proverbs, so much in fashion
at the present time. These last have some great advantages
over the standard plays; they are better suited to
a parlor; they do not provoke comparison between the
young actors, and the favorite public idols; they require
but little scenery and arrangement; they are short; and
they do not require so many subordinate characters.
Impromptu charades and proverbs are delightful, and
are the occasion for much merriment; the mistakes, the
absurd contrasts between character and costume, the
scenery—a deep, hanging wood, the court of Louis Quatorze
or the deck of a man of war, being improvised at
a moment's notice, only add to the merry enjoyment.
One rule you must observe if you join in these amusements:
never to carry your gayety into romping. Merry
and laughing you may be, yet never forget you are a
lady. You may personate a newly-caught Irish chambermaid,
use the broadest brogue, wear the commonest
dress, throw yourself heartily and thoroughly into the
part, losing your personal identity almost entirely, and
yet you may retain that nameless charm, which will place
you in the mind of each of the audience as a lady of refinement.
You must also be perfectly good-natured and self-sacrificing;
ready to play the smallest parts with the same
interest you would throw into the principal ones. Try
to throw out all the good points in the parts taken by
the other members of the company. If you play an insignificant
part, play it well, with all the grace you can,
make the most of it, but do not try to raise it to the first
place. Yield gracefully the prominent position to those
who claim it in the plot of the play, and never try by
conspicuous dress or by play, to go beyond the position
set down for you.
Another delightful accomplishment, and one which
will aid you if you are studying drawing and painting, is
that of arranging tableaux vivants.
Mrs. Severn gives the following hints upon this
subject:
"Perhaps there is no intellectual amusement in fashionable
life, the nature of which is so little understood,
as the tableau vivant; it being generally considered as
only a vehicle for display, whereas its real purpose is to
arrange scientifically a combination of natural objects,
so as to make a good picture according to the rules of
art.
"A tableau vivant is literally what its name imports—a
living picture composed of living persons; and, when
skilfully arranged and seen at a proper distance, it produces
all the effect of a real picture. It is said, that the
first living picture was contrived by a profligate young
German nobleman, who having, during the absence of
his father, sold one of the celebrated pictures belonging
to the old castle, which was an heir-loom, to conceal the
deficiency, placed some of his companions behind the
frame, so as to imitate the missing picture, and to
deceive his father, who passed through the room without
being conscious of his loss.
"A tableau vivant may be formed in two ways: it
may consist of a group of persons, who take some well-known
subject in history or fiction to illustrate, and who
form a group to tell the story according to their own
taste; or, it may be a copy, as exact as circumstances
will permit, of some celebrated picture. The first plan,
it may be easily imagined, is very rarely effective; since,
as we find that even the best masters are often months,
or even years, before they can arrange a group satisfactorily
on canvas, it is not probable that persons who are
not artists should succeed in making good impromptu
pictures. Indeed, it has been observed, that artists
themselves, when they have to arrange a tableau vivant,
always prefer copying a picture to composing one.
"Copying a real picture, by placing living persons in
the positions of the figures indicated in the picture, appears,
at first sight, an easy task enough; and the effect
ought to be easily attained, as there can be no bad drawing,
and no confused light and shade, to destroy the
effect of the grouping. There are, however, many difficulties
to conquer, which it requires some knowledge
of art to be aware of. Painting being on a flat surface,
every means are taken to give roundness and relief to
the figures, which qualities of course are found naturally
in a tableau vivant. In a picture the light is made
effective by a dark shadow placed near it; diminished
lights or demi-tints are introduced to prevent the principal
light appearing a spot; and these are linked together
by artful shades, which show the outline in some places,
and hide it in others. The colors must also be carefully
arranged, so as to blend or harmonize with each other.
A want of attention to these minute points will be sufficient
to destroy the effect of the finest picture, even to
those who are so unacquainted with art as to be incapable
of explaining why they are dissatisfied, except by an involuntary
liking or disliking of what they see.
"The best place for putting up a tableau vivant is in a
door-way, with an equal space on each side; or, at least,
some space on both sides is necessary; and if there is a
room or a passage between the door selected for the
picture and the room the company is to see it from, so
much the better, as there should be a distance of at least
four yards between the first row of the spectators and
the picture. It must be remembered that, while the
tableau is being shown, nearly all the lights must be put
out in the room where the company is assembled; and,
perhaps, only one single candle, properly placed, in the
intervening space between the company and the tableau,
must be left slightly to illuminate the frame. In the
above-mentioned door-way a frame, somewhat smaller
than the original picture, must be suspended, three, four,
or even five feet from the floor, as may suit the height
of the door; or, if the door is not very high, the frame
may be put one or two feet behind, to gain space; but
care must be taken to fill up the opening that would, in
that case, show between the door-way and the frame;
also a piece of dark cloth ought to be put from the bottom
of the frame to the ground, to give the appearance of the
picture hanging on the wall. The most important thing
is, that the chairs or tables ought to be placed behind
the frame, so that the persons who are to represent the
tableau may sit or stand as nearly in the position, with
regard to the frame, as the figures appear to do in the
real picture they are trying to imitate, and at about two
feet from the frame, so that the light which is attached
to the back of the frame may fall properly on the figures.
In order to accomplish this, great study and contrivance
are required, so that the shades may fall in precisely the
same places as in the original picture; and sometimes
the light is put on one side, sometimes on the other, and
often on the top; and sometimes shades of tin or paper
are put between the lights and the tableaux, to assist in
throwing a shadow over any particular part. The background
is one of the most important parts, and should be
made to resemble that of the picture as nearly as possible;
if it is dark, coarse cloth absorbs the light best; but
whether it is to be black, blue, or brown, must depend on
the tint of the picture; should the background be a light
one, colored calico, turned on the wrong side, is generally
used. If trees or flowers form the background, of course
real branches or plants must be introduced to imitate
those in the picture. Even rocks have been imitated;
and spun glass has often successfully represented water.
A thin, black gauze, black muslin, or tarlatan veil, should
be fastened to the top of the frame, on the outside of it,
through which the tableau is to be seen.
"Care ought to be taken to conceal the peculiarities
of the different materials used in the draperies, and it is
even sometimes necessary to cover the stuffs used for the
purpose with a gauze of a different color, so as to imitate
the broken and transparent colors found in most good
pictures. This, carefully attended to, will give a quietness
and simplicity to the whole, which will greatly add
to the illusion."
The next subject upon the list of accomplishments,
should be filled by some words upon fancy sewing.
Under this head will come—Crochet, Knitting, Tapestry
work, Embroidery, Chenille work, Netting, Canvas
work, Berlin wool work, Frame work, Braiding, Bead
work, etc.
Small social gatherings will be much more entertaining,
the time will pass much more quickly, and the conversation
flows more freely if the fingers are employed
with some light work.
Pretty presents—nay, beautiful ones—may be made
in this way, when the fingers would otherwise be idle,
and these will have an additional value in being the work
of your own hands.
From the most remote ages needlework has been, not
only a source of pecuniary advantage for poor women, but
also of pleasant pastime for the rich. It is one of the most
elegant of the imitative art, and from time immemorial
it has been an amusement for otherwise idle fingers, from
the cottage to the palace.
I have not space for a long disquisition upon the uses
and pleasures of fancy work; every woman has moments
when such pretty playwork will be a valuable recreation.
The taste for fancy work increases daily, and can be
made not only ornamental, but useful. A ladies' wardrobe
consists of so many, and such varied objects, that
the evenings of an entire winter may be spent in making
various useful garments, which are, at the same time,
suitable for company sewing. Opera hoods, wool shawls,
sleeves, Sontags, and other ladies' articles, may be varied
by embroidering smoking caps, slippers, or handkerchiefs
for gentlemen.
Embroidering on canvas, or tapestry work, opens a
large field for taste and skill in execution. Beautiful
articles for presents, chair covers, sofa cushions, slippers,
may be worked in the otherwise idle moments spent in
familiar society, and the fingers will soon acquire skill
and astonishing rapidity.
The German ladies have constantly on hand a piece
of netting or other fancy work, which they carry from
place to place, and take out when conversing; and so
far from entirely engrossing their thoughts, they chat
more readily and freely with their fingers thus employed.
American ladies will find the custom worth imitating.
Many tedious hours will be smoothly, pleasantly
passed, with the mind free, but the fingers pleasantly
occupied.
An evening passed in sewing or knitting, with one
good reader to entertain the industrious workers, will be
found very pleasant. I have known a circle of young
people meet every week to work in this way, the reader
being changed twice or three times in the course of the
evening, and these meetings have proved so pleasant,
that scarcely any member failed to plead "prior engagement"
if invited out upon the evening appointed to read
and sew.
It was formerly objected by the adversaries to mental
cultivation in women, that the acquirement of book learning
would make them neglect needlework; but so far
from this being the case, the present, which is often
called the age of learning, is preëminently a working age.
Never were fingers more actively engaged than those of
the rising female generation; braiding, embroidery,
Berlin work, knitting, netting, and crochet, are all in
full play. A long neglected work has been recently revived,
called by the French "La Frivolité." It is very
pretty evening work, partly because it does not impede
conversation, for it may be carried on almost without
looking at it, and partly because no other work shows to
so much advantage the grace and delicacy of the hands.
The most simple form of this work was anciently known
under the name of Tatting, but that only consisted of a
series of loops in a straight line, which were used for
trimming linen articles, and which was not so pretty as
La Frivolité, which has varieties which are a good imitation
of point, and may be used for collars and sleeves.
I give a few specimens of pretty work for evening
sewing, and refer the reader to "The Ladies' Handbook
of Embroidery," published by G. G. Evans, for a
full, complete description of every kind of fancy work,
with specimens, patterns, and clear, plain directions.
Netted Cuffs—These cuffs are very pretty, and
easy to make. They are in plain netting, and will
require white, and five shades of scarlet wool.
Set on thirty-five stitches of the white wool. Net five
rows, then take a mesh a very little larger, and widen by
netting two stitches in every stitch. Then net with the
smallest mesh the two lightest shades, one row of each,
and two rows of the other three shades. Then graduate
the shades back again to white, narrowing the first row
of white with the larger mesh. Net ten rows with the
smaller mesh, widen again, repeat the shades of red,
narrow again, and finish with the five rows of white.
Materials Required—Half an ounce of white and
half an ounce of shaded Berlin wool will be sufficient.
Cast on a hundred stitches with white wool, and knit
and pearl alternately for four rows.
Shaded wool—Knit one row plain; next row bring
forward, and take two together to the end.
White wool—Knit and pearl alternately four rows.
Shaded wool—Knit plain six rows.
White wool—Knit a row, decreasing it by taking the
first two stitches together, and the last two. Pearl a
row. Knit a row, decreasing it as before. Pearl a row.
Shaded wool—Knit a row, decreasing at the beginning
and end. Next row, bring forward and take two together
to the end.
White wool—Knit a row, decreasing at both ends.
Pearl a row. Knit a row, decreasing as before. Pearl
a row.
Shaded Wool—1st row—Slip one. Knit two plain
stitches (a.) Wool forward. Knit one. Wool forward.
Knit two together. Knit one. Knit two together.
Repeat from (a.)
2nd row—Pearled.
3rd row—Slip one. Knit two plain stitches (b.)
Wool forward. Knit three plain stitches. Wool forward.
Slip one. Knit two together. Pass the slipped
stitch over the knitted ones. Repeat from (b.)
4th row—Pearled.
5th row—Slip one. Knit two plain stitches, (c.)
Wool forward. Knit two together. Knit one. Knit
two together. Wool forward. Knit one. Repeat
from (c.)
6th row—Pearled.
7th row—Slip one. Knit two plain stitches (d.)
Wool forward. Slip one. Knit two together. Pass
the slipped stitch over the knitted ones. Wool forward.
Knit three plain stitches. Repeat from (d.)
8th row—Pearled. Repeat the last eight rows.
White wool—Knit and pearl alternately for four rows;
decrease at the beginning and ending of the two plain
rows.
Shaded wool—Knit one plain row; decrease at the
beginning and ending. Next row; bring the wool forward,
knit two together to the end of the row.
White wool—Knit and pearl alternately for four rows;
decrease at the beginning and ending of the two plain
rows.
Knit eighteen plain stitches, run a piece of cotton
through the remaining sixty-two stitches. Pearl and
knit alternately, decreasing at the beginning and ending
of every plain row, until you have four stitches remaining;
cast them off; then take up eighteen stitches on the
opposite sides, and work a piece to correspond; leaving
forty-four centre stitches on the cotton.
Take up the centre stitches on a needle pointed at
both ends, draw the cotton out; then pick up fourteen
stitches at each end of the needle.
Shaded wool—Knit two plain rows.
White wool—Knit one plain row. Next row; wool
forward, knit two together to the end of the row.
Shaded wool—Knit two plain rows and cast off. Join
the two points together at the back of the cap. Fold
the front at the first pattern row, and hem it to form the
scallop at the edge. Pick up eighty stitches at the back
of the cap.
It is well known that worked muslin collars, particularly
if the work is good, very soon wear out; as the
work is too heavy for the muslin, which, when it has
been washed two or three times, becomes full of slits and
holes, though the work is still as good as ever. When
this is the case, cut the muslin off the work with a pair
of sharp scissors, and lay the work on the pattern of a
collar cut in paper, so as to fill the whole of the pattern.
The work may be taken from two or three
collars; the arrangement of it must depend upon taste.
When the cut-out work is properly arranged, it must
be tacked or basted to the paper pattern; and this
is best done with colored thread, that no mistake may
arise when the basting threads are to be drawn out.
Four or six threads are then drawn from one piece of
work to another, with a needle and cotton, so as to attach
them together, and the loose threads are then overcast
like button-holes, so as to imitate the uniting
threads of point lace. When well done, with a sufficient
quantity of the uniting threads, to make the work firm,
these collars are handsome, and will wash and wear
well.
It is now customary to knit white veils of what is
called Lady Betty's wool, for babies to put over their
faces when they are carried out in cold weather, instead
of pocket-handkerchiefs, which were formerly used for
the purpose, though they were very unfit for it. Knitted
veils in black silk or worsted are also worn by grown-up
persons. The veils for babies are very simple in their
construction; they consist of oblong pieces of knitting
of any width and depth that may be required, with
knitted lace at the bottom and sides, and a string case
at the top. The following pattern is the most common:
Knit and pearl alternately four rows, so that there
may be two of each; then bring forward and take two
together an entire row. This pattern is repeated through
the entire veil; and it must be observed, that as many
stitches must be cast on as will make it of the necessary
width. The needles should be of the smallest size, of
bone. Any lace will do; but the following pattern,
though not new, is both pretty and suitable; and has,
besides, the important recomendation of being very easy.
Cast on eleven stitches and knit a row plain, then begin
the pattern.
1st row—Knit three; bring forward and take two together;
knit one, take two together; put the thread
twice round the needle, take two together, and knit one.
2nd row—Knit two, pearl one, knit one, put the thread
twice round the needle, take two together, bring forward,
and knit five.
3rd row—Knit three, bring forward, take two together,
knit one, bring forward, knit two, pearl one, bring forward,
take two together, and knit two.
4th row—Knit two, bring forward, knit five, bring forward,
take two together, knit five.
5th row—Knit three, bring forward, and take two together,
knit the rest plain.
6th row—Cast off four, and knit the rest plain.
Examine carefully the form of the needle, and try the
hook, to ascertain that it is perfectly smooth. Some are
so sharp and ill-made as to tear the cotton. Select those
which are not of uniform thickness up to the hook; the
best are those which are thinner there than an inch farther
up. Where the needle is not proportionally fine
near the hook, it is almost impossible to keep the work
even.
Chain stitch ought to be done rather loosely, as working
on it afterwards contracts it, and is apt to give it
a puckered appearance. It is often advisable to use a
needle one size larger for making the chain than for
the rest of the work, especially in edgings. It will be
found much easier to work the succeeding rows when this
precaution is taken. Crochet needles should be kept in
a housewife similar to those used for ordinary needles.
The slightest soil or rust should be effaced with fine sandpaper.
Take two pieces of fine silk braid, scarlet or royal
blue, and a No. 3 bone crochet hook.
Make a chain of eight stitches, unite the ends, and
then D. C. the first round, putting two stitches into each
loop; there will now be sixteen stitches and in the next
round one long must be worked into every stitch, and
two chain between each long; the round will now consist
of forty-eight stitches, and we commence the pattern, or
diamonds.
3rd round—Three long, two chain, four long with two
chain after each, and these long put into every second
loop; repeat.
4th round—Five long, two chain, five long with two
chain after each, and these long put into every second
loop with the exception of the fifth or last of them,
which must skip two stitches instead of one; repeat.
5th round—Seven long, two chain, seven long with
two chain after each, and each of these long put into
every second stitch; repeat.
6th round—Five long, two chain, five long with two
chain after each, and each of these long put into every
other stitch, three long, two chain, five long again with
two chain after each, and each put into every second
stitch; repeat from beginning.
7th round—Three long, two chain, five long with two
chain after each and worked in every third loop, five
long, two chain, five long again with two chain after each,
and these long worked as aforesaid in every third loop;
repeat from beginning.
8th round—One long, two chain, five long with two
chain after each and these long put into every third
stitch, seven long, two chain, again five long, &c. &c.;
repeat from beginning.
9th round—Six long with two chain after each and
work in every third stitch, (five long, twelve long with
two chain after each, these long put in every third
stitch); repeat the pattern in brackets.
10th round—Nine long with two chain after them,
these long being worked in every second loop, (three
long, two chain, nineteen long with two chain after them,
and the long worked in every second loop); repeat the
pattern in brackets.
11th, 12th, and 13th rounds—A long and two chain
all round, and the long being worked alternately in every
second and third loop; care being taken to bring one
into the position to complete each diamond as it is come
to.
A crochet edging, begun with braid, and the last two
or three rows worked with gold twist as nearly the size
of the braid as may be, and a cord and tassels, finish off
this elegant head-dress.
The cord should be run in and out through the thirteenth
round. We, however, prefer a single-crochet
band of some fifty stitches long and six or eight wide,
worked in the same material as the net, to a cord, and
this band may be finished off with a piece of gold fringe
instead of tassels at the ends, or with a scallop of edging
crocheted in gold twist.
Take three pieces of fine embroidery chenille, and a
No. 3 bone crochet hook.
Make a chain of about forty stitches, or one long
enough to go round the wrist; Dc one row.
3rd row—Two long, one chain and miss a stitch—repeat
this all along. Then one row Dc.
6th row—Long crochet worked very loosely, so much
so as to leave these stitches at least half an inch high;
two stitches to be put into every second or third loop
and one in each of the others all the way along; fasten
off.
Join the chenille now on to the first row, and work a
similar row or frill to the one just directed, so that there
be one on each side.
Run a narrow velvet through the holes of the third
row and affix wider velvet ends, or chenille tassels to
each extremity. Finish off with a button and loop, and
flute the frill on each side over the finger to make it set.
We need scarcely say that the chenille used should be
selected to match or agree with the evening dress, and
that the velvet must match the chenille.
These bands may be made to look very handsome by
working a row of Dc loosely and evenly along the edge
of each frill with gold or silver twist, and running a
band of gold or silver braid or trimming through the
holes in the third row instead of velvet. Then small
bullion tassels to match the twist will form a suitable and
elegant finish.
These bands may be worked round and slid over the
hand like muffatees, or made open as we have directed
and buttoned, like the glove. The buttons should be
covered with crochet, and the loops crocheted.
Three ounces of Three thread White Fleecy Wool.
Pair of No. 10 Bone Knitting Pins. Cast on forty-five
stitches.
Knit three rows.
4th row—Knit ten; × make two and knit two together;
knit one; × knit the last six stitches.
5th row—Knit, dropping the second of each of the
two made stitches all along.
Knit eight rows.
14th row—Knit ten; × make one and knit two together
× repeat until six remain; knit three; make
one; knit three.
15th row—Knit six; × make one and knit two together
× repeat until ten remain, which knit.
Repeat these two rows three times more each, only not
enlarging one (as in the end of row fourteen), every time,
but only once in four rows, merely knitting the six in
the intervening rows.
22nd row—Knit. Knit the next seven rows.
30th row—Same as 14th.
31st row—Same as 15th.
Keep on alternately knitting eight open, and then
eight knitted rows, and enlarging one stitch at the end in
every fourth row until there are a hundred and twenty-four
rows.
Then decrease one stitch at the beginning or front in
every other row for thirty-two rows, still continuing the
pattern as before, and still enlarging one stitch in every
fourth row, at the end or back. This shapes one side of
the neck.
Now knit forty-eight rows without increase or decrease
at either end, continuing the pattern or alternation of
eight open and eight plain knitted rows. This forms the
back of the neck and the bottom of the back of the habit-shirt.
In the next thirty-two rows we diminish one in every
fourth row, by knitting two together at the back, while
at the same time in every fourth row, at the back, we
knit two together, and make one in order to form a series
of holes, or pattern parallel to that on the other side
caused by enlarging in every fourth row. We also cast
on one, at the opposite end, in every other row, to shape
the second side of the neck. We then knit one hundred
and twelve rows, having each ten knitted stitches in the
front of the habit-shirt, as on the opposite side, and six at
the back, and decreasing one in every fourth row, at the
back, and continuing the pattern, and also the series of
holes at the back.
Knit eight rows.
Knit ten stitches, × make two and knit two together;
× knit six at end.
Knit all, dropping the second of each of the two made
stitches. Knit two rows; cast off.
Now, with same needles, pick up the stitches all along
the right front of the habit-shirt; knit two rows and cast
off. Do the same on the left front. Then pick up those
of the neck, and do the same, shaping it, if necessary,
by knitting two together occasionally. These finishing-off
rows look pretty done in pale pink or blue wool.
Button-holes may be made thus:—in the front or where
the ten stitches are, and about once in thirty rows, knit
three; cast off four; knit three instead of knitting the
ten as usual. Next row, when we get back to the ten
stitches, knit three; cast on four; knit three.
Half an ounce of White Lamb's Wool. Three No.
13 Knitting Needles. Cast on Thirty stitches.
1st row—Knit.
2nd row—Knit two; make or enlarge one stitch by
picking up one from the previous row and knitting it;
knit all the rest.
3rd row—Knit. Repeat second and third rows alternately
four times more each of them.
12th row—Knit two; make a stitch according to directions
above given; knit rest until four remain; knit
two together; knit two.
13th row—Knit. Repeat these two rows alternately
three times more each.
20th row—Knit two; enlarge one as before directed;
knit rest until two remain; enlarge one; knit two.
21st row—Knit. Repeat these two rows alternately
three more times each.
28th row—Knit.
29th row—Knit fourteen stitches, and leave the other
upon the needle. Take up the third needle and knit
twenty rows more, of fourteen stitches each.
49th row—Knit two together; knit twelve; on same
needle, and with same wool, cast on twenty-seven
stitches.
50th row—Knit.
51st row—Knit two; knit two together; knit rest
until four remain; knit two together; knit two.
52nd row—Knit. Repeat these two rows alternately
twice more each.
57th row—Knit two; make one in manner directed;
knit rest until four remain; knit two together; knit two.
58th row—Knit. Repeat these two rows alternately
three times more each.
65th row—Knit all until four remain; knit two together;
knit two.
66th row—Knit. Repeat these two rows alternately
four more times each.
75th row—Knit.
76th row—Cast off.
This completes the slipper portion of the sock. We
now begin the instep-piece. Take the wool and knit off
ten stitches from the needle on which the twenty-seven
stitches were left; knit these ten from the toe-end, or
that where the twenty rows of fourteen stitches each has
been made; leave the remaining seventeen stitches still
on the same needle. Knit twenty rows of ten stitches,
and in every other one pick up the edge-stitch of the
toe-piece and knit it with the tenth stitch, so as to unite
these two portions, viz: the toe and the instep. With
each stitch of the twentieth row, an edge-stitch of the
side at the toe-end of the slipper must be picked up,
knitted and cast off, and a neat and entire union of the
toe of the slipper and the instep piece formed.
This instep piece is to be ribbed in rows of four, viz:
four rows in which the plain side is uppermost, and four
rows in which the pearled side is uppermost.
We now commence the leg portion of the sock.
With the needle which has been left in the first side
of the slipper carefully pick up the edge-stitches all
along the instep-piece and side of the slipper; when this
is done, there should be about fifty on the needle. Take
the wool and knit all along, including the picked up
stitches, and the seventeen originally on the needle.
Knit two rows.
4th row—Knit two; × make two (not by picking up,
but in the ordinary way, by passing the wool twice over
the needle), and knit two together; knit one; × repeat.
5th row—Knit all; casting off one of each of the
double made stitches. Now knit twenty rows ribbed like
the instep-piece.
26th row—× Knit one; make one and knit two together;
× repeat all round.
27th row—Knit.
28th row—Knit two; × make one and knit two together;
knit one; × repeat.
29th, 30th, and 31st rows—Knit.
32nd row—Cast off.
Take a wool needle, thread it with wool, and sew up
the sock neatly, stitch for stitch, from the top of the leg
to the point of the sole; then sew the toe; turn it; put
on a little rosette of raveled wool; run a ribbon in and
out through the holes at rows 4 and 5, of the leg portion,
and it is completed.
As this is intended for an Infant's Sock, we have ordered
white wool, that being most useful; should it,
however, be wished to knit socks for an older baby, the
slipper may be made of Cerise, Scarlet, Pale Blue,
Green, or Straw-colored wool; and the 26th, 27th, and
28th rows, of the leg portion, and the casting-off done in
the color of the slipper; while the instep-piece and the
rest of the sock are made in white wool.
The sock may also be enlarged by casting on extra
stitches in the beginning, and adding a couple of rows to
each of the divisions of the slipper part, and enough to
the toe to preserve its form and symmetry.
Almost any of the open anti-maccassar patterns may
be used for knitting the sock and instep-piece, if a light
lace-like appearance is desired. The well-known rose-leaf
pattern looks particularly pretty.