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dressed in one made of plain cambric, edged with embroidery, that cost two dollars; and any person who had an eye for beautiful forms, would have preferred the latter, because the proportions of the lady's cape and figure were suited to each other, whereas the former had chosen a cape so much too large for her, that she seemed encumbered by her finery.

Conversing, one evening, at a brilliant party in one of our southern cities, with an ingenious gentleman, who had devoted much time to the fine arts, having studied architecture and practiced modeling, and who was also a close observer of female attire, I was amused to hear him compare the different modes of dress to the different styles of architecture. When he saw a lady dressed with great simplicity, and her hair naturally arrayed, he called that style of dress, Grecian. One more elaborately attired, but still in good taste, reminded him of the ancient Roman style. Anything cumbrous, however rich its material, or grand its form, was called Gothic. And when a lady approached us covered with finery, that looked as if it had been showered upon her from a band-box held over her head, he exclaimed, "Here is a specimen of the florid Gothic.'

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He never could bear to see bows that tied nothing, rows of buttons that fastened nothing, and little appendages that had no real or apparent use. He insisted, that in dress, as well as in architecture, all beauty was founded in utility, and asked me if I did not think, that columns which supported nothing would look very badly. He said, he liked to see borders to papered walls, because they hid the terminating edge, and he liked to see ladies gowns trimmed round the bottom of the skirt, because the trimming hid the hem, and was a handsome finish to the figure. "But," he continued, "inasmuch as I should condemn the taste that made a paper bordering so wide as to cover half the walls, so do I denounce the fashion of extending trimmings half way up the skirt. They have no longer the effect of a border, but form an overload of ornament, which cuts up the figure, and spoils any dress."

Nothing can be truly beautiful which is not appropriate. All styles of dress, therefore, which impede the motions of the wearer, which do not sufficiently protect the person, which add unnecessarily to the heat of summer, or to the cold of

winter, which do not suit the age and occupation of the wearer, or which indicate an expenditure unsuited to her means, are inappropriate, and therefore destitute of one of the essential elements of beauty. Propriety, or fitness, lies at the foundation of all good taste in dressing. Always consider whether the articles of dress which you wish to purchase are suited to your age, your condition, or your means, and then let the principles of good taste keep you from the extremes of the fashion, and regulate the form so as to combine utility and beauty. Some persons seem to have an inherent love of finery, and adhere to it pertinaciously. They cannot reason upon this preference. They can only say, that what others condemn as tawdry, looks pretty to them. No plainness of dress can ever be construed to your disadvantage; but ornamental additions, which, in their best state, are a very doubtful good, become a positive evil, when defaced, or soiled, or tumbled. Shabby feathers, and crushed or faded artificial flowers, are an absolute disgrace to a lady's appearance; whereas their total absence would never be remarked. Cleanliness is the first requisite in a lady's dress.

MRS. FARRAR.

LESSON CXXX.

THE CROW TURNED CRITIC.

In ancient times, tradition says,

When birds like men would strive for praise,
The bulfinch, nightingale, and thrush,
With all that chant from tree to bush,
Would often meet in song to vie;
The kinds that sing not sitting by.
A knavish crow, it seems, had got
The knack to criticise by rote;
He understood each learned phrase,
As well as critics now-a-days.
Some say he learned them from an owl,
By listening when he taught a school.

'Tis strange to tell, this subtle creature,
Though nothing musical by nature,

Had learned so well to play his part,
With nonsense couched in terms of art,
As to be owned by all at last
Director of the public taste.

Then, puffed with insolence and pride,
And sure of numbers on his side,
Each song he freely criticised:
What he approved not was despised.
But one false step, in evil hour,
For ever stripped him of his power.

Once when the birds assembled sat,
All listening to his formal chat,
By instinct nice he chanced to find
A cloud approaching in the wind,
And ravens hardly can refrain

From croaking when they think of rain.

His wonted song he sung; the blunder

Amazed and scared them worse than thunder.

For no one thought so harsh a note
Could ever sound from any throat.
They all, at first, with mute surprise
Each on his neighbor turned his eyes:
But scorn succeeding soon took place,
And might be read in every face.
All this the raven saw with pain,
And strove his credit to regain.

Quoth he, the solo which ye heard
In public should not have appeared:
My voice, that's somewhat rough and strong,
Might chance the melody to wrong,
But, tried by rules, you'll find the grounds
Most perfect and harmonious sounds.
He reasoned thus; but, to his trouble,
At every word the laugh grew double:
At last, o'ercome with shame and spite,
He flew away, quite out of sight.

WILKIE

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GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffel gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
"T is all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,

"T is all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,

And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
His voice was like the voice of three.
Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door,

Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas, 't was hardly worth the telling;
It would not pay for candle light.
This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage,
But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.

"T was well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer day, Then at her door the canty dame,

Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then, how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,
"T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dread;
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh, joy for her! whene'er, in winter,
The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered many a lusty splinter,
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her, for three days.

Now when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then, it must be said,

When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry, he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake,
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,

And to the fields his road would take,
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out, did Harry stand; The moon was full, and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land.

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